#and i hate that somehow...some way...my brain can somehow keep up with it (just barely)

[yunwangja]

⋆｡°✩ unrecognized, part 2 °｡⋆

kenma kozume x fem!reader

after kenma catches you off guard with a casual confession, he acts like nothing happened - which leaves you frustrated, and end up doing something you were never good at.

➤ masterlist | third

genre: fluff, slow burn, lighthearted romance

tags: kenma x fem!reader, univ setting, fluffy, pining!! yearning!!!

notes: might be ooc! this is now less introspective and more just some fluffy fluff and my bestie theme, pining <3 we're just exploring how yn and kenma will develop their rs teehee i hope you guys like it! I HOPE I CARRIED AHHHH

you think you’re going crazy. no—scratch that. you are out of your mind.

why are you doing this? sitting here, fumbling with controls, trying to play a game you know absolutely nothing about? and for what?

“how do you… do this…” you mutter, squinting at the screen. you move your character forward—only to be eliminated again.

the screen fades to black. game over.

you groan and throw yourself onto the couch. “why am i even doing this?”

laughter erupts from the call.

“yn, you’ve never cared about games before,” one of your friends says, amused. “why the sudden interest?”

you scramble for an excuse. “just… thought i’d learn something new.”

a lie.

the real reason is too embarrassing to say aloud. because ever since that night—since kenma casually dropped those words, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him.

not that you’ve actually spoken to him since. no, after that moment, he went right back to being his quiet, unreadable self. like nothing even happened.

it’s fine that he wasn’t talking to you, though. you were to scared to talk to him again, fearing that he would say another thing that would take you off guard.

but—why wasn’t he talking to you?

you hate how it bothers you. now, you notice everything about him. everything he does, how he moves, how he speaks.

the way he stretches his neck when he’s listening to music, how his fingers tap against his leg when he’s focused, how his smirks are the closest thing to a laugh when someone cracks a joke.

god. and this man thinks you’re pretty.

it’s driving you crazy. you hate it. why.

then, last night, at a hangout, you saw him playing a game with some of your friends—headset on, gaze locked onto the screen, completely immersed.

and for some reason, that led you here. fumbling with controls, losing every round, questioning every life decision that brought you to this moment.

you really didn’t know why you decided to do this. really.

“yeah, right,” your friend teases. “you totally just had fomo when we played the other night.”

you open your mouth to argue when someone suddenly says—

“oh, wait, kenma’s joining.”

your stomach drops.

what.

you sit up, gripping your keyboard like it’s a lifeline. no, no, no— you are not ready for this.

“are you guys already playing?” kenma’s voice comes through your headset.

you hear rustling as if he’s adjusting his mic.

you panic. “uh—i mean, i can go—”

“no, of course not,” your friend cuts in. “play with us.”

you curse internally. there’s no escape.

a few seconds later, a new player joins the squad. it's him, you assume. then—

“hey.”

kenma’s voice is smooth, casual.

“oh, yn’s here?” he realizes.

you let out a nervous laugh. “yeah. um. sorry, i wanted to try it out.”

he chuckles. and god, you wish you didn’t notice how nice it sounded. “i see. that’s cute.”

your brain short-circuits.

you are so done.

the game starts, and as expected—you are a complete disaster.

this game is fast. too fast. there are bullets flying, enemies flanking, and you can barely aim without accidentally looking at the sky.

meanwhile, kenma is a menace. his movements are calculated, precise—he barely speaks, but he doesn’t need to. he takes down enemies effortlessly, revives teammates without hesitation, and somehow keeps the whole team afloat.

you, on the other hand, are a burden.

by some miracle (or kenma hard-carrying), you win.

but you don’t feel like celebrating. you bury your face in shame. “i’m so bad at this.”

kenma hums. “good round.” you bet he’s just saying that. “another one?” he asks.

before you can respond, your friend stretches with a yawn. “ah, sorry, i’ve been playing all day. i’m worn out.”

relief floods you—until they add, “but you can play with yn, kenma. she says she wants to learn.”

betrayal.

pure, utter betrayal.

you sit there, eyes wide, screaming internally. no. do not leave me here.

“uh—no, it’s fine! i can just play again next ti—”

“sure,” kenma interrupts smoothly. “let’s go, yn. i can guide you through.”

you slam your face into your hands. why is this happening.

but you have no choice. your friends leave the call, and the next match loads.

and, well—you are still terrible.

kenma is patient, though. he keeps his voice calm, telling you where to go, when to shoot. sometimes he makes small sounds—an approving hum when you survive longer than expected, a soft chuckle when you mess up in a way that’s too bad to ignore.

you still die. a lot.

“where are you?” he asks.

“i—i don’t know—”

“turn left.”

you turn right.

“no, other left.”

you die. again.

by the end of the round, you let out a groan, collapsing onto your desk. “i hate this game.”

kenma laughs. laughs. he never does that. well, at least for as long as you knew him.

“don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it.”

you sigh dramatically. “i’m deleting it later.”

he chuckles. “please don’t. but why’d you want to play in the first place, anyway?” asking the same thing your friend did earlier.

you freeze.

“nothing,” you mumble. “just wanted to play, too.”

kenma hums, unconvinced. “i doubt it. from your perspective, this game would look difficult.” a pause. then, teasingly, “you couldn’t even do roblox parkour.”

your mouth falls open. “you know about that?!”

he laughs again. “of course. i like you, remember?”

your heart stops.

you grip your keyboard mouse tighter. stop being like this, kenma kozume.

you take a shaky breath. “well, erase that from your memory.”

“mm. no can do.”

oh.

oh, hell.

why did he say it like that? he has no idea what he’s doing to you. no idea.

or worse, he does.

but then, his voice softens. “i still don’t believe you, though. tell me why you really wanted to play.”

he nudges you, but you hesitate. your grip tightens.

“…well. fine.”

he waits. you squeeze your eyes shut, embracing yourself for what you were about to say.

“youweren’ttalkingtome.”

kenma blinks. “what?”

you exhale sharply. “you weren’t talking to me.”

thank god it was just the two of you on the call. if anyone else had been here, you’d never live this down.

silence. then—

“oh.” a pause. then, suddenly— “wait, what?”

he bursts into laughter.

“you did all of this… just to talk to me?”

“you weren’t doing anything!” you blurt, hating how defensive you sound. “it’s not fair that we had that conversation and you just pretended that nothing happened.”

kenma hums in amusement. “so you missed me?” why can you feel him smirking from across the screen?

you wish you could throw something at him.

“shut up.”

he laughs again, soft but exasperated. “oh god, yn,” he says. “what am i going to do with you…”

“what?” you snap, a little too quick, a little too defensive.

he chuckles, “where are you right now?”

“what? why?”

“just answer.”

you hesitate before answering. “…my dorm. why?”

“can i come over?”

your heart nearly stops.

your breath catches, pulse hammering in your ears. “w-what?”

“let me rephrase that,” kenma says, tone gentle. “do you want me to come over?”

you swallow thickly.

your fingers tremble. fuck it.

“hurry, then."

[javier-pena]

Pairing: knight!Din Djarin x f!reader

Word Count: 5.8k

Rating: Mature

Summary: When a grave injustice is done to you, there is only one man who will defend your honor.

Warnings: graphic violence | animal death (a horse gets killed) | death of a close family member | a hint of “who did this to you?” | a lot of historical inaccuracies | reader has long hair | a dash of self-loathing

Notes: I know I'm the slowest writer ever when it comes to working through my 10k follower celebration requests but we're getting there. A very sweet anon requested "Can you just look at me? Please?" with Din Djarin and my brain made that into a medieval AU somehow. Dear anon, I'm not entirely sure this is what you had in mind but I had THE most fun writing it, and I'm so so in love with knight!Din that it's going to be incredibly hard to let him go. As always, huge thanks to Dani @alexturner who said this is the best fic I've written recently - it's amazing what I can achieve when there is no smut to overthink!

The air smells of smoke and horse manure and cold. It smells of blood and death too, but Din isn’t quite certain that he isn’t imagining that. No one has died here, at least not today, and if he keeps his cool, then the sun will set without him having taken yet another life. All he has to do is immobilize his opponent, make him surrender. If he can do that, he’ll win more than one victory today.

He bows, deeply, in front of Lord Marlowe and the assembled guests. To his left, Rhyswald the Crusader does the same, the insincerity evident in the way he inclines his head, moves his feet. Din has every reason to hate Lord Marlowe, every reason to wish the worst on the other man, but he wouldn’t dream of disrespecting him, least of all in his own house.

Rhyswald lifts his head, runs a gloved hand through his blond curls, and dons his heavy helmet. Din ignores the smirk on his face, the way he bares his teeth in something resembling a snarl. He can’t let these things get to him if he wants to walk away from this duel victorious, his hands clean. He lifts his own helmet, ready to hide his face behind the T-shaped visor, when he sees you stand and abandon your seat next to Lord Marlowe. You walk to the edge of the berfrois, your pale blue wool dress looking almost white in the soft light of the winter morning, your dark blue coat billowing behind you. You don’t wrap it around yourself, even though the cold morning air makes you gasp. Your eyes are fixed on Din’s, but he can hardly bear to look at you, his heart in his throat threatening to choke him.

You reach the edge of the berfrois and you seem so close that he thinks if he just extended his arm, he could touch you. And then you extend your arm and his hands begin to tremble. If he had to draw his sword right now, he wouldn’t be able to hold up the weapon. There is something in your hand, a piece of white silk, and you smile at him before letting it go, the cloth gently gliding down in the calm air, toward Din. He steps forward, his hand outstretched, and everything around him vanishes – the lists, the nobles, Lord Marlowe on his high-backed chair, even Rhyswald and his vile face. It’s just you and the token you’re bestowing on him that Din sees.

He secures the piece of silk around his left lower arm, gently pulling it tight with his teeth. By the time he is done, you have returned to your seat, regarding the spectacle before you with cold detachment. Like him, you can’t let this get to you. The world begins to come back with shouts and the sounds of stomping hooves and Rhyswald’s voice snarling some insult Din doesn’t quite catch. He walks over to his horse Razor, tied up at the edge of the lists. Razor is covered in Din’s colors, the dark blue of his father and the silver of his liege, its black fur shiny with sweat already. Din hoists himself up, takes his shield from a knave, and draws his long, heavy sword. With a deep breath, he turns Razor to face Rhsywald.

Din tastes blood on his tongue as he charges at his opponent, blood from where he has bitten the inside of his cheek. Rhyswald’s helmet is obscuring most of his face, but Din can imagine the smirk he is wearing beneath, sure of his victory. After all, didn’t he fight in the crusades? Didn’t he risk his life and soul for king and country? And where was Din while his fellow countrymen were risking their lives overseas? Where was he? Din raises his sword high above his head, channeling all his strength into his right arm, and a growl erupts from his chest, drowned out by Razor’s hooves hammering against the frozen ground.

Din manages to hit Rhyswald’s shield, but the steel glides of the leather reinforcements uselessly. Rhyswald misses Din’s shoulder because he twists out of the way in time but even before Din manages to turn Razor around, he’s there again with a second attack, splintering the top of Din’s shield with a forceful blow. Din changes direction, his back facing Rhyswald for a moment, but the bold move pays off. When he goes in for a second attack, the other man parries his blow with a surprised shout.

Beneath the horses’ hooves, the ground slowly breaks open and becomes uneven while the knights try to gain the upper hand. They are evenly matched, Din has to admit that, but whereas he fights for an advantage, Rhyswald fights to humiliate. When Din parries a blow, Rhyswald tries to hit him with his shield, when Din tries to free his sword, Rhyswald tries to punch his chin or scratch his unprotected lower arms. The longer the horses dance around each other, the harder it is for Din to keep the promise he made to himself.

“You should give up now,” Rhyswald suggests after a while, his voice coming out in strained pants, “because I will kill you if you don’t.”

Din doesn’t reply because there really isn’t anything he could say.

Rhyswald tries to grab Din’s arm but almost loses the grip on his sword and has to straighten his back. “Did no one teach you manners, boy? You answer your superiors.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Din presses out through gritted teeth, the blade of his sword coming down hard against the spaulder protecting Rhyswald’s shoulder but bouncing off it without leaving a mark.

Rhsywald pulls back his steed, disengaging, and Din drops his arm to relieve his straining muscles. “Why not? Did your little harlot forbid you to speak? Because she knows if you talk to me, it’ll only expose her lies?”

Din doesn’t mean to, but he can’t stop himself from charging at Rhyswald in a rash move and missing him when he swerves.

“Oh, so it’s true?” Rhyswald taunts, making his horse prance around Din’s. “Do you always do as she says?

“Shut up,” Din growls. Rhyswald’s grating voice is making his blood boil.

“Apparently not,” Rhsywald remarks, and Din can make out the smirk beneath his helmet. “So tell me, do you believe her little story? Or do you know she’s a liar?”

Din spurs on Razor, the pounding hooves quickening his heartbeat. He’s aiming the blade at Rhsywald’s head, but his opponent predicts the move long before Din can carry it out. Their blades clash and send out sparks. The force of the impact makes pain shoot up Din’s arm and he grunts. Rhyswald doesn’t let him catch his breath. He lands blow after blow, and Din can barely keep him in check while Razor nervously prances beneath him.

“That would explain why she picked you as her champion,” Rhyswald goes on while his blade comes down hard against Din’s shield. “Gullible Din Djarin who’d do anything for the taste of a ma–”

Din kicks, hard, and is surprised when his foot connects with Rhyswald’s middle. Rhyswald gives a shout of surprise, and Din knows his eyes are wide beneath that helmet. With a rattling crash, Rhyswald lands on the hard, trampled ground and his horse takes off with a whinny. Around them, the berfrois erupt with cheers.

Din closes his eyes and the sound changes. It now is the gentle rustling of newly grown leaves swaying in a warm spring breeze. When he opens his eyes, he’s back in Headdon Fort walking the corridors, climbing steep stairs. Outside the windows, the world is breaking out into colors, bright and fresh, while inside the mood is dampened by bad news recently received. As a knight passing through, no one has informed Din of the tragedy. 

Din doesn’t know what he is looking for, only that he is too restless to quietly sit in a chair yet too exhausted from his recent travels to spend his time training. The fort is almost empty since everyone is enjoying the spring sunshine, and Din, in turn, is enjoying the quiet. Until he hears a stifled sob, turns a corner, and finds you leaning against the damp stone wall. You’re crouching, face buried in your hands, a scroll of parchment lying at your feet, and your chest is heaving with violent sobs.

Din should walk away, spare you the embarrassment of being seen at such a vulnerable moment, but he can’t. It’s not his upbringing and training, the chivalry demanded of him. It’s the love he feels for you that makes him rush to your side instead of turning away from you.

You must hear his heavy footsteps despite your preoccupation, and you look up, eyes red, cheeks wet. “Din,” you breathe, your voice hoarse.

His chest tightens at the sound of his name coming from your lips in such a familiar manner. He steps in front of you, unsure whether he is allowed to approach, flexing the fingers on his right hand, still stiff from a recently sustained injury. “What do you need?” he asks.

You smile at him, gently, your grief momentarily forgotten. “It’s Eldrin,” you answer. “He … he died.”

Din’s chest grows tighter, a feeling no longer welcome. Out of your brothers, Eldrin was his favorite. Din had always looked up to the older man, and Eldrin had always treated him like an equal. “How?” he asks.

You shake your head as a new wave of grief rushes over you. Din can’t bear to see you like this. He drops down to his knees next to you, the floor uncomfortably cold through the fabric of his chausses. But he doesn’t care when you lean into him and bury your face against his shoulder. In fact, he doesn’t feel anything anymore except the warmth of your body against his and the way his heart flutters in his chest.

Steadied by Din’s presence, you finally answer. “He was murdered.”

“Murdered?” Din echoes, slinging an arm around your shoulders. The bright spring sunshine seems to darken at your words, and despair settles over the both of you.

“He was trying to save a friend,” you go on, your words muffled against Din’s tunic. “Lord Raaf. He had gotten into a fight, and Eldrin was trying to help him. They were all drunk, it was a stupid, drunken fight.” You sob, and Din can’t help himself. He kisses the top of your head, and feels a stab of pride when you pull him closer.

“Raaf,” you go on after you have somewhat collected yourself, “he said Eldrin got stabbed in the back. I don’t know why.” You look up at him, your eyes impossibly bright with tears. “Why, Din?”

“I don’t know,” Din replies. He could talk about honor, call the murderer a coward, curse his name, but none of these things would help you. Instead, he asks, “What can I do?”

“Nothing,” you reply, grabbing fistfuls of Din’s shirt. “He’s dead.”

“Does Raaf know who stabbed Eldrin?”

You nod. “A knight. He calls himself Rhyswald the Crusader.”

“There are witnesses,” Din goes on. “Lord Raaf. He saw it happen. Rhyswald will be brought to justice.”

You give him a tired smile. “I don’t want justice. I want Eldrin to be alive.”

Din’s stomach knots painfully, as if he had been stabbed himself.

It’s the same pain he feels now, back on the lists, watching the murderer push himself into a kneeling position, reaching for his sword. “Stay down,” Din whispers, but Rhyswald lets loose a deep growl and stands, picks up his mud-caked sword.

“You coward!” he shouts, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I should have known that you won’t be able to win this fight without cheating.”

“Enough!” Din barks. “Do you surrender?”

There are whispers all around him as he waits for an answer.

Rhsywald spits, and it comes out red. “No.”

The whispers stop.

Din circles Rhyswald, Razor snorting beneath him. “Then you have made your choice,” he declares with a heavy heart, raising his sword.

Rhyswald charges. Razor, surprised by the sudden movement, rears up and then collapses, the front legs giving way, breaking with a sickening crack. Din hits the ground, hard, the impact pushing all the air from his lungs. One leg gets buried under Razor’s body, while the other twists at an odd angle, and he loses both his sword and shield. The crowd gasps, there are one or two shouts, but Din only hears the blood rushing in his ears, and the rattling sound of Razor’s dying breath.

Din’s vision darkens when Rhyswald casts his shadow down on him. He pulls his sword out of Razor’s chest with a sickening squelch and huffs. “There. Now we’re evenly matched.”

Din places a gloved hand on Razor’s back, the body warm and alive to the touch. He can’t allow himself to feel, can’t allow Rhyswald’s dishonesty to get to him. He pushes the horse off his leg and stands, ignoring the pain in his calf, the way his vision goes dark as blood pounds behind his eyes. He limps to where his sword lies half-buried in the mud, then to where his shield sticks out of a heap of soil. He picks up both weapons, his grip like iron, and turns to face Rhyswald.

They circle each other; every other step is agony to Din, but it doesn’t escape him that Rhyswald holds his elbow at an odd angle or that his helmet has shifted, obscuring his view. Din shakes his head to get rid of the ringing in his ears but it doesn’t help. He loosens the grip on his sword, then tightens it again, and before Rhyswald can take on a defensive stance, he rushes toward him, his only goal to inflict as much pain as possible. He can let himself have that, he decides, as long as it doesn’t cloud his judgement.

Steel meets steel, and Din’s ears are now ringing with the sweet sound of combat. Rhyswald manages to keep him at bay, but no matter how hard he tries to get a blow in, Din doesn’t let him. He forces Rhyswald to defend himself, forces him to back away from Razor’s dead body, forces him to fight for his life. Rhyswald is strong, his defenses are tough, but once in a while, there is a crack in them, and Din exploits it ruthlessly.

Rhyswald’s shield splinters in half after Din hits it repeatedly, and the two halves fall to the ground, useless. Din can’t help but smile a cruel smile, already tasting victory, but without the additional weight, his opponent is faster and finally gains the upper hand. He pushes back against Din’s assaults with vicious jabs, forcing Din to divide his attention between parrying Rhyswald’s blows with his shield and defending himself with his sword.

Din’s arms grow heavy, so heavy that every time he has to raise his sword it feels like a task impossible to accomplish. Rhyswald seems to tire too – his footfalls are heavy and he grunts every time he swings his sword at Din. But when the blade lands against Din’s right cuisse, he feels the blow in his entire body and his knee gives way, making him stumble. Rhyswald goes for Din’s standard next, and it’s only through sheer force of will that he manages to parry that blow. The audience gasps, groans, and then falls silent.

“Don’t you hear?” Rhyswald hisses, pushing his blade down against Din’s. Every muscle in Din’s arm is screaming for him to give in. “They hate you. They want to see you dead. Why don’t we give them what they want?”

He kicks Din in the chest, swirls around, and with the force of a final blow lets the blade of his sword rush toward Din. Din lets out a hoarse shout as his lower arm is sliced open and hot blood spurts out, drenching his tunic. Steam rises in the freezing air.

“You should give in now,” Rhyswald suggests. “It would spare you the pain and humiliation.” He reaches for Din’s injured arm, for the piece of silk tied around it; Din draws back with a hiss. Darkness settles over Rhyswald’s face. “Have it your way then.”

He raises his sword high above his head at the same time as Din raises his shield, and when blade hits wood, Din pushes himself up, flinging his cover at Rhyswald. He feels bile rise in his throat at the effort; instead of air, it feels like he is breathing in fire, but he stands, and Rhyswald struggles for a moment, caught off-guard by Din’s resistance. Still, Rhyswald has a point – it would be so easy to give in, to stop here and let fate take its course.

The glove on Din’s left hand is growing heavy with blood. He glances down to examine the damage and his eyes land on the piece of silk Rhyswald tried to touch, the token you gave him, convinced he would be victorious. He promised you, did he not? He offered his services to bring you justice, to right that terrible wrong that had been done to you. He can’t give up, no matter how much he wants to. Not when you are up there in the berfrois, all your hopes resting on him. Your hands are doubtlessly clenched in your lap, your eyes are wide with terror. You are praying, he is sure of that – not to a merciful God, but to him, begging him to keep going.

“You’re tougher than I had thought, I’ll give you that.” Rhyswald’s voice sounds tinny from beneath his helmet, and it lures Din out of his thoughts and back onto the lists. “But you still have to resort to tricks to gain the upper hand.”

Din is barely listening to the words. His eyes are roaming Rhyswald’s armor, looking for a weak spot, a small opening he could attack. There is nothing, not even a loosening rerebrace. But the way Rhyswald is holding his sword, his grip lax … if Din could disarm him, this fight would be over.

With an outcry, hoarse and violent, he storms at Rhyswald who is too late to raise his sword to defend himself. It flies out of his grip and lands somewhere to his right, halfway sinking into the mud. There is some careful applause coming from the berfrois, one or two cheers, as people are trying to figure out what just happened. Din feels a smile forming on his lips, one that is cold and calculating, as he allows himself this small indulgence because no one can see it.

Rhyswald looks at his useless sword, lets the implication of it no longer being in his hand sink in. Then he huffs and rolls his shoulders. Din steels himself for another insult, hopes for a swift surrender, but stiffens when Rhyswald loosens his heavy morning star from his belt.

“We’re just getting started,” he sneers.

Din rolls his neck, his shoulders, then flings his sword from him. There is one faint shout of, “No!” somewhere in the distance, and all he can hope is that it did not come from you. “Forgive me,” he whispers, pulling his pernach out of the loop on his belt.

When Rhyswald charges, morning star swinging at his side, Din is ready for him.

The air around him warms as the lists vanish and are replaced by a ground of dust, dry air being swirling up in the hot summer sun. Din takes a step to the side and twists his upper body, avoiding his opponent who rushes past him with a curse. Din turns and kicks him in the backside so he lands on the dry ground, face first. The other men clap and cheer, and Din runs the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping away the sweat and dirt.

That is when he spots you rushing toward him, your hands balled into fists at your sides, your footfalls heavy with anger. Din hears the other knights snicker, one or two whistle, but he ignores them. His entire world has become you – there is no room for anything else.

“What happened?” he asks as soon as you are close enough to hear him.

You stop in front of him, your eyes shiny with unshed tears. “I don’t know who else to talk to,” is all you say.

Din softly closes his hand around your elbow. “Come,” he says, “let’s go.”

There are some lewd comments, some more whistles, but you don’t seem to hear them. You let yourself be guided into the shadow of one of the trees in the enormous courtyard, where the heat is a little less punishing, and prying ears have a hard time overhearing your conversation.

