#How to Make Corner to Corner Graphs
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If you have a deep fascination with sled dog genetics, breed split, and sled breed histories this is a very interesting study.
#dogblr#dog genetics#genetics study#alaskan husky#siberian husky#alaskan malamute#greenland dog#ancient dogs#this is mostly about sibe genetics#and if you liked my post about seppalas this will also be interesting to you as they are considered a subset of siberian husky in this#but for my own interests i find the closeness of the malamute participants genetics to the ancient dog examples very interesting#because we have dogs coming across from arctic asia to arctic north america in ancient history#and they spread east eventually to greenland#with malamutes being primarily descended from eastern canadian inuit dog genetics and some potential western arctic indigenous dogs#i find it makes sense they are close to the ancient examples#whereas greenland dogs have been very isolated for a long time so they're over there in the corner by themselves#further down in another graph you can see how the ancient dogs branch off from the same area as greenland dogs and malamutes#compared to other dogs#and the study does conclude that greenland dogs share the most dna with ancient wolves which is also not surprising#malamutes and greenland dogs shared significantly more ancestry with ancient dogs/wolves than siberian huskies of any population as well#while seppalas and modern chukotka sled dogs have the least
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nerd!satoru who yaps nonstop about the multiverse while youâre just trying to eat your lunch, waving his hands around dramatically as he explains the concept of alternate dimensions with half a rice ball in his mouth and crumbs stuck to the corner of his lips. who pokes at his food with a mechanical pencil because he forgot his chopsticks again, and then insists with wide eyes and a mouth half full, âtechnically, pencils are just wooden utensils for intellectuals.â he gets giddy over a new graphing calculator update like itâs a new iphone drop, tapping the screen like itâs a baby animal, and once dragged you into a 40-minute rant about ant communication hierarchies while you were just brushing your teeth, half-asleep and mouth foaming with toothpaste.
he has no less than ten tabs open at all timesâreddit conspiracy theories, physics forums, a paused youtube video on quantum tunneling, a spreadsheet titled âdo cats defy newtonâs laws?â, a google doc labeled âreasons why kissing might be a form of molecular alignment,â and none of it has anything to do with the assignment heâs supposed to be doing. he zones out during lectures, doodling black hole spirals, equations shaped like hearts, and cats in lab coats in the margins of his notes. once, he drew you holding hands with a worm in a bowtie and captioned it âme and my universe.â somehow still manages to get top marks every single time, even though he once turned in an assignment with a greasy fry stain in the corner because he used it as a napkin in the library mid-cram session.
he mutters the weirdest things under his breath like âi feel like a misaligned proton todayâ or âthe moonâs energy was too sarcastic last nightâ and you just blink at him likeđ§ââď¸while sipping your drink. he wears mismatched socks on purpose and says, âitâs a metaphor for duality.â has five alarms labeled âwake up genius,â âur gonna flunk,â âyour girlfriend will leave you,â âpls satoru,â and âEMERGENCY: CUTE, PRETTY AND SCORCHINGLY HOT GIRL WAITINGâ and still manages to sleep through all of them unless you call him. his glasses? perpetually smudged, held together with washi tape. his notebooks? an unholy fusion of complicated theorems, grocery lists, pressed flowers, cat doodles, love notes to you, and a page just titled âtop 10 reasons why my girlfriend is cuter than entropy.â
his laptop is a biohazardâdusty, overworked, full of files like âtime_is_an_illusion_final_FINAL_reallyfinal_actuallyfinal.pptxâ and âuRwrong_iMright.docx.â the case is covered in anime stickers, tiny equations, stars drawn with glitter pen, and a wrinkled polaroid of you sticking your tongue out that he keeps taped on like itâs a sacred relic. he listens to lo-fi while studying and pauses every few minutes just to sigh dreamily and whisper, âthis part sounds like you looking at me for the first time.â
and yet⌠heâs so fine itâs borderline illegal. tall, messy white hair that sticks up in all directions and defies every known force of nature, ice-blue eyes that melt when they look at you, and a cocky little smile that makes your chest hurt even when he says things like, âdo you think our cells are spiritually linked?â he doesnât even try to be charmingâhe just is, like he spawned with a flirt trait.
you fw it. you fw him. every unfiltered ramble, every hyperactive explanation about wormholes or why he thinks bees are secretly time travelers. the way his voice speeds up when heâs excited, and how his hands start waving like heâs conducting an invisible orchestra of nerdiness. you donât even bother trying to follow every wordâyouâre just watching him, heart doing somersaults, because heâs so beautiful when heâs passionate. and the fact that you never laugh at him? only ever smile and let him go on? yeah. that cracked his emotional firewall a long time ago.
so now heâs all sunshine and sparkles around you. a literal bundle of joy. grinning at his phone like a middle schooler when you text him âlol ok.â kicking his feet while giggling, voice memos full of stuff like âwhat if we held hands inside a particle accelerator đłđđâ sent at 2:13 a.m., followed by three minutes of him wheezing into a pillow. he calls you his âfavorite constant,â even if you donât get the joke. and if you do? he twirls his hair, blushes, and stares at you like you just split the atom and made it cute.
he makes playlists named âgravity got nothing on how hard i fell for you,â draws you in lab coats saying âur the thesis to my hypothesis,â keeps your photo in his pencil case and shows it to random people like âthis is my girlfriend. she understands my quantum jokes.â if they blink weirdly, heâll just smile and say, âitâs okay, not everyone gets theoretical perfection.â
being loved by you makes him goo. makes his neurons do the macarena. you make all his bizarre little pieces light up like neon signs. you walked into his strange little world and said âyeah, iâll stay,â and now heâs rearranging every cosmic thread to make sure itâs perfect for you. adds fairy lights. labels his notebooks âour theories.â buys matching pens. you made his chaos feel like a cozy little planet. he buys you plushies shaped like atoms and puts your name in the acknowledgements of his lab reports. tells people âsheâs the reason the data graphs came out prettier.â
nerd!satoru whoâs helplessly, hopelessly, tooth-rottingly in love with you. who grabs your hand mid-ramble just to feel you close. who brings you hot cocoa and explains entropy like itâs a bedtime story. who kisses your forehead and tells you âyouâre my favorite anomaly in this whole universe.â
and he thanks youânot in grand declarations, but in the quiet moments: when he scoots closer to you without saying a word, when he tugs on your sleeve with glassy eyes after a long day, when he looks at you after an hour of nerding out like you built the whole galaxy just to hear him talk.
his world was spinning way too fast. then you walked in and gave it gravity. and now he orbits youâand heâs never been happier to revolve around anything in his life.
#satoru âwhen ur lowk weird but fine shyt fw you so youâre js a bundle of joyâ gojo#heâs so boyfriend#gojo satoru#nerd!gojo#gojo fluff#gojo crack#gojo x reader#gojo x reader fluff#gojo x reader crack#gojo satoru x you#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru x y/n#satoru gojo x y/n#satoru gojo x you#satoru gojo x reader#jjk fluff#jjk crack#jjk x reader
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RAW, NEXT QUESTION !



letting your loser boyfriend hit it raw for the first time at a party turns out better than youâd both expected.
pairing: nerd!han jisung x popular!f!reader, established relationship genre/tags: college au, smut, sub!jisung, oral (m. receiving), jisung being a professional yapper as always, unprotected s*x, an ass slap or two, creampie, overstim words: 2.9k
[ note. ] â last fic upload before i leave for vacayy, hope u guys fw it. also iâm going to be posting all my fics in lowercase from now on for aesthetic purposes <3
you can read the other parts iâve previously made here and here but this could be read as a standalone !
itâs always the same.
heâll start talking about his newest little hyperfixation, voice notching an octave or two higher, words tumbling over each other, eyes lit up behind those too-big glasses that never sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. he fidgets with the drawstring of his hoodie while he talks, tugging it tight, then loosening it again, as if heâs trying to keep his own excitement from spilling out too fast.
and youâll just be sitting there across from him, all pretty and patient, thighs crossed in your tiny skirt, chin resting in your hand, pretending to care. you try, you really do. but the longer he talks, the harder it is to focus, not on what heâs saying, but on him.
because heâs just so fucking cute when he rambles, way too animated and overly passionate. his hands always gesturing in wild, uncoordinated circles, one knee bouncing like heâs trying to burn off the excess energy. he talks super fast, stumbles over words, corrects himself mid-rant, and whenever he gets something right, like some equation or probability heâs been chewing on for hours, he glances at you like heâs hoping youâre proud, like he wants a gold star for being smart.
his lashes are thick behind the lenses, his lips are pink and plush and chapped at the corners, his voice isnât that deep or confidentâ itâs soft, a little scratchy, but so full of warmth.
âso if you run the stats for the gacha drop rate and multiply it by, like, uh, thirty-two? you get this number, right? and then you compare that to the JP versionâs old banners, and their pity system was actually better than what the global servers offer now, which is total bullshit, âcause mathematically it just doesnât track when you- uh, wait, let me show you..â
heâs flipping his phone around to pull up some cluttered spreadsheet, thumb swiping too fast through endless tabs filled with numbers, graphs, and notes like heâs been preparing for this conversation all week.
you get a little closer, nodding slowly. not because you understand, but because just he looks so goddamn sweet when heâs talking like this. the way his cheeks are flushed from excitement, the way heâs sweating the tiniest bit under the collar of his hoodie, and how heâs so wrapped up in his own little world and still wants you to be part of it.
âbaby,â you interrupt, reaching under the table to brush your freshly manicured fingertips along the inside of his thigh, slow and light.
he falters mid-thought. whole body stiffens up and his lips part in a soft little gasp. his glasses slip down a bit and his thumb freezes against the slightly cracked screen, looking up at you like heâs just remembered you exist and realized where he is.
âyouâre so cute when you talk like that,â you smile at him, giggling sweetly like you werenât thinking about jumping his bones right then and there.
jisung blinks, blushing immediately, making a little sound that even he couldnât describe what it was.
âi-i wasnât trying to be.. i mean, itâs just numbers. sorry, i was rambling again, wasnât i? i know itâs boringâŚâ
you shook your head, ânot boring,â leaning in even closer now and never breaking eye contact with him, âjust makes me wanna fuck you even more.â
heâs full-on glitching now. mouth half open, eyes wide and cheeks so red you can feel the heat radiating off him. his leg jerks under the table and his fingers clench around his phone, nearly dropping it.
âwhaââ he squeaks, âyou- you canât just say that. weâre- this is a party, thereâs peopleââ
heâs whispering now, but frantically. internally panicking. looking around like someone mightâve heard you, even though thereâs absolutely no one paying mind to either of you.
you lean in some more, all slow and smug, until your lips are practically inches away from each others.
âthereâs an empty closet down the hall.â
his breath hitches audibly.
you see the way his adamâs apple bobs, how fast his hand shoots up to adjust his crooked glasses, his thighs shifting under the table, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and arousal.
heâs already hard, you know him well enough to know the telltale signs. tenting his grey sweats, twitching against the fabric as you slid your hand higher. he doesnât even try to stop you, just sits there, jaw slack, watching you with big eyes like youâve cast some kind of spell.
maybe you have, because the thing isâ jisung doesnât really do parties. he wasnât invited to shit like this before, not until you came into the picture.
he was always known as the weird kid in STEM. the one who played rhythm games in the library and forgot to eat lunch when he was coding. he wore sweatshirts in summer and muttered to himself and would gett teased by the lacrosse team. so he never really expected to be dating the prettiest girl heâs ever laid eyes on for nearly three months now, the one who wears expensive lipgloss and wears matching juicy couture tracksuits with her friends who stared at him like heâs an alien.
but you love and adore him in a way that still feels surreal to him. youâd hold his hand in public, kiss his cheek in the hallways, wait for him after every class, sit in his lap and call him baby, not caring if people swap odd locks about such an unlikely pair. it lowkey terrifies him, but heâs obsessed, because heâs yours.
and the fact that you want him this badly? it blows his mind. every. single. time.
your fingers drag up his thigh and he twitches again, a shaky moan falling from his lips before he bites it back. heâs warm, already leaking, probably. you can feel how sensitive he is, how badly he wants it.
you tug him up by the sleeve, smiling, your tone soft but firm.
âdonât make me ask twice.â
by your words alone, han jisung knows that heâs already done for.
+
the second the closet door slams shut behind you, he wastes zero time to be all over youâ not in a confident way though. itâs messy, too eager, full of stifled sounds and nervous fingers, as if heâs afraid if he doesnât kiss you now, he might never get the chance again.
his lips move over yours too fast and sloppy, his hands everywhere all at once, gripping your waist, your hips, your sides like he canât decide where to touch first. his nose accidentally bumps against yours when he tries to kiss you deeper and you giggle into his mouth, gently slowing him down with your palms at his jaw.
âeasy, baby,â you whisper, barely parting from him.
âs-sorry,â he breathes out, already so out of it. âi just.. you look so good tonight, and your skirt- fuck- iâve been thinking about it all day, i couldnât focus when you sat on my lap after class, i was so close to cummingââ
âji,â you interrupt sweetly, brushing your knuckles over his cheek. âyouâre rambling again.â
he shuts up immediately. blushing.
you lean in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, going down even further until your knees coil down to the floor, right in front of him.
he could literally feel his heart beating out of his chest.
âw-wait,â he stammers, his back already hitting the wall. âbaby, you donât have to- fuck..â
his words fall apart the minute you tug down the waistband of his sweats, his boxers go with them, and his cock springs free in front of youâ flushed a pretty shade of pink, tip already leaking delicious precum, and twitching where it rests against his stomach. so thick, so heavy, so obscenely hard. you donât even touch it before he moans.
you look up through your lashes, watching the way he presses the back of his head to the wall, lips parted like heâs trying to remember how to properly breathe.
then you lean forward, slowly dragging your tongue from the base to the tip.
he shudders so hard his legs almost give out.
âjesus christ,â he bit down on his lip harshly, âyour mouth.. shit, feels too good, i canâtââ
his thighs are trembling, and his hand reaches out instinctively to cradle your jaw, anchoring himself to feel something.
you smile around the head of his cock before wrapping your lips around it, sliding your head down. soft, warm suction, just enough pressure to make him gasp. you suck deeper, taking more of him in your mouth as your hand strokes the rest in slow, steady pulls. spit runs down your wrist, the sound is wet, vulgar, echoing off the walls of the cramped space.
he groans again, louder this time. one leg shifts to stabilize himself.
âoh my god,â he gasps, âoh fuck- baby, baby- shitââ
his voice breaks on every moan, hips twitching forward, but he doesnât thrust. he never does. heâs too good, too well-trained.
but he literally canât stop shaking.
âyouâre so good,â he whimpers, praising you to no end. âyouâre so fucking good at that, iâm not gonna last.. âm gonna- fuck, youâre âbout to make me cumââ
you pull off with a soft âpopâ, your hand still stroking him agonizingly slow.
âyou better not cum yet,â you warn, pressing your tongue under the head and dragging it gently along the slit. âyou havenât even been inside me.â
his whole body jolts. eyes going wide, almost scared, like the idea of fucking you now might actually break him.
âthen let meââ he blurts out, hands twitching at his sides. âpleasepleaseplease. fuck, i need to. i wanna be inside, please baby, can i fuck you now?â
you smile and finally stood up, turning around to face the wall.
âfuck me like this, ji,â you whisper, hiking your skirt up and wiggling your ass against him. âfuck me raw.â
heâs completely frozen, his breath stuttering in his throat.
âwha- are you serious? wait- y/n- no condom?â
you glance back at him with half-lidded eyes, giggling.
âyou wanna feel me, right?â you ask, no hesitation detected in your words. âyou wanna cum inside?â
he nods so quickly its almost embarrassing, his hands are moving faster than his brain can form a thought.
âyes. fuck. please,â he choked out desperately, already fumbling his cock into his hand.
his grip is shaky, you feel the blunt head brush your folds once, twice, then he finally lines up right and sinks inâ real slow and careful, bracing himself as he slides in every inch. his moan is strangled, like hes unsure of whether heâs dying or dreaming.
your wetness takes him easy, your pussy already clenching around him with need, swallowing him so greedily he loses control of his rhythm for a second. he bottoms out with a deep, gasping groan, cock buried to the hilt, your walls pulsing around him.
âholy shit,â he breathes out, practically shaking. âyouâre so warm.. s-so tight.. baby.. oh my godââ
you barely have time to process the stretch before heâs stuttering forward with a broken whimper, hips twitching.
two thrusts. thatâs all it takes.
you feel the sharp jerk of his cock, the way his whole body tenses up, and then the sudden warmth flooding you deep insideâŚ.
he cums early. too hard and way too fast.
you smirk, turning your head slightly, âoh no,â you murmur. âyou didnât just cum, did you?â
jisung lets out the softest, most wrecked noise youâve ever heard and hides his face against your back, the tip of his nose pressed between your shoulder blades.
âfuck,â he groans. ââm sorry.. i couldnât help it! fuck, it just felt too good, your pussyâs too perfect, i didnât mean toââ
you clench around him, tight and deliberate.
his knees nearly buckle.
âyouâre not pulling out.â
he gasps again, panicked and overwhelmed.
âb-but i already- baby, wait, âm sensitiveââ
you simply drown out his whines and start rolling your hips back, slow and deep, grinding against him, and he whimpers.
âthen cum again,â you demand sharply.
his hands slid down the slope of your waist, fingers gripping tightly, mentally preparing himself for the next round. even though heâs overstimulated, his cock never softens. still rock hard inside you, still twitching, still leaking.
your pussyâs so wet now itâs sinful, every roll of your hips drawing a filthy squelch, your slick and his cum mixing into a hot, messy slop between your thighs. itâs dripping down his balls already.
âyouâre milking me,â he whines, voice high and sweet. âfuck, fuck.. i canât- âm gonna cum again- already- baby, please. sâtoo muchââ
âyou can do it,â you breathe, forehead pressed against the wall. âyouâre doing so good, ji. fuck, feel so full.. love your cock so much,â
he moans like it hurts.
his pace picks up, just a litttle. short thrusts. clumsy and deep.
your ass bounces back against his thighs with every movement, and he canât stop watching it. canât stop staring at the way your body moves for him, the way you take him. he reaches around and grabs a handful of your tits, squeezing greedily, fingers slipping under your top like heâs desperate to feel your skin. youâre bouncing in his hands with every thrust and he whimpers against your shoulder.
âyouâre so beautiful,â he pants. âso fucking beautiful. your tits, your ass. god, your pussyâs made for me- i swearââ
you feel it again. the sudden twitch of his hips, the quickening pace, and then he slaps your ass once.
you freeze and so does he.
ââŚdid you just slap my ass?â you say, trying not to laugh.
âi-i donât know,â he stammers behind you. âi didnât mean to.. i mean- i did, but also i didnât- fuck, it just happened..â
you giggle and push back against him, grinding your ass into his hips.
âdo it again.â
he moans and gives you another gentle, shy little slap.
ââm sorry,â he breathes. âyouâre just so hot. your ass jiggles everytime i move, itâs driving me insane- i love you.. i love you so muchââ
his arms wrap around your middle, pressing his lips to the back of your neck, kissing softly, over and over. each one messier than the last, wet and open-mouthed and desperate.
âi wanna stay inside you forever,â he mumbles into your dewy skin. âwanna keep fucking you like this, raw, every single day. wanna wake up buried in your pussy- cum in you before breakfast, again before bedââ
your whole body trembles. the heatâs unbearable now, your orgasm building sharp and tight in your belly.
ââm gonna marry you,â he rambles again, âmake you mine- fuck, i love you, love you, love youââ
you clench down and he cries out. hips stuttering.
his cock throbs inside you, deep and messy, and he cums againâ hot and thick and endless, spilling into your cunt like heâs trying to fill you up completely. you feel it leak around him instantly, dripping down your thighs, making a mess between you.
your walls flutter and you go with him. body shaking, legs unsteady, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave.
you squirt. hard.
you feel it spray out around him, and he groans so deep it turns into a moan that curls into a whine. heâs still inside. still twitching. and your pussyâs squeezing every last drop from him.
you both go limp, falling forward against the wall, panting, soaked in sweat and cum, but fully in love with each other.
his arms stay looped around you. his lips trail down your spine, kissing every inch of skin he can reach, mouth whispering shaky little âi love youâsâ in between labored breaths.
youâre still dripping. still stuffed full of him.
you feel him kiss your shoulder again, going up to your neck. his hands are still cupping your tits like they belong to him.
âyouâre my favorite person,â he mumbles, voice dreamy and thick. âyouâre so good to me. youâre everything.â
you laugh breathlessly. your legs are barely holding you up.
âyouâre insane,â
âand you let me fuck you raw,â he says, smiling against you. âso whoâs really the insane one?â
you snort and roll your eyes, tugging your skirt down. your thighs are all sticky and your knees are a little wobbly.
he pulls his sweats back up, still swaying on his feet. glasses fogged, damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead, lips red and puffy from kissing every part of you.
youâre about to open the closet door when he tugs you back in and kisses youâ deep and passionate. nothing controlled. just all lips and tongue and the faint taste of sweat.
âwas it⌠was it good?â he asks shyly, eyes wide and searching.
you grin, still panting. âji, you have the best dick iâve ever had.â
he whines, hiding in your neck like he canât handle hearing such high level of praise coming from you.
âyouâre so fucking lucky to have me,â he mumbles into your skin.
you roll your eyes. âyou literally came in two thrusts.â
âokay, but it was two raw thrusts. thatâs different!â he attempts to defend himself.
he has a point. kind of.
you both sneak back into the party a few minutes later. jisungâs face is flushed, hair a mess, his walk wobblier than usual. your thighs are still slick and your lipgloss is ruined.
if anyone notices they donât say anything.
but jisung doesnât let go of your hand for the rest of the night.
#skz x reader#stray kids x reader#stray kids smut#skz smut#han jisung x reader#han x reader#han jisung smut#skz imagines#skz x you#skz scenarios#han jisung imagines#han jisung scenarios#han smut#stray kids imagines#han jisung x you#skz fic#skz fanfic#han jisung drabbles#stray kids drabbles
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Phainon flirts like he's been hired by the stars to make you swoon before dinner. he'll stop mid battle just to say something like, âIf I die today, let it be known it was after seeing the angle of your smile. Tragic, but worth it.â He says things like âMy heart trembles like a violin every time you breathe,â and he's not kidding. every sentence is dripping in sugar and sin, but beneath the playful glimmer in his eyes is a heat that makes your throat catch. he'll twirl a flower into your hair without warning, then press his forehead to yours and whisper, âIâd let kingdoms fall if you told me it made you smile.â  half the time you're laughing, half the time you're too stunned to reply, complimenting him with a smileâ he'd gasp when you flash a subtle smile to him, like he had been shot and approved by Mnestia, now he's the one swooning over you. and if he ever thinks he's losing your attention? he'll kneel infront of you while holding your hand like its a sacred duty and say, âIf I must compete with the world for you... then let the world prepare for war.â
So yes. Phainon flirts like heâs writing poetry during an eclipse.