Din takes in your appearance, your fine dress, your long hair, braided intricately, and his face heats with the realization of how he must look next to you, dirty and sweaty and half undressed, with his tunic hanging open and its sleeves rolled up, curls rumpled, hands brown with dust. You don’t seem to mind though.

“Rhyswald was acquitted.” Your voice is strained with anger and hatred; Din barely recognizes it. “The king has acquitted him.”

Din wishes he could offer you words of comfort. Instead, all he manages is a suppressed, “What?”

It should not be like this, was not supposed to go like this. You were convinced the king’s verdict would bring you justice, and Din was convinced of the righteousness of your cause. After all, Rhyswald had stabbed Eldrin in the back, in front of witnesses. Maybe you had misheard the king, misunderstood his verdict.

You lower your eyes at Din, and for a moment he thinks you’re redirecting your anger at him. “He didn’t believe Raaf, said Raaf was too drunk to know what he saw.”

“But there were others,” Din presses, unable to make sense of it all, “other witnesses. People who say Rhyswald …” He finds himself unable to finish the sentence.

You begin to pace beneath the shadow of the tree, your face shiny with sweat. “None of them confirmed Raaf’s story. They said it was too dark, they can’t be sure of what they saw, Rhyswald wasn’t drunk, they want to believe his story. The king said it wasn’t enough.”

Din watches you pace, rooted to the spot by his uselessness. He hears the clanging of swords, the shouts and cheers – the other knights must have resumed their training, already tired of poking fun at him. He hears the song of a bird high up in the tree above you, and the high laughter of a little girl somewhere close by. They all go on with their lives as if the world had not just ended.

“There must be something we can do,” Din finally says. “Maybe the king will reconsider if …”

“If what, Din?” you snarl. He flinches. You notice, and your face falls. “I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to help but there is nothing we can do to change his mind. There is only …”

“You can’t give up,” Din interrupts you. “There has to be a way. We will find one.”

Your face softens as you gift him a smile. “There is one way. The only way. But it’s hopeless.”

“Tell me,” Din demands, taking both your hands in his.

You lower your gaze to where your hands are joined. “Trial by combat,” you answer. “If God’s verdict were to be in favor of my brother …”

Din tightens his hold on you. “Why would that be hopeless? Aren’t you convinced of Rhyswald’s guilt?”

You wind your way out of Din’s grip. “It’s not that. I don’t have a champion.”

Din blinks, trying to sort through his thoughts. “I’m sure your fiancé …”

“Lord Marlow accepts the king’s verdict,” you cut him off. “There’s nothing I can do.”

Din pulls you close. “Yes. There is.”

The sharp pain in his right arm brings Din back to the present. It has to be broken, judging by the way it uselessly hangs at his side. When the morning star hit the rerebrace, Din could hear the sickening crack it made. Rhyswald could too, and it put a cruel smile on his face, one Din could see all too clearly now that Rhyswald lost his helmet somewhere in the mud. Din tries to flex his fingers, tries to bend his right arm at the elbow, but the responding pain makes his vision darken and stars dance in front of his eyes.

Opposite him, Rhyswald looks how Din feels. His bottom lip is split, his teeth are red with blood. He spits and a tooth lands at his feet. Din inhales sharply and tries to straighten his back, but Rhyswald chooses this moment to charge at him, the morning star long forgotten, lost somewhere on the battlefield. Din glances longingly at his pernach, now too heavy for him to wield with his broken arm, then widens his stance, bracing for the impact.

Rhyswald is aiming for his shoulder, but Din takes a calculated step back and Rhyswald misses. He stumbles but immediately regains his balance, his eyes wild with rage. Din can’t help but smile.

Rhyswald reaches for Din’s left arm, which is still bleeding, and Din hisses when his hand closes around it, hard. He struggles against the grip, but can’t use his right hand to push Rhyswald off, and when he yanks back his arm, he only pulls his opponent toward him. Rhyswald closes his other hand around Din’s throat, but Din twists back his head, then brings his helmet down hard against Rhyswald’s temple. That does the trick.

Rhyswald stumbles back and Din falls forward, grunting in pain. He can make out the tears and dents in Rhyswald’s armor where he was able to do some damage with his pernach, cut so deeply he drew blood, but it wasn’t enough. Rhyswald still stands, still fights. And Din knows he cannot take much more of this.

Rhyswald kicks, aiming for Din’s legs, and when Din tries to evade him, his leg gives way and he folds, falling to his knees in front of Rhyswald. Then his head starts ringing, and he realizes Rhyswald is pommeling the helmet with his bare hands, trying everything to make Din surrender. And Din wants to. By God, he wants to! He’s so exhausted he can’t even tell if this fight is real or if he blacked out minutes ago and this is all a fever-induced vision.

Rhyswald lands a kick against Din’s chest, and Din crashes to the ground. It has begun to snow, and as he is lying there, looking up into the sky, he can see the flakes dancing around him. When Rhyswald straddles him, sinking to his knees on either side of Din’s torso, he can’t find the fight in him to oppose him. Instead, he lets Rhyswald punch him, his chest, his chin; his head rings every time Rhyswald’s fist connects with his helmet, but there is no point in fighting back when it’s so easy to lie here and watch the snow come down gently.

Rhyswald curses, trying to pull Din’s helmet off his head. But his gloves are slick with blood and mud, and he cannot find purchase against the smooth iron. Din shakes his hands off with a grunt and his head comes to rest on its side where he has a clear view of the berfrois. A clear view of you.

You are halfway out of your chair, your eyes wide with shock. His chest constricts, the pain unbearable, so much more violent than anything Rhyswald did to him today. If he doesn’t fight back, this will be the last thing he sees, his last conscious thought will be that he disappointed you. And maybe that’s what he deserves. He killed so many people, ruined so many lives – this is his punishment for all the hurt he brought into this world. What’s one more broken person? What’s one more ruined life? Of course, the only thing he can give you as his present on your wedding day is for you to watch him get butchered. He lived his life dishonorably, of course it has to end the same way.

Drained, he closes his eyes, waiting for the end to come.

When he opens them again, it’s you he sees. Your eyes are bright, and you try to hide a grin behind the back of your hand, but he gently takes your wrist and pulls it away from your face. He can’t remember the last time he saw you smile like this, and he wants to savor every second of it.

You kiss him again, and it’s as if he was forgotten how to breathe. All he feels is the gentle press of your lips against his, the way you’re still so unsure but so, so eager to have him like this. It makes his heart bloom like a meadow in springtime. He can’t help himself – he has to cup your cheek. You shudder against him in response.

“Let us stay here forever.” The words are out before he can stop them.

You glance up into his eyes, your face so unguarded it makes him want to fight for your affection. Makes him want to die for it too. “I wish we could.” You push him back against the hard stone wall of the alcove you’re hiding in. “Let’s not talk about it.”

The next time you kiss him, he can taste your grief on your lips. “There’s –,” he starts, but you shake your head.

“No.” You touch your finger to his lips, and he freezes, blood rushing downwards, tight between his legs. “Din … I’m so sorry.”

There is nothing for you to be sorry for, no choice he regrets making where you are concerned, but hearing you say those words makes a lump form in his throat. “Don’t.” He kisses you to hide the ache that has to be written all over his face. “It’s what you have to do. You have your duties, as I have mine.”

You lace your fingers with his, squeezing them hard. He presses his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling.

“I’ll always be yours, Din. Always.”

Din reaches for his dagger strapped to his thigh, gritting his teeth against the pain. Rhyswald’s triumphant grin is wiped off his face when Din knees him in the crotch before stabbing him between his ribs where his armor has shifted. Rhyswald lets out a pained grunt, his eyes falling shut, as he tries to grab Din’s wrist to pull the dagger back out. Din does it for him, relishing the wet sound it makes against Rhyswald’s flesh. Then he pushes Rhyswald off him and rolls onto his side, arm braced against the other man’s chest, pushing himself onto his knees. The pain that is everywhere in his body now is almost unbearable, makes him want to vomit and pass out, but the sight of Rhyswald’s eyes, widened in terror, keeps him going.

Din closes his left hand around Rhyswald’s throat and Rhyswald starts kicking his legs in panic, clawing at Din’s fingers and arm. But Din doesn’t let go, only pushes him deeper into the mud. This isn’t the first time he is taking a life, and he knows it won’t be the last, but he will never again enjoy killing someone this much. He tightens his hold on Rhyswald’s throat, watches as his eyes begin to bulge, and he feels a strange calm come over him. It’s easy to grab the dagger, even with his broken arm, so easy to press the blade against the skin of Rhyswald’s throat, and even easier still to cut, one smooth motion, followed by blood, so much blood. It seeps into Din’s gloves, hot in the freezing winter air, drenches his hands so all the world can see he has taken another life.

Din doesn’t let go until Rhyswald’s eyes cloud over and he stops twitching. He pushes himself away from the dead body, a pained growl passing his lips. He isn’t shaking – that will come later – but he isn’t feeling the satisfaction he thought he would feel. He raises his eyes and glances up at the berfrois, up to where you are sitting. It’s not as if he had expected you to jump out of your chair and cheer for him, but he had hoped for some acknowledgement of a job well done. Instead, he finds you staring at him, eyes wide with terror, and he looks down at his soiled gloves and the man next to him, his throat cut open like a red, angry maw.

You would look at Din like that. Not with relief or adoration, but with terror. After all, now that you have seen his uglier side, you recognized the kind of monster he truly is. And who could love a monster, even if that monster killed for you?

Din kneels in the cold mud, eyes fixed on his hands, his terrible hands that have done so much bad in this world. He should have surrendered, should have let Rhyswald kill him. But there are men carrying his corpse away, and Din has to go on living, knowing the only person he truly loves despises him. He wishes there were cheers or curses, people talking, getting ready to leave, discussing the duel, anything, but it’s so quiet and he is alone with his thoughts that are so loud. He’s even alone on the lists now, Rhyswald’s corpse having been carried off, and still, he can’t bring himself to get up and leave. He can’t even raise his head because looking at you again would kill him.

His world turns pale blue as you come to stand in front of him. You kneel, not caring about spoiling your wedding dress – you’re kneeling in the dirt and blood, and you say, “Can you just look at me? Please?” but Din can’t. He doesn’t want to face your hatred, even if that makes him a coward.

Your voice is so soft as you repeat that, “Please,” and it does something to him, reminds him that he can never refuse you. His broken arm twitches painfully as his heart picks up speed, and then he looks up.

You have a soft smile on your face, one he had thought he’d never see again. You raise your hands, lifting the helmet off his head, and then you press your forehead to his, just like he did with you before you told him you’ll always be his.

“I love you,” you whisper into the cold winter morning.

That’s all he needs from you.

If you enjoyed the fic, I’d love to hear from you 🥰 feel free to leave a comment or drop into my inbox anytime …

dividers by @saradika-graphics

[roosterforme]

Does Jake ever have nightmares about a mission or his air-to-air kills in the Mr. Right Now Universe? If so, how do you think it goes the first time he has them when Darlin' is around?

Jake keeps his job pretty well separated from his personal life, but there definitely comes a time when the two can't help but overlap. Naval fighter pilots have it rough when it comes to having a career that is relatable to their partner, but Darlin' always pays attention to what he says. She also knows his moods. I can imagine him returning from a mission where he has a hard time disengaging... (long and angsty ahead)

He was going through the motions. Ever since you picked him up four days ago, Jake was with you, but he still seemed so far away. You thought having him back home again would make everything better, but you found yourself constantly swallowing down a lump of apprehension when you were with him.

"Do you want more pizza?" you asked, watching the way his green eyes shifted from a faraway gaze to focus on your face.

"Yeah," he grunted, accepting the slice without another word.

He wasn't making fun of your pizza. He barely commented on the movie that he insisted he wanted to watch. Even the way he treated you in bed felt off. It was confusing, and you hated the way you were doubting yourself. Originally you thought he just needed some sleep and good food, but he was barely saying a word to you right now.

Tears burned your eyelids as you got to your feet. "Are you not happy to see me?" you asked, voice harsh and raspy.

"What?" he asked, looking up at you, finally focusing on what you were saying.

You held your arms out at your sides. "I missed you, Jake. I missed you for weeks and weeks. I poured my heart out in love letters that I sent to you, but now that you're back, it's like you're still on the aircraft carrier."

He rubbed his hands over his face, a weariness falling into place that made him seem older somehow. "Darlin'," he started, but then he went silent again.

As much as you didn't want to say it, you had to. "Did you meet someone else?"

Images of an older, more sophisticated woman filled your brain even as Jake jumped to his feet. "No! Of course not!"

His arms were around you as you started to cry in confusion. "Then why are you so quiet? Why won't you talk to me?"

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath. "Darlin', there's nobody else. I swear. I'm just having a hard time processing things."

"What things?" you asked softly, looking up at him. When he hesitated again, you led him to the living room couch and got him snuggled beneath the fleece blanket with you. Then you turned off the lamp and ran your fingers through his hair until he was ready to talk.

"You know, I guess I'm supposed to be thrilled that I have five air-to-air kills now," he whispered, voice low and filled with sadness. "It's supposed to mean something when you're an ace. But I haven't really slept in two weeks, because I can't stop thinking about it."

"Jake," you murmured, kissing his forehead even as his arm tightened around you. "That's a lot to process. We can talk about it if you want to."

You could already feel some of the tension easing away as he whispered, "I already feel a lot better just saying it outloud to you." He let you kiss him slowly all over his face as he said, "There's nobody else. There's not going to be anybody else. I promise I'm here, Darlin'. I'm just so tired, and I can't seem to shut down and just sleep."

Without another word, you rubbed circles along his shoulder with your thumb. Soon his breathing evened out, and he was asleep. You would let him sleep as long as he could.

[justsomekpopstuff]

And that's likely on the three liters of coffee Wooyoung drinks every day

I think not even koreans mother tongue are able to fully understand Wooyoung when he talks like that 😅🤣😂

I just understood the last part 🤣

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #07 死

† sunshine †

"Meandering around the castle late at night wasn’t supposed to take you to Jeon. Nor was he supposed to be the one training you. But here you are."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 5.4k

rating: mature

content: AM encounters, outside of the cafeteria spot, smoking, cryptic messages, begrudging acknowledgements, takama appearance (my kiwi boy), training that somehow seems like foreplay

☠ author's note ☠

Alright, you thirsty little monsters, I knew you'd be STARVING for some action so here are some CRUMBS. Bon appétit! Don't say I never gave you anything (￢‿￢ )

Fun fact: Takama literally didn't exist until I was hate-eating a kiwi at like 2 AM after a terrible day. Just popped into my brain fully formed like Athena from Zeus's forehead but considerably more polite. I don't necessarily intend for him to have a massive role but... well, characters have a way of hijacking the plot when I least expect it.

But he's just??? So nice??? I don't know why I'm surprised by my own creation, but here we are. My little kiwi-inspired shaved-head cinnamon roll. Too pure for this gang. Too pure for this fic, honestly.

ACTUALLY, I love all my characters—even the ones who make objectively terrible life choices. It's like watching your disaster children set things on fire and being like "well, at least they're applying themselves." But I also have WAY more information about them than you do, so my attachment makes sense I guess (•̀ᴗ•́)و

So that leaves me wondering... which character is your favorite so far? And which one makes you want to throw your phone across the room? I have my suspicions about the general consensus, but maybe you'll surprise me. I read all your comments so let me know!

And before anyone asks—no, I will not be giving you more than crumbs. The slow burn tag exists for a reason, and that reason is I enjoy chaos. Your tears sustain me. Stay mad!

⚔ socials ⚔

read on ao3

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

You don't see Jeon for two weeks after the ankle incident.

Not that you saw him much before, mind you. Your paths barely crossed even when you could walk properly. But his absence feels... noticeable. Like missing a storm cloud that usually hovers at the edge of your vision. You wish you could say it's a relief not having him around, but maybe you've just gotten used to being the target of his general disdain.

It's 5 AM and you're wandering the castle halls like some restless ghost. Most people would say roaming a gang headquarters before dawn is asking for trouble, but they don't understand the appeal. Everything's quiet at this hour—no footsteps echoing off stone walls, no voices carrying from common areas. 

Just you and your thoughts and the soft hum of the heating system.

Besides, what else are you supposed to do when sleep keeps dodging you? Your legs are itchy with the need to move, to do something. And it's not even about your ankle anymore.

That's actually healing pretty well, thanks to following J-Hope's instructions to the letter. Two weeks of medical training turned out to be more interesting than you expected. You learned how to stitch wounds, dress injuries, even set a broken bone (though hopefully you'll never need that particular skill).

J-Hope's... different than you thought. You wouldn't call yourselves friends exactly—there's still that whole "he's on the Council and you're basically a grunt" thing making things weird. But under all that cranky exterior and constant complaining, there's someone genuinely reliable. The kind of person you'd want patching you up after a mission gone wrong.

He actually cares about people, even if he shows it by threatening to revoke their medical privileges. Which is more than you can say for some people.

l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶a̶ ̶c̶e̶r̶t̶a̶i̶n̶ ̶s̶n̶i̶p̶e̶r̶

At least J-Hope's grumpiness comes with a side of actual human emotion. Unlike Jeon, who seems about as caring as the brick walls you're currently stalking past.

Maybe that's not entirely fair though. 

You've caught glimpses of something else beneath all that ice he wraps around himself—little cracks scattered across that stoic shell he wears so well. 

Whether that something counts as actual human emotion is still up for debate.

These past two weeks without him have been... easier. 

You hate admitting it, even to yourself, but not having to constantly watch your step around Hurricane Jeon has been a relief. No more walking on eggshells, no more bracing for the next storm.

Your feet carry you to the cafeteria's outer corridor before you really think about it. The same spot where you had that lovely second chat with Jeon—the one where he made it crystal clear just how much he enjoyed talking to you. 

The memory still stings, which is stupid because why should you care what he thinks?

But the universe, it seems, has a sick sense of humor.

Because there he is.

A shadow against the night sky. Sharp angles. Quiet intensity. 

The cigarette between his fingers glows like a dying star, smoke curling into the darkness. Something in your chest does this weird little flip that you choose to ignore.

"What are you doing here?" The words slip out before you can stop them; and as soon as they leave your mouth, you realize how dumb they sound—like you have any more right to be here than he does.

He must think the same thing because he doesn't even bother turning around. "And you?"

"Has anyone ever told you it's rude to answer a question with another question?" You lean against the wall opposite him, trying to look casual.

You study his silhouette against the window—the slight hunch of his shoulders, the way his forearms rest on the ledge. The cigarette looks natural between his ringed fingers, like it belongs there. You catch that familiar scent of pine and mint mixing with tobacco smoke.

Part of you expects him to ignore you completely. That would be classic Jeon—pretending you don't exist unless he needs bait for paintball practice. 

But another part hopes he won't. 

Because there is something different about him in these quiet hours, something less... hurricane-like. You wonder what keeps someone like him awake at this hour. What ghosts chase sleep away?

"You're really not going to answer my question?" You push a little, testing how far this almost-civil moment can stretch.

"Couldn't sleep." His voice comes out low. "That's all."

"Makes two of us." The sigh slips out before you can catch it.

He makes this soft sound—not quite agreement, not quite dismissal. More like a hum. It nearly gets lost in the pre-dawn quiet.

"Why not grab coffee then?" You can't help asking. The sun's barely thinking about rising.

"Cafeteria doesn't open until six." He says it like it's obvious, like everyone should know the castle's breakfast schedule by heart.

You tilt your head, curious now. You've been doing the early breakfast routine for weeks, chasing those fresh croissants, but you never knew there was an actual schedule. 

"How do you know that?"

"Common knowledge." The words come quick, almost defensive. But there's something else there, like maybe he knows the schedule because he's spent his fair share of sleepless nights waiting for that first cup of coffee.

"I see." The words come out quiet, almost lost in the pre-dawn air. It's like something about this hour that makes conversation feel... heavier. Still, curiosity nags at you. "Why not try going back to sleep?"

His jaw clenches—just slightly, but you catch it. "Cafeteria opens in an hour anyway. Might as well wait."

"For an hour?" You can't help the disbelief in your voice. "You must really love that first cup of coffee."

He finally turns to face you, though his hand stays outside, cigarette smoke curling into the darkness. Those dark eyes study you like you're a puzzle he can't quite solve, picking apart every micro-expression.

"So you knew?"

"What?" Your eyebrow arches of its own accord.

"That morning, few weeks back. Same spot." His gaze doesn't waver, like he's trying to read something written on your soul. "You got there first. Took the first coffee."

"I... did?" You frown, trying to remember. Because seriously, who keeps track of stuff like that? Is he actually holding a grudge over coffee? "Oh. Well, I didn't know then. Just found out recently that was your thing."

Something in his expression shifts, those storm-dark eyes softening just a fraction. But instead of saying anything else, he turns back to the window, leaving you to wonder what exactly just happened. 

"Second cup's not terrible," he mutters, the words almost lost in the air. "Just doesn't hit the same as the first."

You study his shoulders, the way tension sits there like there's an actual dumbbell; and you can't help but think that seeing him like this—guard slightly lowered, existing in this quiet moment—makes him seem almost human.

"Why's that?" 

You don't know why you ask. You don't know why you're curious. 

He takes another drag from his cigarette, the ember burning bright against the darkness. Smoke curls from his lips as he considers your question, his ringed fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the window sill. 

"It's routine now." His answer comes after a silence that stretches just long enough to be uncomfortable, and the words feel heavy, like they carry more weight than he's letting on.

"Routine?" A small huff of amusement escapes your lips—trust Jeon to make something as simple as coffee sound like a military operation.

But there's something about him that makes you want to dig deeper. Maybe it's the way he almost looks peaceful at this hour, or how the soft pre-dawn light catches on his silver chain. Whatever it is, you find yourself wanting to understand the storm that lives behind those dark eyes.

He lets the silence build again, but it feels different now. Less like he's ignoring you. More like he's actually considering his words.

"I just..." He hesitates for a second, and it's weird—because you haven't seen him hesitate, ever. "I like knowing exactly where things stand when my day begins. Everything else might go to shit, but at least that first cup is always exactly what I expect."

The confession hangs between you, oddly vulnerable for someone who usually keeps his emotions locked down tighter than the castle's security system. 

You wonder what it costs him to admit even this small thing.

"I get it." The words come out softer than intended, gentle in a way you didn't mean to be. "Control matters. Especially here."

Your heart does this weird skippy thing that you choose to ignore. Because empathizing with Jeon? That's definitely not part of the plan. t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶l̶o̶o̶k̶s̶ ̶k̶i̶n̶d̶a̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶h̶e̶'̶s̶ ̶v̶u̶l̶n̶e̶r̶a̶b̶l̶e̶

It's almost like the night is wrapping around you both, filled with the kind of silence that feels too heavy to break. His scent is stronger now that he's turned to face you properly, and why the fuck are you noticing stupid shit like that? 

He flicks his cigarette out the window, the ember trailing through the darkness like a falling star. When he looks at you again, those dark eyes hit like a physical force. 

Suddenly, something storms behind them. 

Something you can't quite read but definitely feels dangerous.

"You think you understand?" His voice is rough. "Trust me, you don't know shit about control or lack thereof. Not here."

The words slam into you like a door being shut in your face. Like the moment you thought you'd almost glimpse something real, his walls went up again. 

"Maybe I don't know everything about control." You meet his gaze head-on, refusing to back down even though your heart's trying to crawl up your throat. "But I see enough. This isn't just about coffee for you, is it?"

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you know you've pushed too far. You probably don't know anything about what control means to him, about why he needs that first cup of coffee like he needs air. But something about Jeon makes you stupid brave, makes you want to push at his walls until something breaks.

Maybe it's the pre-dawn air making you reckless. Maybe it's the way vulnerability looks on him, rare and fascinating. Or maybe you just never learned when to shut up.

A muscle jumps in Jeon's jaw as he studies you. Those dark eyes narrow like he's trying to dissect your words, find the hidden meaning behind them.

"And what exactly do you think you see?" The question comes out sharp, wrapped in cynicism.

"I see someone who needs their first coffee before dawn not because they love the taste." Your voice drops without you meaning it to, like you're sharing a secret neither of you is ready to acknowledge. "But because they need something certain when everything else isn't."

Silence falls.

But Jeon doesn't look away. 

That storm that usually rages behind his eyes goes quiet, replaced by what you think is understanding, or maybe just resignation. 

"You're reaching." His smirk doesn't quite land, missing that usual bite. There's a pause before he says it though—just long enough to make you wonder if you hit closer to home than he wants to admit.

"Maybe." You hum. "Or maybe I just pay attention."

Jeon stares at you like he's seeing something new, something that doesn't quite fit with whatever image he had of you before.

"Or maybe," he whispers, eyes dark and tinged with slight amusement, "you just like pushing buttons to see what happens."

"I prefer 'tactical engagement.'" You tilt your head, matching his tone. "Sounds more professional, don't you think?"

He turns back to the window, but not before you catch the ghost of what might have been a smile. The sky's starting to lighten, painting everything in soft greys and blues. When he speaks again, his voice has gone quiet, thoughtful in a way you've never heard before.

"Professional or not, it's still dangerous territory."

"You say that like it's supposed to scare me." 

You don't mean for your words to come out that light, almost teasing. But then again, everything about Jeon is uncertain. It's weird how each conversation with him feels like carefully picking your way across thin ice—reckless indeed, but kind of thrilling too.

The scoff he lets out in response sounds almost fond. Almost. When he faces you again, he leans against the windowsill, and you notice how the early light catches on his eyebrow piercing.

"If it doesn't scare you yet..." His voice drops lower. "It should. You can never be too careful around here."

The way he says it makes you think he's not just talking about coffee anymore. Like he's implying something darker. Something that hints at experiences you probably don't want to know about. But instead of making you want to back off, it just makes you more curious about what lies behind all those walls he's built.

You study him for a moment, trying to read between the lines. Everything in Kkangpae has double meanings—even warnings about coffee, apparently.

"I'll keep that in mind." You respond. "And don't worry, your precious first cup is safe from me."

"Aren't you just a ray of sunshine." His lips twitch, and for a second you catch something that might almost be a smile—gone so fast you could've imagined it, but the memory of it lingers like smoke.

"Also..." The words stick in your throat for a second, but fuck it. Here goes nothing. "Thanks for the croissant."

He stiffens. A blink follows—one that lasts a heartbeat too long. If you weren't watching so closely, you might have missed it.

"Don't know what you're talking about." His voice goes flat, dismissive—like you're crazy for even making such assumption. But there's something in his eyes before he turns away—something that colors his reaction. You don't know what color, though. 

Maybe Yunjin wasn't so far off after all.

Silence descends again between you two, and so you take that as your cue to leave, pushing off from the wall with a small nod. Your footsteps echo down the hallway as you head for the elevator, each click against stone counting down the seconds until dawn.

Then his voice catches you mid-step, low and quiet like he's talking more to himself than you:

"Glad you liked it."

You freeze, caught between wanting to turn around and knowing you shouldn't. Because this feels oddly like something fragile; perhaps vulnerability he didn't mean to show. Like catching a glimpse of something wild and knowing any sudden movement might make it disappear.

So you stay there, suspended between one step and the next, letting that quiet admission settle in the pre-dawn air.

But you don't turn around. 

Jeon deserves that small reprieve. 

Takama turns out to be nothing like you expected.

You'd figured Jeon's second-in-command would be a mini-version of him—all stormy eyes and cynical sarcasm, ready to freeze you with a glare. That's what would make sense, right? Deputies usually mirror their leaders, picking up their habits like cats picking up fleas.

But Takama? He's about as similar to Jeon as a gentle breeze is to a hurricane.

Sure, he's quiet and precise—you've never seen someone demonstrate a low kick with such mechanical perfection. But that's where the similarities end. There's nothing cold or distant about the way he corrects your stance, nothing harsh in how he points out your mistakes. Even when you mess up the same move for the fifth time, his patience doesn't crack.

The training room feels different with him here. Less intimidating, somehow, even though Takama commands respect in his own way. His shaved head and slate gray eyes give him this intense monk-warrior vibe, but without the whole "I could kill you with a glance" energy that radiates off Jeon.

You'd been low-key terrified when you first walked in here. Your brain had conjured up all sorts of scenarios—because you didn't know what or who to expect. So the walk to the training room had felt like heading to your execution, each step heavier than the last.

Then you'd pushed open the door and found... just Takama.

No thorny roses. No brewing storms. Just a bald guy in training gear, looking about as threatening as your high school gym teacher.

Relief should've been your first reaction. But honestly? You had been more confused than anything. Yunjin's endless fountain of gang gossip had barely mentioned Takama beyond "he's Jeon's deputy." 

Which begs the question—why is he the one teaching you? 

The answer came to you a bit later. 

After your injury, Jeon disappeared on some mission, and by the time J-Hope grudgingly cleared you for training, he still hadn't surfaced. V stuck around during your recovery, but naturally, the universe had other plans—he got sent out right when you were supposed to start training with Assassination.

So you had ended up assigned to Takama. Which honestly? Might be a blessing in disguise.

That first day, you'd been a nervous wreck. Two weeks of lying around while everyone else trained? Not great for the confidence. You'd walked into the training room expecting to get chewed out for falling behind. 

Instead, you got... this.

This half-japanese (according to what he's told you) guy, who is nothing like his boss. Where Jeon fills a room like an incoming storm, Takama's presence is more like early morning fog—quiet, steady, impossible to pin down. No hurricane winds trying to knock you off balance, just... calm.

"Ready?" 

His voice pulls you back to the present. The way he asks makes it sound like an actual question, not a challenge or a threat. Like if you said no, he'd actually wait.

You nod, watching as he flows through another set of combat moves. There's something almost peaceful about how he fights—each motion precise, purposeful, no energy wasted. Like watching someone solve a complicated math problem with perfect handwriting.

Your first attempt at copying him is... less graceful. Your body feels clumsy, still remembering two weeks of forced rest. But Takama just watches, gray eyes taking everything in without judgment.

"Your balance is off." He steps closer, adjusting your shoulder with careful hands. "Try shifting your weight here instead."

The training room door creaks open and you freeze mid-movement, that familiar scent of pine and mint hitting you before you even turn around.

Oh.

Jeon stands in the doorway like some drama lead making his entrance, gym bag slung over one shoulder. For a second, surprise flickers across his face (guess he wasn't expecting company). His fingers tighten on the bag strap like he's considering turning around, but then he steps inside anyway, letting the door click shut behind him.

The room feels smaller suddenly. 

You catch that slight shift in the air that always comes with his presence, like the pressure drop before a storm. Takama doesn't react beyond a quick glance, probably used to Jeon randomly showing up to brood and punch things.

Those dark eyes sweep over you and Takama, something flashing in them before he looks away. He heads straight for the boxing area, dropping his bag with a thud that echoes in the quiet room. He seems to be starting his prep routine, and it looks almost meditative—like he's done this a thousand times before.

You look at Takama, wondering if you should... what? Leave? Apologize for existing in Jeon's general vicinity? But Takama just gives you this tiny nod that clearly means 'ignore him, keep working.'

So you do. Or try to. Because—easier said than done.

Your rhythm's all off now. You keep catching glimpses of Jeon as he methodically removes his rings, setting each one aside carefully. You don't mean to look but... The way he wraps his hands is almost hypnotic. Years of practice, you bet.

He doesn't look your way once, completely absorbed in his own thing. His brow's furrowed slightly, that little crease appearing that usually means he's either concentrating really hard or plotting someone's murder. h̶o̶p̶e̶f̶u̶l̶l̶y̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶s̶

And honestly? The contrast is almost funny—you and Takama over here doing your best sensei-student routine, while Jeon radiates 'don't fucking talk to me' energy from his corner.

"Focus." Takama adjusts your stance again with gentle hands. 

And the thing is... You're trying, really trying, but your attention keeps drifting to the other side of the room like a compass finding north.

Because Jeon's started his shadow boxing routine, and it's... distracting. Each punch flows into the next like water, and you catch yourself wondering how someone who radiates such raw strength can move with such precision.

Then your eyes meet his in the mirror for a split second. Something flickers across his face—maybe surprise, maybe something else—before his signature aloofness slides back into place. His usual scent is stronger now that he's working up a sweat.

You force yourself to look away, taking a deep breath that's supposed to help you focus but just fills your lungs with his scent. t̶h̶a̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶h̶e̶l̶p̶i̶n̶g̶

You try to concentrate on Takama's instructions, but your body won't cooperate. Every movement feels wrong, awkward, like you've forgotten how your limbs work.

"Keep it fluid," Takama reminds you, adjusting your elbow. "You're too stiff."

You nod, but 'fluid' feels impossible right now. Your movements are wobbly, hesitating, nothing like the smooth precision you're aiming for. Against your better judgment, you steal another glance at Jeon.

He's moved to the punching bag now, each hit echoing through the room with a thunderous rhythm. The way his muscles move under his shirt is... d̶i̶s̶t̶r̶a̶c̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ completely irrelevant to your training.

You try again, but your next sequence is even worse. 

The sigh that escapes you is pure frustration. 

You can feel Jeon's eyes on you sometimes, brief glances that burn like touches, and it's making everything harder.

This would be so much easier if he'd just stayed in his room cleaning sniper rifles or whatever he does. But no —he has to be over there looking like some kind of combat god while you fumble through basic forms like a newborn giraffe.

"You're being too soft, Takama." Jeon's voice cuts through the room like ice. 

The steady rhythm of the punching bag has stopped, and suddenly the air feels thunderous.

Takama just nods, that zen master calm never wavering. But before he can resume the lesson, Jeon's already moving toward you both, rolling his shoulders like he's getting ready to pounce.

Your stomach does this weird flip thing as he approaches. The scent of pine gets stronger with each step, and you try very hard not to notice how his tank top shows off those tattoos crawling up his arms.

"Let me show you." His voice drops low, almost a growl, and yeah—that's not helping your concentration at all. 

Takama steps back, clearly recognizing when to bow out, the traitor.

Jeon moves behind you, and suddenly breathing becomes an advanced skill you've forgotten how to master. His hands wrap around your wrists—warm and steady and way too gentle for someone who looks like he could break you in half.

"Like this." The words ghost across your ear, and you suppress a shiver. 

He adjusts your stance, every touch feeling deliberate, calculated. You try to focus on the actual instructions, but all you can think about is how his chest is barely inches from your back and how he smells like mint and forest and leather.

"You need to relax." 

Easy for him to say. You're pretty sure 'relaxed' isn't even in your vocabulary right now, not with him standing so fucking close.

His hands guide you through the movement again, and you wonder if he can feel your pulse racing under his fingers. If he notices how your breath catches when his thumb brushes over your inner wrist.

t̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶t̶o̶r̶t̶u̶r̶e̶ This is training. Just training. Nothing else.

"Come on. Hit me." Jeon immediately drops into a defensive stance in front of you, those tattooed arms raised like living art.

You blink at him, caught between t̶h̶i̶r̶s̶t̶y̶ surprise and uncertainty. Those dark eyes watch you through the cage of his hands, waiting. Patient. Testing.

When you finally throw a punch, it's half-hearted at best. Not because you think he can't take it—you're pretty sure Jeon could stare down a freight train until it apologized—but because you're too busy trying not to notice his fucking biceps.

His eyebrows draw together, disappointment written all over his stupidly perfect face. "Are you trying to dance tango with the enemy?" The scoff in his voice hits like a slap. "Again."

The criticism stings, but it also lights something inside you. That familiar spark of fuck you that Jeon seems particularly good at igniting. You reset your stance, squaring up to face him properly this time.

"Didn't know you danced." You can't help the smirk that tugs at your lips. "Though tango does take two. Unless you're scared to lead?"

His eyes narrow, and the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. He doesn't move an inch, but somehow his stillness feels dangerous. Like a storm gathering strength.

"I always lead." His voice drops lower, rougher. The words feel like fingers trailing down your spine. "Question is, can you keep up?"

You know he's talking about fighting. He has to be. But there's something else in his voice, in the way his eyes track your movements, that makes your mind go places. 

You throw yourself into the next punch with everything you've got. No more half-measures—if he wants a fight, he'll get one. Even if you know he'll probably dodge it because he's t̶i̶n̶f̶u̶r̶i̶a̶t̶i̶n̶g̶l̶y̶ annoyingly good at this.

Sure enough, Jeon deflects your fist like he's swatting away a fly. The movement is so smooth it's almost insulting. His eyes catch yours as you follow through, and you swear you see a spark of actual amusement breaking through.

"Maybe you should try leading better." 

You don't know what you expect when the words fly out your mouth.

Maybe a disbelieving laugh.

Maybe a reprimand.

But then something weird happens. 

Because Jeon smirks. Actually smirks, like the ice sculpture suddenly remembered how to have human expressions. 

It's so unexpected you almost miss your next block.

"And maybe," his voice drops lower, teasing in a way that does funny things to your stomach, "you should follow instructions better."

You've never heard him sound like that. Playful. None of his usual arctic blast. It's... h̶o̶t̶ distracting.

"Can't when the instructor doesn't know how to give them." You fire back because apparently your mouth has a death wish and your heart's racing, and you tell yourself it's just from the exercise.

"That's why you're here getting lessons, and I'm here teaching them?" 

The condescension in his voice should be annoying. 

It is annoying. 

But somehow it's hot too. 

You're suddenly very aware of how close he is, how his eyes haven't left yours, how the thin fabric of his tank top clings to his shoulders.

"Guess seduction skills don't translate to combat," Jeon says, and god, you want to wipe that smug look off his face.

"Good thing I'm not trying to seduce you then." You quip, heart pounding against your ribs fighting a mix of exertion and something else you'd rather not examine.

He scoffs, circling you. "Good indeed. Because you'd fail miserably."

"Don't flatter yourself, Jeon." You mirror his movements, keeping your distance. Your muscles tense, ready to dodge. "You're just a man. My division's bread and butter."

"Is that why you keep dancing around me instead of landing a blow?"

"Maybe I'm studying you. That's what we do—find the cracks, the weak spots."

"And have you found mine?"

"Still working on it." You fake left, but he reads you like an open book. Bastard. 

"Keep trying." His lips quirk up, just barely. "You might surprise yourself."

Fuck it. You're done playing defense. You lunge forward, aiming for his left side. Your movements are sharper now, more deliberate. The countless hours of training are finally starting to show.

Jeon blocks your attack, but there's a slight nod—the closest thing to approval you'll probably ever get from him.

"Not bad." He steps back, giving you space to reset your stance. "You're learning."

You drop your arms and watch him. He seems to smile now, head tilting. He looks less hostile now, more... huh?

"But don't get too comfortable, sunshine." His voice drops low, and what the fuck is that nickname supposed to mean? "In both seduction and assassination, the moment you think you've figured it all out is the moment you've lost."

You barely have time to process the s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ unexpected nickname before he's moving. It's a feint to the left—you can tell by the way his weight shifts. You dodge right, proud for reading him correctly, but he swipes you off your feet with a low kick. 

Oh shit. 

You're going down, but your seduction training kicks in—never waste an opportunity. Your fingers grab his shirt, pulling him with you. 

If you're eating mat today, he's joining the menu.

His eyes widen slightly—ha, bet he didn't see that coming. His perfect little training session just went off-script.

Your back hits the mat with a loud thud, and he catches himself on his forearms, caging you beneath him. A strand of his black hair falls forward, and god, it's unfair how he manages to look good even when you've just ruined his whole flow.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, and you tell yourself it's just the adrenaline from the fall. Nothing to do with how his dark eyes are locked on yours, or how the scent of pine and wood seems stronger this close.

Your fingers are still twisted in his shirt—you should let go, but you don't. The fabric bunches under your grip. He doesn't move, but his muscles flex. It's n̶i̶c̶e̶ irrelevant how solid he feels.

The silver chain around his neck dangles between you, catching the fluorescent lights. You focus on that instead of his face, watching it swing with each breath he takes. Better than meeting his eyes or thinking about how his minty breath fans across your cheeks.

But your gaze betrays you, drifting up to his face anyway, and the way his dark eyes are slightly wider than usual... makes him look—

A throat clearing shatters the moment. 

Takama.

Great. You forgot he existed.

Jeon tenses above you, jaw tightening as he acknowledges his deputy with a short nod. Less than a second, and his whole leader persona is back.

He pushes himself up in one fluid motion, extending a hand to help you. Honestly, weirdly polite coming from him, but you take it anyway. His palm is warm and calloused against yours as he pulls you to your feet.

"If we're done with the k-drama moments," you say, hoping your voice sounds steadier than you feel, "I'd like to try that move again, thundercloud."

The nickname slips out before you can stop it—petty payback for his "sunshine" earlier. His eyebrow ticks up slightly, and his face is a mix of amusement and deadpan. 

But you force yourself to focus. You have a point to prove, after all. You're not some swooning romance novel heroine, and he's definitely not your prince charming.

He's just Jeon—cold, distant, p̶r̶e̶t̶t̶y̶ irritating Jeon. And you're just trying to learn how to fight better. That's all this is.

That's all this will be. 

But then, he says:

"Sure thing, sunshine." 

And it's pure sin. 

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025

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[lyn31]

Your writing is so wholesome and sweet of Zayne. Can you write one of where reader has a toxic, narcissistic, and cruel mom. Reader barely contacts her mom. Mom calls reader ofc cuz she needs something from reader and reader gets into an argument with her over the phone because she knows moms true intentions. Zayne gets home from work and sees reader upset and quiet. She then eventually breaks down to Zayne when he ask her what’s going on. Zayne comforts reader tells her she will be ok and that he will always be there for her. I have a narcissistic mom who is really mean so I think Zayne would be so comforting, understanding, and safe to always be around. Thank you and if you don’t want to write this I completely understand.

Thank you for the req! Hopefully I did it justice and Zayne's comfort give you one as well 💕 I try to make the mom's manipulative subtle, so fingercrossed it come across, wait that sound bad 😭 I'm sorry, please enjoy the fluffy part!

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Comfort

Summary

You confronts the emotional manipulation of you past while finding healing and unconditional love with your patient partner, Zayne, in a quiet moment of understanding and comfort.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader As you know, I usually make my characters can fit both MC or Non-MC characters, so this can fit both way, with MC in AU or with Non-MC in general! (I like to think her as MC but don't want to restrict the reader, my brain is weird that way)

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The phone buzzes on the counter, and the name that makes your stomach churn flashes on the screen. You don’t have to check—you already know. Your mom. You try to ignore it, but the buzzing doesn’t stop. When you finally answer, there’s no "hello," no "how are you." Just that sharp, needy tone she’s perfected.

"Hey, I need you to do something for me."

You don’t have the energy to pretend today. "What is it this time?"

Her voice hardens. "You’re being dramatic. I’m asking for help, not a lecture. Just send the money, and we can move on."

You roll your eyes, but keep your voice level. "I can’t. I told you that last time. I’m not sending you any more money. I can’t keep doing this."

Silence on the other end. Then her voice lowers, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You know, I raised you. I gave you everything I could…” She trails off, as if the words are meant to strike a chord.

But you sense there’s more to her tone than just guilt. It’s almost like she’s regretting the distance between you two, but not enough to admit it. “The least you could do is help me when I need it. It’s not like I’m asking for much."

A tight knot forms in your chest. You can feel the shame she’s trying to twist around you. But you refuse to let it take hold. Not today.

"Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you—" You cut yourself off with a sigh.

You almost go there. Almost. But what’s the point? She never listens anyway.

"I can’t keep being your backup when you mess up. I have my own life, and you’ve made it clear you don’t care about that."

You hear her scoff. "You’re just like your father—selfish. Fine, don’t help. I’ll manage somehow, like I always do." You don’t even flinch. You’ve heard it all before. The line goes dead then.

You stare at the phone in your hand, screen gone dark. The buzzing silence that follows rings louder than the call ever did. Your pulse echoes in your ears, fingers trembling before you even realize it.

It always happens like this—she calls, asks for something, makes you feel guilty, then ends with some insult, like it’s your fault you’ve become a person with boundaries.

There's a tightness behind your eyes that you fight not to blink away.

You feel a lump in your throat, but you swallow it down. You’re not going to cry over this again.

You hate how easy it is for her voice to unravel you. How a few words drag years of hurt back to the surface, and how even now, part of you wonders if you’re the bad one.

The guilt creeping up like an old, familiar friend. Maybe I should’ve helped? You fight the thought down. No. You can’t keep giving in. But the weight presses on your chest—maybe you are selfish.

Maybe this is why she calls. To remind you that, no matter what you do, it’s never enough. It’s twisted, but part of you wonders—if you did cave, if you just sent the money, would the call have lasted longer? Would she have asked how you were? Said she missed you?

You shove that voice away, swallowing the guilt and hope down, but it leaves a bruise.

When Zayne walks through the door, for a split second, your body tenses, as if expecting another blow. But it’s Zayne. And the air shifts. He doesn’t immediately say anything. He’s always quiet when he notices you’re off, sensing it before you even say a word.

The soft click of the door behind him is enough to make you glance over your shoulder. He notices immediately—your posture, the way your eyes seem distant, almost like you're shutting down.

His gaze softens as he takes a step closer, his voice gentle. "Hey, what's going on?"

You try to smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You shake your head, barely holding it together. "It’s nothing."

He doesn’t buy it. He knows you too well, and he knows that tone. He sits next to you, close enough for your shoulders to touch, but not enough to invade your space. He waits. Silent. Patient. He doesn’t need you to speak right away. When you finally do, your voice cracks.

"Well," you murmur, voice small. "She called again. Just asking for something. Like she always does."

Zayne finds your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles—and somehow, that simple pressure slowly quiets the storm you didn’t realize was still raging. He doesn’t interrupt as you continue, the frustration and hurt breaking through. "She doesn’t care. Doesn’t even say hi anymore—just jumps straight to, ‘I need money,’ like I owe her everything."

He pulls you into him, lets you rest against his chest. He smells like home. The kind you never had growing up, but somehow ended up finding anyway. It’s steadying. It’s safe. It’s everything your mother never was.

You press your face into him, feeling the pressure you’ve been holding in. "I hate it," you whisper, barely above a breath. “I hate that she can still make me feel like I’m ten years old and worthless. Like I’m the one who did something wrong.”

Zayne’s arms wrap around you, comforting and strong. His voice is steady, low, like he’s speaking directly to the heart of the matter. "You’re not wrong," he says firmly.

“You’re not selfish for setting boundaries,” Zayne adds, a note of conviction in his voice. “I’ve seen you stand your ground before. Like with work. You told your boss no when they tried to overwork you last month. You’ve always been the one who stands up for yourself, even when it’s hard. You’ve got this.”

You want to believe him. You want to feel strong again. But it’s hard, so hard, to shake the voice she’s left in your head. “It’s always like this. Every call ends in guilt or screaming.”

You bury yourself deeper in his embrace, letting his warmth surround you, the tension in your chest slowly starting to fade away. You let out a shaky breath, but you still feel fragile. The battle between wanting to stay strong and feeling small from all the hurt she’s caused swirls inside of you.

Zayne shifts, his hand firm but gentle, anchoring you in the present. His presence is grounding, a reminder that he’s here, that he sees you. "I know," he says softly, like he understands the weight of it all, the toll it’s taken on you. "I can’t change what she does, but I can promise you this—you’re not alone in this. Not now, not ever."

"I’m so proud of you," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "For standing your ground. Love shouldn’t feel like a transaction. And yours isn’t. Not to me.”

You nod against his chest, your tears finally falling, but this time, it feels different. You’re not alone anymore. Zayne’s right here, with you, holding you through it all.

The silence between you stretches comfortably, only the quiet sound of his breathing and your own filling the space. Zayne doesn’t rush you, just lets you be. He doesn’t ask any more questions, sensing you need the calm more than anything else.

After a moment, he shifts slightly, his voice calm and steady as he speaks again. "Do you want some tea?" he asks, the suggestion simple but thoughtful. "Or maybe... we could watch something. Whatever you need."

You lift your head slightly, eyes meeting his. There’s a certain ease to his presence, one that doesn’t demand anything from you, just allows you to take whatever you need in your own time. He gently wipes the trail of your tears from your cheeks. You close your eyes, leaning into his hand.

“Honestly? I think I just want to be here," you admit, eyes still closed. The words come out with a slight shake to your voice, but the sincerity is clear.