And somehowâit works.
Anaxagoras flirts like a man who read six romance novels and decided to try a thesis on them. he hands you a graph titled âIncrease in Heart Rate When Youâre Nearbyâ and genuinely believes this is romantic (âŚit kind of is). you'll be sitting together quietly, and he'll murmur:
âThere is a gravity to you. Like celestial orbit. I find myself returning, again and again, no matter how far I calculate escape vectors.â you laugh. he looks mildly concerned. "That was a metaphor. Did it⌠fail to translate?" he'd be memorizing the exact angle you tilt your head when curious , bringing you three types of tea just to test which one best stabilizes your mood patterns, staring at you like you're a philosophical riddle he never wants to solve. and sometimes⌠just sometimes⌠he stammers. when you look too pretty. when you call his name. when you kiss the corner of his mouth.
âIâah. Yes. That⌠was also... emotionally significant.â
you're pretty sure the next paper he submits to the Grove will be titled about âLove As Quantum Entanglement.â
Mydeimos doesnât mean to flirt half the timeâ but he's stupidly good at it. he'll hand you a drink and say, âEat something. You skipped lunch. Again.â like itâs a threat and a love confession. is there the word 'flirting' in the kremnoan language? soon. for now he just⌠protects. offers you the bigger portion of food. ghosting his hand on your lower back in crowds, giving death stares for as long as possible to anyone who dares interrupt you looking at the cafe menu, even when you've been staring for almost 10 minutes, the waiting line is already long yet he stares sharp, but when you turn your attention to him, he's already looking at you like a lion cub. he ruffles your hair when you take the petal off his face. but every action towards you is deliberate, lowkey, intimate.
like he's memorized your habits in no time. his voice is always low, steady. It's not about what he saysâ it's how his smile curls sideways, his hand faint but lightly lingering on yours. if you tease him, he'll raise an eyebrow, while muttering something like âdonât start,â but the tips of his ears go pink. itâs devastating. soft and low, one sentence while you're half-asleep against him, âIâd tear the world apart if it meant youâd sleep safe.â that's Mydeimos flirting. by being your shieldâand daring you to fall for him without ever asking.
#honkai star rail#anaxa#anaxagoras#anaxagorgeous#anaxa x reader#hsr#hsr x reader#honkai star rail x reader#hsr anaxa#honkai star rail anaxa#anaxagoras x reader#phainon hsr#phainon#phainon x reader#phainon x you#hsr characters#mydeimos#hsr mydei#mydei#mydei x reader
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that "homestuck demystified" post is really funny because like on some level it is correct (homestuck isn't actually that long - source: someone who still hasn't finished Umineko) but you really can't go around telling people it's good lmao. like it is good but you have to immediately add the caveat that it is also very bad kjskdhsndb
#like they need to know that homestuck is simultaneously fantastic and awful.#truly occupies all four corners of the 'good(/bad) because i do(n't) like it good/bad because it's well(/poorly) constructed' graph#also a haunting reminder of how bad shit really was in the late 00s early 10s...south park's cultural influence took way too long to fade#nothing in it will make you clutch your pearls if you were born before 2000 but you will wince at some of it
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Clueless: Wrong Chat?



Hyunjin x fem!reader
Warnings: None!
Genre: Best friends to lovers, flufffff, texts
Summary: Hyunjin, your best friend, drops you off for a coffee date with your colleague Mingyu. It's not a date at all, but Hyunjin thinks it is. And he rants in the wrong group chat - completely jealous and unhinged.
a/n: Wanted to make a Clueless series! Thoughts?
Clueless Masterlist
Hyunjin sighs dramatically as he flops onto the couch in his apartment. He's been pouting ever since he'd dropped you at the cafe where you're meeting Mingyu, your colleague for coffee.
Hyunjin: Iâm actually losing my goddamn mind.
Hyunjin: Sheâs out with him. With. Him.
Felix: Hyunjin, it's just coffee.
Hyunjin: OF COURSE IT'S NOT JUST COFFEE, FELIX.
Chan: Oh nođ
Minho: Here we go. Someone hold his leash.
Hyunjin: This is NOT good. Mingyu is - heâs likeâŚ
Jeongin: Are you okay bro?
Hyunjin: I AM NOT OKAY.
How is he supposed to be ok when you, the love of his life is out with some guy for "coffee"? Jisung had taken a girl out for coffee a few weeks ago, and now she's his girlfriend.
Hyunjin sighs. He couldn't think of you being anybody else's. You're his girl. And he's gonna win you over.
Meanwhile, you are sitting across from Mingyu, discreetly checking your phone as it buzzes repeatedly with notifications. You freeze when you see the texts.Â
Oh, so this is why Hyunjin was in a bad mood the whole morning, you think. He barely said a word to you as he drove you to the cafe.Â
Changbin: Dude, calm down. Itâs just coffee.
Hyunjin: COFFEE LEADS TO DINNER, DINNER LEADS TO NETFLIX, AND NETFLIX LEADS TO YOU KNOW WHAT. ASK JISUNG.
Jisung: HYUNJIN.
Felix: đł
Minho: Jisung you sly dog.
Chan: Hyunjin, touch some grass.
Hyunjin: I CANâT, CHRISTOPHER. SHE IS MY GRASS.
Minho: Let it all out. Keep going.
Chan: Hyunjin. Deep breaths. IN through your nose, OUT through your mouth.Â
Hyunjin: I SWEAR TO GOD IF HE LAYS A FINGER ON HER
Changbin: I don't think he's laying anything on her.Â
Felix: Okay, Hyun, you need a time-out.
Hyunjin: No, what I NEED is for Mingyu to trip over his stupid perfect legs and fall face-first into a compost bin.
Mingyu smiles at you across the table, gesturing towards his laptop as he speaks. You are trying so hard to focus on the ideas he's laying down in front of you - the startup ideas that you two have been talking about forever. You smile back, nodding, while trying not to choke on your laughter.
Jisung: Stupid perfect legs? Hyunjin, why do you even know what Mingyuâs legs look like?
Hyunjin: Because I have eyes, Ji. I pay attention to the threat level.
Hyunjin: He's like 6 feet tall.
Jeongin: Threat level: Sexy.Â
Hyunjin: THANK YOU, JEONGIN. No one asked you.
Chan: You're tall enough
Hyunjin: Not enough apparently
Felix: Hyunjin, calm down.
Hyunjin: No, because LISTEN. Who does he even think he is. Asking my girl out. How dare he.Â
Hyunjin: SHEâS OUT THERE WITH HIM WHILE IâM JUST
Changbin: Lonely and deranged?
Hyunjin: EXACTLY.
Seungmin: Someone hose him downÂ
You are trying to concentrate on the graph Mingyu is pointing to now, but seriously, who are you even kidding. Your cheeks are warming up with the second-hand embarrassment from what's brewing on the group chat.
Hyunjin: And do you know what really sucks? Sheâs probably looking AMAZING right now. Like, how does she do that? How does she leave the house and make everyone fall in love with her?!
Hyunjin: And doesn't even realize that I love her? She obviously doesn't! Like I'm right here.
Jisung: Why don't you just corner her in the supply closet?? Omg I never thought I'd get a chance to give that back to you đŞ
Hyunjin: Bro. She's my best friend. It isn't the same.
Jisung: Excuses excuses
Felix: Oh SHIT.Â
Felix: đ¨ STOP đ¨
Jeongin: Wait, what chat is this đ
Hyunjin: What do you mean what chat?
---
Hyunjin goes quiet for a second.
---
Hyunjin: Wait.
Hyunjin: WHAT CHAT IS THIS???
Chan: You absolute clown.
Felix: I tried.Â
Minho: LMAO
You: Hyunjin.
Hyunjin: Y/N. Baby. Light of my life.
Y/N: Hereâs whatâs gonna happen. Youâre picking me up in 20 minutes. And we're gonna talk.
Hyunjin: Ok. Yes. Ok.
---
Hyunjin was still typing and you were about done with this.Â
---
Y/N: Baby. Stop typing.Â
Hyunjin: Shutting up now.
Changbin: She really did put a leash on him.
Felix: This is why I love her đ
Y/N: And Hyunjin?
Hyunjin: Yes, angel?
Y/N: I love you too.Â
Hyunjin: đłđłđłđł
Hyunjinâs heart literally stops when he reads your text. You love him back. You love him back!!! He feels faint, his hands are shaky and he just needs to see you. Right now.Â
Hyunjin: Picking you up now.
Y/N: Ok baby.
---
And finally, it was all calm again.
---
Chan: Well, at least we get a little peace and quiet now.
---
As you step outside, you spotted Hyunjinâs car pulling up, his face twisted in a mix of nervousness and relief. His gaze immediately locks onto Mingyu, who waves goodbye. Hyunjin behaves just so that he can show you that he can be a good boy when he needs to.
You grin as you get into the car, and pull on the seat belt. When you look up at him, he's watching you eagerly, well he does look a little scared - like a child waiting to be scolded for doing something wrong.
âYou ok, Jinnie?â You ask.
âPerfect. I'm perfect.â
You raise an eyebrow, fully aware of the effect you have on him.
âIs that so?â you purr, and Hyunjin gulps, as he nods.
âYeah,â he mumbles, looking away.Â
âYou know,â you said with a sly smile, âif you had said something sooner, we wouldnât have had to go through all this.â
Hyunjinâs face turns a sweet pink, and he can't help but smile a little.
âCan you say it again?â He asks.Â
âSay what?â
âThat you love me?â
You feel your own cheeks heating up as you your eyes meet.Â
âI love you, Hyunjinnie. I have for as long as I can remember.â You whisper, and Hyunjin's head falls onto the steering wheel as he does his best not to scream out in joy.Â
You giggle at his reaction and he looks at you again.
âCan I kiss you?â he asks shyly.Â
âYes please,â You say and that's that.
---
Hyunjin: Guess what, losers?
Hyunjin: WE KISSED.
Chan: Wow. Congratulations?
Minho: Was it a pity kiss? Be honest.
Changbin: I'm sure she did it to shut you up.
Hyunjin: It was magical.
Hyunjin: She looked at me, leaned in, and BAM. Fireworks.
Hyunjin: Itâs what poets write about.
Jeongin: Or she just felt bad for you.
Hyunjin: NO.
Felix: Seriously, if you keep this up, sheâs gonna see this and run the other way.
Hyunjin: She won't!
Y/N: Hyunjin.
Y/N: GET OFF YOUR PHONE.
Hyunjin: Ok bye.
Chan: Jokes aside, we're happy for you both.
Jisung: Of course we are
Minho: Y/N, sweetheart, get your man a collar
Y/N: Noted.
Divider by @saradika-graphics
Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @eastjonowhere @pixie-felix @sailor--sun
#stray kids#skz#hyunjin x reader#hyunjin x y/n#hyunjin x you#hyunjin fluff#hyunjin fake texts#skz fluff#skz x reader#stray kids fluff#stray kids x reader
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Salutationsss, hiii, I'm the same anon that sent a request, something abt a nerd readerr, I'm sorry for requesting when you weren't taking at the time! I didn't see đ. But could I req that same trope again?? Thank so much you for your time!
âđđŤđŚ đđŹđđĄđđŽđđĽđĽđ˛ đ¤âď¸â
a/n: hiii youâre all good, but unfortunately i donât have that request anymore so iâm not sure what specifically you requested
bc of that, i turned this into headcanons and i hope you donât mind!Â
ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, kaiser michael, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, shidou ryusei, karasu tabito, bachira meguru
isagi yoichi
yoichi thought he was smart until he started dating you. like sure, he knows tactics, heâs got game IQ, but you? youâre out here solving riddles on a whiteboard like itâs nothing.Â
he once asked if you wanted to watch a documentary with him and you said âonly if itâs narrated by joe dispenza or has a plot twist at the 30-minute mark.âÂ
he genuinely thinks you have a superpower. how else do you know this much random stuff?Â
"you know how many stars are in the milky way galaxy?" you ask. "no," he says. "good. neither do scientists. but i will ruin your sleep schedule by explaining dark matter."Â
yoichi gets this glazed-over look when you go off, like heâs watching god speak through you.Â
âbro, how do you know all this?â he whispers in awe as you explain entropy using a sandwich.Â
heâs not even mad when you correct his grammar in front of people. in fact, he gets a little flustered. "did you just⌠teach me something in public? ⌠hot. whatwhosaidthat."Â
itoshi rin
rin fell for you after overhearing you quote dostoevsky and then immediately say âbut also, the scooby-doo gang was gay-coded.âÂ
he will die before admitting how hot he finds your brain. like, heâll glare at you when you start infodumping about the history of the guillotine, but that glare is just him trying not to fall for you.Â
you send him 20-slide powerpoints at 3 AM about why light yagami was right, and he reads every single one. heâs unwell.Â
once he saw you organizing your bookshelf by theme, subgenre, and emotional damage, and he just⌠stood there. watching. blinking.Â
âyou okay?â you ask. â⌠can i kiss you right now or is that, like, a breach of the fibonacci sequence or whatever.âÂ
he has an entire notes app folder full of weird phrases you say. once you said âi want to kiss you under the fluorescent lights of an abandoned labâ and he had to take a walk.Â
god help anyone who tries to outsmart you because rin doesnât even jump in to help. he just steps aside like, âyeah, go ahead. sheâs got it.âÂ
itoshi sae
sae met you once and immediately started saying âshut up, nerdâ in the most loving tone imaginable.Â
like yeah he acts unbothered, but if you stop talking about your interests for five seconds heâs like â⌠whyâd you stop?âÂ
you once brought a clipboard and a graph to explain how his sleep schedule is ruining his skin elasticity. he hasnât eaten sugar since.Â
heâs obsessed with how you argue. like, someone will say, âi didnât really like that movieâ and youâll go, âwell actually, the entire point of the cinematography was to mimic isolation, so your brainâs just too small for the themes.âÂ
and saeâs in the corner nodding proudly like âyeah. eat âem alive, baby.âÂ
he wonât ever admit it out loud, but if you ever stopped being smart? he would simply perish.Â
also: he absolutely starts fights on twitter just to screenshot them and send them to you like âbabe, look what this idiot said. go ruin him.âÂ
kaiser michael
oh he lives for this. the way you ramble about history and sprinkle in âviolenceâ? he is down BAD.Â
kaiser will interrupt you mid-rant just to be annoying. like youâre explaining molecular structures and he goes âexplain it to me like iâm five⌠and make it sexy.â âthe mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.â âwell then i am the powerhouse of this relationship.â âplease stop talking.âÂ
if you cosplay? he is fully in character. fake accent. dramatic monologue. he once spent $200 on a fake sword just to match your anime aesthetic.Â
calls you âmy little google docâ or âprofessor schatzâ in public and refuses to stop.Â
he 100% cheats off your notes if you take a class together.Â
also once used your obsession with linguistics as an excuse to kiss you mid-sentence: âwait wait, how do you pronounce loââ smooch âoops. distracted you. guess i win.âÂ
you're the only person on earth that can out-argue him. and he loves it. even when you humiliate him in a debate club meeting in front of six people. especially then.Â
mikage reo
rich. nerd. simp. this man once bought you a whiteboard wall so you could explain conspiracy theories and niche film symbolism uninterrupted.Â
he funds your hobbies like itâs a government project. need 72 highlighters in pastel? boom. got âem. a limited edition sailor moon notebook with gold foil? already shipped. âi just need this for journaling, reo.â âyou mean world domination. say less.âÂ
he loves pretending he doesnât understand what youâre talking about just to hear you explain it like a teacher.Â
heâll sit there all wide-eyed like, âwoah, tell me more about black holes.âÂ
you once built a 3D model of the solar system for fun. he walked in, saw saturn, and said, âhey babe. just like saturn, iâll adorn you with the most beautiful rings in the universe.âÂ
he once got jealous because you were paying more attention to your manga than him. âyouâve been reading for three hours.â âiâm at the part where they confess their undying love, you canât interrupt nowââ â⌠iâll confess my undying love right now if it gets me eye contact.âÂ
nagi seishiro
nagi doesnât understand a single thing youâre talking about, but he loves the way you talk.Â
you could be explaining the lifecycle of a parasite and heâd just go âcool... say that again but slower. it sounded pretty.âÂ
he gets very attached to your reading time. youâll be curled up with a book and heâll just drape himself over you like a weighted blanket and nap while you whisper lore.Â
you tried to teach him a game strategy once using chess pieces and he got bored halfway through and started kissing your neck. âsei, focus.â âi am focused. on the smartest person i know.âÂ
he secretly loves it when you make schedules, take notes, organize everything â he feels calmer with your brain leading the way.Â
you once said, âiâd choose you even in a logic simulation.â and he got so flustered he forgot how to hold his phone for five minutes.Â
shidou ryusei
you are the one person on earth who intimidates him. not because youâre loud, but because youâre smart and savage.Â
heâll say something like âgravityâs a mythâ and youâll deadpan, âso is your personality.âÂ
he flirts with you just to hear what kind of insults youâll hurl back.Â
youâll be like âactually, thatâs a misinterpretation of the theory of relativityâ and heâll be like âwow. you wanna kiss me or correct me harder, nerdzilla?âÂ
he once called your bookshelf a ânerd shrineâ and you kicked him out. he came back with snacks and a post-it that said âiâll behave if you teach me about the holy trinityâ.Â
he thinks itâs hilarious when you use big words. starts repeating them wrong on purpose. âyouâre being extremely cacophonous right now.â âaw, thanks. i try.âÂ
he says he doesnât care about your trivia. but the next week, he quotes you during a fight with a ref. âwell actually, statistically speaking, youâre 73% more likely to suck.âÂ
karasu tabito
karasu walked in on you doing sudoku while eating spicy ramen and watching a documentary and went, âyep. thatâs my girl.âÂ
he teases you constantly but donât let that fool you â he brags about you to everyone. âyeah, she solved a murder mystery in two minutes. sexy, right?âÂ
he once found your annotated copy of crime and punishment and was like âdamn, sheâs not just a menace, sheâs an educated menace.âÂ
he makes fun of your color-coded calendar, but then uses it religiously.Â
calls your bookbag your âbat-nerd utility belt.âÂ
you once said âi organize chaos with knowledgeâ and he choked on his water because how are you both terrifying and hot at the same time.Â
he 100% made you a trivia quiz as a date activity and cried when you got a perfect score.Â
âi canât even spell aesthetic,â he sniffled. âbut you⌠you're a weapon of intellect.âÂ
bachira meguru
bachira thinks your brain is the eighth wonder of the world. he stares at you when you talk like youâre casting a spell.Â
he mimics you when you start nerding out. âso actually, the evolution of languageââÂ
âbabe, are you possessed again? blink twice if youâre still in there.âÂ
he brings you weird niche books from secondhand stores and is like âi got this because it looks cursed. i knew youâd love it.âÂ
he once watched you do a sudoku puzzle and got jealous of the numbers. âwhy are you smiling at that box like that.âÂ
loves playing study music and drawing you while you read. your âreading faceâ is his favorite thing ever.Â
he doesnât get half the things you say but if someone else calls you a nerd? heâs biting ankles. no hesitation.Â
Š đ¤đąđŹđđ đ˘
#blue lock#blue lock x reader#bllk#bllk x reader#blue lock headcanons#yoichi isagi x reader#isagi yoichi x reader#itoshi rin x reader#rin itoshi x reader#itoshi sae x reader#sae itoshi x reader#mikage reo x reader#reo mikage x reader#nagi seishiro x reader#seishiro nagi x reader#kaiser michael x reader#michael kaiser x reader#shidou ryusei x reader#ryusei shidou x reader#karasu tabito x reader#tabito karasu x reader#bachira meguru x reader#meguru bachira x reader#erm aschtually đ¤âď¸
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On Your Own
Part 2 out now! Lace and Lies
Pairing Jack Abbot x Female Reader
Summary: Youâre a second year resident in the Pitt whoâs been working on a research project since you started intern year. The San Diego Emergency Medicine Conference is right around the corner. But when Robby has to cancel on the trip, youâre forced to go at it alone. But are you actually there alone?
Warnings:Â beginning is all fluff but the end is something else, Jack Abbot is a flirt, strong language, sexual tension, unprotected p in v sex, fingering, handjob/blowjob, all the dirty stuff tbhÂ
Word Count: 5.9k
Tuesday
The fluorescent lights at the back nurseâs station flicker just enough to make you squint. Youâre slumped in your chair sipping your lukewarm coffee. Your tabletâs screen glows with the final draft of your presentation slidesâmonths of work on resident burnout in the ER, distilled into bullet points and graphs. The numbers are grim: 60% of ER residents report severe burnout by their second year, 40% consider leaving medicine entirely.Â
Youâve lived those stats, felt the weight of 24-hour shifts and patients you couldnât save. This research is your lifeline, a chance to make a difference, and the Emergency Medicine Research Conference in San Diego is where youâll present it.
Robby leans against the counter, his arms crossed, his face etched with exhaustion. âBad news, kid,â Robby says, his voice low, like heâs breaking it to you gently. âHospital execs are coming end of the week. Budget reviews, staff evals, the whole circus. I canât leave.â
Your stomach drops. âWhat? Robby, weâve been planning this for months. Weâre supposed to fly out Thursday.â
He sighs, rubbing his temple. âI know. Iâd rather be in California than kissing up to suits who think âtraumaâ is a line item on a spreadsheet. But if Iâm not here to defend the departmentâŚâ He trails off, letting the implication hang.Â
Youâve seen the understaffing, the broken equipment, the nurses pulling double duty. If Robby doesnât stay, the ER could take a hit.
âSo the conference?â you ask, though you already know the answer. Your palms are sweaty, and you wipe them on your scrubs.
Robby meets your eyes, steady but apologetic. âYou gotta go alone, kid. I got the tickets last secondâsnagged you a window seat, but no way Iâm stuck in the middle, so I was gonna take the aisle two rows up. Now itâs just you.â
The words land like a gurney hitting a wall. Youâre 29, a second-year resident, competent enough in the ERâs chaos, but youâve never traveled solo. Not once. Family vacations as a kid, college road trips with friends, even your move to Pittsburghâyou always had someone. The idea of navigating airports, hotels, and a high-stakes conference 2,500 miles away without anyoneâs guidance makes your chest tighten. A window seat sounds nice, but it doesnât dull the panic of flying alone.
But the researchâyour researchâis too important. You spent your intern year interviewing residents, crunching data, and fighting for every scrap of insight into why ER doctors burn out. Second year tightening it all up. This conference is your shot to get it in front of experts, the best of the best ER physicians, to maybe change how hospitals treat their residents.