Zayne gives a small nod, his fingers brushing your cheek, then your back, in a soft, almost absent gesture, but it’s enough to reassure you. "Alright. We can just stay here."

You rest your head back against his chest, the warmth of his body grounding you in the stillness of the moment. Zayne isn’t the type to fill the silence with words unless they’re necessary.

You sniffle, brushing at your cheeks, and for the first time in a while, a faint chuckle escapes you—unexpected, but real, a little breathless from the weight that’s slowly lifting off you. “You’re really not going to say anything, huh?”

“No need to,” he replies, his tone dry but with a subtle warmth. "What’s there to say?"

You nudge him lightly, a teasing smile on your lips. “Guess it’s up to me to keep the silence from getting boring, huh?”

Zayne tilts his head, lips twitching into a small smile. "I’m just here for the professional silence. It’s not my fault you can’t sit still without talking.”

You roll your eyes playfully, leaning into him a little more, his hand steady and soothing against your back. “Hey, I’m just keeping things interesting. Someone’s got to do it.”

“That goes without saying,” he says quietly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He pauses, then adds with quiet honesty. “But you don’t always have to talk to fill the space.”

You pause, his words sinking in, and a soft laugh escapes you. “Yeah, I guess I talk too much, huh?”

Without saying another word, he leans down, brushing his lips against yours in a soft, lingering kiss. You didn’t realize how much you needed the kiss until it happens—soft and unhurried, like he’s reminding you you’re still here. Still loved. Still worthy of gentleness.

His voice wraps around you like a blanket. “I like hearing you talk. As long as you feel like talking. It’s comforting, in its own way,” he murmurs against you, as if that choice is yours, just as it always is with him.

You smile against his lips, feeling a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the words. His simple affection, his quiet understanding sink in deeper than you expected, bringing a softness to the moment.

You lean into his touch as the tension you’ve been holding onto slowly begins to melt away, resting more comfortably against him, and start talking. “I haven’t really had time to just relax lately,” you begin, the words spilling out naturally now. “I mean, between work and everything else...”

Zayne listens, his fingers gently tracing circles on your back, his attention fully on you. You keep going, rambling a bit, the small, mundane things—the little worries and observations about your day. It’s not anything deep, but it feels good to just talk without the weight of everything else pressing on you.

For the first time all evening, you feel the knot in your chest finally loosen.

You realize how easy it is to simply exist in this moment with him—no expectations, no need to explain. Zayne doesn’t interrupt, just listens, and you find comfort in the space he holds for you without asking anything in return.

As your words trail off, you lean back into his arms, the weight on your chest finally lifted. The room is quiet, filled only with the steady rhythm of shared breaths.

It’s peaceful. Steadying. And it feels like enough.

Just the two of you, wrapped in the kind of presence that doesn’t need to prove anything—talking about nothing and everything.

You don’t say it out loud, but the thought is there, steady and quiet: how grateful you are that love—real love—doesn’t demand your suffering. It isn’t sharp or conditional like the kind you were raised with.

Zayne’s love is soft. Steady. Not loud, but clear enough to hear in every unspoken moment.

There’s no pressure here. No guilt. Just the quiet kind of care that lets you breathe.

And that, finally, is exactly what you need.

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Notes

I actually write this while imagining my mom turn this way, and it mess up with my brain... Good lord you guys that experience this are strong af... I mean it's not always just realizing that your parents actually just manipulating you right? It's also the fact that you might think deep down they can still love you or love you at all, not just themselves, alright okay, I need to chill or I'm gonna make myself cry 😭 Either way, you're all amazing! Stand your ground, there's nothing wrong about focusing on yourself first! 🫶🏻🥳 That's my motto anyway and I'm somewhat has a proper family 😂 I swear to god, sometimes I read what I say and then regret it but then I'll be like fuck it! They'll understand 😭 P.S. I was editing this while playing ToT, I need that fluff in between man...

[lookingfts]

Enjoy media again

This is a bit of a long one, but if you want to change your relationship to technology in a manageable but effective way, you might find this interesting.

Over the past year or so, I’ve realized how exhausting technology has become. I’m a Millennial, so I grew up with CDs and VHS/DVDs. I was attached to the hip with my iPod and I have fond memories of browsing video stores to pick something for family movie night.

Then came smartphones, and streaming. And I was happy with both for years, until I realized:

I hate my phone. And I hate streaming. And I hate, more generally, what modern technology has evolved into.

Everything is designed to die quickly, to hoard your attention, to screw creators and suck your energy and joy dry.

I’m not alone in this, of course. At the end of this post, I’ll link to some great videos that helped motivate me in making changes.

This is by no means a comprehensive guide, but I wanted to share a bit of the journey I’ve been on and the changes I’ve made to fix my screwed-up relationship with technology.

First up: my phone is a black hole.

If you asked me, I would say I’m not addicted to my phone. I rarely use any social media except for Tumblr. I don’t need to use my phone much for work. And yet, somehow, my screen time was consistently seven hours or more.

How? Where was that time even going?

So I started taking suggestions from other people and applying them to my smartphone. Here are the big ones, and how well they worked for me.

1. Deleting games

This is pretty self-explanatory. If there’s a game on my phone, I’ll blink and suddenly be on level 400. It’s what I do while I watch TV. And I never feel like I have anything to show for it. Games are not inherently the problem; but without any kind of tangibility, it just all washes over me with no impact.

So I don’t keep games on my phone. If I’m really itching to play something, the Google browser has some free games without ads, like Solitaire. But even that I have to tread carefully with – it’s too easy to keep shuffling. I have a hunch that if I broke out a card deck and played Solitaire the old-fashioned way, I’d get a lot more out of the experience.

2. Hiding apps from the home screen

Some apps just stare at you. If you hold down until the app wiggles, and press Remove App, you have the option to remove it from the home screen but keep it in your app menu. I find this extremely helpful for apps that often distract me. For me, that’s email and Tumblr. Those are my “slot machine” apps – the ones that I refresh to get the hit of dopamine from something new. The point is for me to have to work slightly harder to get to them. To create friction between me and my time wasters.

The first day after you move something, you will compulsively click on that slot 100 times. And then you'll realize how much you were reaching for it.

3. Setting time limits for apps

The first night that I set a 45-minute time limit for email, Tumblr, and Instagram (which I rarely used to use, but had recently found myself checking mindlessly, even though I can barely see the actual posts from my friends anymore) – I was already over the limit for the day. That felt like a wake-up call. Why was I on my email for 45 minutes? There’s nothing critically important in my email. Ever.

I find myself with a different mindset when I open these apps now. The ticking clock in my head makes me view each moment I spend on there as precious. The goal is to see everything I want to see before I’m blocked. This artificial scarcity makes it more interesting and less compulsive.

4. Changing my phone to black and white

This. THIS. This is the single thing that brought my screen time from 7 hours a day to about 1 hour a day.

Putting my phone into black and white did something to my brain. Almost immediately, I could feel that my eyes were less strained and my mind was quieter. I did not expect that.

It’s an accessibility setting, and it’s not easy to get to, for obvious reasons (Apple doesn't want you to). For iPhone, you can go to Settings > Accessibility > Display & Text Size > Color Filters. I used the Grayscale and there’s an option to control the intensity of the filter. I have mine at about 85%, since the full 100% grayscale is a little hard for me to see.

I’m not kidding. This is game-changing. It takes away 90% of the temptation of your phone. I can still do everything I need to do – and for the things I want to do, like looking at pictures in color or watching videos, I use my iPad or my laptop or my TV. Those devices have never had the same issue of overuse for me; I think phones tend to be the easiest to abuse. But whatever device causes you problems, you can probably use some variation of these tips to help.

Second: streaming sucks now.

Not just the cost, or the ads, or the fact that you need 7 different services to watch everything you want.

For me, it was the decision paralysis. Every time I booted up Netflix, I felt overwhelmed by choice. How do you wade through all the low-quality filler to find something interesting? Nope, nothing here. Move to Amazon Prime. Move to YouTube movies. Move to Disney+.

I not only found it exhausting…I felt as though the endless choice was making media meaningless. Movies, TV shows, and music were all blurring together in my brain. Once in a blue moon did I actually get excited about something I saw on a streaming platform.

There are other issues: streaming movies and shows can be altered. They can be deleted without warning; even for things you bought. Algorithms control what you see, and you lose the feeling of choosing for yourself.

Now, I kept Netflix, mostly for its original shows. I’m on the lowest ad-supported plan, which is about $9 a month. I may cancel it and only keep it for a few months out of the year, to catch up on everything at once. It’s not hard, with seasons being like 8 episodes.

But I canceled everything else. I canceled Sirius, I canceled YouTube Premium, I let it all go.

Here’s what I did instead:

1. I got a library card.

I’m privileged to have a lovely library very close to me, and I was embarrassed that after 13 years of living in this town, I didn’t have a card. I recently started getting back into reading physical books as well. So I got my library card and checked out some books.

I had no idea how much libraries offer now. With my library card came completely free access to Freegal Music, Hoopla, and Libby. Those will probably vary depending on your library.

Freegal Music is basically like any streaming music services, only you’re limited to five downloads a week. But you can stream almost anything, and I find that the curated playlists take me out of the "sameness" that I felt with my YouTube Music playlists.

Libby and Hoopla have e-books, movies, TV shows, audiobooks, music, and binge passes that you can check out to binge content on other streaming services.

I’ve barely scratched the service of what’s available. Of course, the selection is slightly more limited, and you have to “borrow” things electronically before you can use them. But that only works in favor of my quest to feel more connected to the media I experience. There’s a time limit on it, and that creates some kind of urgency.

If you’re lucky enough to have access to a library, please use it. I wish I hadn’t waited so long. Even if you go literally one time, just to get a card, you can enjoy so many of their digital offerings. (Though my library does also offer fun in-person events, like reading clubs and craft classes. And you can check out 50 things at a time. 50!!!! For a month!!!!)

2. I bought DVDs.

Recently, I went down a rabbit hole about physical media. Like everyone else, I tossed all my DVDs and CDs years ago. Waste of space. It’s old tech.

But it’s true: you can’t own digital media. It’s not yours – you’re only renting it, even when you buy it.

I’m a pretty avid thrifter, and I had always seen the tons of DVDs and CDs and vinyls at thrift stores, but I never bothered to look.

So that was my first stop. I went to my favorite thrift store and found a Blu-ray player for about $9 and a DVD player for $7 (in case one of them didn’t work). Let me tell you – I had a BLAST picking out DVDs. It was so much more fun than clicking through a streaming menu. Right now I have a little over 30 DVDs (at a couple of bucks each – each one was literally cheaper than me renting a digital copy), including tons of my all-time favorite movies. I was shocked that I found so many of my A-list faves on my very first trip – Sunshine, Pride & Prejudice, the whole LOTR trilogy.

Feel free to judge my taste...I don't mind.

(You can also rent DVDs at the library.)

I made sure to buy players that came with the cords so I didn’t have to buy any (I’m only moderately tech literate) and it works great.

Beyond the fact that DVDs and Blu-rays aren’t compressed like streaming and so might actually look and sound better – I was just excited about media, for the first time in a long time. These are my favorites. I own them. I get to look through this collection and decide what I’m in the mood for. I get to keep hunting and find even more of my favorites.

I also got a handful of CDs. I love the way they look. I love interacting with media again. Fortunately, I have the space to display them, but you can also remove them from the cases and put them into a CD sleeve.

A huge used physical media store opened down the street. I’m so excited to see what they have. It might become my new favorite place.

I can still stream on Netflix. I can still buy a movie on Vudu or whatever if it’s something I’m really in the mood to watch. That option isn’t going anywhere. And if you like streaming certain things, go for it. I am not against streaming as a concept. I just felt like streaming had become this draining, chaotic maze that I was lost in, instead of something that made my life better and more convenient.

Maybe we need a little inconvenience. Maybe having everything in the palm of our hand only devalues those experiences and lessens the impact.

Maybe some of these things that I did aren’t available to you – but hopefully some are. I hope this is helpful to anyone who feels like I do. This is just part of my journey, and I want to continue finding a way to live more actively and intentionally in this world that is trying so hard to make us isolated, tired, and passive.

A big shoutout to all these creators who inspired me. Here are a few videos that really helped me:

Only Consuming Media from the Library

The Importance of Inconvenience

Using This iPod for 30 Days Changed My Life (a series)

Replace all of your subscriptions with a library card

[indigo-greer-collins]

wanderer's soul✧.*

OKAY UH HI GUYS

author's note: i wish i knew how to make this little intro thing all aesthetic and shit, i do not though, this is my first time with this thing. i was inspired by @samfucker to write something kinda angsty about teen darlin, so thank u matt!!! this is my first time posting like an actual fic here so i am so sorry if it sucks but uhhhh i'll improve i promise! lemme stop yapping now

content includes: gender neutral pronouns for darlin, teen darlin, autistic darlin, underaged drinking, mentions of parental conflict(?), teen shaw pack, depictions of meltdown/spiralling, angst-ish(idk if its that bad)

word count: 1.6k! (woah thats kinda long)

They just needed to leave.

The circumstances weren’t ideal. To get away from a house that hated them, they had to hang out with a bunch of wolves who didn’t like them. But the lesser of the two hells was obvious.  They grabbed some old, worn-out sneakers they were unhealthily attached to; the first pair of sweatpants they could find and a hoodie that had (barely) stood the tests of time. Hanging out at a park was hardly a special occasion, so they defaulted to their usual look: homeless. But the look wasn’t complete yet. They took a flask from the kitchen and mixed some of their parents’ alcohol with some soda. Now it was perfect. Their parents had less to drink as punishment for all the insults they'd thrown at them, and as a bonus, the Shaw pack would make a way more tolerable bunch if they were slightly drunk.

The journey to the park was a blur - their feet took them in the right direction but their mind was in a different place, repeating the harsh words thrown at them by the people that allegedly loved them so much. Were they eternally destined to be surrounded by people who were supposed to care, but didn’t? That’s stupid. They cut off the line of questions they saw their brain preparing. You don’t need people anyway. People don’t want you, and you don’t want them either. Or at least that’s what they told themselves. Before they knew it, they were sat cross-legged on a park bench watching the other shifters their age play and laugh together. How did people their age even make so many friends? Big groups are so exhausting, and every conversation seemed to be some kind of stupid secret code or guessing game that only a select few knew the rules of. Everyone got a little bigger and a little older and suddenly just going up to people and bonding over legos or sandpits or hand painting wasn’t enough. You had to look right. You had to talk right. You had to act right. You even had to think right or somehow they’d know you aren’t one of them. 

No one was going to tell you what “right” was either, they just point and laugh if you happen to be wrong.

Their less-than-sober spiral was broken by a familiar face deciding to take a seat beside them without even asking. They didn’t care that he didn’t ask, but whenever it was them, people usually looked at them strangely.  “Chrissy.” They finally said, wanting to know what the hell he was up to. “Yeah?” He sounded snarky, but they were used to that. Sometimes his snark was a little better than being alone with their thoughts. “Why?” Silence fell for a short while, so they elaborated on their question. “Here, why are you sitting here?”  “Well you’re not waiting for someone are you?” The sip they took from their flask said enough. Of course they weren’t keeping the spot for anybody, they hardly had anyone to sit with. “What’s that?” “None of your business.” “Boring. Can I have some?” “No.” They turned to glare at him, to which he pouted back. They needed the alcohol to hit faster, Christian was already finding their last nerves and tap dancing on them. “Answer my question.”  “The others were annoying me, and you don’t have any friends, so I’m here now.” He put it bluntly. The bluntness was actually sort of refreshing. They looked less tense now. “Is it alcohol?” “Fuck off.” Never mind then.  “I’m snitching-“ “-No the hell you are not.” They insisted before being presented with Christian’s open palm. It looked like their options were a) share the wine that they took the time to steal with their own 2 hands or b) get chewed out by even more adults that pretended to care out of obligation. 

And with a grumble, they let him have a sip. 

Christian’s face twisted in disgust at the bitter taste, which at least amused the angsty teen wolf before they snatched the drink back. They would’ve been reprimanded for a face like that too, but that was also stupid - why did they constantly have to restrain every facial muscle so that people liked them? Is everyone constantly trying to keep up a more pleasant expression? It felt unnecessary. 

“That’s nasty.” “You did that to yourself.” They rolled their eyes before chugging more of their drink, mostly to prove a point. They then wiped at their chin with their sleeve “You gonna go back to your friends now?” “They’re not really my friends.” Chrissy scoffed, though they weren’t quite convinced that was true. He might not be best friends with everyone in the pack, but he was definitely accepted in a way that they weren’t. “And I am?” They stifled a laugh, to which he answered with a shrug. The ambiguity of that answer was frustrating, but now they were too tipsy to be bothered by it. Nobody liked being clear anymore. It was always shrugs, “whatever”s and “I don’t know”s. But everyone did know, and just didn’t want to tell them.  “Why are you drinking anyway? I thought being an alcoholic this young was a European thing.”  “I’m not an alcoholic.” They defended, narrowing their eyes at him. “You and your friends are just impossible to deal with sober, actually.” They snapped back. “So you’re drunk at every pack meeting then?” He asked with a slight tilt of his head. If they weren’t restrained by the drink in their hand, he would’ve earned a whack to the head. And everyone calls their questions dumb.  “Obviously not, jackass.” They glared again before looking back at the others. They were kicking a ball around now and yelling at each other from opposite ends of the grass. It was loud enough to drown out whatever Chrissy was rambling about now. They almost felt hypnotised, fantasising about how things could be if they could just fit in. Sure it felt impossible, but everyone made it look so easy. 

If they could just learn the rules. 

If they could just force a bigger smile.

If they could be smaller, just take up less space. 

If they just weren’t so much of them self they could be running around, playing the sports they love, yelling to friends who actually cared.

But in the end that’s all it was. A fantasy. No amount of watering down or pretending was going to make it feel right. Once these social circles form and bonds are created, there’s no magically changing them.  

“—Are you even listening?” They finally heard Chrissy say before the ball came flying in their direction. They’d barely moved their head out the way in time, but managed to catch it in their hands. In this one minor instance, luck was actually on their side. “No, I did tell you we aren’t friends.” They answered, staring at the ball in their hands. 

Everything and everyone seemed to stop. Did they have to fucking stare like that? They thought, looking up to several expectant pairs of eyes. It honestly infuriated them more that they still cared. People were always staring and squinting and waiting for them to do something. Why can’t they just let it go? Why did they have to be so self-conscious?  “…How did you even manage to kick the ball over here?” They finally asked, trying to be lighthearted. 

No one caught on though. Instead, David awkwardly walked over, blankly staring at them. Was he mad at them for the question?

“Are you okay-?” “What-? Yeah I’m fine, it didn’t even hit me—“ “Okay, you don’t have to be so aggressive, I was just asking.” He rolled his eyes before taking the ball from them. “You don’t have to be here with us y’know,” “Well they aren’t spoilt for choice, who else do they hang around?” Christian asked, making a smile tug on David’s lips before he threw the ball back to the others.  

Are you fucking kidding me? They chugged the rest of their drink and tossed the flask aside, glaring at the ground. Apparently these people were fine with Christian’s shitty jabs when it was them, but not when it was Asher, or Milo, or David or literally anybody else. This was stupid. All of it was so damn, stupid. “Wait, are you crying?” “What the fuck— no!” Their head snapped up, but inconveniently their voice was starting to break. “I was only joking jeez, I thought the drink was supposed to make you less— whatever this is—?”   This?? They furiously repeated in their head, glaring into Christian’s soul before looking down at the grass again. The drink wasn’t going to make them less of anything. In fact, all it did was make those buttons easier to push. Why was everybody so against them? Who did they wrong in a past life to be born this way? Is there nothing and no one that can fix them being such a failure? Is this really completely out of their control — had they somehow become a helpless puppet to their useless, clueless mind? 

“Christian, go away.” “Someone’s a sad drunk,” "I said get the fuck, away!” They shoved him, and he stared, taken aback by the yelling. Everyone had stopped again to figure out what was going on, but no one dared interfere with the newer freak and that snarky Aussie. Their shoulders tensed, they were heaving, every thought in their brain came crashing down on them and there was a burning sensation in their throat to match their glistening eyes. Home, some desperate part of their soul begged, home I want to go home, it insists while they pick off the empty flask and storm away. 

But for them, there was no home. For their soul there was no rest. No one could hear their hearts cries behind the bars of their mental prison. The young wolf was doomed to be an eternally wandering soul. They will never truly feel at home. 

[gavisuntiedboot]

Just Pretend (Gavi x reader)

Part 10

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Epilogue

Warnings: SMUT!! and also BAD WRITING!! TYPOS AS WELL PROBABLY!! BUT MAINLY THE SMUT!!!

Word Count: 21.5K (Fun Fact: If you have read all of JP, that's 159 pages single space of reading.)

A/N: Here it is. The finale of my heartfelt daydream, laid bare for you all to see. I hope you've enjoyed the ride: the road ends here.

GIF: @gavidaily (i've been waiting since part 1 to use this mf gif)

Previously on Just Pretend

"Scrubs? You look too young to be a doctor." "You don't look old enough to be let into the club, but everyone is full of surprises."

~

"You're late. It's 6:45." "Good morning to you too, Gavira."

~

Gavi found himself glancing at your ass as you leaned over, before swiftly looking away. He did not like you. He had a baseline of respect for you as a young successful professional. Nothing else.

~

"Are we not friends, y/n?"

"I'm not sure, Gavi. We could be if you stopped hating me."

"I don't hate you. I think."

~

Gavi stopped thinking. He acted on impulse only. He tugged the wrist that was in his hand, pulling you in. Your head met with his hard chest, and you felt one arm circle your shoulder. You remained like this for a long moment: up against Gavi, his arm pressing you into his chest, his shirt soaking up the wetness on your cheeks.

"'m sorry. I won't let him talk to you that way anymore."

~

"It's okay, Pablo. I can take care of myself." A tear finally rolled down your cheek.

"I know you can, Doctora. I know you could take on the world if you wanted to. But you shouldn't have to. You deserve to be loved and spoiled. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

~

"You saved me Pablo." You whispered out against him, needing to tell him someway, somehow, how much you appreciated him.

"Anyone would have interfered, doctora." He whispered back, being bold and caressing the skin of your arm that he encased with his.

"Not just today. In general. Since I met you, Pablo, you've made my life better. I just wanted to let you know. Good night."

~

"Because from the moment I laid eyes on you, I felt like I knew you. I don't know if I saw you on the street or in a dream, but a part of my brain recognized you, and since then I've been in pain. Pain that you can't even help me with. Nobody can. It's so hard to watch everyone take advantage of you all the fucking time. It tears me apart constantly. But it let me get closer to you. You let me get closer. And I tried so hard to keep it at bay, to be the friend that you need."

~

"My heart, doctora. When I give it to you, please keep it. Forever."

~

Now...

"Miss y/l/n, due to the... historic lack of women in the club, we do not have internal policies regarding relationships between players and employees. We just use the ones that La Liga as a whole have put in place. Those are quite forgiving, in my opinion. You can enter a romantic workplace relationship as long as it is appropriately disclosed, and you cannot be terminated as a result of that relationship ending. I saw the photo of you being pulled onto the field during the final of the Supercopa. Do you mean to tell me it was not with romantic intent?"

You had never experienced more severe whiplash in your life. First, you had been reprimanded for being too close to Pablo, for showing what Xavi classified as 'favoritism', as it hurt the team dynamic. Then you had been ridiculed by staff and players for allegedly sleeping with Pablo, and had been told you could be fire for doing so even if it was a bold faced lie. And now, months later, you were being told that it was not only okay for you to be in a relationship with Pablo, but you literally couldn't lose your job if you did? Someone in the family must have been praying for you. Or for Pablo. Was Pedri religious?

"Dr. Gonzalez, I think there has been some sort of misunderstanding. Gavi and I are just friends. Not even - we're just coworkers that get along well! There was no romance happening anywhere on the field."

And it was true. Well, sort of. You couldn't speak for Gavi's intention, but you would bet that he hadn't meant to do anything that could be perceived as romantic. Not only was he incredibly shy when it came to anything to do with his private life, but moreover, you had started to toy with the idea that maybe you were wrong about Pablo. Maybe you had misread the signs. Maybe Pedri's stylist, who you now also so lovingly referred to as naranja, had only fed into your delusions instead of delivering the hard truth to you.

"He's in love with you, stupid."

That's exactly what she had said to you when you answered the question 'so are you close to Pedri?', stating that the things Pablo did for you were far from the actions of a friend. And she was right. Friends didn't need to be physically touching in order to have a peaceful night of sleep. Friends don't feel the need to always be near the other, unable to focus if one wasn't near. Friends certainly didn't imagine each other in compromising situations: shirtless, panting, trying so hard to control his throbbing- no. Friends certainly didn't imagine such scenes. Most of all, friends didn't find themselves in these intimate moments, the air thick with anticipation, where lips were centimeters from meeting, and seconds away from saying something that would change the dynamic forever. Well, at least that's what you thought. Maybe Naranja would be your friend long enough to see if these were truly just normal hallmarks of friendship (although Pedri might be a tad upset if the two of you started sleeping together). You're glad she offered her cellphone number to you.

But this was not the only opinion that was presented to you. You had been sitting on your couch one night, a rare evening when Gavi had promised to accompany Ansu to one hangout or another, his absence felt greatly. It had been weeks since you had a moment that wasn't filled by Pablo's voice, his laughter, his breathing as you completed an assignment while he scrolled through TikTok. There was an eerie silence to the house now, and you needed something to take your thoughts off of your maladaptive daydreams of Pablo laying on your couch, looking up at you through long lashes with a tender gaze. It was almost as if you could run your hands through his messed up brown locks, watching his eyes close as you massaged his scalp, feeling him lean more into your touch.That's all you wanted. Not even for Pablo to come to you with a grand confession of love, but just to be with him with no boundaries, no fear, no awkwardness. Just love and safety and the freedom to exist as you were. Together.

But there was no idle chatter or TikTok sounds to fill the silence, and so you had to do so yourself. You made yourself a delectable cup of tea, favorite mug warming your palm as you tried to balance your plate of snacks in the other. The camp nutritionists had been testing recipes all week, and had sent you home with some of the best food you had ever had, including a tupperware of cookies that could give those little Nestle birds a run for their money. Comfortable on the couch in that same black hoodie with the embroidered '6', you qued, rather ironically, He's Just Not That Into You (a great romcom, but not for people doubting if they're deserving of being loved). Your phone had lit up with a familiar name that you hadn't seen in months now.

"Angelika! How are you? How was fashion week? I saw the collection on Instagram. It looked stunning!"

Since her announcement about moving to Paris, you hadn't heard a peep from your 'best friend'. A mutual friend you ran into at the market had told you her move had been delayed until after the collection had shown at fashion week since the creative director had surprisingly quit, so everything was on ice until he was replaced. You had seen her collection on Diet Prada, not questioning why you hadn't seen the posts that she had made celebrating her work.

"Oh it was fabulous, and Alessandro just got replaced so Paris must be coming soon. I would have invited you, but I only got 6 invitations, and you're always so busy. Didn't want to have an empty seat."

She knew she had made a mistake when she saw your face on the screen drop. You had been the main supporter of Ang's career since you met her, and yet she didn't even bother sending you an invitation or seeing if you might be able to attend.

"Anyway, how have you been? What's new with you?"

You spoke briefly about school and work, before taking a deep breath and opening up the gnarly can of worms that was you and Gavi's current situation. You had no other people with enough context or who you felt comfortable enough with to reveal all your thoughts on the matter. All your hopes and dreams that he would sweep you off your feet. All your insecurities and fears that you had created something unhealthy, something that would dissolve into worse than nothing. No matter how you spun it, it was nice to have a friend, even if you had to ignore that you were walking a mile to see an inch in return.

Angelika listened rather silently to the entire series of events, asking one or two clarifying questions, but for the most part allowing you to monologue. When you finished speaking, you sighed rather dreamily and fell back into your couch, pulling your (Gavi's) hoodie closer around you. Sometime you forgot how much he had bulked up, until you were drowning in the shirts he had donated to you. Maybe there was something there. Now that Dr. G had confessed he thought you two were already in a relationship, the only missing piece was Pablo. You had tried to hint to him that, if he felt even the slightest affection towards you, he should go for it. Make the shot. The goal was empty - hell, the goalie would even guide the ball in for him. Had you been too subtle with your affections? Or had he purposefully ignored the brush of your lips on his throat in order to preserve your pride?

“Don’t you think you’re being a little bit delusional?”

Angelika’s statement was like a splash of ice water on your warm and fuzzy form. You looked at the FaceTime call like the woman on the screen in front of you had grown horns from her head.

“I’m … what?”

“Delusional. I mean it seems like you’re reading too much into his actions. So he what? Used you as his driver and let you keep a hoodie he got from the staff for free? Nothing super special.”

“But… but it wasn’t just that. He-“ She hadn’t even let you finish your sentence, not so subtly rolling her eyes, like she was so utterly bored with your story.

“Yeah, yeah, he punched your ex boyfriend who cheated on you. But I mean, cmon, you like, refused to fuck him. This is the second guy to cheat on you. Maybe it’s you, ha. And Gavi is literally just a raging teenager who has been looking to hit someone. I don’t think you should fly into your princess fantasies because he he finally lost his shit. And now you’re sleeping next to him every night and he’s waiting for you to give him some pussy. Better melt up quick, ice princess, before he gets tired of waiting.”

There it was again. The nausea. The head pounding. The vision blurring and room spinning. The sinking feeling that you were being betrayed by someone you had let in again. If you squinted your eyes a little, she might have even slightly resembled Martin.

“You… think he’s only being nice to me so that I’ll sleep with him?” You asked, voice soft and slow to hide the shake desperately wanting to emerge.

“Oh, absolutely. It’s not like there’s much else there. Now you look upset, but don’t be. I’m just telling you the truth so you don’t get hurt.”

“No, you’re just being a bitch.”

Your response seemed to have caught the both of you off guard. Your face had gone red with frustration, hands trembling with rage that you were desperately trying to quell. What a funny thing, rage. Feminine rage to be exact. The rage of men is common place in society - sort of like bullets. Everyone has heard a gunshot or seen what a bullet can do, in their personal life or on a screen. Male rage and fury is a normal part of life that everyone expects and respects. People bite their tongues hard enough to draw blood before they dare lash out at a man, fearful of sharp words and blunt fists. But feminine rage wasn’t a real threat. Oh no, it was more of a concept. A black and red Pinterest aesthetic in red and black, with pinups and devil horns and swirling script. It was only a danger to the self; a threat of implosion with no shrapnel to hit anyone else. A star dying, a mind shattering, as entertainment to those around. There was never an expectation for her to lash out and defend herself against those who poked at her until she bled. But should a cornered lioness cower in fear rather than attacking?

“What… what the hell is wrong with you?”

“No, what the hell is wrong with you, Angelika? All I’ve done since the day I met you is try and be there for you. All I’ve done is support you through everything - relationships, family drama, you’re entire fucking career! You had professors tell you that you would be a generic designer for H&M, and I was there for you. I was the only person with you at three in the fucking morning telling you that you could do better, that you could be amazing. I was a pincushion, a mannequin, a personal chauffeur to the fabric store. And I didn’t ever do these things because I wanted something in return. I genuinely cared about you and just wanted to see my closest friend succeed! But you couldn’t even pretend to care about this obviously one-sided relationship. All I ever was to you was a person to use when you needed and thrown away when you didn’t. I was preparing for my dream interview, my biggest career goal since I was a fucking child, and not only did you ‘forget’ to give me one word of encouragement, you asked me to be your fucking ride home! And you know what? I made my peace with it. I came to terms with the fact that you thought I was incompetent at my job because everyone seems to think I’m a physio ditz. But for you to call me the nickname people called me in college to objectify me, and then say all I’m worthy of is sex?!”

Angelika was now teary eyed and red in the face. She was shaking her head, unable to respond, acting like the spitting image of a deer caught in the headlights. She was now stumbling over her words, unable to string a complete sentence together.

“That’s … thats not true I didn’t say that.”

“No, that’s exactly what you just said. Don’t be a liar on top of being a shit person. You just said it was my fault I got cheated on by my last two partners. And now I’ve still decided to give you the benefit of the doubt after you straight up admitted to me that you didn’t think of me as one of the top six people in your happy moments. I’ve poured my heart out to you and you don’t even have the decency to lie! You either said that to purposefully hurt me, or you never cared enough to listen when I spoke. Either way, you’re just the last in a long line of people who I have let walk all over me.”

Your expression was steeled and icy. You hadn’t even raised your voice once during the entire exchange, remaining calm and level headed despite the deep cuts you had made in Angelika’s self-confidence. Your lips were downturned and brows knitted together, looking at her with all the loathing she had caused you to feel for yourself. It was hard to be alone, but it was better than being surrounded with people who convinced you that you would never be enough if you didn’t fit their mold. The girl on the other side of the FaceTime call was clearly experiencing every stage of grief all at once, unsure how to respond. She had gotten through the denial, and was knee-deep in the anger. But anger did not spark eloquence, sparking the simple response of,

“Fuck you. You can go to hell.”

And you could swear you saw genuine fear in her eyes as a bright, beaming smile spread across your face. Maybe you had never seen love, but you had seen friendship. You had seen that there were people ready to carry your entire world on their shoulders. And no matter how slowly, you were working to believe that you could be loved, even by yourself. The rage had evaporated and recrystallized as content. So you smiled sickeningly sweetly at Angelika, and gave her a heartfelt response.

“I’ll see you there, darling.”

Pressing the bright red button to end the call was one of the most satisfying things you had ever done in your life. The headache and nausea and ‘I want to die’ feeling that you usually had after a confrontation was nowhere to be found. Quite the opposite, actually. It was like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. Your entire chest felt like it had more room for air. Was this what every day was like for people without anxiety? How glorious. Pressing play on Gennifer Goodwyne’s best work, you made a mental note to speak to a therapist the following morning. This felt amazing. You were genuinely smiling at… what exactly? The loss of a friend? No, no - liberation from someone’s foot on your neck. What new and exciting things could you do with this new found freedom, this fresh lease on life? Naturally, you did your favorite activity: picking up the phone and texting Gavi.

Gone were the days of Pablo wracking his brain for any excuse to email, text, or call you. It was almost funny how much he had to talk himself up, looking at his reflection and reiterating how much of a 'cool, suave guy' he was before typing out a very intelligent and eloquent 'hi'. Watching a series that he had no interest in initially just to have something to talk to you about that wasn't one of his leg muscles (no interest initially - now he was patiently waiting 4-6 weeks for his neon sign in the shape of the House Stark sigil). Now it was you who couldn't leave Gavi alone, using your messages to him as a pseudo journal, spewing your entire stream of consciousness into little blue bubbles.

[You]: PABLO

[You]: YOULL NEVER GUESS WHAT I JUST DID

Locking your phone and resting it on your chest, you refocused on the chick flick illuminating the darkness of your living room, the device vibrating against you less than 30 seconds later. As much as you would like to pretend it was surprising to receive a response so quickly, this was the normal routine the two of you had created. One needed merely call out, and the other would come running.

[Pablito]: whoever u killed they better be small

[Pablito]: bcs pedri doesnt have a lot of space fr bodies in his car

There it was again: the giggling, the lip bite, the stupid half smile that made you look less like Cindy Crawford and more like the Grinch after Christmas was destroyed. But it was the natural way your body reacted to Pablo - like a schoolgirl with a crush on a boyband member in a brightly-colored magazine. Lord, how were you supposed to be normal around him? Oh how wonderful it would be to have even one inkling that Pablo reacted this way when he heard from you. But in your head, he was still Pablo Gavi with capital letters, who was standing ever so coolly with a beer in hand as he laughed with his other hot rich young athlete friends. You could never picture him as he truly was, shy and puppy-like, beer not even touched as he held his phone in one hand and twirling his hoodie string in the other. He bit down on his lip as well, eyebrows together as he waited for a response. Despite the relationship that had grown for the last six months, he still held his breath slightly when he saw the three little 'typing' dots float on his screen.

[Doctora]: i don't think i can convey the full force over text

[Doctora]: i can come over and explain it to you in person tho

"Guys, I think I need to leave." Pablo said abruptly, looking up at the group of boys, causing a record-scratch moment that abruptly ended the conversation. The heated conversation over whether the Drake curse was real had screeched to a halt, and now all four of the young Barca players were staring in disbelief.

"You haven't even been here for an hour. Where the hell could you need to be right now?" It was Alejandro who spoke up, the only one of the four who was not acutely aware of the fact that Gavi was borderline prepared to give up his entire career for you. He only had a mild inkling.

"Um... one of my friends is coming to my house and I'm going to meet them.''

"Who? We know all your friends. Who is coming over?" Ale asked, draping an arm over fellow La Masia baby Ansu, who smirked at the Sevillano as well.

"Yes, Pablito. Who is it? Ilias?" Ansu asked, obviously enjoying the bright red that seeped into Gavi's face.

"Or maybe Alvaro?" Ale seemed to be enjoying this too much, smiling brightly as Pedri tried to sip his beer without suffocating due to laughter.

"If it's one of the boys, then maybe we should come with you! Beers from the convenience store are cheaper anyways."

Pablo was sweating bullets. How could he say that he wanted to run home to hear what might possibly be the most mundane story about keeping houseplants alive?

"No, no it's... someone from back home. You guys wouldn't know her-HIM! You wouldn't know him." That may have been the worst save Pablo had ever made in his life, including the time his friends made his 5'0 self play keeper in a pick up match. Pedri finally lost the battle and spit out his beer, laughing loudly with the rest of the boys.

"Bro, why can't you just admit your massive crush on the doctor already. It's honestly getting a little tiring at this point. You've been in love with her for like three months now-" Ansu started, moving towards Gavi and clapping him on the shoulder before being interrupted by Pedri, who corrected,

"More like six months actually."

"Ah! There is no way!" Now Pablo was being ping-ponged between his two school friends, trying to keep himself from imploding from embarrassment.

"Why haven't you told her yet? Seriously now." Ale asked, pulling up a chair for himself and Pablo, the group sitting back down, conversation topic having changed into something juicier.

"You forget that he like stopped hating her and then she directly got a boyfriend, right?" Pedri said, signalling for another round of stellas to be brought over to the table.

"I don't think we should order another round. I was going to-" Pablo started, trying to nervously get up. Would he be able to find a taxi? Or should he just order an Uber? Neither possibility was explored as Pedri stuck his arm out and pushed him back into his seat, where he was now firmly locked in.

"Spill your guts. The quicker you talk, the quicker you can tell her to come over. I'll drive you home."

"Should you really be driving if you're going to be drinking?" Pablo asked cautiously as the four beers were placed on the table.

"oh, no, I'm done for the night. Two are for Ale and Ansu, and the other two are for you. For, ya know, confidence."

[Pablito]: u wnna met me at my hosue in an hours

The six minute pause between the 'Read' notification and the response from Pablo had worried you slightly. It was just enough time for the anxiety to seep into your bones. Did he find your desire to see him overwhelming and (God-forbid) clingy? Was he showing the message to Pedri & Co., laughing at your desperation? The misspelling made you even more worried. The spiral of thoughts was taking a sharp turn in the downwards direction. Was he even looking at his phone while typing? You didn't want to be a burden to him during one of the rare nights he could enjoy himself.

[Doctora]: are you sure? i don't have to come over if you're busy

"See now she doesn't want to come." Pablo said, now two beers deep with one more to go so that Pedri would let him leave.

"You're so stupid, Pablo. She wants you to want her to come over." Ansu said frustratedly. Pablo was trying to say as quickly as possible in between gulps what was stopping him from confessing his feelings to you. It had gone along the lines of,

"Well, first I thought I hated her, then I realized I was attracted to her as soon as she got an awful boyfriend, then we became like friends, I guess? Then I just kind of never wanted to ever be away from her. I had a hard time picturing a future that she wasn't a part of. Like, it started to make me have this weird aching feeling in my chest. And now I want to tell her all of this but she like, sees me as a friend and has had a shit time with her male friends and I don't want to permanently traumatize someone I love."

There was definitely more beer spit into the air and on the floor than there was in anyone's mouth.

"What did you just say?!" His too schoolmates echoed loudly, while Pedri just stared at him in a shocked state.

Pablo's brain was swimming in beer bubbles, unable to connect any dots and make intelligent, let alone sit and explain the process and intricacies of figuring out that he was, in fact, in love with you. So he ignored the question, asking rather for advice as to how he could get you to come over to his house.

"I don't think she needs that much convincing, seeing as you guys literally sleep beside each other for the majority of the week."

"Pedri, please. Enough details. You're just going to sit here and casually tell us the doctor has been in Pablito's bed repeatedly and he has yet to ask her on a date? I might collapse if I hear another shocking piece of information." Ale exclaimed, one hand over his heart as he leaned over, Ansu above him in what appeared to be genuine distress for his cardiac health.

"Pablo," Pedri started, sitting up in his seat and placing his elbows on his shoulders, obviously meaning business. "Now it's time to exercise that one petite little romantic muscle in your body."

"Isn't every muscle in his body petite?" Ansu braced himself for the punch in the arm that he received, but it was softer than previous attacks. Maybe the alcohol was really hitting him.

"Does it bother you that she asked to come over?"

"No!" Pablo responded quicker than his teammates thought possible. "I always want her to come over. She doesn't even need to ask. I would give her a key to the place if she wanted. Hell, I would sign the house over in her name. Do you think I could ask her to move in with me as friends?" His foggy brain registered the laughter, but didn't quite understand it. He would love for you to be in his house, walking through the door with you every evening, eating on the couch, fighting over the comforter and cuddling in the cold.

"See now that's... kind of a lot for a girl who doesn't know you have feelings for her. Which is a whole separate issue of oblivion that we can address later. Let's edit it down. Hand me your phone."

[Pablito]: never too busy for you. see you in an hour ;)

You stared at the wink on your screen with wide eyes. Had Pablo's phone been hacked? He had sent emojis before, but usually when he was making a cheesy joke or mocking someone else. This was ... well you actually couldn't say. Calling this behavior 'weird' would really make everything you two did, like cuddling and sleeping over and trauma-dumping, seem 'weird' as well. The only time he had ever been so outwardly flirty with you was when...

[Doctora]: Pablo are you drunk?

[Doctora]: I'm coming over to kick ur ass

"I think I got you in trouble." Pedri said, sheepishly handing back the device. Pablo groaned, starting to feel the effects of the alcohol more strongly, head spinning and stomach churning at the thought of getting scolded by you. But something in him also burned at the idea of you getting worried about him when you weren't being paid for it.

"Alright boys, let's head out so Romeo can get back to the castle on time." Pedri ushered the three tipsy boys to the car, Ansu and Ale hunched over and giggling in the back, and Pablo slumped with a cheek pressed up against the passenger window.

"Wait! I just thought of something really important!" Ale practically yelled, leaning against the car in front of his place, Ansu waiting by the door to be let in for their own sleepover and gossip session (which may become a breakfast and gossip session given their current state).

"If the doctor tries to kiss him, will Pablo have to get on his tiptoes?"

The uproar of laughter was so loud it could be categorized as a public disturbance. Ale stood, mind foggy but genuine, watching Pedri clutch both the steering wheel and his ribs. Ansu was worse for wear, falling to his knees and gripping the sidewalk for dear life, all while Pablo gripped his head in pain and embarrassment.

"Ale, please, please open the door. I'm going to piss myself laughing from the mental image. Please, Ale."

"I'm actually taller than she is, just for everyone's information." The rebuttal was coupled with crossed arms and a pout.

"With or without shoes?" Ale's follow-up question set off another round of rambunctious laughter. Pablo was now properly tipsy and overly sensitive, and was ready to go home. Ale finally let go of the coop, preventing Ansu's public urination, and Pedri could finally make his way to Pablo's place. The green vehicle pulled into the driveway, and you followed just minutes later.

"Pedri, I'm worried."

The Canarian stared at the boy beside him. That's still what Pablo was. At his young age, he was bearing the back-breaking pressure of being the best right out of the gate, and soul-crushing weight of being in love. It was more than Pedri knew himself and many of his friends able to withstand. And though he understood the sentiment clearly, he asked anyways.

"What're you worried about?"

Pablo was many thing when he had a few drinks. He was noticeably louder, more vibrant and talkative. His usual shy self loosened up, and he was much more vulnerable. He did whatever he felt like: danced, flirted with women, made bets - anything he could imagine that would make him feel alive before the liquid courage wore off and he was back to silencing the bickering voices in his head.

"I'm worried that I'm going to say something stupid and scare her off."

"Ignore what people say online, hermano. You're not actually that scary." The giggle in return allowed Pedri to breathe a little easier. He tried to push away the twinge of guilt that reminded him he had been the one to pressure Pablo to drink, and he had been the one shoving this relationship forward at a faster pace than the participants may have liked.

"No I mean... even if the 1 in a million occurs and she gives me a chance, what if I come on too strong and kill it instantly? Can you come with me?" The request and the puppy-dog look both worked to catch Pedri off guard.

"Come with you to hang out with your girl?"

"You don't have to sit with us. You can fire up the PS5 and do whatever you want. But I won't tell her I want to grow old with her like the couple in The Notebook if you're in the house."

"You want to live out the plot of The Notebook with the doctora?"

"How did you know that?" Pablo asked with wide eyes, fully convinced that the older had read his mind.

"You just told me! How much alcohol did you actually have?" Pedri was now concerned. Could he not count? Pablo had only had three beers. He didn't remember him being such a lightweight, but it probably would explain a lot.

"Ugh, see! Pedri please, I need you. Just come with me!"

Before Pedri could protest again, a small knock was heard on Pablo's window, causing both the Barca boys to jump slightly.

"Ugh, fine. But only because your gameshock controller has never been thrown into a wall."

As the two stepped out of the car, your nose was instantly assaulted with the scent of alcohol and smoke. Pablo looked at you with a red face and slightly unfocused eyes.

"Doctora! Hey!" As he moved in to give you a hug, you stepped back from him, covering your nose with the sleeve of your (Gavi's) hoodie. You looked harshly at the boys, glare flipping between the two boys.

"I can't believe you asked me to come here while you're wasted. And you! What the hell do you think you're doing driving drunk?" You yelled, and Pedri ran forward to prevent the neighbors from hearing your misconception.

"I'm not drunk! I had one beer and waited more than an hour before driving. Pablo had three beers. We smell like shit because a waitress spilled a tray full of shots at the table. Let's continue arguing inside."

You looked at them skeptically, trying to find a smidge of deceit in either of their faces. Pablo approached you and draped an arm around your shoulder. Pressed up against you, it seemed like the smell of liquor dissipated, replaced by the last traces of his cologne and his own signature scent. Leaning down slightly, his lips brushed against the shell of your ear, sending shockwaves throughout your nervous system.

"Come on, Doctora. You know I'd never lie to you. Come inside now. I need to get in the shower."

Speechless and wide-eyed, you were helpless to do anything but nod your head and be lead back inside the house that you had come to know so well.

~

"I'm going to get in the shower. I think it will help me sober up a bit. And help me stop smelling like Kettle One."

"Oh."

"Don't seem so disappointed, Doctora. I'll only be gone for five minutes. You can wait for me on the balcony; you won't even miss me. Or if you really can't be without me for a single moment, I have a very large shower."

You had stared at Gavi in shock for the umpteenth time that evening, unable to process how he was being so... unadulterated with you. It reminded you of that very first night in the club, when he had stared you up and down and commended Angel on his ability to pick girls.

"Wait you have a balcony?"

That's what lead to your current situation: sitting with your knees pressed to your chest, breathing in the early April Catalan air, and staring at the beautiful view from the window. The street was illuminated in a soft yellow glow, people roaming with hands held and laughs exchanged. The moon was full, shining its beauty down onto the street, painting everything a soft silver color that contrasted with the hazes of gold. It was one of those moments you wish you could trap between plates of glass and visit at a moment's notice. One of those moments that reminded you how far you had come. That dream, that life you had worked, cried, and prayed for - you were in it right now.

The glass door slid open behind you, ending the trance as Pablo stepped out with more blankets over one arm and two mugs in hand. You took them from him, hands warmed as he draped a blue and red blanket (his favorite, unbeknownst to you) around your shoulders. He wrapped himself in a pale yellow one and took his seat next to you, legs also by his chest as he retrieved his steaming mug. Taking a sip, the thick liquid coated your tongue, sweet and rich and reminiscent of childhood.