âIâve never done this alone,â you admit, voice quieter than you mean it to be. âWhat if I screw it up? The presentation, the Q&Aââ
âYou wonât.â Robby cuts you off, his tone firm. âYou know this data inside out. Youâve lived it. Youâre ready for this, whether you feel it or not.â He softens, offering a half-smile. âBesides, youâre not totally alone. Youâll have colleagues there. Network, make connections.â
You nod, trying to believe him, but the anxiety churns. You glance at your tablet, the slide deck mocking you with its polished charts.Â
Robby claps a hand on your shoulder, a rare gesture from him. âGet some rest before you fly out. And donât let the airport coffee scam youâitâs worse than ours.â
As he heads back to work, youâre left with the hum of the break room fridge and a sinking feeling.Â
Three days to San Diego. Alone.
ââââââââââââââââââââ
WednesdayÂ
The next morning, youâre in the ER locker room, shoving your stethoscope into your bag, when Abbot appears in the doorway.Â
His silver hair is mussed, his scrubs slightly untucked, like he just woke up in the on-call room. Youâve seen him on night shifts, moving with a quiet intensity that makes him a legend among residents. His past as a war veteran, his steady hands in a crisisâthereâs something about him that always catches your attention.
âHeard youâre heading to California solo,â he says, voice low and gravelly. âYou nervous?â
âPretty sure Iâm going to crash and burn.â
âAnd here I was thinking you were gonna win the whole thing.â He shrugs.
You pause, zipping your bag, a flicker of doubt surfacing. âYou canât possibly even think that. You havenât even read my research.â
Jackâs eyes meet yours, steady and sure. âI know you. Thatâs enough to know youâll be okay on your own. Youâre gonna kick ass there. Bet youâll look good doing it too.â
Your cheeks heat, and you roll your eyes to cover it. âFlattery wonât help me survive San Diego aloneâ
His smirk widens. âMaybe not, but itâs true.â He pushes off the doorframe, giving you a nod. âKnock âem dead kid.â Heâs gone before you can respond, leaving your heart racing, his words a quiet spark in your chest.
His words linger, simple but heavy, like a promise. Maybe you can do this after all.
ââââââââââââââââââââ
ThursdayÂ
The hotel room in San Diego smells faintly of lemon cleaner and ocean air, a stark contrast to the ER. You drop your backpack on the stiff queen bed, the generic beige walls and stiff carpet doing little to ease the knot in your stomach. The flight was a blurâcrowded airports, a window seat next to a snoring businessman. Now, alone in this room with a view of a parking lot, the reality of tomorrowâs conference presentation hits hard. Your research on resident burnoutâyour lifeâs work for the past yearâfeels like a fragile thing, and youâre not sure you can carry it alone.
You pull out your phone and text Langdon, your best friend and senior resident. If anyone can talk you off the ledge, itâs him.
You: Landed in San Diego. In my hotel room. Freaking out. This was a big mistake.
Your phone buzzes almost instantly.
Lang: Yo, you made it! Solo travel champ! Stop spiraling, youâre gonna crush this.
You: Easy for you to say. Iâm presenting to a room full of attendings tomorrow. Alone. What if I choke?
Lang: You wonât. You know this burnout stuff coldâlived it, breathed it. Those big shots are gonna eat it up. Take a breath, champ.
You flop onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. The conference doesnât start until tomorrow morning, leaving you a free day toâŚwhat? Wander San Diego alone? The thought makes your chest tighten again.
You: Iâve got a whole day here before it starts. No clue what to do. Never been to California.
Lang: Dude, itâs San Diego. Sun, beaches, tacos. Go explore! Get outta that hotel room. Youâre not chained to your slides.
You: Explore? By myself? I barely survived the airport.
Lang: Youâre a badass ER resident. Youâve handled codes, psych patients, and that time I spilled coffee on your charts. You got this. Hit the beach live a little. Doctorâs orders.
You smile despite yourself, picturing Langâs mock-serious face. Heâs rightâyou need to calm down. But the thought of navigating a new city alone, with the weight of tomorrowâs presentations looming, feels like too much.
You: Fine. Iâll try. But if I get lost, Iâm blaming you.
Lang: Deal. Send pics of the ocean. And donât stressâtomorrow, youâre gonna make us proud.
You set the phone down, Langâs words echoing faintly. The presentation slides are on your laptop, ready for one last review, but the idea of a free day in San Diego tugs at you. Maybe you could step outside, feel the sun, shake off the nerves. Or maybe youâll just stay here, triple-checking your data until your eyes blur. Either way, tomorrowâs coming, and youâre on your own.
âââââââââââââââââââââ
Friday - Conference DayÂ
You barely slept. The San Diego hotel room, with its too-stiff pillows and faint hum of the air conditioner, offered no mercy. Yesterday, you wandered downtown alone, the sun too bright and the streets too unfamiliar. You grabbed a burger and a margarita at a crowded taqueria, hoping the drink would dull your nerves, but it just left you buzzed and restless.Â
Back in your room, you sprawled on the bed, scrolling through TikTokâendless loops of dance challenges and ER skits that hit too close to homeâtrying to relax. It didnât work.Â
Your mind kept replaying your presentation slides, the stats on resident burnout, the stakes of todayâs conference. By 3 a.m., you were still awake, staring at the ceiling, heart racing like you were running a code.
Now, itâs 5:30 a.m., and youâre rushing to get ready in the hotel bathroom, the mirror fogged from a quick shower. You pull on a tailored navy blouse and black slacks, professional but practical, your hair yanked back into a messy bun, still damp. A swipe of mascara and lip gloss is all you manage, your hands shaky from nerves and lack of sleep, your reflection showing the frazzled edge of a resident facing a make-or-break day. You check your phone one last timeâLangâs texts still glowing with encouragementâand grab your backpack, the weight of your laptop and handouts grounding you as you head out.
Now, itâs 6:30 a.m., and youâre at the San Diego Convention Center, one of the first presenters let in. The hall smells of fresh carpet and coffee, its high ceilings amplifying every soundâclattering carts, murmured setup instructions, the squeak of your shoes. Your table is a small island in a sea of posters and displays, your laptop open, your printed handouts neatly stacked. A foam board behind you screams your research title: Burnout in Emergency Medicine Residents: Prevalence and Pathways to Resilience. The numbersâ60% burnout rate, 40% considering quittingâare bolded, impossible to miss. You adjust the board for the third time, hands shaky from lack of sleep and too much hotel coffee.
Youâre here to pitch your work to anyone who stops by, from curious residents to stone-faced attendings. Somewhere among them are the judges, anonymous faces deciding the top three projects for research grants. Those grants could fund your next study, maybe even change how hospitals support their residents. The pressure feels like a vice around your chest.Â
Youâve never done this alone, and without Robbyâs steady presence, every glance from a passerby feels like a judgment.
A young doctor in a UCSD badge pauses at your table, skimming your handout. âInteresting topic,â she says, her tone neutral. âWhatâs your intervention model?â
You swallow, launching into your pitch. âWe surveyed 200 residents across five ERs, found 60% report severe burnout by year two. Our proposed intervention focuses on structured debriefs and flexible scheduling to reduce emotional exhaustion.â You point to a graph, your voice steadier than you feel. She nods, asks about sample size, then moves on.Â
You exhale, but thereâs no time to relaxâanother researcher stops, then a group of residents, each with questions you scramble to answer. Are the judges watching? Is that gray-haired attending with the clipboard one of them? You canât tell.
Between visitors, you check your phone. A new text from Lang.
Lang: You at the conference yet? Bet youâre killing it.
You: Barely slept. At my table, talking to randos. No clue who the judges are. Freaking out.
Lang: Chill, kid. You know this stuff cold. Just be youâsmart, badass, saving the ER one slide at a time. You got this.
You smile faintly, but the nerves donât budge. Another attendee approaches, this one with a conference organizer badge, and your heart skips. âNice setup,â he says, eyeing your board.Â
âBurnoutâs a hot topic. Got any preliminary findings on interventions?â
You dive in, explaining your data, but your eyes keep scanning the crowd. Every face could be a judge, every question a test. Youâre alone in this, carrying the weight of your research and the hope of a grant that could make a difference. Jack Abbotâs words from Pittsburgh echo faintlyââI know you. Thatâs enough.ââbut right now, itâs just you, your table, and a room full of strangers.
ââââââââââââââââââââ
Itâs 12:30 p.m., and your stomach growls loud enough to rival the convention centerâs hum. You havenât eaten all morning, too wired to think about food. Your iced coffee sits melted at the back of your table, a sad puddle in a plastic cup, next to a barely touched water bottle. You havenât sat down, havenât stepped away to check out the other projectsâjust kept talking, pitching your burnout research to every passerby.Â
The latest group, a mix of residents and an attending, just left, their questions about your intervention model still ringing in your ears. Youâre wiping sweat from your brow when a slow, deliberate clap starts behind them.
You turn, and your jaw drops. Itâs Jack, standing there in sharp black dress pants and a crisp white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his silver hair catching the convention centerâs light, a roguish grin on his face as he keeps clapping.Â
Youâve only seen him out of scrubs once before, at last yearâs residency year-end party, nearly a full year agoâthe next oneâs set for two weeks after youâre back in Pittsburgh, to celebrate the end of the residency year and the start of the next for all the ER interns and residents.Â
The polished look, not quite a suit but close, makes your pulse skip, his presence as commanding as ever. âReally solid work,â he says, voice low and warm. âKnew I was rightâyouâve got a good shot at winning this thing.â
You blink, mouth still open. âWhat are you doing here?â
He shrugs, stepping closer. âWell when Robby found out he couldnât make it, he asked me. Couldnât pass up a couple days off. And I guess seeing what all this research is about anyway.â
âOh, so youâre not here for me, youâre here for a free vacation?â you shoot back, half-teasing, half-stunned.
Jackâs grin widens. âTwo things can be true.â His eyes flick to your melted iced coffee and untouched water, then back to you. âThink Iâd be right in assuming you havenât eaten today?â
You smile, sheepish. âUh well no but, Iâm fine. I swear.â
âLetâs go,â he says, tone firm but kind. âYou need a break. Pretty sure walking away for a bit wonât get you disqualified.â
Your brow furrows, a flicker of worry. âI didnât think being disqualified was even a thing here.â
He raises an eyebrow. âYour research is about resident burnout sweetheart, yet youâre standing here burning yourself out. Letâs go.â
You hesitate, but his steady gaze wins. The âsweetheart
You grab your phone and follow him downstairs to a convention center cafĂŠ, where you snag a turkey sandwich and a soda.Â
Over the small table, you spill everythingâthe terrifying plane ride, the restless night scrolling TikTok, the dozen times youâve pitched your research today. He listens, really listens, his eyes locked on you, no trace of the usual ER chaos between you. Itâs different from work, where heâs all business and quick quips. Here, heâs present, his quiet nods and occasional smirk making you feel seen in a way that steadies your nerves.
After eating, you both wander the conference floor, checking out other projectsâtrauma protocols, AI diagnostics, rural ER studies. Jack points out a flashy poster, muttering, âAll style, no substance,â and you laugh, tension easing. Back at your table, he grabs a chair behind you, hyping you up between pitches with a quiet âNailed itâ or a teasing âYou forgot to mention youâre a rockstar.â His presence is a lifeline, keeping you grounded as the afternoon drags on.
By 5 p.m., the presentation session ends, and thereâs an hour wait before the awards in the main room. Jack tries to nudge you toward the front, but you insist on the back, sinking into a chair. âNo way Iâm sitting up there,â you mutter, nerves spiking again. He relents, sitting beside you as the ceremony starts, specific awards handed out first. Then, the big ones: the top three grants. Third place goes to a researcher from New York. Thenâ
âSecond place: Burnout in Emergency Medicine Residents, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.â
You freeze. Jack glances over, grinning. âHey, think thatâs your name they just called. Told you we shouldâve sat up front.â He nudges your arm.
You stumble to the stage, heart pounding, grateful thereâs no speech requiredâyouâd probably puke on the front row. After quick photos with the other winners, you weave through the crowd back to him, slow-clapping again, eyes twinkling. âKnew you could do it.â
âAbbot, Iâm actually puke,â you say, half-laughing, half-serious.
He chuckles. âAt least the worst partâs over. Come on, youâve barely eaten all day. Now that itâs done, you deserve a nice dinner. Maybe a drink or two. My treat?â
âYes, please,â you say, relief flooding you. He grabs your sweater from the chair, slinging it over his shoulder, and leads you outside, the San Diego evening air warm and promising.
âââââââââââââââââââââââÂ
He taps his phone, calling an Uber as you step into the San Diego evening, the air warm and tinged with salt from the nearby ocean. The convention centerâs lights fade behind you, and the buzz of your second-place win still hums in your chest, mixing with exhaustion and something lighterârelief, maybe, or the thrill of his unexpected presence.
âWhere are we even going?â you ask, glancing at him as you walk toward the pickup spot.
He smirks, slipping his phone into his pocket. âYou donât like surprises, do you?â
âI donât think I hate anything more than surprises,â you say, half-serious, your nerves still raw from the day.
âGuess youâll just have to deal with it tonight,â he says, his voice teasing but warm, his eyes catching yours in the streetlightâs glow.
The Uber pulls up, and you slide into the backseat with him, the driver weaving through downtown to a restaurant thatâs equal parts fancy and casualâexposed brick walls, soft lighting, and a bar lined with craft bottles. You settle at a corner table, ordering a glass of wine and a plate of seared salmon, while Jack goes for a whiskey and steak tacos. The food is incredible, the wine smooth and heady, but itâs the conversation that hits harder.Â
Away from the ERâs chaos, Jackâs differentânot just the war-veteran-turned-legend with steady hands and sharp quips. He talks about his early days in medicine, the desert sunsets from his military tours, the music he listens to when the night shift gets too heavy. You share more than you plannedâyour fear of failing at the conference, the way Pittsburghâs gray winters weigh on you, even a dumb story about a TikTok trend you tried to follow last night. He laughs, really laughs, and you see a softness in him, a side the hospital rarely lets out.
The conversation turns deeper, past casual. You talk about burnoutânot just your research, but how it feels, the weight of patients you couldnât save, the nights you questioned why you chose this life. Jack nods, his eyes steady, sharing his own storiesâmoments from the battlefield that still wake him up. Itâs raw, unguarded, and you feel a pull, a connection thatâs new and terrifying and good.
The restaurant empties out, and a serverâs voice cuts through: âClosing in ten.â You glance at your phoneâmidnight. Only one other table remains, their laughter faint across the room.
Jack leans back, smiling. âDidnât even realize what time it was.â
You laugh, a little dazed. âMe neither.â Itâs almost midnight. He grabs your sweater from the chair, holding it out to help you slip it on. His hand grazes your shoulder, sending a shiver down your spineânot from the cold, but from the warmth of his touch, electric in the best way.
Outside, you walk to a street corner to wait for the Uber, the city quiet around you. The silence between you isnât heavy, just full, like the momentâs holding its breath. You break it first.Â
âThank you, Abbot. I really needed this tonight.â
He steps closer, his voice soft. âWeâre not at work. Call me Jack.â His eyes hold yours, steady and sure. âYou deserve all of this. Never seen a resident as incredible as you.â
Youâre face to face now, inches apart, your heart pounding harder than it did on stage. Thoughts raceâheâs your boss, this is a line you shouldnât crossâbut they blur as his hand lifts, brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. His fingers linger on your cheek, warm and gentle, and your breath catches. His gaze drops to your lips, and your pulse spikes, louder than the dayâs nerves.
âCan I kiss you?â he asks, voice low, almost a whisper.
You donât speak, just nod, your eyes locked on his. His lips meet yours, soft, gentle, a quiet promise in the way they move. Your bodies press closer, the world narrowing to the warmth of him, the steadiness of his hands. Itâs brief but endless, until headlights flash beside you, the Uber pulling up.
âââââââââââââââââââââ
The Uber drops you off at the hotel, the neon sign casting a soft glow over the entrance. Jackâs hand rests lightly on your lower back as you walk through the front door, his touch steady and warm, grounding you in the buzzing aftermath of the kiss.Â
The lobby is quiet, just a bored clerk scrolling on his phone and the hum of an ice machine. You head toward the elevator, and just before the doors slide open, Jackâs hand slips from behind to find yours, his fingers intertwining with a gentle squeeze that sends a spark up your arm.
Inside the elevator, you glance at him, his profile sharp under the fluorescent light. âWhat floor you on?â you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be.
âFour,â he says, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. âYou?â
âSame,â you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. The elevator dings, and you step out, still hand in hand, the hallway carpet muffling your steps. You realize his room is right next to yoursâ417 to your 418. He stops at his door, but as you start to walk toward yours, he tugs you back, your body pressing against his again, close enough to feel the heat of him.
âWanna come in?â he asks, his voice low, eyes searching yours with a mix of mischief and something deeper.
You bite your lip, nerves and want swirling in your chest. âSure,â you say, the word slipping out before you can overthink it.
He unlocks the door, and you step inside, the room a mirror of yoursâbeige walls, stiff bed, a single chair by the window. His lone book bag sits on the floor, unzipped but barely touched. You laugh, nodding at it. âWow, you travel light, donât you?â
Jack grins, locking the door behind you with a soft click. âHere for less than 24 hours, flight backâs at 8 a.m. No point unpacking my three outfits.â
âThatâs cute,â you tease, laughing as you meet his eyes.
He steps closer, his hands finding your waist, pulling you in. âDonât know if Iâll be needing clothes to sleep in tonight though,â he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends heat pooling in your core.
You lick your lips, boldness rising. âOh, so you sleep naked, huh?â
He laughs, a rough, warm sound. âDonât actually plan on sleeping tonight.â His eyes darken, holding yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.
âOh yeah, what exactly you got planned then, Jack?â you challenge, your voice teasing but edged with want. His eyes darken, holding your with an intensity that makes your breath hitch, your hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart.
âWhy donât I just show you,â he says, his hands sliding around your back, tugging your sweater off in one smooth motion. You kick off your shoes, sending them skidding across the room, and your fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, pausing at his belt. He yanks your top off, quick and sure, then pops the button on your pants. His lips find your neck, hot and deliberate, grazing the sensitive skin as you shiver.
He pulls back, eyes locked on yours. âYou sure you wanna do this?â he asks, voice rough but careful, checking in.
âGod, yes,â you breathe, cheat heaving, need drowning out any doubt.
He unhooks your bra with one move, his shirt falling open as you shove it off his shoulders. You shimmy out of your pants, and he pushes you back onto the bed, taking his pants off while standing over you before pinning you under his weight.Â
His hands trace your thighs, slow and teasing, as his mouth moves to your chest, lips closing over a nipple, sucking hard enough to make you gasp. You feel him, hard and straining through his briefs, pressed against your thigh. âAlready so hard for me,â you tease, voice breathy, running a hand over his bulge, feeling him twitch.
His tongue slips into your mouth, hungry and deep, as his hand slides into your panties, finding you slick and ready.
âFuck, youâre dripping for me,â he growls, his lips trailing to your jaw, then down your neck, each kiss searing your skin. âTell me what you need, baby. Say it loud.â
âI need you, Jack,â you moan, your head tilting back to give him more access. âGod, I need you so bad.â
âLove hearinâ you beg like that,â he says, voice dark, peeling your panties off and tossing them aside. He kisses you again, hungry and deep, his fingers circling your clit, teasing with just enough pressure to make you writhe. âGonna make you feel so good,â he promises, sliding two fingers inside you, slow and deep, curling perfectly as you cry out, hands fisting in his hair.
âJack, fuck!â you scream, hips bucking against his hand, the pressure building hot and fast. âDonât stop, please!â His thumb rubs tight circles on your clit, and you come hard, moans echoing off the walls, body trembling as he works you through it.
âThatâs it, darlinâ, cum for me,â he murmurs, licking a slow path down your stomach, his fingers still moving inside you, drawing out every shudder.Â
âGonna taste you now, make you scream louder.â His mouth closes over your clit, tongue hot and relentless, lapping and sucking hard as you jerk against him, hands tugging his hair. âFuck, you taste like heaven,â he growls, pinning your thighs to the bed, his tongue circling faster, driving you wild.
âJack, oh God!â you scream, voice raw, hips bucking as another orgasm builds fast. âYouâre too fuckinâ good!â He sucks harder, fingers sliding back in, curling just right, and you come again, louder, cries filling the room as your body shakes uncontrollably.
He kisses his way back up, lips slick with you, eyes dark with hunger. âYouâre fuckinâ unreal,â he rasps, settling over you. You push him onto his back, straddling his hips, and tug his briefs down, his cock springing free, thick and heavy against his stomach. You spit into your hand, stroking him slowly, feeling every vein pulse. Leaning down, you kiss the tip, then suck the head, tongue swirling as he groans, hips twitching.
âFuck, sweetheart, that mouth,â he growls, voice strained. âKeep suckinâ me, baby, just like that.â You moan around him, taking him deeper, hand squeezing his balls gently, making him thrust into your mouth. âShit, youâre gonna make me lose it,â he gasps, voice breaking.
âCum for me, Jack,â you tease, pulling off to stroke him with both hands, feeling him throb. âWanna taste you.â
He grabs your hair, tugging lightly. âGet that pretty mouth back on me, darlinâ,â he growls. You dive back in, sucking hard, tongue working him until he comes hard, spilling into your mouth with a loud, guttural moan. You swallow, licking your lips, wiping your chin with your thumb and sucking it clean as he watches, eyes wide with awe.
âFuckinâ hell, youâre incredible,â he pants, voice raw. âGonna ruin me.â
âNeed a second?â you tease, crawling up to face him, your body buzzing with need.
âNot a fuckinâ chance,â he growls, flipping you onto your back, his body pinning you. His hands roam, squeezing your breasts, then sliding down to grip your hips. âNeed to be inside you, now,â he says, voice thick, reaching for his bag, then pausing, cursing softly. âShit, didnât plan for this. No condom.â
You grab his wrist, breathless. âIâm on the pill. Itâs okay. I want youâwant to feel all of you, Jack.â
His eyes flare, a low groan escaping. âYouâre sure, darlinâ?â You nod, pulling him closer. âFuck, youâre gonna kill me,â he mutters, kissing you hard, teeth grazing your lip. He positions himself, dragging his cock through your slick folds, teasing your entrance. âReady for me, baby?â
âFuck yes,â you moan, legs wrapping around his waist, voice loud and desperate. âGive it to me, Jack, please!â
He pushes in, bare, slow and deep, the raw stretch intense, filling youÂ
completely. âGoddamn, youâre so fuckinâ tight,â he groans, bottoming out, hips flush against yours. âFeels so fucking good inside of you.â
âOh, God, Jack!â you scream, nails raking his shoulders, the raw heat of him overwhelming. âYouâre so big, fuck!â
He smirks, pausing, eyes locked on yours. âYou okay, babygirl? Can take it slow if you need.â
You grimace, adjusting to his size. âJust⌠youâre huge. Not used to it.â
He chuckles, low and dirty. âDonât worry, darlinâ, Iâll make it good.â He slides out almost fully, then back in halfway, letting you adjust, his lips kissing your neck softly. âTell me when youâre ready for more.â
You nod, hands gripping his face. âIâm ready. Want it rough, Jack, please.â
âFuck, youâre my kinda dirty,â he growls, approval thick in his voice, thrusts speeding up, hips slamming into yours, the bed creaking loudly. The wet slap of his balls against you fills the room, mingling with your moans. âThis pussyâs mine tonight, takinâ me so fucking well,â he rasps, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast, tight circles, making you tremble.