"So you can't even boil an egg correctly, but you know how to make perfect Chocolate Caliente while tipsy? How does that make any sense?"

Turning to you, he took a pause. The wind gently pushed your hair back, allowing the moonlight to fully illuminate your eyes, and his already hazy mind struggled not to just let himself drown in them. He was beginning to sober up, but it was nowhere near how he wanted to be in your presence.

"It was my favorite breakfast as a kid. My dad used to take Aurora and I to have them for breakfast on the weekends. When I came to Barcelona, I didn't really have anyone to take care of me like that anymore, so I learned to make it myself." Pablo hadn't meant for this to be a sad story, but apparently his tone came across as such, demonstrated by your scooching over to him and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. No matter the cause, he accepted the invitation to lean against you, sharing your body warmth.

"Must've been hard for you, moving here alone." Your voice was far off, as if spoken to a different person and in a different time. Flashes played in your mind of teary goodbyes and security gates, only one of your parents caring enough to drive you to the airport.

"You know what it's like," Pablo responded. "You did the same thing." He wanted to life his head and look at you, but you move first, resting your temple against his, slotting perfectly together like a teacup that had found its saucer.

"Yeah but I was 18. You were what? 11?" Your voice is still heavy with a burden that Pablo can't understand. His parents had gone with him when he first moved - and you knew that. They had only gone back to Sevilla when Gavi, shy and petite little thing that he was (and remains) told them he was fine to stay in the dorm. He had made friends quick and been praised for his football skills quicker. His parents were only two hours away, and visited semi-frequently. Life at La Masia had been Disney Channel-esque. So why did you speak about it with the same somber tone as old war stories?

"I hate that you say 'I was 18' like it was a thousand years ago, Doctora."

Pablo could feel your cheeks form a wide smile, and wrapped an arm loosely around your waist as you leaned deeper into his orbit. Of all the times the two of you had been cuddly, this was quickly becoming his favorite. Because he wasn't holding you like a secret, in the dark of night when all you wanted to do was pass out. He could see you, here in his arms of your own free will, not running away, but rather leaning in. He got to sweep the hair from your eyes, and if he focused hard enough, the dull beat of your helping the tension dissipate from his bones.

It was moments like these when Pablo knew that he was wholly and completely in love. His heart didn't race around you anymore. It wa quite the opposite now: only when he was around you could his heart beat like it was intended. It felt full. Otherwise he was walking around with this tugging in his chest, begging him to drop everything and run to wherever you were. And once he arrived, he would tear the beating organ from his chest for you upon request. It was your property, anyways.

"But I was 18 like a century ago. I'm old and withered now Pablo. What you're doing now is taking care of the elderly."

His laugh in response made him fall forward, burying his head in your lap as you blushed profusely, laughter light and breathy as to not draw attention (or get him to move). His face pressed against one of your thighs, giggling a bit too hard at a very generic joke without a singular care in the world. He leans back slightly and places a kiss to your thigh, so quick and delicate you almost missed it.

"I'll always take care of you, Doctora. As long as you let me."

You couldn't bring yourself to speak at that moment, opting to instead bring a hand up to play with his hair. Gently, you wove your fingers through the locks, softly scratching at his head like the sleepy puppy he resembled in that moment.

Several minutes of comfortable silence elapsed before he spoke again.

"Remember the first time we met?"

"Vividly." The response came quickly and honestly from you, and you were banking on Pablo's slightly incapacitated state to prevent him mocking you. But it was one of those moments seared into your memory. The lights, the sweat, the deep urge to pull Pablo against you and kiss him until that perfect pout disappeared.

"You didn't think I was 18 then. It was a hard blow to my ego. I didn't want a pretty girl to think of me as a child. But now, I'm glad we met when we did."

Soft music floated in the air towards the balcony, the performers a few streets over finishing off the night with something soft and romantic to tug on the heartstrings of passing couples in hope of separating them from some Euros. Gavi lifted his head, body following shortly as he stood. He held out a hand to help you to your feet as well. "Come and dance with me." Rising, Pablo never released your hand from his, pulling you in as close as possible, keeping you pressed to him with one arm. He began swaying and you followed his lead, now your turn to rest your head on his shoulder and simply enjoy the euphoria of being in his arms. His breath was next to your ear, raising the flesh on your neck with every exhale, before finally saying,

"Because in the future when we're real senior citizens, I get to tell people I've known you my entire adult life."

You faltered slightly, stopping Gavi in his tracks as he met your eyes. God, those eyes. If only you knew the power they had over a certain Sevillano.

"You think I'll still be around when you're an old man?" You asked, trying to stay light and airy and nonchalant as your heart hammered against the confines of your ribcage.

"Of course, Doctora. Where else would you be other than beside me?"

This was it. This was the moment. You were dancing on his balcony in his hoodie as he told you that he never wanted you to leave his side. This was the time to agree, to jump and have those strong arms catch you as you said those three words that could show you the gates of heaven or the depths of hell. You traced shaking fingers down one of his biceps, eyes meeting as with ragged breath you began.

"Pablo..."

The response was the sound of the glass door being shoved open, causing the two of you to jump a foot apart. Pedri stood there, cheeks flushed like when Xavi played him all 120 minutes.

"Pablito!! You had a case of beer in the fridge to reward me for being the DD!" This man was on another planet, bringing you back down to earth.

"You should get him to bed. I need to get going anyways."

"No!" The protest was louder than anticipated, startling both you and Pedri, who had gotten bored of playing sober FIFA and may have over-indulged when Pablo's balcony date with you entered its second hour.

"I mean, I'll get him to bed. You haven't told me your story yet. I would hate for you to leave without finishing the reason why you came. Wait for me on the couch, I'll be five minutes."

There was a pause, almost a reluctance from you to break the strong eye contact. He knew that there was something else you wanted to say. There was always something left unsaid between the two of you. He watched your form disappear down the stairs as he guided Pedri to his room (he didn't want his soon-arriving sister to sleep on dirty sheets). "You have the worst timing imaginable, hermano." Pablo muttered out, blood boiling at how the evening had gone from 200 back down to zero in a matter of seconds. When did he even put a case of beer in the fridge? Neither of you were drinkers. His fridge was always stocked with every delight and craving you had mentioned in passing.

"You told me to make sure you didn't say anything stupid." Pedri responded, making Gavi squint at him in suspicion. He must have not as been as out of it as he let on.

"Yeah but I think she- nevermind. Go to sleep."

"Calm down Pablito. It's not like I interrupted your first kiss."

Forcing himself to take a deep, self-soothing breath, Pablo turned from his inebriated friend and shut the door.

Making your way to the living room, you once again filled your senses with the boyish football decor of the living room. Checking to make sure he wasn't coming down the stairs, you sped over to the front door. The pictures on the wall remained as they were previously: childhood, family, football. Your heart sank slightly at the thought of your Christmas present sitting ripped and crumpled at the bottom of his club-issued backpack. You turned back into the living room, making your way to the couch.

Flopping on the soft material, you kicked your feet up on the table, glancing over to look at his obnoxiously large Barca book. And there, sitting on top of it, was a simple black frame, slightly dented in one corner like it had been dropped. The frame held the two of you, angry and standoffish and forever frozen in that moment before the floodgates had been irreversibly opened. He had framed it. Pablo Gavi, the busiest boy in football right now, had decided you were worth the frame and the position front and center on his favorite book.

"So, what was so groundbreaking you needed to see my reaction in person?" His question snapped you out of your trance, and you sprung up from your place on the sofa, needing to get the photo out of your field of vision for your own sanity. Making a B-line to the fridge, the cold was inviting to your flushed face. Fruit, bread, cheese, cold cuts - no Spanish boys here. Just the comfort of food.

"Do you want a sandwich?"

~

"There's no way you said that to her! Who are you and what have you done with the Doctora I know?" Despite his reprimand, the beautiful boy before you joined in the fits of giggles that had taken over you. Having deprived yourself of a decent meal for the last week due to work (they had finally handed over all of Antonio's medical notes and they were in shambles), you fixed yourself and Pablo the most impressive sandwich you had ever conjured in your adult life. After filling his arms with every possible accompaniment, he plopped himself beside you on the couch, crossing his legs so his knee rested against yours. Before he got comfortable, he jumped up, stating he had forgotten something.

"I got these for you." The jar he placed on the table was filled with green liquid, and as you leaned in closer to inspect the label, your eyes lit up.

"You... bought me a jar of pickles?"

"Yeah. Remember one time you said you liked them so I got these. They look like the same jar." That's when you let yourself burst into tears.

The hour following had been you and Pablo in various states: his arm around you as you cried into his shoulder about how shit the people in your life had been, then hunched over plates stuffing your faces and joking around, and finally the current one of eating pickles and chips and whatever else was on the table as you recounted your demonic phone call.

"I did but like I've wanted to say it to her for months now! You don't understand, Pablo, because you're friends with the amazing, caring, thoughtful being that is me." More giggles as he shoved a pillow into you, smile so bright it could light up the entire first floor. He was never afraid to be like this around you: silly and playful and just comfortable.

"La la Doctora, ladies shouldn't use such foul language." It was your turn to shove his shoulder, probably causing you more damage than him due to the rock-solid muscle.

"Thanks papa, appreciate the advice. But like seriously, she asked me to drive her to Madrid one weekend - as in like Madrid five hours away - to go to a specific store. You know what she bought there? Buttons. 10 hours of my life and a hell of a lot of gas so she could get buttons! And it's not like I expected anything in return-"

"No of course not. It's just when you do nice things for people and are kind to them, you want them to act the same. Treat others how you want to be treated." Pablo bit his tongue there, scared he would sound immature or stupid. You were several years his senior in age and education, and the last thing he wanted was for you to water-down your feelings because you thought he wouldn't understand.

"Right?! See, you get it! And I just, ugh, I feel kinda bad because like she didn't really do anything directly. Like yeah her show and stuff but there wasn't really a moment or like a fallout." You moved towards Pablo, leaning on his shoulder as the moment took a more serious turn.

"But that's the whole point isn't it? That she didn't do anything, she was just kind of there and reaping all the benefits of friendship with no effort. And-"

"Doctora, can I interrupt you for a minute?" You felt Pablo's shoulder dip slightly, and disappointed as you were, took the sign to lift your head.

"Sorry I didn't mean to take over your personal sp-"

"Ay shut up about my personal space. I'd handcuff you to me if I had the chance." He quickly looked away from you, processing his comment after he had said it. Nice one Gavito - real friendly. He moved some of the cushions to the end of the couch by the arm rest, kicking off the more decorative ones and leaning down. Honey eyes looked at you between thick lashes, and patted the narrow sliver of space beside him. Rolling his eyes at the confused raising of your brow, he verbalized his request.

"Come lay next to me while you rant."

Oh. Oh. Had he ever asked you outright to cuddle with him? The first time, you had been the instigator. You had taken that leap off the bridge - no, the cliff - and yet there he had been, warm and welcoming, catching you with grace. Ever since then, there had really been no words. Talking about his desires and feelings didn't come naturally to Pablo, and so he steered clear of them all together. It was always something unspoken: he would be at your apartment and just follow you down the hall when you declared it to be bedtime. Or when you had spent too much time at the Gavira house watching reruns of the same telenovela, and Gavi just switched the TV off and guided you up the stairs. No matter the location it was always the same. Him on the right side, you on the left, but both magnetically drawn to the center and one another. You slotted into his side, head on his heart, and stabilized by his embrace. Sometimes he wore a shirt - most times he didn't. He hugged you a little closer whenever you were in his clothing, trying to dispense his scent onto it anew and make sure you would think of him whenever there was a breeze. But there were never words. Only feelings and longing gazes and that same settled silence.

"You want me to?"

"Why would I ask if I didn't want you to? Last time you fell asleep on my shoulder you almost broke your neck. Now if you fall asleep you will only be semi-sore in the morning. I mean you don't have to if you-"

"No. I mean yes. I mean no I don't not want to do that."

"Is your Spanish getting worse or did that make no sense?"

You sighed in defeat, laying beside Pablo on the couch, sinking into the fabric and into him. One of his arms was acting as your pillow, and his hand made its way upwards to softly play with your hair, an instant soother. Body turning inwards toward him, your arms were up and palms gently pressed to his chest.

"Am I too close?" You asked, Pablo's previous comment about wanting to be physically attached to you seemed to have evaporated from your mind. His second arm fell around your waist, pulling you closer in. Your thigh was now pressed between his legs, and you both seemed to hold your breath for a moment. The alarms went off in his brain while his eyes held yours. He just stared at you. That's all he ever really wanted to do nowadays. He unfroze and shook his head before prompting you to continue your story.

"Oh, right - where was I?"

"She never put any effort into the relationship."

"Oh, right." You sat up to grab one of the blankets, draping the warmth on the tangled mess of limbs, and laying back down. It was not lost on you that Pablo, despite all the jokes, had listened intently to every word you had said. Nothing Pablo did, from the way he shifted his misaligned hips to his soft breathing to the way his fingers traced shapes in your side, was ever lost on you.

"So..." and on continued your rant for about an hour. It was a different kind of catharsis to speak about your pain and receive empathy in response. To be told that the feelings poisoning your spirit were ones that had been planted and could be weeded out. It was a relief that also brought about a tiredness, where once your emotions were freed, your eyelids grew substantially heavier. But the fingers remained soothing against your hair, twisting and smoothing the locks. He pushed a few stray pieces from your face, smiling at the sleepy state on your face.

"Excited for this last month of the season?" The short international break had allowed for the season to be neatly wrapped up by the first week of May, with the Champions League final and awards ceremonies following directly after.

"Mhm," you hummed back, eyes now fully closed and cheek pressed against Pablo's warm skin. "But it's not really a month for me. It's more like a week left of the season. Copa Del Rey in three days, then you score a screamer in the net at home to win La Liga three days later. Once the season is decided, I'm back at school for practical exams." The vibration in his chest reverberated throughout your entire being, and your semi-sleeping form nuzzled deeper into Pablo, which neither of you thought possible. Fingers tightened around the semi-exposed skin of your waist, and he felt a sensation akin to weilding fire at will. Knowing full well the flames could engulf him in a torturous inferno, but oh how beautiful to hold and let dance at the tips of his fingers.

"So we have two more matches with you?"

"Three if you choke again and let the other borderline relegation team score three goals." He tugged lightly at your hair as a reprimand, your smile spreading against his neck.

"I wasn't even on the field for the full 90 minutes last game. Don't worry, we're bringing home both trophies this week. And you're getting that screamer of a goal. Make sure to record it so I can gloat forever." A gentle nod and a hum, but the sleep was slowly seeping into your senses.

"So after that, what? What's next?"

"Well you already know that Xavi offered me a permanent position for when I graduate next year. So I'm at the club on automatic placement renewal. He he I was the first one in my class to get it."

"Of course you were, Doctora. You're the best there is." Warm cheeks yet again. Pablo must think you're a natural furnace, not realizing that his sticky sweet compliments were always triggering the "Heart Overheating" alarms in your mind.

"You think too highly of me. I'll see you when you come back for preseason medicals and training. They might let me run it this year. Oh, and at the Bondor. I'll be there, too."

"At the what?"

"The Bondor." You repeated, unaware of how much you were mumbling as you drifted in and out of consciousness.

"Slow down for me, Doctora. One word at a time. Where will I see you?"

"Ballon. D'or." You repeated for the third time as slowly as possible. It was too hard to stay awake now, and let yourself slip fully into the depth of relaxation, tangled in a web of warm Pablo, basking in this moment where you could just rest contently.

Pablo on the other hand was now on high alert. There had been a lot of commotion in the club when the nominations were announced. Pedri had pulled up the livestream on the projector, the entire squad waiting with baited breath for the categories of interest. There mutters all around about how the whole ceremony was a scam and had royally screwed over Robert, but who was going to turn down the honor? You had seen the stampede (led of course by Luca, who was always at the head of any effort to get out of doing his job) and followed quickly, afraid someone else had passed out. The players had been pushing themselves to stay miles above Madrid in the league, and it was taking a real toll. You looked up at the ceiling as you speed-walked, praying that everyone (especially Dembele) was okay. You would really like a calm week.

"Now, the nominees for the Kopa Trophy, awarded to the best player under 21 years of age..."

Ansu caught your eye as you entered and waived you over, instructing you to sit with him and the other young Barca boys. Gavi had been given a seat in the middle, the throne of the meeting room, as the murmurs circulated once again. You hadn't been aware that Pablo was a contender for this award - not surprised, but your schedule didn't allow you to keep on on Twitter as you once had. You wrung your fingers, heart hammering as the presenter spoke with that slow TV drawl that made everyone want to commit arson.

"Jude Bellingham, Jamal Musiala, Bukayo Saka, Eduardo Camavinga, Gavi-"

You were sure there were other nominees, but the shouts of joy and thunderous claps on Gavi's shoulders prevented any more information from entering your ears. The coaching staff and older players commended him on the achievement, and you had to wait until the room was essentially cleared to stick out your hand and offer a congratulatory message.

"Are we doing handshakes now?" He asked, eyes flitting between you and Pedri's gossip circle occupying the far corner.

"It feels more professional. This is a professional achievement after all."

""I haven't achieved anything yet." He said shaking your hand firmly and lingering much longer than was appropriate for the workplace (and 'friends').

"What are you talking about? You've been nominated! That's huge in itself given that a lot of your teammates also qualify for that award."

"Yeah but Pedri snatched it last year. They won't hand it over to the same club two years in a row."

"Doesn't Messi have like 27 Ballon D'ors in a row?"

"Please don't use Leo as an example. I am just a regular human being." As the two of you made your way into the hall, out of the line of sight of Pedri's tea spilling team, the laughter and teasing died down. You turned to Pablo, bringing one hand to rest on his arm, smoothing the fabric of his training jacket with your fingers as you looked up at him.

"You're a brilliant player, Pablo. One of the best this club has ever seen. You are incredible and have the brightest future ahead of you, and I just hope I get to be a part of it. That award it yours - I can feel it. But even if it isn't, don't sell yourself short. You amaze me every day."

This was the best news since his promotion to the first team. He had been pushing the Paris trip to the far recesses of his brain, a bout of nausea and anxiety striking him every time he conjured the thought of walking down that carpet or speaking on stage. But now you were going to be there. You would see him in the finest suit D&G would lend him, hair perfectly gelled down (he would need a trim). And he let himself ever so briefly entertain the fantasy of you watching him win. Of the announcer calling out his name, the crowd rising to their feet in deafening applause as he accepted the trophy from Pedri. He would look out into the crowd and see you there, sending a wink your way before thanking everyone who helped him achieve this, especially the medical staff. He drifted off to sleep replaying this scenario in his head, a trophy in one arm and the girl of his dreams in the other.

Pedri woke up with a minor headache in the morning, sunlight pouring through the large windows directly into his eyes. He would be buying Pablo some blackout curtains for Christmas. Descending from his place, he walked across it: a real sight to behold. You and Gavi were tangled together on the couch, legs an absolute mess with the blanket pooled around them. Your head was on his chest, face nuzzled upward into his neck. Your hands were fisting his shirt, as if afraid someone would rip him from your clutches. Pablo wasn't much better. He had his arms wrapped around you, one on the back of your head and one around your waist. He had managed to pull you on top of him in the night, his back flat on the sofa and your weight pooled on his chest and bringing him tranquility. His lips rested against your forehead, his face perfectly positioned with yours. He held you tight against him, and your unconscious form rose and fell with each of his deep and even breaths. Despite his best efforts, Pedri couldn't stop himself from snapping a picture of the moment. Thank God his ringer was always off. He did have enough self restraint to prevent him from sharing the photo with his group chat with Ansu, Ale, Eric, and surprisingly Robert (he just likes to be included). The name had changed numerous times in the last several months, and was now simply called "friendship" my ass for obvious reasons. He knew this would be a picture Pablo and you would look back on fondly when one was finally courageous enough to just let go. But until then, it sat safely in his hidden folder, and he tiptoed out the door, sparing one last look at the pair of you, sleeping more deeply than well-fed toddlers. The tension in Pablo's face was gone. Pedri hoped it would stay that way.

~

"And we are just minutes from kicking off what could be the league-winning match for Barcelona here in Spotify Camp Nou! Set to be an exciting game against Atletico Madrid, and the crowd is absolutely on fire."

"Just as well, Peter. I mean Barcelona have the ability to make this an incredible three trophy season right here today. They're coming off a massive win against Sevilla in the Copa Del Rey final, at home for what could be the league winner, and the performances we're going to see today are going to be full energy full power now that the Ballon D'Or nominee list has been announced."

"That's right we have Robert Lewandowski shortlisted for the titular award after two incredible seasons at Bayern Munich. We also have Pedri potentially passing the 'Golden Boy' torch onto his fellow midfielder Gavi, who has had an absolutely stellar season."

"Who can forget about that performance in the Supercopa, Peter. Three goal contributions in a Classico no less, the likes of which we haven't seen since Leo Messi stepped up to the plate, and we all know how that played out. He's really been putting in amazing performances week after week, and the most surprising thing is the level of health Barca have been able to maintain. For a team riddled with injuries all of last season, it is a miracle turnaround. Kick off right here after the break."

The tunnel was always busy right before kick off, but today it was quadruple-fold. You weren't sure if Barca was just extra confident in a victory today, but the media passes had tripled, and everyone was eager to get candids of the young blaugrana boys. You were pushing through people's shoulders, 'excuse-me' shifting very quickly into 'get out of the way' as you made your way to the players line up to adjust resistance tape and back braces. You were in the official physio uniform today, Nike jacket hugging your skin and tucked neatly into your trousers. The entire staff had been gifted with a new pair of cleats with the date on one side and a number of their choice on the other.

"I'm assuming 6 for you?" You had been caught off guard by the assumption from the brand rep.

"Why would you assume that? Have other players been telling you things about me?" You must have looked genuinely afraid and shocked, as the rep raised his hands in innocence, face going pale.

"No no no. I have absolutely no idea who you are. You have a 6 on your hoodie, so I thought you would want something to match."

It was discreet, a small black number on the back of your heel, and yet it was the only thing that Gavi could see as you worked to adjust Frenkie's shoulder. Did all of you have numbers? Were they in order, yours just happening to fall in the 6th position? Were there even 6 people on the physio team? His eyes stayed on your shoes until they were in front of his. He looked up to meet you raised brow.

"Why are you staring? Your shoes are nicer than mine."

Turning around, he let you test his hip alignment as he allowed himself to speak away the nerves buzzing throughout his system.

"Think we're going to win?"

"I always think you're going to win. I'm just waiting for that incredible goal you promised last week."

"What, the three goal contributions in the Supercopa weren't enough for you? You have high standards, Doctora."

"Of course. That was back in January. It's April now, Pablo. I want you to make my last game good." As you released him from your grip, he turned to face you, putting both hands on your shoulders. A few players turned their heads, but only for a cursory glance.

"If I score today, you let me pick you up as a celebration."

"Are you allowed to do that?"

"Who's going to stop me?"

"One of your fangirls might dive onto the field and tackle me."

"I have faith in you, Doctora. You seem like a fast runner."

"Always nice to have your unwavering support. Deal. Better be a good goal."

"A screamer."

You moved onto Pedri, who was next in the numerical line up, and his eyebrows did all the talking for him. You muttered a quick 'good luck' before continuing your duties in the remaining minutes before they walked out for the match.

"What a friendly little deal you've made, hermano." He leaned over and said, but the players began walking before Pablo could respond. Post -anthem, you took your place on the sidelines, jittery from the electric energy ricocheting around the stadium. No Joao for Gavi to shove around, but Griezmann was going to be a problem. The first half was rough and fast-paced, but remained scoreless. As the players came off for half time, you were instructed to help out the ones with high muscle tension. Passing Pablo, you placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke into his ear, quick and soft: "Looks like I'm staying seated all game."

Pablo turned just in time to watch you scamper off, a smirk on his lips. Pablo loved a challenge, and it was all the better to have it come from you. He had a couple opportunities during the first half, but he was scared of getting fouled too early on. Now was the time were he was able to push, with the anxiety from the beginning of the game shaken off. He tuned back into Xavi's pep talk and instructions for the second half, lips still upturned.