âYes, Jack, fuck!â you scream, voice echoing, body shaking as he hits that perfect spot. âLove how you fuck me, donât stop!â
âKeep screaming my name, babygirl,â he growls, lips at your ear, thrusts relentless, headboard banging. He shifts, pulling your legs over his shoulders, going deeper, making you cry out louder. âFuck, youâre so tight like this, squeezing me so good.â
âIâm gonna cum, Jack!â you scream, body tensing, orgasm building fast.Â
âPlease, harder!â
âCum for me, darlinâ,â he rasps, thrusts brutal, fingers working your clit in sync. âWanna feel this pussy milk me.â You shatter, screaming his name, clenching hard around him, legs jerking as the orgasm tears through you, raw and intense. He groans, thrusts stuttering, âFuck, babygirl!â his body shaking as he buries himself in you.
âI want you in my mouth again, Jack,â you pant, voice raw, still trembling. âNeed to taste you.â
He pulls out, slick with you, and moves to your mouth, stroking himself. You take him in, sucking eagerly, catching every drop as he cuts, moaning your name. âFuck, youâre perfect,â he gasps, eyes locked on yours.
He collapses beside you, both of you slick with sweat, the room heavy with the scent of sex. You grab the sheet, pulling it over your naked body, legs still twitching. He laughs, breathless. âYou okay over there, darlinâ?â
âFuck, that wasâŚintense,â you say, catching your breath, turning to face him., your face red, âYou wanna go again though?â
He shifts, propping himself up, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. âHell yeah, babygirl.â You crawl under the sheet, straddling him, grinding slowly as he hardens beneath you. âGoddamn, youâre gonna drive me fuckinâ insane,â he growls, pulling your hair back to kiss you deeply, hips rocking up to meet yours.
You guide him to your entrance, sinking down, crying out as he fills you again. âJack, fuck!â you moan, riding him hard, his hands gripping your hips, guiding your pace. âMake me cum again,â you beg, voice loud and desperate.
âAnything for you, darlinâ,â he rasps, thrusting up, hitting deep, making you scream. You come undone, body shaking, moans echoing as he follows, spilling inside you with a low groan.
You collapse onto his chest, his hands finding your hips, both of you panting. âGoddamn, youâre something else,â he murmurs, kissing your forehead.Â
âDonât think I can walk back to my room after that.â
âThen donât. Stay here with me.â
You turn to him and nod gently.
âLet me clean you up.â He grabs a towel, wiping you gently, his touch lingering, making you shiver. âGot a shirt and boxers if you wanna sleep in âem,â he says, tossing the towel aside, grabbing clothes from his bag. You nod, taking them, and head to the bathroom, pulling the door shut.
Leaning against it, your heart races. Holy shit, I just fucked my boss. My mentor. The thrill of itâhis hands, his voice, the way he made you screamâmixes with a cold wave of panic. Heâs your supervisor, the ER legend youâve admired for years. What the hell did you just do?Â
Your phone sits on the counter, 20 unread texts, eight missed callsâLangdon, Robby, Dana, co-residents, all congratulating you. You want to text Lang, spill everything, hear his dumb jokes to calm you down, but you stop. What would I even say? âJust slept with Jack Abbot, oopsâ? No, heâll come knocking if you stay in here too long.
You slip into Jackâs shirt and boxers, the fabric smelling faintly of him, and step out. The roomâs dark except for his nightstand lamp, Jack in just his briefs, sprawled on the bed. âLook better in those than I do,â he says, smirking, but, thereâs a flicker of something else- concern, maybe, or hope.
You chuckle weakly, crawling under the comforter, avoiding his gaze. He pulls you close, lips brushing your forehead. âIâm glad we did this,â he whispers, voice heavy with meaning, but thereâs a question in it, like heâs testing the waters.
âYeah,â you say, voice flat, mind racing. Heâs my boss. Weâre flying back together in hours. What does this mean? The 5+ hour plane ride looms, a confined space where you canât escape himâor this. âSo, what time do we have to get up for the flight?â
His eyes flicker, like he wanted more from you, a hint of disappointment crossing his face. âFlightâs at 8. Uber by 5:45, latest. Up at 4:30? Gives you time to shower, pack.â
âSounds good,â you say, voice distant. âThink Iâll skip breakfast. Nervous stomach for the plane ride.â
âOh⌠okay,â he says, voice soft, sensing your shift. He grabs his phone, setting the alarm, and turns off the lamp. You feel his hesitation, like heâs debating asking if youâre okay or what this night means, but he stays silent.Â
You roll over, pulling the comforter tight, facing away from him, your coldness a wall between you. His breathing slows, but you know he feels itâthe distance youâve put there.
You lie awake, mind spinning. Heâs right there, inches away, but you canât face him. The weight of crossing that line, of what it might mean back at work, presses down. You want to say something, to bridge the gap, but the words wonât come. The room feels too small, the plane ride too long, the future too uncertain.
The alarm blares at 4:30, sharp and jarring, less than two hours since you collapsed beside him. Your stomach twists, and you keep your back to him, eyes fixed on the wall, unwilling to turn and face the man who just changed everything.
Woo Woo, haven't posted in like 3+ weeks but, I'm back now! Let me know what you guys think of this one! Already have a rough draft of a part 2 ready for you guys!!
#the pitt#dr jack abbot#jack abbot fanfic#jack abbot x reader#jack abott#jack abbot x you#jack abbot smut#dr langdon#dr robinavitch#frank langdon#dr robby#micheal robinavitch#ao3#jack abbott x oc#dr abbot#jack abbot#robby x abbot#robby robinavitch#doctor robby#michael robinavitch
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Being a European into feederism, I literally fetishize America for how bad your food situation is. Not only is junk food way more common and normalized there, it's actually even worse than in Europe, having even more carbs, sugar, and saturated fats. Almost all food you can buy is processed in some way. If you want to buy whole, natural foods, they're usually much more expensive, so you're being financially encouraged to buy whatever is bad for you. Pretty much anything you buy has added sugar. It's all absolutely bursting with calories. But it's not just the food itself. Food delivery is so much more common, and takeout obviously has more calories than a home cooked meal. You go everywhere by car, barely moving. There is a fast food place around every corner, begging you to eat their food. The industry is even literally studying your behaviour to make food even more addicting. With each year, your mean BMI increases. Just look at this graph. You're living in a country that's designed to fatten you up, whether you want it or not. It's an absolute dystopia, but I just love watching you get fatter with each year passing. So don't even fight the system, you'll lose. Order some takeout, make yourself comfortable, and just keep growing.
#smut#weight gain encouragement#feedee encouragement#fat encouragement#feeding kink#gaining weight on purpose#gaining kink
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Request: đ
One Page At A Time



Exam stress is something Lily and Oscar never want to see from their daughter. So they do what they can. They help her.
The house was quiet â not peaceful, but tense.
Upstairs, the only sound was the furious scratch of a pen on paper, the occasional frustrated sigh, and the muffled thud of a textbook being slammed shut.
Y/n Piastri-Zneimer sat hunched over her desk, hair piled into a messy bun, eyes darting over formulas and facts that refused to stick. Her room looked like a war zone â colour-coded notes scattered across her bed, flashcards stuck on the wall like battle plans, and a half-finished mug of tea that had gone cold hours ago.
It was exam season. The final exam season.
The one that decided her future.
University applications were around the corner, and her grades this year would carry the most weight. And though Y/n had always been a steady, self-motivated student, the pressure had started pressing in on all sides like a slow tide. Her highlighters were running dry. Her sleep was inconsistent. And she hadnât smiled â not really â in days.
Oscar had noticed.
So had Lily.
They had heard the small, tired voice from behind her door whenever they checked in. Had seen her rubbing her temples at breakfast, eyes still glazed over from late-night revision. Oscar had even found her dozing off on the couch with her physics notes stuck to her cheek one evening after a study break turned nap.
That night, as Lily stirred pasta in the kitchen and Oscar leaned against the counter with a quiet frown, they exchanged a look.
âSheâs going to burn out,â Lily said softly, voice laced with concern.
Oscar nodded. âI keep telling her to take a break, but she wonât listen. Says she doesnât have time.â
âThen maybe we make the time for her.â
Oscar raised an eyebrow. âOperation Parental Intervention?â
Lily smiled. âExactly.â
It started small the next morning.
Oscar brought her breakfast in bed â toast, berries, and a soft-boiled egg with a silly little smiley face drawn in sharpie.
Y/n blinked at the tray. âDad⌠whatâs this?â
He shrugged casually. âBrain fuel. Straight from the Piastri pit crew. Youâre the car, exams are the race, and you canât win if you donât refuel.â
Y/n laughed softly despite herself. âThat was so cheesy.â
âI aim to please.â
Later that afternoon, Lily walked into Y/nâs room with a stack of hot chocolate, fluffy socks, and a candle that smelled like vanilla and old libraries.
âOkay,â she said, clapping her hands. âFive-minute breathing session, followed by a twenty-minute reset walk with your very stylish mum. No negotiation.â
âBut I haveââ
âY/n.â
Y/n looked up and saw the gentleness in her mumâs eyes. The kind that didnât push too hard, just held space. Slowly, she closed her textbook.
ââŚFine. But only because Iâm starting to smell like exam stress.â
They walked around the neighbourhood, talking about everything but school â their dog barking at leaves, the colour of the sunset, how Lily once fell off a Segway in front of a busload of tourists.
And just like that, some of the weight fell off Y/nâs shoulders.
But the big move came the next evening.
Y/n was hitting a breaking point with her maths exam. Graphs and derivatives blurred together, and nothing made sense. Her hands trembled from too much caffeine. Her chest was tight.
âStupid curve,â she muttered, eyes burning. âI donât get it, I just⌠donât get it.â
A knock sounded on her door.
Oscar poked his head in. âHey, I need you for something.â
âDad, Iâm really notââ
âY/n.â
She sighed, standing reluctantly.
But when she followed him downstairs, she blinked in confusion.
The living room had been transformed.
A blanket fort â a giant one â took over the couch, twinkly lights draped along the top like constellations. A projector lit the wall with her favorite movieâs opening scene. Popcorn sat in a bowl shaped like a racing helmet. On the floor was a handwritten sign:
âNO EXAMS ALLOWED BEYOND THIS POINT.â
Lily popped her head out from under the fort flap. âCome on in, Professor. Time to shut off that brain.â
Y/n stared, eyes wide. Then she let out a choked laugh.
âYou guys are ridiculous.â
Oscar beamed. âAnd you love it.â
She crawled inside, curling up between them under a mountain of pillows. Her hand found Oscarâs and squeezed.
âThanks, Dad.â
He squeezed back. âOne page at a time, yeah?â
âYeah.â
That night, after the movie ended and Y/n had fallen asleep against her mumâs shoulder â breathing finally even and calm â Oscar looked down at her peaceful face and smiled.
Sheâd be okay.
Because she didnât have to carry the pressure alone.
Not when she had them in her corner, cheering her on â no matter the grade, no matter the result.
Just like heâd always wanted to be for her.
Another piece of work done :)
I'm heading to bed now. I can't wake up upset or anything or I'll miss the bus, since I have school and all.
That's Gang Gang out!!!!
#f1 dads#f1 drivers as fathers#f1 imagine#f1 x reader#daughter!reader#f1 fanfic#f1 fic#formula one#f1 fluff#oscar piastri x reader#oscar piastri x daughter!reader
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The Perfect Notation

đ PAIRING: Phainon/gn!Reader
đ SUMMARY: In a modern AU, a reserved, math-obsessed student (you) prepares for the prestigious Nationals math competition, slowly forming a quiet, unexpected bond with the ever-cheerful yet enigmatic Phainon. And while your world revolves around formulas and precision, Phainon watches you from the sidelinesâcurious, drawn in, and gradually learning to understand you through the language of numbers. As the competition nears, tension builds. You begin to ease your strict routines, letting Phainon into your life, unaware of how much heâs learningânot just math, but you.
đ C.W: Depression, Academic pressure, Kinda happy ending, Angst
đ A/N: Hi!! I'm so fucked. I crammed this so bad................. I onl wrote this as an offering for Phainon. Idk man. Goodluck to me. WE WILL ALL GET PHAINON AD HIS LC!!!!!!!!!! MANIFEST MANIFEST!!!
đ W.C: 8.5k

Anaxa didnât even glance up from the monitor when he announced it.
âTop rank. Regional champion. You,â he said, sharp and almost lazy. âCongratulations. Nationals is in two weeks. Donât embarrass us.â
There was a scattered beat of applause from the othersâhalf-hearted, short-lived. Not because they didnât respect you. They did. But youâd won too many times already. You didnât smile. You never did. Just gave a small nod and turned your eyes back to the problem set youâd brought with you, already thinking ahead. Everyone else looked relieved that it wasnât them expected to carry the weight of Nationals.
Phainon clapped a little longer than everyone else, even if he did it mostly out of instinct. Maybe also to see if youâd look up. You didnât. You just adjusted the mechanical pencil between your fingers and started writing. No celebration. No smugness. Just a clean transition from victory to preparation, like your mind had already sprinted two weeks ahead without you.
He waited until the others filtered out of the room before sliding into the seat next to yours. Your notes were out, as usualâlined graph paper, faint sketches of triangle spirals in the corners, a few barely readable side equations that looked like your personal shorthand. You were midway through a set of recursive relations, flipping your pencil over and shading tiny regions of an imaginary shape you hadnât finished sketching.
"Youâre incredible, you know that?" he said, keeping his voice soft. Friendly. That usual tone that never quite gave away how hard his heart hit the inside of his ribs when you were this close.
You didnât glance over. Just mumbled, âThereâs still nationals.â
âThatâs not a denial.â
You pressed the side of your pencil against your temple. âI didnât study to impress people.â
âGood,â he said. âBecause then Iâd be very, very out of my league.â
That got him a brief exhaleâalmost a laugh, maybe. He smiled quietly to himself. It was always like this with you. No dramatic sparks, no confessions in the hallway, no big rom com moments. Just subtle shifts. Only barely there smiles. There's this slight change in your voice when you explained something and thought he was actually paying attention
He was. He really was.
"Youâre still doing number theory this week?" he asked, nodding to your notes.
âNumber theory, and complex optimization. The nationals committee has a history of using constraint based problems in the first round. And⌠including linear programming with edge cases. Iâm trying to account for unusual variables.â
âYou make that sound fun.â
âIt is.â
There was something gentle in the way you said it, even if your tone didnât change much. He liked hearing you talk about math more than he liked math itselfâmaybe that was the problem. You were fluent in this language. You thought in it, breathed it. And he didnât. He was still stuck in the shallow end, watching you swim through vectors and primes like it was nothing. In his eyes, you were something else entirely.
But he was trying. You didnât know that. Maybe it was better that way.
Later that night, in his room, he stared at the scanned copy of one of your old solution sets. Youâd let it slip into his notes by accident. Maybe on purpose. He didnât know. The paper had your name scribbled in the corner in small block letters, and the answer space had margins filled with diagrams no professor would ever require: loops within loops, a staircase of ratios descending inwards. Not just working out the solutionâmapping it emotionally, too.
There was something about the way you thought that felt like art. You once solved an entire probability challenge backward just to demonstrate a flaw in its framing. He didnât even understand the flaw. But he remembered how calm your voice was as you explained it to the class, as if you werenât constantly carrying the pressure of being everyoneâs expectation.
He wasnât sure when it happened. When the fascination turned into something heavier. When your quiet concentration became something heâd seek out in every room. When your silence started feeling warmer than most peopleâs words.
Phainon didnât tell Mydei about it. Not really. But Mydei knew something, of courseâhe always did. Once, when they were walking back from the library together, Phainon had grumbled something about being âmath fuckedâ and âlosing brain cells over logic gates.â Mydei had just looked at him, unreadable, then muttered, âYou donât like math. You like them.â
Phainon hadnât denied it. Just kicked a pebble on the sidewalk and said, âWhatâs the difference if Iâm learning for the right reason?â
Right now, the right reason was sprawled in the libraryâs farthest corner, buried under mock test printouts and three different pens. You were tracing something across the pageâhe couldnât tell what from this angle. He hesitated by the doorway before walking over.
âHey,â he said, keeping his voice light.
You didnât startle. âYou shouldnât be here.â
âSays who?â
âYouâre not even in the nationals roster.â
âIâm studying vicariously,â he offered, flashing a grin.
You gave a small sigh, but didnât ask him to leave.
He sat across from you, watching as you marked a value in red. Constraint minimization, he realizedâprobably some kind of modified simplex method. You liked visual cues, always highlighted in different shades. Red was for discardable outcomes. Blue for fixed values. Green for hypotheses. Heâd memorized the palette without trying.
âYou know you donât have to do this,â you murmured, still focused on your work.
âDo what?â
âFollow me around. Pretend this is your thing.â
He hesitated. The grin faded a little.
âIâm not pretending,â he said finally.
You stopped writing. Not looked at him yet, but still.
âI donât care about the numbers the way you do,â he admitted. âBut I care about why they matter to you. And... thatâs worth trying to understand.â
That got your attention. You looked up slowly, not angry, not even surprised. Just quiet. Tired, maybe. Tired of people trying to get something from you. Tired of always being the brain, the standard, the benchmark to beat.
He wished he could explain it better. That he wasnât trying to win anything. He wasnât chasing your answers. He just wanted to be near the questions that made you come alive.
â...I used to think people only noticed me when I solved things fast,â you said, almost too low to hear. âLike I didnât matter outside of that.â
âYou do.â
You blinked at him.
âI notice you even when youâre not solving anything,â he added, a little softer.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. You just stared at him, pen still between your fingers, like you werenât sure how to factor this variable in. Like you hadnât expected honesty to be part of the equation.
You didnât say thank you. You didnât have to. You just turned back to your notes and pushed a blank page toward him. Handed him a pen.
âTry this one,â you said. âIâll walk you through it.â
And you did. Quietly. Carefully. Like you actually wanted him to stay.
He didnât solve it perfectly. Not even close. But you didnât correct him harshly. You just crossed out one step, rewrote it, and said, âCloser.â
Closer. He could live with that
Twelve days before the competition, you stopped staying for lunch.
Phainon noticed it graduallyâfirst the empty seat, then the unfinished water bottle left behind, then the absence of your voice during roll call. You were always quiet, but you were never gone. Now, you disappeared between periods, emerging only for tests and drills, vanishing again like a scheduled ghost.
He caught sight of you once in the third-floor study room. You were sitting with your hoodie drawn halfway over your head, glasses fogged slightly, hair pushed back in a way that looked unintentional. There were seven books stacked beside you, two calculators, three different notebooks open to wildly different problems. Your eyes didnât even blink between lines. You were writing in loops, as if time itself bent into circles around your wrist.
He stood by the door for maybe thirty seconds before turning away. He hadnât meant to interrupt. Hadnât meant to hover. But you were so deep into itâinto your world of vectors and bounds and proofs with ugly constantsâthat he didnât dare step inside.
That evening, Mydei said, âTheyâre going to burn out.â
Phainon looked up from the practice sheet heâd half-filled with mistakes. He hadnât realized Mydei was paying attention. Then again, Mydei always paid attention to things no one else bothered to watch.
âI know,â Phainon muttered. âI just donât know if Iâm supposed to say anything.â
âYouâre not,â Mydei said, and went back to his own book.
Still, he couldnât shake the image of you hunched over the desk, barely moving except to flip pages or change pens. It was the kind of focus that was a little frightening. Not because it was obsessive, but because it was clearly the only thing keeping you anchored. You didnât trust the world, not entirely. But you trusted a good equation.
The next day, he brought a small coffee to the study room and left it by the door. Nothing fancy. Just the kind you always orderedâplain, warm, no sugar. He didnât write his name on it. You probably knew it was from him, but if you didnât, that was okay too. He left it anyway.
You didnât acknowledge it when you passed him in the hallway two hours later, but you also didnât throw it away.
That counted.
By the tenth day, you looked like you were made out of pencil lead and fraying patience. Your eyes were slightly red from staying up too long. You had a cough. Your posture had changedâslouched inward, like your spine had curled into itself to conserve energy. When you walked past the windows, you didnât even glance up at the light. Your hands were always busy, twitching slightly when you solved problems mid-step, mouthing integers like incantations.
Phainon watched you from across the room during study hall. He wasnât subtle, but you werenât paying attention. He always saw when you were working through somethingâsomething with matrices, maybe, or Lagrangian optimization. You crossed out two full lines, rewrote them, circled a variable twice, then pressed the heel of your palm into your eyes like the numbers were starting to hum behind them.
It was as if he wanted to say something. Not something dramatic. Not some big motivational monologue. Justâyou can breathe, you know. You donât have to prove it all the time. But even that felt like too much.
Instead, he passed by your table on his way out and dropped a small eraser beside your book. You always borrowed one. Always forgot it. This one had a tiny sun drawn on it with a blue pen. You didnât say anything, but you moved it closer to your notes and kept using it.
The next few days, he kept studying on his own. He didnât bother pretending he liked it anymoreâheâd moved past that phase. He liked understanding parts of it. Not the math itself, maybe, but the logic. The way you treated problems like puzzles, always finding the most efficient path from question to solution. He kept a folder now, filled with problems youâd solved in front of him. Sometimes he redid them with your steps beside his, trying to see where his mind wandered and yours didnât.
He also started noticing your habits. You tapped your pencil three times before starting a proof. You wrote every square root without simplifying, unless explicitly told. You skipped the final boxed answer until you double-checked the sign of every constant. When you got stuck, you tilted your head to the leftânot right, never rightâand frowned as if disappointment were just part of the process.
He wondered if you even knew how many systems you carried in your head at once. How many variables you managed, even outside math. You rarely spoke unless asked. You never sought help. You moved through school like someone who knew how fragile time was and didnât want to waste a second pretending to be someone else.
Eight days left. Phainon joined your review session by accidentâor maybe it wasnât an accident, but he pretended it was. Anaxa raised an eyebrow but didnât say anything, which was either mercy or mild curiosity. You were already there, surrounded by open binders and highlighted theorems.
He asked one question. You corrected him quietly, barely glancing up. But then you passed him a page with an easier version of the same problem. No comment. Just... passed it to him like it wasnât a big deal.
He kept that page.
Six days before the nationals, it rained. He found you sitting near the vending machine, hair damp, hoodie too thin for the wind. You had a small bag of crackers beside you and your notebook flipped open to a new page. This time, no spirals. Just equations. Dense ones. Partial differentials and strange notation. The kind that hurt his head if he looked too long.
âYouâre going to get sick,â he said, handing you a dry napkin.
You took it. âDidnât bring an umbrella.â
âYou okay?â
âI have to finish the integration methods tonight. Thatâs the only thing I keep slipping on.â
âThatâs not what I meant.â
You didnât answer, but your jaw tightened slightly. The crackers stayed untouched. Your hand shook a little when you wrote somethingâhe couldnât tell if it was from the cold or from exhaustion.
âCan I sit?â
You shrugged.
He didnât say anything after that. Just sat with you while the rain hit the windows and the world outside got blurred into noise. You solved two problems. He solved one and a half, badly. But you didnât mock him. You just corrected a sign with your red pen, circled a line, and nodded.
âCloser,â you said.
He felt warmer after that.
Not because of the math. Not because of the rain.
You sneezed. Quiet, quivk, like you were trying not to draw attention to it. Your pencil paused mid equation, fingers curling tighter around it. Then another sneeze followed, this time a little sharper, less contained. You didnât say anything, but your shoulders tensed slightly, and your hand brushed under your nose before you kept writing like nothing happened.
Phainon watched you from the corner of his eye. You didnât look sick, not exactly, but you were definitely running warm. Your hoodie was bunched at the sleeves, collar loose, and there was a slight pink flush at the tips of your ears that hadnât been there yesterday. It wasnât dramaticâjust off. And that was enough.
âYou okay?â he asked quietly, voice light.
âIâm fine,â you said, and that wouldâve been the end of it, if you hadnât swayed a little when you leaned back to check your notes. Just a blinkâs worth of hesitation. Your hand moved to steady your balance, fingers briefly flattening against the desk before you continued writing like nothing had happened.
âYouâve sneezed three times,â he added. âStatistically, thatâs a pattern.â
You rolled your eyes, but didnât argue. Another sniffle. You finally lowered your pencil and pinched the bridge of your nose like it was starting to hurt.
âI donât have time to get sick,â you mumbled.
Phainon leaned his chin into his hand. âPretty sure your immune system doesnât care about your schedule.â
He saw itâthe falter. The hesitation in your lips before you pressed them together. You were tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that caffeine doesnât touch and focus canât compensate for. Your notebook was filled with clean solutions, but the eraser marks had gotten more chaotic lately. Your last proof had a correction line that ran through four variables like a frustrated scrawl.
You looked like you were trying to hold the world together by sheer force of will. Phainon had no idea how you hadnât collapsed already.
âLetâs go out,â he said suddenly.
You blinked at him. âWhat?â
âCome on. Just for a bit. Stretch your legs, walk, grab a snack. Thereâs a convenience store two blocks down.â
âI have to review,â you said automatically, already glancing back at your notes.
âYouâve been reviewing for seven straight hours.â
âExactly.â
Phainon tilted his head. âYouâre burning out. Your handwriting looks drunk. You just sneezed into your own shoulder. I amâscientificallyâconcerned.â
You stared at him. Not offended, not irritatedâjust confused, like you didnât understand what he was trying to get out of this. And maybe you didnât. Most people left you alone. Phainon hadnât.
You rubbed your eye with the heel of your palm. âIâm not in the mood to hang out.â
âItâs not hanging out. Itâs tactical energy recovery.â
You raised a brow.
âIâll buy you a snack,â he offered. âAny one.â
That made you pause. Not because of the snack, probably. Maybe because it sounded easy. Normal. Like something someone who wasnât constantly calculating would say.
âIâm not changing out of this,â you said, gesturing to your hoodie.
âDidnât ask you to.â
You stared at him another few seconds. Then, finally, with a long, quiet sigh, you capped your pen and closed the notebook. You stood without a word. Phainon followed.
The wind had gotten colder since earlier. You pulled your sleeves down and kept your hands in your pocket, head ducked slightly. Your steps werenât fast, but they were steady. Still, your shoulders moved a bit more than usual, like you were trying not to shiver.
âYour nose is pink,â he said gently.
âSo is yours,â you shot back.
That made him laugh, surprised. âWow. You do have a bite.â
You sniffled again. Didnât reply. But you didnât walk away either.
The convenience storeâs lights buzzed softly when you stepped in. It smelled like microwaved curry and floor wax, comfortingly familiar. You wandered first, gravitating toward the drinks aisle with a slow shuffle, while Phainon trailed behind, hands in his coat pockets.
âYou like those jelly cups, right?â he asked, nodding toward the bottom shelf.
You didnât answer right away, just crouched slightly and picked one up. Held it in your hand like you were deciding whether it was worth it.
âGet two,â he said. âYou can pretend I earned it.â
You looked at him then. Really looked at him. Your eyes were dull from the fatigue, but there was something flickering just under the surfaceâconfusion, maybe, or something softer. He wasnât sure.
âI feel kind of hot,â you muttered, half to yourself.
âYouâve probably got a mild fever,â he said. âHere.â
He stepped closer. Not too close, just enough to reach out, hand slow and open. You flinched, barely, but didnât move away. His palm touched your forehead, fingers brushing against your temple. He expected to feel awkward. He didnât. Just warm. Human.
You were, indeed, running warm.
He let the contact linger for a second longer, then lowered his hand.
You looked off to the side. âI should be reviewing.â
âYou can review tomorrow.â
You shook your head, but it was weak. Your fingers squeezed the jelly cup just slightly.
He walked toward the checkout. You didnât stop him.
He paid for both snacks, plus a bottle of ion water, and handed them to you outside. You took them, slowly. The sky had gone from pale blue to soft orangeâlate afternoon bleeding into early dusk. Your breath fogged a little when you exhaled.
âJust one night,â he said. âDonât solve anything tonight. Donât even open a notebook. Just... recharge.â
You looked down at the bottle in your hand. Read the label. Then, with no ceremony, you opened it and took a long drink.
âYou act like youâre not smart,â you said.
He blinked. âSorry?â
âYou figure me out fast,â you added, quieter. âThatâs not easy.â
He smiled. Not widely. Just enough. âI study you more than math.â
You exhaled through your nose, a laugh that wasnât really a laugh. But the tension in your shoulders loosened slightly. You walked beside him all the way back without pulling away, even when your sleeve brushed against his.
He didnât say anything else. Didnât ruin it.
You didnât either.
That night, when you got back to the study room, you didnât open your notebook. You just sat there, hood over your head, sipping your drink slowly. Phainon leaned back in his chair and let the quiet settle.
One night off.
The tableâs surface was warm from the overhead light. Your arm pressed against it as you leaned forward, eyes locked on the scratchpad. The problem had three variables and an error margin no greater than Âą0.05. So this was the kind of equation meant to eat hours: a balance model with variable-bound inequalities.
(your messy notes)
âxâ + 0.6xâ + 1.4xâ = 42, âwhere 8 ⤠xâ ⤠14, âxâ ⤠2xâ, âxâ ⼠xâ â 3.
Youâd written that down ten minutes ago and hadnât spoken since.
Phainon shifted beside you, eyeing the margin of your notebook. There were no doodles this time. No arrows or metaphors or messy little tangents. Just the problem. Just you.
Youâd stopped talking much three days ago. You still showed up, still reviewed, still scribbled on his printouts without asking. But your answers came slower. Less confident. Less sharp.
He didn't say anything about it. Not yet.
You pressed your palm to your forehead and muttered something under your breath. The pencil in your right hand twitched.
âYou want to test boundary values?â he asked.
You didnât look up. âWhatâs the point? Itâs unstable no matter where xâ lands.â
âIt stabilizes at xâ = 10,â he said. âIf xâ = 18 and xâ = 15, the equation balances atââ
You were already writing it.
â10 + 0.6(18) + 1.4(15) â= 10 + 10.8 + 21.0 â= 41.8
He saw your jaw twitch.
âToo low,â you muttered. âIt needs 42 exactly.â
âTry rounding xâ up to 20.â
You scribbled again.
âxâ = 10, xâ = 20, xâ = 17 ââ 10 + 12 + 23.8 = 45.8
âToo high.â
You exhaled sharply and sat back. The chair creaked beneath you.
Phainon didnât speak for a moment. He watched you crack your knuckles, flex your neck to the side. You were tired againâhe could tell. Not the kind of tired that could be fixed with a snack or a nap. The kind that settled under the skin. The kind that had you burning out in silence.
He looked back at the numbers. âHm⌠Try interpolating? Letâs find xâ that fits given xâ fixed at 11, I think.â
You hesitated.
He nudged the pencil toward you. You didnât take it.
âWhatâs the point if Iâm just guessing?â you muttered.
He sat straighter.
âHey,â he said, more level now. âYou donât guess. Thatâs not what you do.â
âI used to not guess,â you said. âNow Iâm just throwing numbers until it fits. Thatâs not solving, thatâs flailing.â
You didnât raise your voice, but it was the most emotion youâd shown all week. And it settled between you like heat.
Phainon tilted his head, frowning faintly. âYouâre still solving. You just donât trust yourself when itâs slower.â
âI donât have time to be slow.â
That silence again. The kind that dared someone to argue.
He didnât. Not directly.
Instead, he pulled the notebook toward himself and began testing values. Small, controlled substitutions. Not to prove you wrongâbut to try what you wouldnât let yourself do. Try without crumbling.
âxâ = 11 âxâ = 17 âxâ = 14 â11 + 0.6(17) + 1.4(14) = â11 + 10.2 + 19.6 = 40.8
Closer.
âTry xâ = 18,â you muttered suddenly.
He adjusted.
âxâ = 18 â 0.6(18) = 10.8 âxâ = 15 â 1.4(15) = 21.0 âSum = 11 + 10.8 + 21.0 = 42.8
âOver,â you said. âLower xâ to 14.5.â
He raised an eyebrow. âYouâre allowing floats now?â
âIt never said integers only.â
Phainon adjusted again, writing as you dictated.
âxâ = 14.5 â 1.4(14.5) = 20.3 â11 + 10.8 + 20.3 = 42.1
âAlmost.â
You took the pencil from him. This time, your hand didnât shake.
âxâ = 14.2 â 1.4(14.2) = 19.88 âSum = 11 + 10.8 + 19.88 = 41.68
âNo,â you whispered. âToo low again.â
He watched the way your brows furrowed. Not in frustrationâbut focus. Like the real you was re-emerging, inch by inch, from a long, silent retreat.
You scribbled one more:
âxâ = 14.4 â 1.4(14.4) = 20.16 âTotal = 11 + 10.8 + 20.16 = 41.96
Phainon leaned closer. âThatâs within the error margin.â
âÂą0.05,â you echoed, eyes narrowing. âThatâs close enough.â
The tension in your jaw didnât release. Not right away. You just kept staring at the page, calculating again. Double-checking. Reducing. Making sure you werenât wrong.
âHey,â he said quietly. âThat was a good solve.â
You exhaled, still not smiling. But your grip on the pencil eased.
Phainon didnât push the moment further. He didnât say anything reassuring. He just leaned back in his chair and looked at youânot expectantly, not with pity. Just... looked.
Heâd watched you shift like this for days. From sharp precision to burning out. From holding yourself too tightly to finally slipping. Not in a way that made you fragileâjust quieter. And he hadnât realized, until now, how carefully heâd started tracking it. The rise and fall of your moods. The way your sleeves drooped past your wrists when you hadnât slept. The way your eyes moved faster when your confidence returned.
He hadnât meant to notice so much.
But he had.
And now, with the answer in front of you and your hands stilled, he didnât know how to look away.
You finally broke the silence. âI havenât studied properly in days.â
He nodded once. âI know.â
You stared at the solution again.
âYou going to tell me Iâm screwing up?â you asked.
He thought about it. Then: âNo. You already know when you are.â
You looked at him. And for once, didnât look away.
The silence wasnât awkward. It wasnât kind, either. It just was.
Eventually, you stood. Packed your things slowly. Left the notebook open on the table. Phainon didnât move, didnât speak. He waited.
As you reached the door, you paused.
Then you left.
And he watched the half-solved page for a long time after, hand twitching once over the final line of the equation youâd both earned.
The day before nationals, you were staring at problem seventeen.
The question wasn't hard. Just dense. It was a nested inequality, no diagrams, three lines of conditions, and youâd already seen the structure beforeâmaybe two sets ago, maybe last yearâs regional finals. But your hands werenât moving.
Your eyes dragged across the page. Back. Then again.
Nothing stuck.
Not the phrasing, not the shape of the functions, not even the constants. Every time you tried to scan it, it broke apart into noiseâlike reading with cotton in your ears. Like thinking through static.
The solution was probably two steps. Three, at most.
You couldnât even start.
Someone knocked.
You didnât look.
The knock came againâsofter this time, a kind of hesitation behind it. Then the door clicked, and you heard it open anyway.
You didnât have to turn around.
âDonât,â you said, not even loud.
There was a pause.
âIâm justââ
âI said donât.â
A beat.
Then footsteps.
Not retreating.
He stepped into the room anyway. Phainon, silent. Probably still in that same hoodie he wore when he didnât want to draw attention. You didnât turn your head. You just stared harder at the paper, as if concentration could be forced by spite.
âWhat do you want?â you asked flatly.
He didnât answer.
The silence stretched too long. You hated it.
âYou think showing up is helpful right now?â
âI didnât say anything.â
âYou didnât have to.â
Your pencil scratched a line across the page, but it was aimless. More like a heartbeat line than math. You flipped to the next page.
Blank. Just grid lines.
You tapped the pencil three times, then pressed it to the paper again. No questions. No prompt. You just drew a symbol. Something meaningless. A circle with a line through it.
Your jaw locked.
âGo home, Phainon.â
Still nothing.
âYou think being here does something? That it makes me feel less like I'm falling apart?â You laughed, hollow. âIf youâre waiting for some last-minute wisdom to come out of this, donât bother.â
âIâm not.â
âThen what?â
Nothing.
He just stood there, behind your shoulder.
You grabbed your binder and closed it, too fast. The snap echoed.
âLook, I donât want to talk. I donât want eye contact. I donât want you sitting there acting like your presence is comforting. It isnât.â
âI know.â
Your throat tightened.
âYou think I didnât notice?â you said, still not looking. âHow everything slowed down the past two weeks? How I stopped keeping up with my logs, stopped doing three sets a day, stopped treating this like it mattered?â
âThat wasnâtââ
âI let myself breathe, and now I canât focus. Iâm sitting here and I canât even move past a two-line problem. Nationals is in the morning, and all I want is silence.â
Your voice was low. Sharper than you intended. But honest.
And you meant it.
Phainon shifted. A quiet inhale. Then nothing.
For a second, you thought he might say something. Some vague, clipped version of comfort dressed up as logic. Something he could pass off as neutral.
But he didnât.
Because youâd made it clear you wouldnât hear it.
You stood, moved to the far side of the room, pulled open your bag with fingers that wouldnât stop twitching. You took out another mock set. Unopened. Pages pristine.
You didnât sit. Just held it like it would matter.
Phainon hadnât left yet.
You said, with your back turned, âIâll delete your messages if you send any tonight.â
Silence.
And finallyâfinallyâyou heard him step back.
Then the door clicked shut behind him.
No goodbyes. No dramatics.
Just quiet.
Too quiet.
You didnât cry. Didnât scream. There wasnât time for that. You sat down and opened the mock test like nothing happened. Like you werenât seconds from snapping. Like tomorrow wasnât the only thing waiting for you, bare-fanged and watching.
The first question blurred. You blinked. Read it again.
Then started solving.
Because thatâs all you had left.
The bus ride was too quiet.
Youâd brought your binder. Everyone did. Open sets, annotated diagrams, clipped formula guides taped to the back of laminated ID cards. You used to do the same. You used to flip pages just to feel sharp, to stay in rhythm. But today you just held it in your lap. Your thumb brushed the edge of the cover, but you didnât open it.
Someone laughed two rows down. Probably a teammate. The coach said something about breathing and pacing yourself and trusting what you already know.
You didnât hear most of it. Your ears buzzed. Your head was full, but not of numbers.
You blinked and the venue arrived. High ceiling, clean rows of chairs, dry ass ac that immediately made your eyes sting red. In the room, they had labeled placards on the desks and printed IDs with barcodes. Everything looked exactly like it had last year.
You were in the front row this time.
Not that it mattered much.
You sat, hands on your lap, knees stiff. Your legs wouldnât stop bouncing. Your pen was already uncapped. You kept uncapping it, then recapping it again. Five times. Six. You didnât notice until someone tapped your desk to hand you the test envelope.
You said âthank youâ without making eye contact.
Then it started.
Booklet flipped. Timer started. You read question one.
And felt nothing.
It was combinatoricsâone of your favorite categories. The kind of problem you used to eat for warm-up. The first half was trivial: inclusion-exclusion, pigeonhole principle, standard case count. But your brain tripped on the wording.
You read the same paragraph twice.
Then a third time.
The logic was familiar. The numbers werenât. You tried sketching something, but your pencil felt heavy. The lead snapped halfway through your first diagram. You paused to sharpen it, fingers tight, breathing shallow.
You looked at the clock.
Youâd spent nine minutes on the first item.
You flipped to number two. Then three.
Then back again.
The room was silentâpages turning, pens scribbling, the occasional cough.
Your pen hovered above the paper. You wrote half a line of working for problem one. Then scratched it out.
It wasnât even wrong.
You just couldnât focus.
Your stomach churned.
By the time you finished the first page, it had been twenty minutes. Your hand hurt. You werenât writing fluidly anymore. You werenât even calculating. Just stumbling between guesses and second-guessing every instinct you used to trust.
Problem four was geometry.
It was clean. Symmetrical. The kind of shape youâd usually smirk at.
Now it made your head throb.
Midway through the proof construction, you forgot why you were solving it. You blinked and realized you'd written a congruence that didnât apply. Your triangle labeling was inconsistent. You had to rewrite half the setup.
Thirty-five minutes gone.
Only two questions answeredâpoorly.
You wiped your palms against your pants. They were damp. You hadnât noticed.
You looked around.
Everyone else was working. Focused. Calm.
You stared back down at your paper and told yourself to just breathe.
One step.
You just had to think.
Just had to trust your training.
Just had toâ
Your vision blurred for half a second. Not from tears. From sheer cognitive fatigue.
You closed your eyes.
This isnât me.
That voice sounded distant. Like it belonged to a version of you that hadnât already spiraled.
You used to feel alive during competitions. You used to get high off the logic. Used to finish before the timer. Youâd lean back and double-check the whole thing just for fun. You used to walk out of the room with a grin.
Now you couldnât even lift your head.
You wanted to quit.
Not the competitionâjust the moment. Just stop existing here. Just vanish from the desk and leave the half-scratched paper behind. You wanted to crawl out of your own body and sleep for a week.
You looked back at the clock.
Fifty-eight minutes left.
You hadn't solved more than two problems.
Your hands shook.
You flipped to the next page anyway. You didnât want toâyour body just moved on instinct. A functional equation. Weird domain restriction. You could see what it wanted you to do. Transform. Isolate. But the working wouldnât come.
You wrote a line. Crossed it out.
Wrote a second. Scratched over it.
You felt your chest tighten.
This is a joke.
You stared at the ceiling, not blinking, not breathing. Then you looked down and forced yourself to pick up the pen again.
It didnât matter how slow.
You werenât going to leave it blank.
Even if everything felt like it was slipping sideways, even if you knewâknewâyouâd fumble this set, you couldnât walk out knowing you hadnât tried.
So you solved.
Not well.
Not fast.
And then, the announcement came four hours later.
They posted the results on the auditorium wall, in clean rows under the school banners. It took less than a minute for the cluster of students to gather. Someone whooped when they saw their name. Another dropped to the floor in disbelief, grinning at their teammates
You didnât move.
You stood farther off, half in the shadow of the hallway, arms crossed too tightly across your chest.
You already knew.
The one with the modular constraint and inverse evaluation. The one that was practically made for you. You'd caught the structure immediatelyâcyclic groups, reduced residues, classic residue pairing. It was clean. Direct. Elegant.
Youâd known before they even collected your paper.
You knew the second you circled back to problem nine.
But you hadnât notated your base step.
You skipped it.
You proved the process but didnât state the root value.
No mark.
You lost five points for that.
Five points.
You walked up to the sheet anyway. Just to see it.
The margin between first and second place?
Five.
Your name was there. Clear as day.
National rank: 2nd Place Total: 91 / 100
People were already murmuring. A few were surprised. A few werenât. Some were still talking about how you "looked out of it" during the morning set, how youâd "sat still for too long" during the first page.
First place had 96.
Third had 89.
You didnât respond.
Youâd never placed second before.
You read the number again.
Ninety-one.
Not once.
Not since the beginning.
You werenât angry. You werenât even crying.
You just stood there, tired. Your legs ached. Your hands felt like they werenât fully yours.
You heard someone approach behind you. The footsteps were familiar. Lighter than Mydeiâs. Too careful to be Anaxa. You didnât turn.
Phainon stopped beside you.
He didnât say anything.
You didnât either.
For a moment, the results just... existed between you.
It shouldâve been perfect.
That one line.
That one symbol.
That one stupid omission.
The logic was right. The reasoning was solid. It was the kind of solution theyâd print in post-competition reviews. But it was incomplete. Technically correct, formally flawed. The judges hadnât been harsh. Just consistent.
You exhaled, slow.
âYou already knew?â Phainon asked, voice low.
You nodded.
âI left it blank.â
âYou didnât leave it blank.â
âI left it unanchored.â
Silence.
You didnât want consolation. Not even from him.
Because this wasnât dramatic. It wasnât a failure.
It was worse.
It was that knifeâs edge between greatness and flaw. The kind of mistake you canât even be mad at. Just live with. Just swallow. Just remember when you look at your own name in second place next year and wonder how much tighter your grip has to be.
Someone asked to take a photo with the medalists.
You didnât move.
Your hand twitched slightly when your name was called, but you stayed behind until the crowd thinned.
Phainon stayed with you.
Still silent.
It wasnât a terrible ending.
You still placed.
You still qualified.
But when you finally walked outsideâmedal in your pocket, sweat dried cold on your backâthe world felt too loud. The cars too sharp. The sunlight too white.
Youâd done almost everything right.
Except the part that counted.
You didnât wait for the team photo.
You stepped down from the auditorium steps, medal still boxed in your pocket, shoes hitting the concrete too hard. The sun was brutal. The wind made the sweat on your neck feel sticky. You crossed the street with no destinationâjust motion. Just away.
Someone called your name. You didnât turn.
You heard the footsteps speeding up behind you. Rubber soles scraping pavement.
âWaitââ Phainonâs voice, breath catching.
You didnât.
You kept walking until your throat started burning from how tight it was clenched. Until your fists were hot from how hard you were holding onto nothing.
He caught up anyway.
Of course he did.
âCan youâcan you just stop for a second?â
You did.
But not for him.
You stopped because your legs were shaking.
You spun around.
âWhat.â
His mouth opened. Then closed.
You didnât wait.
âNo, really. What do you want, Phainon?â you snapped. âTo say itâs okay? That I still did great? That I should be proud of second place?â
His expression shifted. âI wasnât going toââ
âBecause I donât want to hear it.â
You stepped closer.