The media was always puffing up players, but it was true that Pedri was a magician with the ball. There was something captivating about the way he calmly danced between players, maneuvering skillfully. A pass to Araujo, then back to him. The roar of the crowd was dulled by the thrum of your heart and the snapping as you bit at your nails in anticipation. The boys had been pressing hard, and a score seemed eminent. Pedri lifted his head, looking for his striker. Lewa was locked up on the right. It seemed the moment to move back, alleviate the press and recalculate. But then a flash of blue and red streaked across his vision and his foot reacted faster than his brain. Minute 85, a scoreless game, and a ball crossed high and fast towards the menace that was Gavi. His foot connected in the far left corner of the box and there it went, screaming past the goalie's fingertips before nestling in the top corner of the net.

An explosion. You were the slowest person to react, slack jawed as the other physios shoved and shook you in celebration. Hands coming to his chest, he gripped the crest like it was a crown jewel, looking right as you as he brought it to his lips, kissing it with a force and passion that had flowed in him since he was 11 years old. He ran towards you, teammates following swiftly, and suddenly there were arms around your thighs as he lifted you. He bounced you in the air as his teammates clapped him on the shoulders, congratulating him and showering him with the well-deserved praise. You looked down, hands rested on Pablo's shoulders. His gaze was locked with yours. you wanted to tease him or commend him but there were no words. He released you, pointing at ou before taking his position.

They lifted the trophy shortly after, the players looking like children as they danced and sang in a circle. The players all took their turns squeezing the living daylights out of you.

"Doctora!" It was Dembele who called out to you, waving you over. Under the watchful eyes of his coaches, Gavi was more careful not to get too close to you (even though he had just Lion-King lifted you during the game).

"Come take a picture with all your patients and their trophy!" The request was made with laughs all around as you stood behind the trophy, Ousmane on one arm and Pedri on the other. Balde and Ansu got into the photo as well, arms all around each other.

"Gavi! Get in here! You're the one with the most clinic hours." Ousmane called out to him as well. He blushed as he walked (waddled) over, stopping to pick up the trophy and dropping it into your hands.

"This is your achievement too, Doctora. You should be proud." Pedri shoved him in beside you, claiming it helped 'balance the photo'. The flash went off twice. Once with Pablo paying attention to the camera, smiling brightly having just won MOTM in their league decider. The second was almost identical, but his head was turned to you. The smile was softer, the eyes kinder. He looked at you like the ultimate prize. As he said his goodbyes to you, promising not to miss you too much in the month you would be seperated, he realized one thing: he was going to need more frames.

~

@gaviraconcubine: ok i thot it was stupid but maybe gavi is actually w his physio???? just look at them

1,272 Likes 677 Retweets 385 Replies

@blaugranaboy: if you FEMALES knew anything, you would know barca has had shit physios and is always getting injured. since she came on staff they staying healthy. i would pick her ass up to

@barbiebalde: @blaugranaboy *too. Sexist AND bad english? pick a struggle

@88rizzing: ok but theres also pics of her out with pedri at a prada store so idk anymore???????

@gavitaylorsversion: her instagram is private :( can someone drop clearer pictures of her

You had been through some difficult situations in the last ten months, but these practical exams were the biggest challenge you had faced in your existence. 8am to 8pm lectures for two weeks, followed by a week straight of performing concussion protocols, lifting stiff boards, and demonstrating a whopping 6 different types of sutures had finally come to an end. It was May 5th, the final day of your exams, and three days before your flight to Paris for the ceremony. Your phone had been discarded for practically the entirety of the month, logged out of all social media and having your focus set to only let through emergency calls (and, of course, texts from Pablo). They had been less frequent given his understanding of your schedule.

[Pablito]: i know you have stitches today. Good luck <3

[Pablito]: Kounde asked about you today. He hasn't realized you've been missing the last two weeks. He really isn't on this planet

[Pablito]: the finale of our show came on last night. I recorded it so we can watch it together after your exams.

And now the most recent one had come through:

[Pablito]: Congrats on surviving the epic battle of your practical exams. I sent you dinner. Have a great night!

The doorbell rang in some scary accurate timing, and you graciously accepted the package from the delivery driver. Sitting on your couch to watch any comedic show that would help you decompress. The bag was huge, and seemingly filled to the brim with containers. Pasta, pizza, two types of bread, fried chicken, and three slices of cake (chocolate, cheesecake, and tres leches). There was also a bottle of sugar-free soda, for balance apparently. As you picked up your phone to ask Pablo if you were meant to feed the whole building, another text popped up on your screen.

[Santa Naranja]: Hi! I'm not sure if you remember me, but I'm the stylist who worked with Pedro for his Prada shoot? I got this number from him. You should yell at him for giving out your number so easily.

[Santa Naranja]: Anyways, I just got the list for the Ballon D'Or ceremony and I saw your name on there. How exciting! My company is styling Barca for the event, and I wanted to reach out personally to see what you would be interested in wearing.

[Santa Naranja]: Because I'm assuming you don't want to be in a suit? But I could be wrong.

You replied instantly, telling her how grateful you were for contacting you. You had been planning on wearing one of your old wedding-guest dresses, not having the time to go pick up something else. The two of you arranged to meet tomorrow at her studio, and you went back to your original mission: snapping a picture and sending it to Gavi.

He opened the message instantly, feeling all warm and fuzzy staring at the food spread on your lap and his old shirt hanging off your shoulders. You hair was up, face bare, and he wanted to reach through the phone and kiss you on the forehead.

[Doctora]: thanks for the food, pablito <3 see u in paris

"Ouch!" He yelled out, taken out of his daydream by a needle shoved into his wrist. "Pedri! Tell your friend to be gentle."

"First of all, we're not friends-"

"We're not?" Pedri asked the stylist, the smoke practically rising from her ears. She glared at him, looking extra menacing with the pins between her teeth.

"No. We're not. You're only allowed to be here if you're silent, remember? And second of all we are tailoring your suit sleeves. You're going to get stabbed if you keep moving your arms! Now hold still. She's still going to be there in 15 minutes for you to gush over."

"How did you know who I was talking to?" Pablo asked, genuine shock and curiosity across his features.

"Oh please, for the love of God, don't tell me you think you're being subtle?!"

~

"Hi! Come in come in! I didn't even realize it was raining."

Santa Naranja was, as you had recently discovered, not just Pedri's stylist. She wasn't even a Prada stylist. She was now a senior assistant stylist for Style Di Fortuna, a global firm that worked to style celebrities for different events. Since Herno and D&G started dressing the club, management had received official notice regarding their event attire.

"You should have seen the letter they sent. It was like a scolding from the school principal. 'Players must be formally and professionally styled during all official events as to avoid conflict in brand image and the tarnishing of the brand's respectability. Can you imagine dressing so poorly that you could ruin the reputation of an entire brand? Although I shouldn't expect any less. Pedro's jorts could bring about doomsday."

It was the other girls in the office that had given her the nickname 'Santa' for her saint-like patience in dealing with Pedri for... reasons. She was a completely different person when his cheshire cat smile and bushy brows were not in the room. She was calm and fun and humorous. She scurried around the workshop, pouring you a cup of cinnamon tea loaded with sugar, before running back into a warehouse closet and throwing about twenty garment bags over her arms.

"Did you have anything in mind for your look? I know that the club must have given you some basic guidelines, but what about your personal style?"

"Oh yeah, they came with the invitation. Long skirt, no slit, no trains, no plunging necklines, no open backs, no beading or gems, no appliques, and no bright colors."

The poor stylist stopped in her tracks, returning virtually every dress she had in her hands.

"Okay, let's go to the nun section of the closet. What colors would you like? Keep them boring and muted." You giggled at the remark, rattling off a list of colors. She either hummed in agreement or gave a slight pause, allowing you time to retract the wrong choice. Green, red, and white were all off the table, seeing as the wags had already claimed them.

"What's Gavi's favorite color?" She teased, shoving a garment bag at you and ushering you behind the separator to change.

"Haha, very funny. I'm not going as his date."

"You can add the 'unfortunately' to the end of that. I won't judge you."

"Sure. It's unfortunate I'm not Pablo's date in the same way it's unfortunate that you're not Pedri's."

"Please don't speak such wicked thoughts about me and Pedro into the universe."

After cycling through about 15 dresses, the weight of the event and the pressure of traveling in two days was beginning to weigh on you, a tightness settling into your chest and disrupting your breathing.

"I'm going to look so stupid at this event. Nothing looks good." You huffed as you resisted the urge to face plant into the million euro pile of fabric on the floor. Your companion huffed as well, racking her brain for any guidance on how to dress you without making you look like a churchly sister or a plastic bag.

"Okay. Do you know anything about fashion?" She asked. Her tone was soft and delicate, like a kindergarten teacher asking a poor 6-year old if they knew how to tie their shoes.

"I try and keep up."

"If you could pick any look from the last like 10 years on the runway that you would wear to this event, what would it be?"

"I can't afford-"

"Not telling you to buy it. Just imagine. If you could wish a dress into your hands right now, what would it be?"

You sat and thought for a moment. It had been a long time since you separated yourself from the imposed masculine nature of your job. Your hair stayed up, your nails stayed short, your face always painted naturally (you had gotten dress-coded for winged eyeliner once). It had been years if not a complete decade since you allowed your thoughts to be pink and flowery. You had put girlhood on pause, allowed it to hibernate for the harsh winter war of professional success. But now it was spring, and the blossoms emerged once again. You weren't a physio going for a meeting. You were a princess preparing for her magical night in Paris, your fairy standing before you. This was one of those moments where you just had to take a pause. You had worked to hard to make it here. Now that you were here, enjoy it.

"Well, Viktor and Rolf had the most gorgeous tulle dresses ad fashion week. They were all strapless and tight at the top, and they had these beautiful full skirts and velvet ribbons. If I was a wag or a footballer accepting my own award, I would wear that." You said, still allowing the rose color of your imagination to tint your reality. You entertained the thought briefly that this is the first time Pablo would see you properly dolled up, and it made you want to squeal and kick your feet like a girl waiting for prom.

"Oh my God you're so smart!" She yelled, running back into the dark passage of the closet. She returned a moment later with a black fabric bag, gold filigree embossed onto the material. She hung and began to unzip, unveiling the most beautiful dress you had ever seen in your life. It was a pale nude, almost the color of beach sand, with a fitted corset top that came down to the top of the hip bone. It then flares slightly into a layered tulle skirt, the color solid except for one band of pale blue that wrapped around the skirt, the waist accentuated with a velvet bow in the same dusty blue. You reached out one shaking hand to smooth down the fabric, almost afraid it would disintegrate in your touch. (dress inspo for those interested)

"Bouguessa just sent us this. It's more subtle than the Viktor and Rolf ones, it goes with gold and silver jewelry, won't draw too much attention, and follows that ridiculous novel of rules." She said, hands on her hips behind you.

"I can't wear this." You said, trembling at the very thought of spilling a drop of... well anything really on this dress.

"You can and you will. We had it shorted for some actress wearing it in Cannes later this month, so wear nice shoes. Nothing too tall though - Pablo is 5'7 after all." You turned to her, and the face she had expected to smile back at her held eyes welling with tears. You pulled her against you, too fast for her to process, and let the tears stream down your cheeks.

"I have never had anyone be so kind to me. I can't thank you enough."

"I'm just letting you borrow a dress," she said, arms wrapping around you as well. "Do you not have friends?"

"Let's not open that can of worms."

~

"Hi, Dr. Gonzalez. You wanted to see me?" Your head peaked in ever so slightly to catch his hand waving you over. Despite knowing on a deep psychological level that he respected you as a professional, he still scared the bejeezus out of you.

"Yes. I forgot to give you your passes for tonight's flight. You'll be able to use this to get directly into the lounge and then on the jet we have chartered this evening."

"The... what?"

"How were planning on getting to Paris exactly, Miss y/n?" He took off his small glasses, a gesture to emphasize how stupid you were being at the present.

"I was going to take the train in tomorrow?" You responded extremely unsure of yourself.

"Take the train in the morning of the ceremony? Oh this generation. No foresight. You'll meet the team in the lounge at exactly 8pm this evening."

"So what I'm hearing is... I'm going on the private jet with Xavi and the squad?"

"Yes."

"And my accomodation..?"

"You will have a room in the hotel on the same floor as the rest of the team. Any other logistical questions? Do I need to explain what the Ballon D'Or is?"

"No, no, of course not. Thank you so much Dr. Gonzalez. I'll be sure to represent Barca well as an organization that loves women!" You got up hastily from your chair, exiting the office with Dr. Gonzalez yelling behind you.

"We didn't send you because you're a woman! Don't say that to any reporters!"

The Barcelona airport was, in your opinion, nothing special. That was until the woman at the check-in desk saw your badge and personally guided you past security and into a private Air France lounge. The room was decked out in plush sofas and chaise lounges, soft spa music bouncing between the walls. Enough food to feed the entire terminal had been laid out on stone and marble platters, and three girls in matching dark blue uniforms strolled around the room, waiting to be flagged down for assistance. This was nice. Maybe gold digging was really the best choice. It's a miracle that not everyone on the quad had Ferran-sized heads if this was the treatment they were used to.

"Ay look who finally made it." The voice greeting you belonged to Xavi, who was the first to stand up and embrace you. You greeted the rest of the group and introduced yourself to both Xavi and Robert's wives, thinking it more appropriate to sit with the other women on the trip. You chatted with them until it was time to board, at which point you could no longer exercise self control. You walked up to Pablo, tapping him on the shoulder.

He couldn't suppress his smile when he saw you, and Anna whispered to her husband how you had not introduced yourself as Gavi's girlfriend.

"Well, they're not together. She's a physio at the club."

"He looks at her like he's in love."

"Yeah. Everyone has noticed except the two of them."

Fighting the urge to stuff you into his hoodie so you could never disappear for a month again, Pablo opted to instead put one arm around you, embracing you in a tight side hug. You two walked onto the plane together, effectively abandoning Pedri, while catching up on everything that had gone on since your last meeting. He sat beside you on one of the couches, spinning around to lay with his legs on top of you, which were swiftly pushed off. The two of you now sat side by side, eating from a bag of sour gummies.

"I missed you." He said softly as you watched Barcelona grow smaller and smaller beneath you. You turned back to him resting your head on his shoulder. "I missed you too. A lot more than I thought I would." There was no more talk after that. No mention of feelings or trophies or anything really. Just sour bears and that telenovela finale he promised to watch with you.

The clock in the hotel lobby read 11:44pm as you fought with Pablo to try and carry your own bag in. Well, fought is a vague term - you tugged on his bicep while he dragged you and your suitcase inside.

"We're only here for two days - what on Earth could you have brought?" He asked, letting out an exaggerated huff as he set it down on its wheels.

"Makeup is heavy, my dress is heavy, my shoes are heavy - society's beauty standards are just weighing me down at every turn." He smiled back at you, your fingers itching to pinch his cheeks and kiss him on the tip of his nose and tell him that he had a smile that could bring cities to their knees.

"Pedri! Gavi!"

You turned around to the source of the voice, watching Pedri embrace a very tall and very familiar Spaniard. As he made his way over to Gavi, he gave you a once over that indicated his brain was still trying to figure out who you were. As his hand connected with Gavi's, it was like the electricity had switched back on.

"Oh, hey! You came and interviewed at Chelsea. Convince her to stay then, hermanito?" he clapped Gavi on the back of the neck.

"No, I didn't have to say anything. She spent an afternoon with you guys and came running back to the better club." You smiled shyly, feeling a little awkward at your once potential club interacting with the one you had chosen to stay at. You stepped to the side, noticing Perdi deep in conversation with someone else. Tan, tall, and beautiful, he turned to you, smiling wide and approaching.

"Ah hello again." You were in a hug before you knew it. You reciprocated, wishing one of the boys would take a photo so you could send it to ever girl in your high school.

"Joao! Great to see you again. How have you been?" He pulled away, hands still on your upper arms as he ranted to you about his difficult second half of the season had been. Pablo sat back, loosely listening to the exchange between Pedri and Kepa, with most of his energy focused on seething at the sight in front of him. Joao had talked to you for what? An hour? Why did he feel so comfortable touching you like this? His tongue found purchase in his cheek, his arms crossed over his chest. Xavi tapped him on the shoulder to hand him the key cards for your three, giving him a perfect excuse to break up your conversation.

"Here you go, Doctora. This one's yours. Doing well Joao?" There was an obvious hint of animosity in his voice that was evident to the both of you. Nevertheless, Joao released you to shake Gavi's hand.

"I saw you on TV the other day getting picked up by this one. Twitter went crazy speculating about you two dating. You guys.. aren't dating, right?" Joao directed the question to you, now fully turned away from Gavi, whose body temperature had exceeded 100 degrees.

"No, no. We're..." your eyes flashes to him, "just friends".

"I guess anyone would be grateful to have someone like you caring for their wellbeing. A shame that you didn't come over to us for this season. But I may get the privilege if I can get Xavi to place a bid on me." Pablo let out a laugh that was too loud and enthusiastic to be polite. If Joao had been offended, he didn't let it on.

"Oh, Mason is here, too! We're going out with him and his friend Jude for drinks here at the hotel bar. You should come with us! You can come too, Gavi- oh wait, are you even old enough to drink?" The question was punctuated with a smirk, an obvious rebuttal to Gavi's humor at him joining the club.

"I'm flattered but I need to get some rest for tom- wait Jude as in Bellingham?" You asked, eyes wide.

"Of course. Know any other Jude's being nominated?" You heard Gavi breathing loud and heavy beside you, taking this as your cue to call it a night. Before you left, Joao grabbed your wrist, taking a look at your card.

"Floor three. Same as us. Maybe we'll see you around." He hugged you once more as a good night, then headed over to Mason, who waved at the group of you with Jude beside him. You made your way to the elevator with Gavi and felt embarrassed. You hadn't even done anything but be polite, but in some way you felt like you had committed a sin in talking so freely with Joao. Engrossed in thought, your face met Gavi's back as he suddenly stopped in front of a door.

"This is my room. I'll see you tomorrow." You stopped him in his tracks, one hand preventing him from crossing the threshold.

"Are you mad at me?" You asked, voice soft and even, trying to disguise the hurt.

"I- no, of course not, Doctora. Just nervous. Didn't think I'd be seeing my competition tonight." You pulled him into a hug, hands around his waist and your head on his chest with his above it. He let out a shaky breath, and all his fears with them. Joao had invited you out and yet you were still here, in his arms and in front of his door.

"Will I see you tomorrow? Before the 'big show'?" He asked, keeping you against his chest, just for a moment longer.

"Staff aren't allowed on the carpet so I'll see you inside the theater."

"Don't sit next to Joao tomorrow." He said with a slight pout, and you wanted to just pull him down and kiss him so hard he lost consciousness from the lack of air.

"I don't think they'll let me sit next to the players. Not important enough."

"You're going to be one of the most important people in that room. And just, don't sit next to him."

"I won't Pablo."

"Promise?" He said, sticking out his pinky. You rolled your eyes and wrapped your finger around his, bringing your conjoined hands upwards. You twisted them so that your thumb was facing him and vice versa. You leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss to the skin of his hand. His breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed audibly.

"What are you.. what was that?"

"You have to kiss it to seal the promise."

He brought your entwined hands up to his lips, looking at you once more for any objection, before closing his eyes and kissing your knuckles.

"You have soft lips." You said looking between his lips and his hooded eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Well, I'm two rooms over. Good night, Pablo. Good luck."

He watched you walk down the hall and enter your room, only returning to his when the door clicked shut. He pressed his back to the wood, allowing it to cool the sweat pooling under his hoodie. He was so thankful that he wasn't sharing a room with Pedri, because the feeling of your lips on his skin, soft and plump, had made him so incredibly hard.

~

"We are here live from the red carpet of the annual Ballon D'or ceremony, and the stars of the football world have come out in full force. On the carpet now Xavi Hernandez and his wife Núria, as well as Ballon D'Or contender Robert Lewandowski and his wife, champion in her own right, Anna. These are the veterans of football, and they should be shortly accompanied by the young trailblazers leading the New Era of Barcelona football."

It was three minutes until Gavi was supposed to step onto the carpet, and he was panicking. His breathing was shallow, his collar felt like it was suffocating him, and he was sweating bullets under his suit.

"Pedri, I can't do this." He said, genuine fear swimming in his eyes as he looked to his friend for comfort.

"Yes you can, hermano. All you have to do is walk and smile. Maybe answer some questions. You can absolutely do all of those things."

"What if I make an ass of myself?" He said, hiding behind Pedri as their handler signalled 30 seconds until they walked.

"You are here being told you are one of the best under 21 players in the world, and then you get to walk into the theater and see the best person in the world."

"I do really want to see her in a dress."

"I was talking about Leo Messi." Pedri deadpanned, and Gavi was shoved on the carpet genuinely laughing, a million bulbs flashing to capture his joy. He was here. He was 18 years old and on his way to shake hands with greatness. He was walking the carpet with his best friend in the world in a five thousand euro suit. He thought to his younger self, eleven years old and hiding behind his mother on his first day at La Masia. All the dreams he had were now the blueprint for his reality. Barca first team player? Check. Goal scorer? Check. Trophy winner? Check. Beautiful girl to share every euphoric moment with? Pending.

He took a few steps forward, waiting for Pedri to be photographed before he walked down to the end of the carpet, taking a group photo and heading to the microphones.

"Gavi! You look wonderful this evening. Are you excited for your first ceremony?"

"Oh, yeah, of course. It's something that I always dreamed about and now that my dream is a reality, I am just trying to enjoy every moment."

"Well you have had an absolutely stellar season playing with the reigning Kopa winner here, Pedri. Is it something you're thankful for, to play with him and to play with Barca?"

He looked over at Pedri, whose eyebrows were wiggling causing his serious demeanor to break.

"I'm absolutely so pleased to work with this guy here. He's just incredible on the field and we work well together. Barca is my lifelong club, and I am grateful to play there, to have them take care of me and keep me healthy." The reporter gave a thumbs up, and the boy stepped to the side to allow Pedri to finish his interview, wanted to have company as he entered the theater.

"Taking care of you and keeping you healthy, hm? Why didn't you just say her full name?"

The theater was glorious, all gold ornaments and plush red velvet, giving it a timeless and glamorous look. He craned his neck, looking around for those familiar eyes and inviting smile that had made his life so much worse and simultaneously so much better.

"Pablo." The voice came from behind him, and when he turned around, the world moved in slow motion. Your dress, pale nude and powder blue, made you look like a Greek deity. You could give the entire Spanish royal family a run for their money with the way the bodice seemed to mold against you, flaring out into a beautiful cascade of material. It ended at the bottom of your ankles, your feet hugged by blue heels, an anklet handing off that Gavi couldn't quite make out. Your jewelry glinted in the lights, the necklaces sitting between your collar bones drawing in the eye to the expanse of your chest and neck, and he had to try so, so hard to tear his eyes from this. He focused on all these details because looking at your face made him go slack-jawed.

Your hair was cascading freely, front pieces twirled away to show off the beauty of your feature. Your makeup was simple - glowing skin with rosy cheeks, black liner framing and highlighting your eyes, and glossy pink lips. Pablo knew nothing about makeup, but he knew for certain that if he got his hands on you, he would destroy whatever you had painted on your lips to make them shine. You batted your long lashes, and smiled shyly as Pedri let out a low whistle.

"Wow, who knew you were hiding all of this? Were you looking for husband tonight? This is the way to get it." He offered a hand, spinning you around so he (or rather Gavi) could get a full look, the blue bow in your hair flowing beautifully.

"You're too sweet, Pedri. I just didn't want to embarrass the club."

"Embarrass?!" They both exclaimed loudly, catching the attention of a few bystanders.

"You're on track to upstage us. They pay you enough to afford Prada?" Pedri asked again, pointing to your shoes.

"Your mortal enemy lent them to me."

A friend of Pedri's came up to whisk him away to another group, leaving you standing with Pablo.

"So, what do you think, Pablo? Too much?" You were nervous, resisting the urge to clench your dress in your fists and scurry off. You smoothed your clammy palms down the fabric as well.