âI donât want your version of understanding. I donât want your... your weird quiet âIâm hereâ look like that does anything for me. You know what I want?â
He didnât move. Just stared.
âI want to go back two hours and slap myself for being so goddamn stupid.â
Your hands were shaking. âI missed one notation. One. You know how easy that base statement is? Itâs mechanical. Itâs an instinct. And I missed it because I was so fucking fogged I forgot how to write.â
Phainon said nothing.
You hated that.
You hated that he still wouldnât argue.
âYou knew,â you accused, voice low. âYou saw me falling apart this week and you said nothing.â
âI triedââ
âYou watched me. You followed me. You sat in that room and you knew I wasnât in the right state, and you still didnât stop me from spiraling.â
âI wasnât going to control you.â
âMaybe you should have!â
It echoed off the buildings.
You took a shaky breath, but your lungs wouldnât fill right. You swore your heart was in your throat.
âI donât lose,â you whispered. âI donât.â
Phainonâs brows knit. âItâs one mistake.â
âTo you.â
âNot just to me.â
âWell, Iâm not you!â you snapped, voice cracking.
Pedestrians crossed the street behind you. None of them looked your way.
âDo you know what theyâll say?â you asked bitterly. âThat I choked. That I got distracted. That I got lazy. That the math kid finally cracked because they stopped grinding and started... I donât know. Socializing.â
Phainon flinched. Barely.
Your breath caught.
And then, softer: âThis wasnât supposed to happen.â
You stepped back, blinking hard, jaw locked.
âI was supposed to win. Cleanly. Not because Iâm gifted, not because Iâm smartâbecause I fucking worked for it.â
Phainonâs voice came quiet.
âYou still did.â
âDonât,â you warned.
You werenât ready to hear anything from him. Not validation. Not warmth. Not that irritating, careful silence he kept bringing like it was supposed to help.
You didnât want him to understand.
You wanted him gone.
So you said the one thing you knew would stick:
âI canât stand being around you right now.â
He froze.
You didnât take it back.
You turned.
You walked.
And this time, he didnât follow.
It had been a week. Maybe longer.
You didnât care. You didnât count anymore. The calendar with Nationals circled in red was still on the wall, but you hadnât looked at it since the results. You kept the lights dim. Didnât open the window. Didnât answer your messages. You couldnât. Every ping made your skin crawl. The medal was still in its case, unopened. Your fingers had touched it once, briefly, by accident when reaching for a pen, and your body recoiled like it was hot iron.
You didnât deserve to hold it.
You sat hunched over your desk again, notebook open to the same damned problemâthe same sequence from that day. That warm-up with Phainon. The one you couldnât solve cleanly. The one you laughed about, once.
You hated that memory now.
You ran through it again.
You hated how close youâd been.
You hated that it showed up again. You hated that you froze. You hated that you had been the one to say âit needs 42 exactlyâ out loudâand still blanked.
âxâ = 11, xâ = 18, xâ = 14.4 â11 + 10.8 + 20.16 = 41.96
Almost.
You wanted to punch something.
But you didnât. You just kept tapping the lead of your pencil to the desk. Over and over. Like that would make the numbers change. Like if you rewrote them enough, your score would shift backwards in time and undo the second place.
Your door creaked.
You didnât look.
You already knew who it was. He kept doing this nowâonce a day, maybe twice. Quiet steps, paper bag rustling, some drink left on the corner of your desk. He didnât say anything. You liked that. No words meant you didnât have to scream.
But this time was different.
Phainon didnât leave.
He sat beside you.
Not at a distance. Not lingering behind you. He satâright thereâon the edge of the desk like he belonged, like you werenât halfway to a breakdown, like he wasnât the last person you wanted to see right now.
You didnât tell him to go.
You just snapped.
âI fucking had it.â
Your voice cracked on the first word. You didnât care.
âI solved this. Two weeks ago. I said the answer out loud. I knew the spread. I knew the constraint.â
He didnât speak.
âI said 42. I said it needs 42 exactly. I even adjusted the values with you. We got 41.96 and laughed because we were close, remember?â
You stared at the paper.
âYou know what I got in Nationals?â You didnât wait. âA time warning. I blanked. I hyperfocused. I optimized the wrong case, and thenâthen I panicked, Phainon. I panicked.â
Your throat clenched.
âI missed five points. Five points I couldâve solved in my sleep.â
The pencil snapped in your hand.
You stared at the broken lead, then the paper, then your own shaky fingers.
âI donât get second place. I donât choke. I donât choke. I was the kind of person who didnât choke. Who wrote the neatest notation. Who finished with five minutes to spare. Who got asked to coach others, because I was always sharp, always clean.â
You bit your lip.
âAnd I blew it. Over one question Iâd already seen.â
The silence pressed against your ears.
âI ruined it.â
Still no reply. Just breathing. Just presence.
Your fingers curled, trying to keep steady.
âI hate this. I hate being this person. The person who peaked early. The person who was promising and then lost.â
Your voice dropped.
âI hate that itâs me.â
You felt your chest cave in a littleâlike air was too much to take in.
âAnd I canât stop going over it. I canât stop. My brain wonât shut up. I wake up thinking of equations. I stare at the ceiling and count backwards. I solve this problem again and again and it never changes.â
You let the pencil fall.
âI lost. I lost. And I canât even scream because I donât want anyone to hear how broken I sound.â
The tears came hot. You didnât wipe them.
You closed your eyes. âI donât know who I am if Iâm not winning anymore.â
Thenâ
Warmth.
Not words. Not footsteps. Just arms around your shoulders, sudden and too human, too solid.
Phainon pulled you in.
No announcement. No breathy confession. No stupid Iâm here for you monologue.
Just a silent, firm hug like the air had decided youâd had enough and finally let you collapse.
Your fists clenched weakly against his sleeves.
You wanted to scream again.
You didnât.
You just stayed there, held in a silence you didnât know how to break, shoulders trembling, breath stuttering, eyes blurry, voice too small when it came again:
ââŚIâm still solving it.â
And he said nothing.
Just held you tighter.
You stared at it for so long you forgot to breathe.
Youâd seen the variables before. The shape of the function, the weighted coefficients, the margins for error. Youâd memorized every possible spread that week before Nationals. Burned it into your skull, dreamed of the numbers like they were prophecy. You knew the bounds. You knew the behavior. You knew what was optimal.
And yet youâd missed it.
Your finger hovered over the line again:
âxâ = 10.3, xâ = 18.6, xâ = 14.7 â10.3 + 11.16 + 20.58 = 42.04
Exactly what you needed. Balanced. Minimal error. Clean notation.
You swallowed.
This was what it looked like when someone else solved your problem.
Not the kind of problem written in a book.
The kind of problem that defined your life.
You didnât say anything at first. What was there to say?
That he used your notation?
That he probably went through your old scratch paper?
That he even wrote like you nowâleft margin wide, decimals aligned, iterations clearly marked?
That the one thing you hadnât gotten right, the one thing that shattered your momentum and your pride and everything you thought made you worth somethingâhe solved it in your language?
You pressed your palm to your face.
The tears didnât come this time. Just heat. The kind that made your eyes sting and your ears burn.
You werenât angry at him.
You were angry that it still mattered this much.
He said nothing.
You finally spoke.
ââŚYou used my margin system.â
A pause.
Then, low and hoarse: âIt made the most sense.â
Your hand trembled as it dropped to the desk.
âI gave up on this.â You stared at the page like it was some kind of curse. âAnd you didnât.â
âI didnât have to perform in front of a panel,â he said.
You bit your lip.
âI still blanked. Even though I knew the spread. Even though I had this. I still choked.â
Silence.
âI donât choke,â you muttered again, voice smaller.
Phainon didnât argue. He just sat beside you, fingers loosely laced in his lap, expression unreadable.
You hated how quiet he was being.
You hated that he wasn't trying to fix you.
You hated how real it made everything feel.
âI thought I could⌠I donât know. Rebuild it,â you muttered, eyes flicking across the page again. âLike if I solved this, just this one⌠if I got it cleanly, then maybe I could forgive myself.â
He glanced down.
âI didnât solve it for that,â he said quietly. âI just⌠kept seeing you staring at it.â
You laughed under your breath. Not amused. Not even bitter. Just tired.
âItâs so stupid.â
âItâs not.â
Your voice cracked. âIt is. Itâs one number. A decimal shift. And itâs been clawing at me likeâlike the loss means Iâm less. Like if I didnât get it, I donât deserve anything I had before.â
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
âEveryone says Iâm gifted. That I was made for this. That I was âborn for precision.â But what kind of genius blanks on a number they said out loud two weeks before the exam?â
He turned his head, just slightly.
âYou.â
You froze.
Phainonâs voice didnât waver. âYou did. You blanked. You panicked. You lost.â
You didnât move.
He continued, gently:
âAnd youâre still you.â
That pierced deeper than any sympathy wouldâve.
Because it wasnât comfort.
It was truth.
You looked at him for the first time.
He didnât look triumphant.
He looked exhausted.
Like heâd carried the weight of that number for daysânot because it was hard, but because you were.
Because watching you disappear into yourself was worse than not knowing the answer.
You didnât realize how tight your grip had gotten until the edge of the paper started to crumple in your hand.
You set it down.
âI still lost,â you whispered.
âI know.â
âI hate it.â
âI know.â
The tears stung again.
âI hate that I care so much.â
He didnât respond this time. Just leaned back slightly, letting the air between you return. Not out of cruelty. Just space. Like he knew you needed it.
You glanced down at the scratch again.
There it was. Your ghost of a victory. Written in handwriting that wasnât yours. Solved by someone who wasnât onstage. Who wasnât panicking. Who hadnât been trained for this the way you had.
âI was supposed to be better,â you muttered. âThan them. Than this.â
Phainon tilted his head. âThan me?â
You looked away.
âNo,â you admitted. âThan myself.â
The words fell flat, bare, real.
You stared at the final boxed answer. The clean, round 42.04.
âThatâs the score I needed.â
âIt is,â he said softly.
You ran a hand through your hair, trying to gather something like breath.
Your chest still felt tight.
But not crushed.
You werenât okay. Not even close. But your hands had stopped shaking.
And for the first time in over a week, you werenât reciting the question in your head. You werenât counting factors on your fingers. You werenât spiraling through iterations.
You were just sitting. Still. Quiet.
Beside someone who had gotten there, when you couldnât.
Beside someone who didnât offer forgiveness, because they knew you werenât asking for it.
Phainon shifted, about to speakâ
âbut didnât.
You reached forward.
Picked up the paper.
Folded it once.
Then tucked it into the corner of your notebook like a scar.
A reminder.
A truth.
The perfect notation you forgot, and someone else remembered.

a/N: BEFORE YALL COME AT ME YES THIS IS LINEAR WEIGHTED OPTIMIZATION. THE IDEA AROSE WHEN I REMEMBEERED THE GUY I LIKED AND I WANTED TO LEARN MATH BS HE MADE IT SOUND FUN:((. This ENTIRE formula was something I did wayyy back. Idek remember the process but when I dug my old notes, I saw my tiny comments step by step. If the math is wrong.......... feel free to tell me. pls bro I based this off an old scratch paper GIVE ME A BREAK. WE ARE ALL GETTTING PHAINON. I'm so sorry if this was rushed dawgggggggggggggg
Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. âĄÂ
#honkai star rail x reader#hsr x reader#honkai star rail#hsr fluff#honkai star rail angst#honkai star rail x you#hsr angst#hsr phainon#phainon x reader#phainon fluff#phainon#hsr headcanons#honkai star rail phainon#hsr
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It's a university, everyone's doing something or someone, but what if there was a bet on who could do you? And let's be honest, he was more of a puppy than a dog to most people, but that didn't mean he wouldn't act like an animal if given the chance.
This is the first part of my little multi-chapter story that I had planned, the reader in this is stated to have afab genitals but nothing else is specified.
The Dog hybrid is named Oli in this.
Part Links: Introduction | Werewolf | Vampire | Demon | Bunny Hybrid | Satyr | Dog Hybrid
The Dog hybrid in your project group is truly not cut out for this class; he is an art-focused kinda guy, nothing outside of his art theory and practicals can draw his attention. There's also the fact that he doesn't seem to have a lot going on in his mind, despite how eager and excited he is about this project and getting to work on it with you.
He's very sweet, but the last thirty minutes of this impromptu 'study' session have been spent trying to get Oli to understand that this is a project, not a presentation, and that there won't be a slideshow or speech that he can give or read from. He's now pouting and lying with his head against his arms on the library desk, tail hanging limp and lifeless, unlike a few moments ago when it was wagging so fast that the papers on the table had been moved from its little wind gusts.
"So I can't make slides, and there's no speaking at all? Then what's the point! I'm no good at anything else..." Oli whines loudly, and there are a few sets of eyes that turn and glare at the two of you for disturbing the soft quiet in this part of the library, placing a hand on his shoulder and rubbing it softly as you comfort him, telling him there is still things that he can help with, offering to let him pick the graph colours and styles so that they look the most pleasing.
It's a small thing, but the moment the words are out of your mouth, his tail is wagging again, eyes bright and ears perked up as he nods eagerly.
From there, he was hovering over your shoulder, watching as you entered the data into the correct areas for the diagrams and graphs, letting him have control after you were done typing so that he could spend a good ten minutes choosing between the pie chart or the plain graph format and then another twenty on the colours, mumbling about making sure they don't clash.
It would be cute and endearing in a way, if you didn't already know that he was using these sessions with you to try and win a stupid bet. It's okay, though; you have a plan of your own to ensure neither he nor the werewolf, Xavier, wins the bet.
Watching Oli as he focused, you could understand why it would be easy for him to win, had you not known there was a bet; he was sweet and quite cute when he acted like an excited puppy, rather than a slathering mutt. There had been a few times you had watched him through a reflection out of the corner of your eye, rutting against a couch cushion or rubbing his hand across the front of his pants as you did something or other, he did seem genuinely interested and attracted to you in a way, even if it was just a FWB situation.
He had made several attempts at getting you to come over to his dorm, offering to kick out his roommate so you could study there instead of the library, only to end up on the familiar plastic seats, pouting as you made him help you with putting the project together.
It was late, much later than your sessions with the group you had been dumped with usually ran, sighing and rubbing your eyes as you tried to fight off the exhaustion of dealing with this group of right neanderthals. Each one thinking their sly as they try to single you out or get you alone with them, each attempt making your skull throb and fingers ache with how you had tightly gripped your own to keep from throwing something at one of them.
Leaning against a wall as you try to ease the tension headache that has steadily built a place behind your eyes for the last thirty minutes, you can help the yelp you let out when a cold hand comes to rest on your shoulder, Oli loomed over you tail wagging slowly as he tilts his head at you.
Bless the dog hybrid as he simply sits in front of you as you groan and dig through his satchel for a painkiller, offering you the sealed tablet pack and his water with a little whine.
Once the meds kick in a little, you thank him, unconsciously reaching out to pat him on the head, running your fingers through his hair and scratching his scalp a little as you do, watching his eyes flutter closed and lean into the touch. He is quite cute, as you keep petting him and enjoying the carefree way he enjoys it, you ponder an idea and settle on a course of action, inviting the dog hybrid to your dorm the following day to hang out, offering to feed him as thanks for the meds and comfort.
However, it's not a traditional meal that you're going to present to him as a thank you; he won't be considered a winner of his bet if he doesn't get to knot you after all.
The following day, Oli is outside your dorm bouncing on his feet, tail going a mile a minute as he watches the people come and go from the dorm, his hair a mess of red moving side to side as he looks around. Opening the door and waving him in, you sign him in as a day visitor before taking him up to your room, having been very lucky in scoring a solo dorm for the semester.
Getting him into your room is easy, but getting him to stop touching all your stuff is hard. Shirts, socks, and even a pair of underwear have to be rugged out of his hands as he follows smells and curiosity openly in your room, getting him to sit on your bed feels like a real triumph, and getting him to trust you when you tell him to lay back and close his eyes feels like winning a whole ass war.
Even if you have to shake your head as he buries his face into your pillow and groans openly, rocking his hips into nothing on instinct.
The moment he is lying down, you work fast, pulling off your comfy pants and underwear, it's harder to crawl up the bed and settle in a way that doesn't frighten him too much but reaching down to sink your fingers into his hair as you scratch behind his ears and make him take a deep breath as he whines, the spook he gets doesn't seem all that bad.
There is a single long moment of suprise and then hunger, for all the puppy like features Oli has being presented with your cunt as a meal reminds you his is just as much a mutt a the other dog hybrids you have met in your life, his arms wrap around your thighs and pull you down onto his face, broad wet swipes of his tongue mix with panting growls as he makes messy work of eating you out.
Tail thumping against your bed as you keep your hands in his hair, holding and supporting his head as he trys to push his face further against your folds, making disgustingly loud slurping and sucking noises as he presses his tongue against your clit, working to make more and more of you fill his mouth. One of his hands stays heavy against your thigh, pushing down and keeping you seated on his face as the other scrambles to push his pants down and wraps around his cock.
Saying he was a messy eater is an understatement, his chin, nose and cheeks are smeared with slick and sweat, the few times you had made to pull away, he growled, a deep rumbling noise that was followed by a sharp nip to your inner thigh, he was not done eating yet not by a long shot.
Letting him waste the day away between your legs, jerking himself raw and making a mess of himself with wasted cum, sweat and your slick was the perfect way to make use of this stupid bet without actually giving him the win.
#hybrid x reader#dog hybrid x reader#hybrid smut#terato#writeblr#monster x reader#monster fucker#monster romance#terat0philliac#writers on tumblr
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expectations - Isack Hadjar
Y/N x Isack Hadjar
Theme: Fluff
Isack has high expectations of his performance and is easily let down, your turn to make him smile x
word count: 1650+
taglist: @cloud-55 @game-set-canet
open for requests! :)
The Florida sun had already begun to dip into the horizon, casting a warm orange glow across the paddock at the Miami Grand Prix. The scent of burned rubber and hot tarmac still lingered in the air, a scent you became familiar with since you joined your boyfriend, Isack, during race weekends.
It was the end of qualifying day, and the usual energy was crackling around the venueâfans yelling, journalists scrambling, engines cooling down. But inside one of the many motorhomes, it was quiet. Almost too quiet.
Isack sat on the small sofa, elbows resting on his knees, hands laced tightly in front of his mouth. His dark hair was still damp under a baseball cap turned backward, and his pink race suit was unzipped to his waist. The inner fireproof layer clung to his torso, his chest still rising and falling with the adrenaline that hadn't quite left his system.
You watched from the kitchenette, leaning lightly against the counter. You'd been there through every stepâevery karting win, every junior formula heartbreak, and now his first Formula 1 season. This was supposed to be a moment of celebration. He had qualified P11, an incredible result for a rookie in a midfield car.
But it wasn't enough for him.
Not in his eyes.
He stared at the floor as if it had insulted him.
"You're being too hard on yourself," you said softly.
He didn't look up.
"I locked up into Turn 5. Lost two tenths right there."
"And still outqualified your teammate," you replied, walking over and sitting beside him. You brush your hand along his arm, but he didn't react.
"That doesn't mean anything if I left time on the table. I should've been in Q3."
You exhaled, watching his profileâtense jaw, narrowed eyes, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind like the telemetry graphs that lined the engineers' screens.
This wasn't just frustration. It was disappointment woven with doubt, the kind that starts to fester if left alone too long.
You knew how much this weekend meant to him. Miami was a high-profile race, a flashy, glamorous circus that most drivers wanted to make an impression at.
And he hadâbut he didn't feel that way.
"I made something for you," you said after a moment.
That got his glance, just a quick flick of his eyes.
"Oh yeah?"
You reached into your bag and pulled out your phone.
"Actually... I filmed something earlier today. Thought it might be a surprise for after the race, but I think now's a good time."
He hesitated.
"What is it?"
"Just watch."
You held the phone out, pressing play before he could refuse.
The screen lit up with a shaky shot of his side of the garage, taken from just behind one of the screens where you'd been hiding. The voices of his mechanics filled the motorhome.
"That's it, Hadjar P11, baby!"
A cheer erupted in the video. A mechanic clapped another on the back. One of them even jumped up in the air, punching the sky like a kid celebrating a goal.
Another voice chimed in. "You see that Turn 5 entry? That was genius."
Someone else added, "Let's go get him some damn points tomorrow."
Isack didn't speak, but you saw his eyebrows twitch, the corner of his mouth move a millimeter. You nudged the phone a little closer.
The last part of the video zoomed in on the pit wall. His race engineer, usually so stoic, turned to someone off-camera with a rare smile, nodding encouragingly.
You turned the phone off.
"See?" You said, setting it in his lap. "You're not the only one who sees it. They're behind you. They believe in you."
Isack stared at the screen a long time, not replaying the video, not even moving. Just breathing. Letting it in.
"You recorded that?" he finally asked, voice low.
You nodded.
"I wanted you to see it. I know you're always inside the helmet, inside the cockpit. You don't get to see what happens when you climb out. But they care, Isack. They are proud of you."
He rubbed a hand over his mouth. "They didn't say that stuff just for the video?"
"No. I didn't even tell them I was recording."
A long silence passed.
Then something shifted. He leaned back into the sofa, exhaling fully for the first time since he returned from the garage. His shoulders relaxed slightly, his gaze softer now.
"I keep thinking... if I don't prove myself fast enough, they'll drop me. F1 doesn't wait for anyone."
You slid closer, your knees touching.
"But you're proving yourself every time you get in the car. Not just with resultsâattitude, work ethic, feedback. That's why they are cheering."
You nudged his leg lightly with your knee, drawing his eyes back to you. They're warmer now, the storm inside them easing, but there was still a trace of disbeliefâas if he couldn't fully accepts what he'd just heard.
"You know..." You said softly, your fingers brushing his wrist. "I watch how you handle everything. Not just the drivingâwhich is already insaneâbut everything else. The media scrums, the debriefs, the pressure. You don't see it, but you carry yourself like someone who belongs here."
He tilted his head slightly, a skeptical look passing over his face. "I don't know. Half of the time I feel like I'm faking it."
"Well, you hide it well," you said with a small grin. "You've got this casual, funny thing going on in front of the cameras. Like you've been doing this for years already. You belong here. I can see it."
He blinked, his lips parting slightlyâbut you weren't done.
"And..." you let the pause stretch just long enough for him to look curious, "you look so pretty in that pink suit this weekend."
That did it.
His face flushed in an instant, blooming with warmth that crept from his neck all the way up his ears.
"You think so?" he said, tryingâand failingânot to sound shy.
You grinned wider, leaning in just a little. "Are you kidding? The bright pink with your dark hair, the way it fits you, how it catches the light when you walk down the paddock... so damn hot."
He laughed under his breath, cheeks still very pink. "Hot, huh?"
"Devastatingly hot," you teased. "Like unfairly hot. You made even the Red Bull guys do a double take."
That earned a proper smile, his dimple peeking through.
He reached out then, hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together. His thumb brushed along the top of yours as he looked down, bashful but pleased.
"You always know exactly what to say."
"Maybe," you murmured, resting your head against his shoulder. "Or maybe you're just that easy to adore."
He squeezed your hand in a silent reply.
A moment passed, then you felt his hand tug at yours gently, not pulling you anywhereâjust a quiet grounding. His thumb continued brushing slow, absent-minded circles across your skin.
His smile hadn't faded, though his cheeks were still dusted pink, a contrast to the dark shadows cast across the room.
"You really think the pink suit looked that good?" he asked, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his lips now.
"I think," you said, shifting so you were facing him properly, "that they should make it your permanent race suit. Honestly, I'm starting a petition.
"Please do," he chuckled. "If I get more of these compliments of yours."
"Oh, I already got a dozen signatures. Half the grid wants that suit to stay." You said. "Really, you wore it like it was designed for a fashion shoot. Walked into the paddock like you were about to walk a runway in Monaco."
He narrowed his eyes playfully. "Are you complimenting me or roasting me?"
You shrugged, innocent. "Why not both?"
He lunged in mock offense, grabbing your waist and pulling you onto his lap in one swift, ungraceful movement that made you squeal.
You ended up straddling him, knees on either side of his thigh, his arms loosely wrapped around you now, as if you'd just walked straight into a trapâwhich you had, happily.
"Say that again," he teased, eyes narrowed but gleaming. "About the Monaco runway."
You bit your lip dramatically. "You're the show, Hadjar. Cameras love you. I love you."
He blinked once, twice, thrown just slightly off guard by the last line. His arms tightened a little around you, and the teasing smile softened into something more real.
"You do, huh?" he asked, voice quieter now.
You leaned in, resting your forehead against his. "Of course I do. Even when you're a grumpy, self-critical perfectionist. Especially then."
He let out a soft, shaky breath that turned into a chuckle. "That's probably more often than you signed up for."
"I like it," you said, fingers playing with the collar of his race suit. "It means you care. It means you want this so badly. But sometimes, I just need to remind you..." You kissed the tip of his nose, then his cheek, "that you're already doing better than fine."
He grinned again, that boyish grin you'd only ever seen when it was just the two of you. No cameras. No pressure.
"Remind me again," he murmurs, tugging you closer.
So you didâone kiss at a time. Soft at first, teasing and slow. He tasted like mint and adrenaline, still warm from the inside of his helmet.
His hands slid up your back, deliberate and gentle, anchoring you to him like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.
The noise outside fadedâthe music, the footsteps, the radio chatter. All that was left was the soft rustling of fabric and quiet breaths exchanged between words and laughter.
"I love you too."
He broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, "This... you... it makes all the pressure worth it."
You felt his fingers draw lazy circles on your back.
#isack hadjar#isack hadjar x reader#isack hadjar fanfic#isack hadjar x you#isack hadjar fluff#isack hadjar imagine#f1 x reader#f1 fanfic#f1 imagine#f1 fic#formula 1 x reader
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ăď˝ď˝ď˝ď˝ď˝ď˝ď˝
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ď˝ď˝ď˝ď˝ď˝ď˝ă - Part Five

Pairing: Mohawk!Mark Grayson x f!Reader
Warnings: None
Tags: Fluff, slice of life, kinda minor threat of violence
Word Count: 2,553
Chapter Synopsis: College acceptance letters are supposed to be exciting. Yours? Comes with questionable test scores, a glitter-sneezing frog, and a surprise admission that definitely wasn't secured through legal means. But hey â you're in. (Invincible may or may not have strong-armed a university dean into making it happen.)
a/n: had to drop this early â gonna be gone all weekend. hopefully i can post the next part late tomorrow night but we shall see
Part Four
If joy had a sound, it would be your shoes slapping frantically against the floor as you sprinted down the hall toward Markâs door, paper waving wildly in your hand, voice already halfway to a yell.
âMARK!!â
The door didnât even have time to creak before you barreled through it like a one-woman marching band. Somewhere in your backpack a stuffed octopus squealed in protest as it smacked into the doorframe.
Mark looked up from the fridge with a spoon in his mouth. ââŚDid you bring a hurricane with you, orâŚ?â
You didnât answer. You were too busy jumping up and down, waving the now-crumpled letter like a victory flag.
âI GOT IN!â you screamed. âI ACTUALLY GOT IN!!â
You tripped over his rug and face-planted onto the couch, your triumphant yell muffled by a cushion. The letter fluttered out of your hand and landed on the floor.
Mark blinked, still holding the spoon. ââŚTo what, exactly?â
You popped up, hair askew and cheeks bright pink. âCollege, you troll! I got accepted!â
You leapt to your feet like you hadnât just eaten rug seconds earlier, spinning in place like your whole body couldnât contain the joy. âI thought I bombed the math part. I literally drew a picture of SĂŠance Dog in place of a graph because I panicked. Like. A full picture. With the cape and everything.â
Mark chuckled, low and easy. âClassic.â
âI spelled âexistentialâ wrong in my essay three separate times and then crossed it out and just wrote âbig feelingsâ instead.â
âYouâre a menace.â
âI thought for sure they were gonna laugh at it and throw it in a shredder or something!â
Mark watched you quietly, that faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Your voice buzzed around the room like electricity, too fast, too loud, too muchâbut it was also kind of perfect.
Still, his eyes drifted to a memory.
Two Weeks EarlierâŚ
He didnât even have time to scream.
Someone dropped into the office in a blur of motionâtall, sharp-lined, dressed in a sleek black-and-blue suit. No mask. No emblem. Just him.
The dean scrambled back in his chair, glasses crooked, mouth flapping like a stunned goldfish.
âI want her accepted,â Invincible said evenly, voice devoid of any real emotion.
âIâIâm sorry, who exactly areââ
âSeriously?â Invincible cocked his head, giving the man a look of exaggerated disbelief. âNo mask. Blue suit. I flew through your window. Youâre really gonna make me say it?â
The dean paled. âY-Youâre Invincible.â
âGood. Saves time.â Mark strolled closer like he was shopping for cereal, expression casual and bored.
âI want her accepted.â
The deanâs confusion was loud and clear.
â[Y/N],â Invincible added with a roll of his eyes. âShe applied a month ago. You probably got her test scores last week. Short, talks to her backpack, a walking glitter bomb. Youâll know her.â
âI-Iâm sorry, I donât know whoââ
âShe drew SĂŠance Dog on the math section,â Mark added, like that sealed the deal.
ââŚIâoh,â the dean breathed, recognition dawning, along with a rising tide of anxiety. âHer.â
âYeah. Her.â Markâs voice sharpened like a blade. âSheâs smart. Creative. Smarter than half the morons on your roster.â
The dean tried to hold firm. âH-Her scores were highly irregularâher background is completely unverifiableââ
âIâm not here to debate paperwork.â
He stepped closer. His boots hit the floor with a soft thud, the kind of sound that made you suddenly aware of how breakable bones were.
âYouâre going to admit her.â
âMr. Invincible, IâI canât justââ
Mark tilted his head, voice going high and whiny as he mimicked, ââMr. Invincible! Mr. Invincible!ââ Then his tone dropped, flat and cutting. âYou sound pathetic.â
The deanâs mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Mark slammed his palm down on the desk â not hard enough to shatter it, but enough to make the surface creak and buckle. The dean flinched, eyes darting to the groaning wood beneath his hand.
âIf you donât,â Mark said calmly, âIâm going to pick up this desk â and drop it, with you still in it â off the roof.â
The dean went rigid. âIâthis isnâtâthis school has rules, andââ
âDo I look like I care about your rules?â Markâs voice turned razor-sharp. âYouâre going to admit her. Youâre going to push the paperwork through and act like itâs completely normal. And youâre not going to make it weird.â
The dean stammered, trying to form a sentence, but Mark leaned in slightly â just enough to make sure the message landed.
âLet me be clear. This isnât a request. This is me doing her a favor. And if you make this hard, Iâll come back and make your life hard. So? Whatâs it gonna be?â
The dean swallowed. âSheâs in. Iâll make the call.â
Mark straightened, satisfied, and turned to leave. But as he stepped over the broken glass, he glanced over his shoulder.
âOh. And if you ever tell her about this?â His expression stayed pleasant â but his eyes? All warning. âIâll know. And weâll have another conversation.â
Then he was gone â straight out the broken window with a sonic boom, leaving behind shards of glass, a trembling administrator, and one slightly crumpled admissions file.
Back in the PresentâŚ
You were still rambling, utterly unaware that your college dreams had been made real by a threat of high-altitude violence.
ââso I guess the moral of the story is if you fill your essay with enough nonsense and borderline emotional distress, sometimes it works out!â
You bounced on your toes, face glowing like youâd swallowed a sunbeam.
Mark leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. âYou earned it.â
You gasped. âDid you just compliment me?â
âBarely.â
âStill counts!â
He tilted his head, letting your ramble continue â full of excitement and overthinking and color-coded move-in day plans.
He just let you go on.
Move-In Day
By noon, you were sweating through your shirt and losing a battle with a flat-pack dresser when Mark showed up.
âIs this you?â he called, dropping a suspiciously upscale mini fridge at your door.
You popped out of a half-open box like a jack-in-the-box, glitter in your hair and a plastic fork stuck in your hoodie string. âMark! Oh thank God. This dresser is trying to kill me.â
He eyed the upside-down frame. âYou built it backwards.â
ââŚIt was an ambush.â
Mark hauled it upright like it was made of feathers. âWhy are you already this chaotic? Itâs barely noon.â
âI wanted to get here early! Beat the crowd. Make a good impression.â
He glanced around at the peeling washi tape, the glitter on your cheeks, and a sock with pipe cleaners sticking out of it that just rolled past him.
âYeah,â he said. âNailed it.â
You beamed. âThanks!â
Over the next hour, Mark turned into a one-man moving crew. He hauled in a deluxe bean bag, a top-tier desk chair, and a literal rainbowâs worth of fairy lights.
You sat on your suitcase, eyeing the pile suspiciously. âWhere are you even getting this stuff?â
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. âGarage sale.â
âThis is a $400 bean bag.â
âFancy garage.â
You squinted at him. He squinted back.
One of your plushes â a knitted frog with a googly eye stuck to its foot â let out a muffled sneeze of sparkles from inside a box.
Mark blinked. âWas that you?â
âNo,â you said quickly, grabbing the frog and stuffing it into a drawer. âHeâs shy.â
Mark stared, then raised a brow. âMaybe you should stop bringing stuff to life. Just a thought.â
You blinked. âWhat?â
He gestured vaguely toward your drawer. âI mean, what if that frog goes rogue? What if your toothbrush starts doing taxes?â
âOkay, first, the frog is very sweet. Second, Iâm still workshopping the toothbrushâheâs going through a weird phase.â
Mark snorted. âYeah, I bet.â
â
Once everything was mostly in place â minus the cursed dresser, which had now claimed three toes, a finger, and a sliver of your pride â you collapsed face-first onto your new bed.
âCollege is exhausting,â you groaned into the pillow, your voice muffled but full of drama.
âIt literally hasnât even started yet,â Mark said from somewhere behind you, his tone dry but amused. He sat down at the edge of your bed, the mattress shifting slightly beneath his weight. For a second, he hesitated, then shifted the bag that had been slung over his shoulder into his lap and began rummaging through its contents. After a moment he pulled out a slightly crumpled bundle wrapped in newspaper and set it down beside you.
He gave you a brief, almost distance glance. âHere.â
You lifted your head, eyeing the package almost suspiciously. âWhatâs this?â
âSomething I found.â He shrugged like it was nothing, like it didnât matter. âThought youâd like it.â
Your fingers worked quickly, curiosity piqued â until the last fold of paper peeled away and your breath caught in your throat.
It was a glittery lava lamp, shaped like a smiling dinosaur. Ridiculous. Bright green. Cheesy in all the best ways. It shimmered like magic.
Your jaw dropped. âWhaâ?! I saw this forever ago! I told you it was my soulmate!â
You looked up at him, eyes wide, heart thudding strangely hard. He wasnât even looking at you â just casually leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fiddling with your tangled fairy lights like he wasnât the most thoughtful person alive.
Mark shrugged again, the corner of his mouth twitching. âMustâve been fate.â
You stared at him, still holding the lamp like it was made of gold. Then, slowly, a grin crept across your face â teasing, warm, just a little bit soft around the edges.
ââŚYou were thinking about me,â you said, nudging his arm with your elbow. Your voice came out light and sing-songy, but there was something beneath it â a glimmer of surprise, and something a little closer to wonder.
Mark didnât look up. But his ears turned a little pink.
âI know,â he said after a beat, and kept working on the fairy lights with exaggerated concentration â like maybe if he focused hard enough on the wires, you wouldnât see the flicker of a smile threatening his face.
You watched him for a long second. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, hoodie dusted with glitter from your overenthusiastic unpacking. There was a smudge of dust on his cheek, and a faint, perpetual crease between his brows like he was always one snarky comment away from a sigh. His expression was calm â maybe even unreadable to most â but beneath it, you saw it clear as day:
Kindness. Quiet, unspoken, unconventional kindness.
You hugged the lamp to your chest and smiled.
Later That NightâŚ
You sat cross-legged on the floor, cup ramen in hand, slurping noodles with a contented sigh as Mark stood nearby, staring down the cursed dresser like it owed him money. His arms were crossed, posture rigid, and every now and then, heâd give the dresser a glare that seemed like it might burn holes into it.
A sock-doll with mismatched button eyes peeked over a box like a tiny supervisor.
âThis place already feels like home,â you sighed, your voice barely louder than a breath. You set the half-eaten ramen aside, your gaze softening as you looked around your new room, still a bit of a mess but full of the little touches youâd added to make it yours. âHonestly, I really didnât think it would.â
Mark didnât speak immediately. His eyes flicked toward you, just for a second, before his attention shifted back to the dresser, still standing in defiance. Then, his voice, quiet but certain: âYou should get used to it. You got this knack of making any place feel like home.â
The words hit you like a surprise gust of wind. You blinked, a little caught off guard, before your expression softened. âIâthank you. For⌠all of this. The stuff. The heavy lifting. The⌠mysterious bean bag.â You lifted your hands as if presenting the absurdity of the situation, a small, awkward laugh escaping you.
Mark shrugged, his lips pulling into a near-imperceptible smile. His arms stayed crossed, his body language still giving off the air of casual detachment, but the faint curve of his mouth betrayed him. âDonât mention it.â
âNo, seriously.â You sat up a little straighter, eyes widening with mock seriousness as you continued, âI feel like, morally obligated to bake you cookies or something.â
Mark glanced over at you, one brow raised skeptically as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. âCookies, huh?â
âMy bakingâs questionable, but I can promise they wonât kill you,â you said matter-of-factly, being sure to add on the last part for good measure.
He crossed his arms again with a slow, thoughtful look that said he was still unconvinced. âYeah, I think Iâm good. Not looking to eat something that might come to life in my stomach.â
You blinked, the playfulness fading for just a second. âWhaâyou think Iâd do that you?!â
Mark shrugged, his gaze never leaving you, a smirk creeping onto his face as he leaned back against the wall. âI mean, theyâd probably taste like cardboard. Or glitter. And then Iâd end up with a weird, sentient cookie army trying to stage a revolution in my spleen.â
You stared at him, mouth slightly open in disbelief. âMy creations would never!!â You defended vehemently.
He held up his hands defensively, his expression as if to say donât kill the messenger. âYouâve got a frog that sneezes sparkles. Anythingâs possible.â
You huffed, picking up a bottle of Elmerâs glue and chucking it at him. âWrong, because that is in fact impossible.â His movement was barely perceptible as he tilted his head to the side just in time for the bottle to whiz pass his face and hit the wall behind him.
He grinned, as if excited by the way you were getting riled up. You shook your head, the frustration melting into a fond smile that you couldnât quite suppress.
With a sigh Mark stretched his arms above his head, rolling his neck to the side. âAlright. I gotta head out.â
You paused, feeling a wave of disappointment at his announcement, but quickly swallowed the feelings realizing heâd spent the better part of his day there with you. You stood with him and trailed a few steps behind as he moved to the window â his personal entry and exit. Before he could leave, you reached out, tugging gently on his sleeve. âHey⌠thanks again. Really.â
His gaze softened just for a moment as he looked down at your dainty fingers curled into his sleeve. His body became almost rigid as he looked away, closing his eyes in an attempt at nonchalance. âDonât sweat it.â
As he placed one foot on the windowsill, ready to take off into the sky, you called after him, unable to help yourself from one final tease. âGarage sale, huh?â
He glanced over his shoulder, smirking in a way that seemed to suggest there was definitely more to that story. âCraziest one Iâve ever been to.â
And with that, he was gone â vanishing into the dark while you and the sock-doll supervisor cheered him on from the dorm.
âââââââ
Part Six
âââââââ
Taglist! @maddyb-rapps | @sweet-3-whispers | @moradogreen | @rayaaa4444 | @luvvcharxo | @byteme05 | @rivalriotrenegade | @1abi
#invincible fanfic#invincible x reader#mark grayson x reader#mark grayson fanfic#mohawk!mark x reader#mohawk mark x reader#variant!mark x reader
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all by design | p.parker [part one]
notes : I am back to writing for peter parker of course because before anyone else - this blog was created originally for him, my originally muse - that somehow fits well into this fic lol - reqs are open <3
warnings : college au - no superpowers, no spider-man, dorky peter parker who's an introvert, reader is a mastermind pulling strings, cute working on project stuff - photography shit I pretend I know things about
You only signed up for photography to dodge a boring science class, but somehow ended up choosing Peter Parker as your muse â soft-spoken, brilliant, and criminally overlooked. Heâs awkward, youâre accidentally obvious, and a late-night project might just turn into something a little more.
I laid the groundwork and then, just like clockwork, the dominoes cascaded in a line. . .

Peter Parker always sits in the third row.
Same grey hoodie. Same battered notebook, filled with stickers - so very random. Same cheap black coffee in a reusable Stark Expo travel mug that he never seems to finish.
You notice, of course. You notice everything about him - in a maybe not-so creepy way.
Itâs hard not to, when youâve been quietly, shamelessly harboring a thing - not a crush, you insist, because that feels juvenile - for him since week three of Intro to Photography.
Not that he talks much. Heâs the type to melt into the corners of the classroom, to let others raise their hands and perform their answers like auditions. But he listens, scribbles tiny notes in that notebook of his, mouth quirking when something makes him laugh - a soft, rare thing that youâve started cataloguing like your own private gallery.
Photography, for the record, wasnât supposed to be your thing. You picked it to duck out of another semester of mandatory econ electives - something about composition sounded better than graphs. But then Peter Parker sat three rows ahead of you, quietly fascinating, and just like that: you had a muse.
Not that he knows. Of course he doesnât. Youâve only submitted one piece with him in frame - his silhouette against a window, mid-laugh - and titled it âUnnoticed Light.â Langley gave it an A. Said it felt honest. You couldnât exactly say "thanks, Iâm secretly in love with the boy who never finishes his coffee.â

Most people overlook him - they donât see past the hoodie, the fading bruise on his jaw from god-knows-what, or the way he keeps his head down when he walks. But you do. You see how he flinches at loud noises, how his fingers twitch like theyâre always itching to fix something.
You see the careful, considerate way he offers to carry the overhead projector without being asked. You see how he lingers by the windows for better light when photographing portraits - how the shots he turns in are always somehow achingly human.
You wonder if anyoneâs ever looked at him that way. You doubt it.
You do, though. From behind your camera lens. From across the quad. From the third seat to the left, where youâve started sitting every Tuesday morning. Two rows back. Just close enough to hear when he mutters his answers under his breath.
Youâve spoken to him exactly three times. Once during critique week (âI liked your framingâ), once at the vending machines (âTheyâre out of pretzels, by the wayâ), and once when your professor handed back graded papers and heâd gotten a B. You saw the way his shoulders slumped and told him, softly, âShe grades hard. Thatâs basically an A in Langley-speak.â
He looked at you like he hadnât expected kindness.
You remember that look too well. It's the reason youâre about to make this project pairing very conveniently work in your favour.
But that comes later.
For now, Peter Parkerâs in the third row again, fiddling with the strap of his camera bag like itâs a nervous tic, and youâre trying very hard not to smile at nothing.

You overhear Langley mention the project pairings two weeks before she announces them.
Sheâs in the hallway, talking to one of the TAs - something about how she âmight just let them pick their own partners this time. Less hassle.â
Youâre not proud of what happens next. Scratch that - youâre exactly proud of what happens next. Because itâs not cheating if youâre just. . . influencing the environment. Like the weather. Or the Wi-Fi. Or even better - fate.
It starts with small things. Like moving your seat up one row so youâre just behind Peter now - not that anyone noticed as the seats in class were never fully occupied.
Laughing just a little louder at his dry jokes when the professor asks for class discussion.
The first time it happens, youâre not even subtle. Langley makes some sarcastic comment about how half the class probably doesnât know what ISO stands for, and Peter mutters under his breath, âIn Spite Of everything, Iâm still here.â
You snort before you can stop yourself.
He glances back, startled, and you catch the flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth like he hadnât expected anyone to hear. You almost neglect to note how perfectly matching his hair and eyes were, a rich shade of brown - might be worth something later.
âYou get this stuff?â you ask him after class, tapping your camera. âBecause Iâm faking it at an award-winning level.â
Peter shrugs, bashful - hiding his surprise at your approach. âI mean, mostly I just mess around until it looks right. Which. . . I think is technically a method?â
âThatâs what Iâve been doing, too,â you grin. âWeâre either geniuses or complete frauds.â
He laughs - a low, surprised sound - and runs a hand through his curls like heâs trying to hide behind them. âHonestly? Iâll take either.â
You start leaving class at the same time he does. Linger a beat longer by the vending machines. Let your shoulder brush his once in a while when you lean over to look at a picture heâs editing on his laptop.
And okay - maybe you start timing your exits so youâre walking next to him through the quad. And maybe you offer him a gummy worm from the bag in your pocket one afternoon, and he acts like you handed him a priceless family heirloom.
âWait - are these sour?â he says reverently.
âThe best kind.â you give him a toothy grin.
He grins. âOkay, youâre officially the coolest person in this class. Sorry, Langley.â
When Langley finally announces partner selection, she lets people volunteer first.
Which is when you strike.
You wait exactly four beats after Peter glances around the room, clearly hesitant to make the first move.
You raise your hand, smile easy, and say, âCan I work with Peter?â
Langley nods, scribbles your names down. Peter looks up, slightly surprised, but doesnât question it.
âUh - yeah, cool,â he says, blinking behind his glasses. âThat works. Definitely works.â
Thereâs a faint flush on his cheeks. You donât know if itâs from attention or from you - you enjoy it anyways.
You donât ask.
You just tuck the moment away like a lucky penny, warm in your pocket, and look forward to what comes next.

âSo,â you say, casual as you can manage. âI was thinking. For the project. I want to photograph you.â
Peter blinks. Stares. âMe?â
You nod. âYeah. Youâd be perfect.â
He fumbles with the zipper on his backpack like it just forgot how to function. âUh - I mean, I thought we were supposed to do something, like, theme-based?â
You lean back on your hands, legs folded on the library carpet, and look up at him with a little grin. âExactly. And I think youâd be perfect for the concept Iâm going for. Itâs about presence. Softness. The way someoneâs energy fills a space. I want to capture someone who doesnât realize theyâre being seen. Someone. . . quietly magnetic.â
Peter swallows.
âMagnetic?â he echoes, a little too cutely for your poor heart.
You nod again, and oh, youâre really laying it on now, arenât you?
âYeah,â you say, like itâs the most obvious thing in the world. âYou have that face people want to look at. Even if they donât realize it right away.â
Peterâs mouth opens like he wants to argue, but he just sort of⌠makes a noise. Halfway between a breath and a squeak.
You bite your lip to keep from laughing. Itâs not mean-spirited - youâre just so fond. Itâs hard not to let it show.
âAnd your eyes are insane,â you add, like youâre checking off a list. âThey catch light like no one elseâs in this class. Youâve got that kind of timeless thing going on - a little bit James Dean, a little bit boy-next-door.â
Peter is frozen. Absolutely shellshocked. Like he cannot compute being complimented this much in one sitting.
â. . .Youâve definitely thought about this,â he says eventually, voice a little hoarse.
You shrug, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat. âMaybe. A little.â
Thereâs a beat of silence.
Peter scratches the back of his neck, and for a terrifying second, you wonder if youâve ruined everything - if you came on too strong, if the room has tilted a little too far in the direction of intentional.
But then he smiles.
Itâs a tiny thing. Just the curve of his lips, shy and secret and so unbearably sweet - so Peter.
âOkay,â he says quietly. âIf youâre sure you want to. I mean, Iâm not very - photogenic. Or model-y. Or whatever.â
âYouâre perfect,â you say before you can stop yourself - nevermind the fact you're still yet to confess the submission you previously made of him.
Peter flushes deeper. Looks at his hands. Smiles harder.
You pretend not to notice - you could almost get a degree for that.
You give him directions to your place later that night.
Itâs a short walk from campus - tucked above a trendy cafe and across from a laundromat that always smells like jasmine detergent and cheap cologne.
Your aunt signed the lease for you before you even applied to uni, saying, âEvery artist needs a sanctuary.â The space is way too nice for a student. Hardwood floors, big windows, blackout curtains, high ceilings with exposed beams. A dream for any art student, really.
Peter looks around when he arrives, clearly trying not to be impressed.
âThis is yours?â he asks, dropping his camera bag by the door.
You nod. âTechnically itâs my auntâs. She travels a lot. But yeah. Mine for now.â
He raises an eyebrow. âYou live here alone?â
âYep.â
âThatâs. . .â He spins in a slow circle, taking in the space. âKind of incredible.â
You flash him a grin. âYouâre welcome any time.â
He snorts. âMy roommate would kill me if I tried to turn our dorm into a studio. He thinks personal space is sacred. Meanwhile, he clips his toenails without a care for where they end up.â
You laugh, motioning for him to sit. âOkay, yeah. Youâre banned from trying this in your own place.â
He sits down on the little velvet couch, awkwardly tucks one leg under the other, and glances around like heâs waiting to be told what to do.
You set up the lighting as naturally as you can, trying not to show how giddy you are about this. About him, here, in your space, letting you see him like this.
When you look through the viewfinder and frame the shot - Peter in profile, warm lamplight brushing his cheekbones, sleeves pushed up to his forearms - you think, Yeah. This was always going to happen.
Even if he doesnât know it yet.

âOkay,â you murmur, adjusting the tripod slightly. âJust relax. Donât think about the camera. Think about. . . like, what youâd do if you were alone. Not sad alone. Normal alone. Like. . . chilling.â
Peter raises an eyebrow. âThatâs incredibly specific and somehow still not helpful.â
You snort. âYouâre doing fine. Just - donât pose. Or, like . . . do. But make it look like youâre not posing.â
Peter gives you a look. âSo. Be naturally unnatural.â
âExactly.â
He huffs a laugh and leans back against the couch again, arms loosely crossed, head tilted like heâs considering something far off in the distance. Itâs candid. Or close enough. His expression softens when he exhales, and you click the shutter without thinking.
âBetter?â he asks, eyes flicking toward you.
You glance down at the preview on your camera screen and nod slowly. âThatâs a good one. Youâve got a very - contemplative face.â
Peter mock-gasps. âSo I do have a face worth photographing?â
âOh my god, Iâve been saying that for weeks.â you say feigning shock.
He grins, and you snap another shot.
Then he shifts slightly, arms raised to run a hand through his hair - and the motion hikes his pullover up just a little, revealing a sliver of lean stomach, the faint outline of muscle.
You blink.
And, well.
Youâre only human.
âOkay, wait,â you say, squinting as you lower the camera. âWhy are you, like. . . secretly ripped under there?â
Peter freezes. âWhat?â
You gesture to him, accusatory. âYou look like you code for twelve hours a day and live off granola bars and Red Bull, and then - bam! Surprise abs?â
He splutters, desperate to deny your words. âTheyâre not - abs. Itâs just lighting.â
You tilt your head, smug to have caught him in such a predicament. âIs it?â
He covers his face with his hands. âYou canât just say stuff like that.â
You laugh, unapologetic. âI absolutely can. Iâm the artist. I get to be pretentious and weirdly flirty. Itâs in the rules.â
Peter peeks at you through his fingers, blushing like crazy. âOkay. But for the record, I am not ripped. Iâm. . . jacketed.â
You blink. âWhat?â
He drops his hands, now grinning. âLike. . .Iâm not shredded. Iâm cozy. Secretly jacket.â
You laugh so loud it echoes a little off the brick wall.
âGod, youâre stupid,â you say fondly - his nose crinkles at that.
âThank you,â he replies, mock-solemn.
You take three more photos while heâs still laughing.

After that, itâs easy.
You trade the high-watt lights for the soft glow of a desk lamp. The vibe settles - less photoshoot, more afterglow. You both move through the space without talking, cleaning up wires and lenses, folding backdrops, checking batteries. Itâs comfortable. Not quite domestic, but something adjacent to it. Something you donât have a name for yet.
Peter hands you a lens cap without being asked. You unplug the extension cord and wrap it neatly over your arm. Somewhere outside, a car honks, and someone yells about fries.
You stretch your arms over your head, then glance at him over your shoulder.
âWanna go get burgers?â
He pauses, halfway through packing his camera, and looks at you like you just offered him front-row tickets to a space launch.
âLike. . . now?â
You shrug. âUnless youâve got somewhere better to be.â
He considers you for a beat too long. Then smiles. Itâs a little crooked. A little shy. Unreasonably cute.
âBurgers sound perfect.â

Itâs nearing 12:30 by the time you stumble into the diner - one of those charming, grease-stained spots thatâs open 24/7 and never quite empty. The fluorescent sign outside flickers with effort, casting pink and blue across the sidewalk like a hazy, nostalgic film scene.
Peter holds the door for you, his camera bag slung over one shoulder, and the warm smell of frying oil and vanilla milkshake syrup hits instantly.
You both slide into a booth, you facing the window, Peter across from you, cheeks still pink from the cold night air.
The waitress doesnât bother with a menu.
âTwo burgers, two fries, two chocolate shakes?â she asks with a raised brow, pen poised.
Peter blinks. âWait, how did you - â
âYou two look like the type,â she says flatly, then walks off without another word.
You grin, biting back a laughter in the case she takes it the wrong way. âShe gets it.â
Peter gives you a mock-scandalized look. âDo we have a type?â
You lean back, stretching lazily in your seat. âApparently we do. Chocolate-shake-at-midnight type.â
He smiles at that. âNot the worst reputation to have.â
By the time the food comes, youâve already kicked your shoes off under the booth and Peterâs talking with his hands like he doesnât realize heâs doing it. The dinerâs mostly empty except for a guy asleep by the jukebox and a girl aggressively typing on her laptop in the corner.
The conversation shifts easily once you start asking questions. Like youâre in your own little bubble.
âWhat made you pick computer science?â you ask, tearing a fry in half, dipping it in your milkshake and eating it. He watched you in mild amusement.
Peter shrugs, sipping from the milkshake. âIâve always liked puzzles. Logic. Building stuff from scratch. Itâs. . . satisfying, I guess.â
You nod. âYou seem like someone who enjoys solving things.â
He blushes a little, then grins. âOkay, my turn. Why photography? Youâre too cool to be doing this just for credits.â
You laugh, throwing a half fry at him which he barely dodged with a chuckle. âFlatterer.â
Peter raises his milkshake in a silent toast.
You consider your answer. âHonestly? I started it because it got me out of a required science elective. But then it kind of⌠stuck. I donât know. Something about freezing a moment - turning it into a story. I liked the control of it. The quiet.â
He looks at you like he understands. Like he really gets it - he studies you for a moment.
âThat makes sense,â he says. âYou take it seriously. You see stuff other people donât.â
You raise an eyebrow. âLike what?â
He glances down at his fries, then up at you again, his voice quieter now. âLike me.â
You go still for a second.
But youâre not ready to crack open that door yet, so instead you lean in with a crooked smile and deflect like a pro.
âBack to the game, Parker. Favorite color?â
He laughs and says, âBlue. Like - not sky blue. Like hoodie blue.â
You blink, surprised. âThatâs specific.â
He shrugs. âI know what I like.â
You twirl a fry between your fingers. âOkay. Favorite movie?â
Peter looks thoughtful. âIâm gonna say The Iron Giant. It makes me cry every single time and Iâm not even sorry.â
Your heart clenches a little. Of course it does, it is so like him - ever the softboy.
You smile. âThatâs a solid answer. Top tier sad-boy comfort flick.â
He grins. âAlright, your turn. Most irrational fear?â
You pause dramatically. âBirds.â
Peter blinks. âWhat?â
âTheyâre twitchy. Beady-eyed. I donât trust a creature that can fly and still chooses to steal fries off the sidewalk.â
Heâs laughing before you finish the sentence, full-body and warm. You sip your milkshake just to hide how proud you are of that laugh.
The questions keep coming, softer now, more personal.
Siblings? No - just you. Just Peter.
Favorite smell? His is old books. Yours is rain on pavement.
Do you believe in soulmates?
You both pause on that one.
Peter looks at you, eyes darker in the dim light, fingers stilling around his straw - chocolate milkshake all drained from the 50s diner style cup.
âI think. . .I used to,â he says. âThen I stopped. Then I started again. I donât know. Itâs complicated.â
You hum. âThatâs fair. I think I believe in . . .finding someone who feels like home. Even if itâs not fate. Even if itâs a choice.â
He nods, like that sits right with him. âThatâs a good answer.â
You smile. âIâve got a lot of those.â
âI know.â
And he says it so soft, so genuine, that you forget how to chew for a second.
Itâs past 2AM when you finally wander back out into the night, bellies full, fingertips salty, the streetlights casting halos around you.
âThanks for tonight,â Peter says, voice warm.
You bump your shoulder against his. âAnytime.â
And you mean it.
Youâre not in love. Not yet. But something about tonight feels like the first chapter of something that might be worth writing down.
to be continued. . .
part two | masterlist
#peter parker#peter parker imagine#peter parker x reader#peter x reader#tasm! peter parker x reader#andrew!peter#tom!peter#tobey!peter#andrew garfield#tom holland#tobey maguire#tobey!peter x reader#tom!peter x reader#andrew!peter x reader#andrew garfield fanfiction#andrew garfield peter parker#spider-man#spider-man x reader#spider-man imagines#tasm!spiderman x reader#the amazing spider man
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pls can we have batlantern confession butmake it cringe ^..^
Oh buddy, I can do cringe. I thrive off cringe. I am the cringe.
âââ
The annoying thing about Spooky was that he existed.Â
That was the core issue, really. Bruce Wayne existed. If he didnât, Halâs life wouldâve been a helluva lot simpler.Â
Because if Bruce didnât exist, Hal wouldnât have to deal with the constant feeling of being outplayed. He wouldnât have to put up with the fact that no matter what he did, no matter how far he flew, how hard he hit or how clever he was, there would always be this blob of blackness lurking in the background to aggressively judge his every mood.Â
If Bruce didnât exist, Hal wouldnât have to deal with that look. The one where Spooky narrowed his eyes, pressed his lips into that grim, disappointed line, and somehow managed to communicate all the power of justice, vengeance, and at least forty years of unresolved emotional baggage in a single glance. He wouldnât have to deal with the fact that Bruce could vanish mid-conversation just to be dramatic. He wouldnât have to deal with the way Bruce always seemed to know things, things Hal hadnât even figured out about himself yet.
If Bruce Wayne didnât exist, Hal wouldnât be freaking out because he fell in love entirely without his consent.Â
And now he was existing in proximity. Standing in the Watchtower common room, pouring himself a cup of coffee like it was normal, like he was normal. Like he was just some guy. Entirely unforgiving of the fact that Hal realised he had fallen in love with him three days prior and was now suffering the beginnings of a really fun existential crisis because of it.Â
Because Hal was Hal and because he couldnât be normal about anything, as soon as Bruce glided into the room, all tucked up in his big dumb cape, he froze. Odocoileus virginianus. Wide eyes, locked joints, brain empty, headlights on. His entire life flashing before his eyes. Not even the good parts. The stupid parts where he tripped on air, or the time he gave a presentation in college with his fly undone and he had been wearing his girlfriendâs underwear.
He was being dramatic, maybe, but he thought he earned the right to be dramatic when the object of his very reluctant affections was the type to unironically wear a cape and flounce about punching things in the moonlight.Â
It was, however, a wildly ineffective reaction when faced with a man who was widely considered to be the Worldâs Greatest Detective. Which, in Halâs opinion, was a dumb title.Â
âYouâre quiet,â Bruce said, because he noticed things like that. Of course he would. Bruce noticed everything. He probably had folders on everyone in the League and kept track of how many words each of them said in a day. Probably had charts and graphs, too. Loser.Â
âIâm quiet?â Hal repeated. Then, because he was the type to acknowledge an opportunity to make things worse for himself and leap towards it, he added, âIâm never quiet. Youâre the quiet one, ever think about that? Canât a guy take a second just to, like, sit here and exist? Is that really such a big deal?â
Spooky leaned against the counter and took a sip of his coffee. He was still wearing the cowl, but his expression probably wouldnât have changed even without it. There was a really specific feeling that came with being stared at judgmentally by Batman. Usually irritation. Now, Hal realised, it was accompanied by a very unwelcome flip in his stomach.Â
âI suppose not,â Bruce said.Â
This was exactly why Hal had plans to avoid Bruce for the rest of his life. Or at least until he got a handle of this new light he was seeing him in. Without saying much of anything, Spooky was already on his way to backing Hal into a corner. It wasnât even intentional. It was just the way he was. Just the way he goddamn existed.Â
So, after a moment of staring awkwardly at Bruce and hoping one of them would just disintegrate or something, Hal made the totally rational decision to bolt.
âOkay, great talk!â he announced, clapping his hands together and immediately heading for the door. Like a coward. Heâd never live it down.Â
Bruce, to his credit, didnât stop him. He just stood there, stock still. Creepy, really. Hal didnât know why that did it for him, but it sure fucking did. But while Spooky didnât move, he did decide to speak instead. âJordan,â he called. âAre you trying to avoid me?â
Yes. Yes, Batman, Hal was definitely trying to do that. He was already committing to his hasty escape, but he automatically turned back. As much as he was being a little baby bitch and running away with his tail between his legs, he didnât appreciate being called out on it.Â
His brain malfunctioned, he was pretty sure he temporarily lost his mind, and his mouth decided to betray him in real time.Â
âWhat? No. That would be insane. Why would I avoid you? I love you. Shit.â
The silence that followed wasnât deafening, but it was mortifying.Â
Hal turned to stone. Just fully froze in place. Bruce didnât react. Didnât so much as blink. He just kept on looking at Hal with that same, neutral, horribly patient expression. Almost like he didnât even need to react. Almost like he was just waiting to see what Hal would do next.Â
Which was unfortunate, because Hal really had no idea what to do next.
There was a full second where he debated trying to play it off. Slap him on the shoulder, haha, love you, pal, buddy, chum, friend, and then saunter off like he meant to do that. But his body had seized up in horror and his instincts were helpfully ordering him to abort.Â
So, naturally, he did the only thing he could do.
He turned on his heel and walked straight into the doorframe.
Which wasnât cool. Like, at all.Â
The impact was pretty catastrophic. Both for his poor nose and his dignity. A sickening thud, the crunch of something not meant to be crunched, and then â oh. Oh no. That was a lot of blood.Â
Hal staggered back, hand flying to his nose, and when he pulled away, yeah. Absolutely wrecked. A flood was gushing down his face, dripping from his chin and mixing with the green of his Lantern suit until he was Christmas colours. He tried to catch it in his palm, and it stained the white of his glove red.Â
Spooky was still incapable of reacting like a normal person. He just watched in mild interest. No exclamation of shock, no gasp or startled movement. Just a slow blink, as if he were mentally processing the exact physics of how Hal had managed to do this to himself.
"Ow," Hal said belatedly, because his nerve endings had finally caught up to the disaster. "Shit, ow."
With a contemplative grunt, Bruce set his coffee down. That was when Hal knew he was doomed. Not because Spooky looked all that concerned, but because he was moving toward Hal with the quiet efficiency of a man about to take charge of the situation.
"Sit down," Bruce instructed, and Hal, in the midst of blood loss and panic, did exactly that.
The bat-utility belt had a lot of useful shit in it, and Bruce pulled out a wad of gauze to press against Halâs tender face. "I think I broke my nose," Hal said, only because he felt the need to contribute something to the moment. It came out like âI thig I broge by doseâ. Which was humiliating, naturally.Â
Bruce hummed, tilting Halâs chin slightly to assess the damage. âItâs not broken.â
âGood. Great. Awesome,â Hal muttered into the gauze. âDid it look cool? It felt cool.â
Of course, Bruce didnât reply for a moment. He was too busy applying pressure and ignoring how social interactions were supposed to go. Then, with absolutely no warning, he said, âYou love me?â
Hal choked. Almost literally, because he inhaled wrong and the blood situation immediately got so much worse. Bruce just waited, patient as ever, as Hal just stared and bled in his direction. âYouâre asking me that now?â
âYouâre the one who said it.â
âI was panicking,â he snapped back, a little frantic. âIt was trauma-induced. You canât hold people accountable for things they say when theyâre hemorrhaging.â
Bruce mercifully didnât mention that Hal definitely wasnât bleeding when he blurted out his fucking undying love for all things Spooky. He just held the towel firmly in place, gaze steady, unreadable, waiting for Hal to pull his head out of his ass.
And Hal, still actively leaking from the face, realised he was probably going to have to answer.Â
He did search for an escape route for all of three seconds, but there was none. Bruce had him locked in place with the sheer force of presence. One hand firm against Halâs saw (strong, sexy), keeping the gauze in place like he knew Hal would try to run if given even a moment of leeway.Â
Which, you know, fair. Hal absolutely would have thrown himself out of the nearest airlock if he thought it would get him out of this conversation.
Instead, he was stuck. Bleeding, horrified, and, worst of all, subject to Bruce staring at him with the kind of scrutiny that peeled a person apart and rummaged around their insides for something raw and real to fall out. It was a small mercy that he couldnât see those blue eyes. That wouldâve finished him off.Â
Hal swallowed. His nose throbbed. His entire life throbbed.
âOkay, listen,â he started, fully prepared to embark on a desperate campaign of damage control, but he faltered.Â
âYou love me.â
Not a question this time. A statement.
Hal made a noise that came out really ugly because of the whole nose situation. âYou gotta stop saying it, man.â
Spooky continued to just look at him.Â
God, there was no getting out of this. There wasnât even an inch of plausible deniability there to hide behind. Just him, his big dumb mouth, and Bruce Wayne looking at him like he was something to be figured out.Â
Fine, whatever. Hal had bounced back from worse things. This was mid-tier at best. Just mild, horrific, soul-crushing vulnerability. No big deal.Â
âI mean, yeah, obviously, I love you,â he grumbled, his words a little garbled because of all the blood and gauze. âYouâre an asshole. I trust you. I wanna punch you. I respect you. And yeah, sometimes I wanna make out with you really bad, but thatâs not weird because most people want to do that with you because you have, like, a really nice face, which is frankly unfairââ
âHal.â
He shut his mouth immediately. He recognised that tone. Patient, firm, Batman tone. It had shut him up in a crisis before, and apparently, it worked on this kind of crisis too.
Bruce let the silence stretch for a moment. Probably because he was kind of a dick. Then, without preamble, he said, âI already knew.â
Hal couldâve strangled him. âOh, youâre an asshole.â
âYouâre not subtle.â
âIâll give you subtle, you goddamnââ
âYou really thought I wouldnât notice?â
âHonestly, I was banking on you respecting my privacy for once, but maybe I set the bar too high. I canât believe you. Youâre such a dick. Canât let a guy pine in peace.â
Spooky shrugged. âI thought youâd eventually say something.â
âBuddy, you overestimated me so hardââ
âI was right.â
Hal groaned so hard his soul tried to escape his body. He also conveniently ignored how Batman was implying he had known for a long time, while Hal had only figured it out three days ago. That sucked. âStop being soâ so smug about it! God, youâre such a douche.â
Bruce, because he was the worst and Hal was apparently into that, had the audacity to smirk. Just slightly. Just enough for Hal to know it was there. And that right there was really playing dirty, because Hal was already compromised. His brain was melting, he was actively dying (having a nosebleed) and now Spooky was looking at him like that?Â
Unacceptable. Absolutely unfair.Â
But then Bruce did something worse. So much worse.
He reached up and tugged the cowl off.Â
It wasnât just that Spooky was obscenely attractive under all the doom and gloom. It was the way he did it. Like he was peeling off a formality, stripping down from Batman to just Bruce. All casual, all intimate, and for some godforsaken reason, heâd decided to do it right in front of Hal.Â
And Hal, brilliant, composed, intergalactically renowned Green Lantern that he was, reacted by making a tiny distressed noise in the back of his throat.Â
"Okay!" he yelped, scrambling to stand. "Time to leave.â
Spooky exhaled something that might have been a laugh in the right light, and caught Halâs elbow to steady him. âSit down before you hurt yourself again.â
Hal grumbled under his breath but did as he was told. Mostly because his options were limited and he was pretty sure his blood supply was dangerously low at this point. Bruce unravelled a fresh roll of gauze to help soak up the blood that kept on coming.Â
And then, because if Hal hadnât suffered enough, Bruce said in the most infuriatingly casual tone possible, âLet me know when youâre ready to talk about that âmake outâ part.â
Hal promptly decided that bleeding out might actually be the preferable option.
#batlantern#request#sam writes#answered#i should be working on my other fic#but i like answering requests#and this was super fun to write
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