"Doctora, you know I'm not super smart like you. I don't even know the words I want to tell you right now. So I'll use one I know: you look breathtaking." He practically whispered out the last word, causing your head to snap up, eyes meeting. "I think you might be the prettiest girl in the room right now." He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, swallowing back his nerves and pride. You were absolutely stunning, and no friendship or professionalism would stop him from letting you know.

"Thank you, Pablo. You have no idea how much that means coming from you." You moved forward, adjusting his bowtie as an usher came to guide him to his seat. You moved to the back with other team staff members, waving to him as he walked off. You were independent and a girlboss and all that, but it felt good to have him think you were pretty.

~

"And the winner is... Gavi."

The crowd erupted in cheers, the clapping so loud it was deafening. Pedri smiled from ear to ear, watching as his friend came up to the stage to take his place as Europe's shining star, their Golden Boy. Gavi had been frozen in his seat for a second before Robert pushed him up, clapping him on the back and congradulating him. As he placed his hands around the trophy, his peripheral vision registered the people moving from their seats, standing and clapping for his success. Pedri was smug in his congratulations, reminding Pablo he never had a doubt he would be handing off this trophy to him. And as Pablo took his place at the podium, the gold statue adorning his side, he saw you. In the third to last row of the theater, you stood, by yourself in a row full of staff, clapping excitedly for his achievement. Your smile was bright, teeth on full display to convey the level of genuine joy you felt in that moment. You almost looked happier than Gavi himself. And as the applause died down and people retook their seats, he watched you sit back down, hands crossed over your chest in pride and admiration. He looked straight at you, a point of comfort in the large crowd, and only then did he allow the unbridled joy of being the very best to fill him.

"Thank you. I am so proud to have achieved this, to have won such a prestigious award in my first full season with Barca's first team. Thank you to my family for standing by me in the good times and the bad, and for believing in me. Thank you to the club, who gave me every opportunity to play and show my skill this season. A huge thanks to my coach and teammates for helping me succeed. And finally, I want to recognize and thank the Barca staff, especially the physio team, for all their hard work this season. I wouldn't be here without their dedication. Once again, thank you very much for the honor. Visca Barca."

All he wanted was to run off the stage into your arms, to ignore the questions about his season and his success, but there would be time later. You, on the other hand, were trying to recover from the shell shock of Pablo recognizing you specifically during his acceptance speech. Your phone buzzed in your lap at a mile a minute, text messages flooding in from friends and family telling you they had watched Gavi's praise of you on TV. You sat in that same shocked state until the ceremony ended.

~

Why on Earth did so many people want to talk to Gavi? Sure, he had just won one of the most important awards in football, but they had already played his highlight reel. What else could they want to know that wasn't on YouTube? He still smiled politely, congratulating Luka and Robert on their awards before he was able to catch a spare moment alone at a far table, Pedri pulling up to his side shortly after, also fatigued from small talk. His trophy was in hand, a little less shiny now that every person who greeted him had asked to hold it, the luster dulled by grease and fingerprints. The two stood in a comfortable silence, exchanging remarks about the room or the guests at the function every once in a while.

"Pablo! There you are!"

He looked up at the sound of your voice, but not nearly fast enough as you came barreling into him, arms thrown around his neck and embracing him so tight he thought he might pass out (not that he was complaining).

"I'm so, so proud of you." You whispered in his ear, squeezing a little tighter before releasing him, smoothing the soft material of his blazer to release the wrinkles you caused with your attack.

"I'm so glad all your hard work had amounted to this, and I hope I'm around to see how amazing you'll be in the future." You said, emotion making your voice crack slightly. There was something about Pablo that convinced you, deep in your soul, that you were two halves meant to come together. He was young, passionate, ambitious - a reflection of yourself. And to watch him succeed? To see him soar to heights previously thought impossible? It was something you wouldn't trade for the world.

Gavi's heartstrings were so tight they were ready to snap. He had prayed to hear so many different things from you, but never realized that this recognition, this pride expressed so freely, would be the most meaningful. This was it. This was the moment. Suit on, trophy in hand, this was the moment to express how much needed you in his life in a different way. How much he needed to keep making you proud.

"Y/N! There you are."

Joao's built arm was wrapped around you, smelling slightly of whiskey and Dior Fahrenheit. The anger vein in Gavi's forehead began to make a reappearance.

"Mason had to see you and introduce you to some of the boys." Mason greeted you as well, and called over his 'friend Jude' to be introduced. Jude Bellingham was an absolute sculpture, holding a glass of God knows what in such an effortless manner, his tie also abandoned in favor of leaving his first two buttons popped.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Jude. I've heard about you from this one - thinks you're a medical Godsend." He ended with a wink. Pedri could feel the heat radiating from Gavi's side, and apparently so could Jude, who looked up and offered a wave.

"Congrats, mate. Brilliant speech." He said, raising a glass to help bridge the language barrier. You turned your head, quickly translating the sentiment.

"Oh, you're with them? The super special physio that's gotten praised in his speech? I should've known I was in the presence of greatness." You laughed politely, tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear.

"I'm really nothing special."

"Oh, well, that can't be true. I'll see for myself when I'm in SPain next year." A wink. Pedri grasped Pablo's arm to prevent blows. "Come with me, I want to introduce you to some of the boys and the staff from City."

You quickly turned around, finding Gavi and Pedri whispering to one another.

"Pablo! He wants to introduce me to some people. I'll come find you!"

Thirty minutes later, Pablo was at a table with his trophy and a scowl, moping on what should be a happy night. After his second turn around the room, Pedri joined him, hoping to alleviate the burden.

"Hermano, are you-"

"Why would she just go with him? Like, I understand not being able to turn someone away when they're in your face, but to go with him?! Why would she do that?" He asked, sounding more and more small and child-like as he continued.

"She was just networking, hermano. Trying to meet people and make connections."

"Connections. Look what her connections have got her. Other guys coming up to her, trying to flirt in the most obvious ways possible. None of them know her like I do. None of them will ever - can ever - care about her in the way that I do. She needs to realize that no one will ever want to treat her right the way that I long to."

"Maybe you need to realize that it's not always the best guy that will get the girl, but the boldest one."

"What?"

"How many opportunities have you had, hm? To tell her you wanted her, to profess your love, to kiss her in her car or under street lamps or in front of the whole world? But you just stay sitting on the sidelines waiting for her to come to you. You know what's happening during that time? A Joao or a Jude or a Martin is taking the risk of telling her she's amazing, and she's going to accept. She's going to accept love that's less than yours because someone else was willing to give it to her, proudly and confidently. And you'll be sitting next to me, twenty years from now when we're both retired, talking about how the love of your life slipped between your fingers. She's here, right now, and you are still waiting. Either take the shot or let someone else shoot."

A fear shot through Pablo that he had never felt before. The idea of you, right now, falling in love with someone else made the bile rise in his throat. He couldn't do it again. He couldn't watch you be with a man who thought you were anything less than the entire universe. It was him. Pablo Gavi was the one meant to have you, to hold you, to protect you from every evil and show you every joy. You were his soulmate, and he would move heaven and earth for his lover who was written for him in the stars.

He stood, scurrying to where Jude and the others had congregated. "Sorry to interrupt, but have you seen y/n?" He asked, trying to keep his voice steady and free from the terror threatening to consume him. He couldn't see your form anywhere in the ballroom.

"Oh," Kepa was the one to reply as the official Spanish speaker, "she went up to her room a few minutes ago. I think Joao took her up."

Pablo nodded before speed walking towards the door, breaking into a full sprint towards the elevators. Please. Please no. Please not Joao. Please not anyone. The ding when the elevator reached the third floor made his blood ripple, and he speed walked to your door, muttering under his breath.

"Please don't be in love with someone else."

He reached the door of your room, paralyzed with fear. He didn't know what he was about to do, but he knew he would implode and self-destruct if he didn't do something.

He lifted his fist, took a breath, and knocked firmly on the door. A moment later, you opened the door, still in the perfect shape he saw you before, but now barefoot on the plush carpet of the hotel.

"Pablo?"

He peered over your shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of the room behind.

"Are you looking for something?"

"Please, tell me he's not in there."

"Who, Pablo?"

"Anyone. Please tell me that there is no one in there now waiting on you. Please tell me," he pleaded softly, moving toward you and placing his hands on your shoulder, moving one down to rest right above where your heart beat. "Please tell me there is no one else in here. I have never begged in my life, Doctora, but I'm here now to beg you: tell me who is the one you're reserving a place in your heart for. Because I know, more than I know anything else in this world, that my soul is yours. Everything I could possibly give, I am asking you to take it without a second thought. And I have pretended, for months now, that I don't need you like the very air I'm breathing. But the more I pretend, the more clear it becomes: I have never loved anything as strongly as I love you. It is overwhelming and all consuming the way every heartbeat and breath is just for you. So just tell me how long I will have to wait. Days, months, years - tell me how long it will be until I get to love you, wholly and completely. Until I get to love you as you deserve. Because there is no other choice. There is no moving on. Every angel in heaven knows that I would struggle in vain until my last dying breath trying to get over you."

There were no words. Hell, there was no air. There was only Pablo, breathless and shaking before you, his fragile heart in your hands. Your hands moved to cup his face, and the urge to cry didn't consume you. You pulled him in, lips finally connecting with his, and the electricity that jolted through you could have lit up all of Paris. His lips were slow to react, and as you pulled away he followed, reluctant to stop kissing you in fear he would never start again.

"You, Pablo. My heart is yours. I'm yours. I always have been."

This time it was Pablo who pulled you in, his arms around your waist lifting you into him. He basked in the plump flesh of your lips, the way it felt to hold you in his arms, a million times better than he could have imagined. It was as if your hearts were racing in sync, thumping the same beat that reverberated around the little bubble the two of you were in. You shifted hands from his face to his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. You had craved this, to be so close and connected with Pablo. The kiss was slow, passionate, the kiss to say 'I have waited for you for so long' and the one in return to say 'I'm here to stay'.

Pedri had gone upstairs to look for Pablo, scared he had committed manslaughter, and found the two of you there, kissing in the hallway, arms enveloping each other and lips locked in a soft and tender embrace. He placed Pablo's trophy (his whole reason for finding him on the ground, turning to leave before stopping and performing his duties as a friend: taking a picture. Maybe he should buy Gavi a whole pack of frames.

You finally pulled away, face flushed and lips pinkish and swollen from the liplock. You kept your arms around Pablo, turning your face to hide in his shoulder. You spotted the golden statue on the floor and smiled as you moved to pick it up, stopped by his strong and unfaltering embrace.

"Your award, Pablo."

"You're my real prize of this evening."

"Ugh how corny." You laughed, finally freeing yourself to go and pick it up. You carried it before turning from Pablo to unlock your room door, timidly standing in the entryway.

"Do... you want to come inside?" You asked, cradling his trophy in your arms.

"Do you want me to come inside?" He asked, heart threatening to break his sternum. He had never thought of going so far so fast.

"I mean if you don't want to-"

"No I want to, preciosa. God I want- but I don't want to make you feel like you have to."

"You're not. I want you Pablo. All of you." You opened the door wider, inviting him in. "Dale, campeon."

~

You left Pablo on the bed while you went to slip out of your dress. As much as you wanted Pablo (in an immediate fashion), you couldn't risk stains or rips on such an expensive lended piece. You re-emerged from the bathroom in a black night gown, a satin slip that came just past your fingertips. Pablo had made himself comfortable, stripping his jacket and shoes, abandoning the bowtie and unbuttoning the top of his shirt. You walked out slowly, standing in front of him shyly.

"What do you think?" You asked, giving a little spin. He reached out a hand, pulling you down to the bed and seating you on his lap.

"I lied before," he said softly. "You weren't 'maybe the prettiest girl tonight'. You're the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. In every room and on every night." His hands found your hips and his lips found yours, and the flames were fanned. He moved with a fervor you had never experienced, like he couldn't get enough of the feel of your lips or the taste of your tongue. He bit down softly on your bottom lip, desperate to illicit every pretty sound he could from you. He nibbled gently, pulling with his teeth and then soothing with his tongue before reuniting it with yours. He gripped the flesh of your hips, and your hands leg his lower, encouraging him to find stability on the flesh of your ass.

"You're perfect." He said breathlessly, moving to kiss and nibble at your neck. You shifted on his lap, desperate for any friction to help douse the flames between your legs. He shifted the two of you so that you were straddling one of his thighs, allowing you rock yourself back and forth as he continued worshipping and lapping at your skin.

"Pablo, it's so good." You whined as he moved down to kiss the exposed tops of your breasts. He looked up at you, asking for permission to remove your nightgown, which you gave with quick enthusiasm. He grabbed at the bottom hem, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion before stopping. He stared at you, moving across your bare chest and down to your nude lace thong.

"Oh this won't do." He muttered while gripping your waist and flipping your positions so that you were laying on the mattress with him above you.

"What?" You asked while your arms moved to cover your chest. He removed them swiftly, licking his lips and giving each breast a kiss, making your nipples harden.

"I need to have you spread out underneath me so I can take in every gorgeous inch of you." He said before he trailed his lips down your entire torso.

"Can't believe someone who looks like you is all mine. I've wanted you for so long." He finished his sentence with a searing kiss to your lips.

"Just wanted you to see how much someone could love you. And I would still love you, even if you want to stop right now and never do this again." He said, pulling back slightly before you threaded your fingers through his hair and brought his mouth to your chest.

"No, don't wanna stop. I want you. I need you Pablo please." You whine out, and hoped he knew that you meant it in every possible way. He allowed his tongue to drag across your nipples before sucking one into his mouth, playing with the other as he watched for your reactions. His cock was straining against his boxers and dress pants, and he rutted against the mattress for any sort of relief.

"Pablo it's too good."

"Always want to be good for you, Doctora. Wanna give you the best."

He moved his hands to the waistband of your panties, moving them down and watching the resistance, seeing how big the wet patch was and how your thighs clenched for some sort of pleasure.

"Open up, pretty girl."

"Pablo, want you. Want you please."

"I'm right here, baby. All yours."

You grabbed on of his hands sucking two of his fingers in his mouth while keeping your eyes locked, tongue circling and his cock now rubbing up on the flesh of your thigh.

"Want you inside me. Please, Pablo."

He rubbed his two wet fingers up and down your slit, teasing and just listening to the way you reacted. The cool air heightened everything, and you could do nothing but squirm in place.

"Love the way you say my name, preciosa. Let me take care of you." He slipped a finger inside, and you both moaned in sync. You at the feeling of finally having Pablo pleasing you, and him at the wetness he encountered. He quickly put in another, lips going back to yours as if they were addictive. He leaned back, slipping out of his trousers and boxers when you put a hand on his chest.

"Pablo. I..."

"We can stop if you want." He said, already making a move to get up and redress despite his cock leaking.

"No. I want this. I want you. I just... promise me something?"

"Anything."

"Please don't leave me after we have sex."

He looked at your hurting eyes and felt his chest squeeze. He cupped your face, kissing your forehead. "I could never leave you, Doctora." Another chaste kiss, this time to the tip of your nose. "You don't have to worry. I'll always be with you. I promise." He brought you in and kissed you, lips slotting together and tongues dancing together as if they had years of practice.

"Always have to seal the promise with a kiss." He said playfully, and you looked away in embarrassment. He spread your legs and found a space between them, tilting your head with a finger under your chin.

"Look at me baby. I want to see that pretty face when I make you feel good. Wanna see how hot you are when you cum all over me. Make the cutest little mess." He said, spitting in his hand slightly and rubbing the length of his cock. You sat up on your forearms, watching the erotic sight as Pablo ran his tip up and down your slit.

"Pablo," you whined.

He lined himself up, lifting you by the back of the neck to kiss you as he pushed in, the stretch causing you to bite his bottom lip harder than expected (he kind of liked it). He stayed for a minute on his forearms above you, hoping that time would allow you to adjust and prevent him from busting on stroke three. He placed his arms beside your head, leaning down and resting his forehead on yours.

"I love you." He said, picking up his pace as he did so. Your whine was high pitched and loud, fueling Pablo's ego tremendously.

"I love you more." You retorted, moving your hips to spur him to go faster. He pulled out of your slowly once again, then re-sheathed himself with force. He was moving slow and taking his sweet time, savoring every delicious second of the evening.

"Not possible, angel." And then pulled all the way out before slamming back in. Pablo was forceful, shifting your body with every thrust. He kissed your lips and neck, purple springs blooming from each spot he touched. You loved the feeling. You belonged to him, body and soul, and you wanted everybody to know.

"Please, Pablo. Faster. I'm begging." You breathed out, and he could do nothing but oblige.

"That's my pretty girl, taking it so well. Feeling so fucking good wrapped around me. So wet and sucking me in. Fuck. You're so good for me."

You had decided to suck on Pablo's neck to prevent you from moaning your heart out to all of Paris. A large hickey was developing just above his collarbone with not one care towards its ability to be covered. You were feeling that familiar buildup in your stomach, and brought a hand down to play with your clit that was quickly swatted away.

"Gonna cum, baby? Let me spoil you. Let me take care of you." He said as he pressed his thumb to your clit and started rubbing circles into the sensitive bud. There was no more suppressing your moans as they emerged full force. It was perfect. Pablo was perfect, telling you how much he wanted and loved you while looking after your pleasure.

"Please don't stop Pablo I'm so so fucking close."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He said, and seconds later, his name was the only thing on your lips as you came, gripping onto his back and trailing your nails down, his toned back the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. He finished a minute after you, rolling over in exhaustion. You expected him to turn onto his side and ignore you like every other man you had slept with. Instead, he got you both under the comforter, laying down and bringing you to lay on his chest.

"You're so incredible, do you know that?" He asked, kissing your forehead gently.

"You're one to talk." There's giggles and comfort despite the lack of clothes. When the high dies down, you turn to his tired form, which is still smiling at you.

"What are you so smiley for?" You asked.

"I'm with the best person in the world. How can I not smile when I'm with you?"

You laid back on his chest, guilt and paranoia seeping in, obvious by the tension building in your form.

"I love you, Doctora. I love you, I love you, I love you. You are worth more than sex. And I don't love you just because you're hot. You complete me, in every possible way."

"I love you more, Pablo."

"As the medical professional, you should know that's not possible."

He released you from his grip to get shirts and underwear for the two of you to sleep in, still not used to Pablo + you + nudity. You laid back down, cuddled into Pablo's chest as you had for months now, and drifted off into the most relaxing sleep. You were in love with a boy. And he was hopelessly, desperately in love with you. And there was nothing else in the world that mattered in this moment except for the way you tangled together to feel safe. Before he could drift off, Pablo heard the ding of his phone. A photo from Pedri of the two of you in the hall.

[Pedri]: congrats on all your wins today hermano

~

The flight back to Barcelona was nerve-racking for you. You were anxious as to how your boss and peers would perceive your new relationship with Pablo, which he established right away.

"No 'what are we' bullshit'. You're my girlfriend, and that's only because I didn't have a ring on me to make you my fiancee."

His hand was laced through yours the entire walk through the terminal, so proud to show you off to the world as his. As you two boarded the flight, it was Anna who finally asked if something had happened in Paris.

"I asked her to be my girl and she said yes."

There was a round of cheering from those on the plane, and after a swift whatsapp message from Pedri, there were hundreds of messages in the groupchat, from congrats to jokes to utter disbelief. Neither of you looked at any of it. Pablo was too busy counting the stars he saw in your eyes, studying every feature on your face, sneaking in a kiss whenever he could. And you listened to him ramble, intoxicated by the sound of his voice, the melody bringing you tranquility. He was your peace. He was your everything.

"Ah, so you two will be needing these." Xavi said, placing the 'Relationship Disclosure' form and two pens in front of the both of you. "Gavi, don't distract her from her work."

"Hey! Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

"No. You're the distraction." You teased, earning Pablo's full attention and wrath.

"I can tell by the way you've been staring at me for two days."

"Oh Pablo, I've been staring at you much longer than that."

"I hope you never stop."

~

A/N: and there it is folks. Almost 8 months later, here is Just Pretend. There will be an epilogue to this at some point to show what happens with their relationship (and it will have better smut), but this is it for the main story. Please share any feedback you have in replies, reblogs, or in the ask box. Thank you so so much to everyone who has stuck by this story for so long. I love you all.

*~*Taglist*~*

@l0verl4ne @vibinwkay @anastasia-nova @mxgvmiii @mads-grace4 @bubblebeep69 @katluckybear @scuderiabarca @alwaysclassyeagle @simpingmyassoff @grlwithprblms @lqvesoph @pink-manz @graziemille @xxenia14 @nngkay @icedlattewithextracaramel @gyusrose @vip-access @julianalvarez9 @lavie3nrose @ge0rg1ewaa @i8yul @lovefordilfs271 @remuslupinluver @thattaylorswiftobsessedbitch @chaotic-taco-collector-blog @kaismybabe @notanenthucutlet @fullsun9890 @venomwh0re @renaissancewhxre @gaviandgrizisgirl @altgojo @urmomdotcom5678 @eliseline @invidia-of-alhambra @pixwls @stell4rrrs @80sloverry @car1no-xx @mrsgavira @888bear @kylianmbappee @ivyhrry @gaviypedrisbride @grlwithprblms @dessxoxsworld @user6373738 @sideeblogsstuff @halaxxx @berriesaren

[akisunlovesnalu]

Every Witch Way

A fic that I wrote inspired by this photo. Originally I wanted it to become a detective fic but my brain spiraled and I ended up with this. It became an adventure mystery story and of course, the government hates them :) I liked the idea of them traveling through the desert and I'm not too sure where the guild fit in this but just know that all Magicians (Witches) are in hiding because society believes they are evil. Most normal people do not have magic so someone spread a theory that the only reason witches have magic is because of human sacrifices etc. It's important to note that witches want to keep their powers under wraps or else they will get reported to the authorities and sent to the hier-ups in the capital. Nobody knows what happens to the witches who are caught but they don't want to find out.

That might be some unnecessary background information so skip over that if you wish and enjoy!

When Lucy finds herself kidnapped by a ruthless group of bandits, the last thing she expects is to be saved by a witch with Pink hair and his talking blue cat. And she most certainly didn't expect to become their good friend and travel companion. Who knew evil sorcerers and government conspiracies can lead to unexpected friendships.

As the blond girl dragged herself, hands tied together in front of her, and sand covered bare feet weakly trailing after her, she realized how fast camels might actually be. You see, in all of the stories she had read so far, none of them did the four legged beast's speed any justice. They never quite described how hard it was to keep up with them. It was always “The creature was big” or “The creature was furry” but never “When kidnapped by a group of bandits, tied to and forced to stumble behind a literal camel, it may be hard to keep up.”

See if any of the books had written that in, maybe Lucy Hearfillia might be faring better in her situation. But alas, she was not.

“Stop lagging behind, blondie!” One of the men snarled, pulling on the rope to further demonstrate his annoyance. Lucy stumbled forward, struggling to stay upright. She hung her head low, very aware of the menacingly bright sun and quietly sighed.

Oh what she would do to somehow get out of this unfortunate turn of events.

She has probably been traveling together with these no good thieves for about 3 hours. After being abducted from the only good town in this godforsaken desert, the men forced her to follow them, ignoring her cries of where she was and demands to let her go. She gave up eventually of course. Not even her vocal cords could handle the immense heat that came with the dry deserted area.

“Hey boss.” The big one said, glancing over at her with furrowed brows. He had been the one to capture her in the first place. Of course Lucy could have easily taken him on but… a moment's hesitation was all they needed to successfully tie her up and steal her ring of keys. Aquarius was going to kill her!

 “Not that I really want to, but... Should we give the chick some water?” 

The man in front of the big one grunted, his blueish hair blowing with the small breeze and clearly showing off his strange X-like tattoo. Lucy watched on with little interest as a bead of sweat traveled down his forehead.

“I wouldn’t bother.” He scoffed. “Every time we’ve tried, she just spits it back up. Plus, earlier she tried to bite off Javier’s finger, do you really want to risk it?” He raised an eyebrow.

The man in question made a whining noise, clutching his injured hand to his chest and glaring at their prisoner with watery eyes. He mockingly raised the water bottle to his mouth, chugging it in an attempt to get a rise out of her. Lucy rolled her eyes, instead looking back down at the smooth sand beneath her feet.

The big one made a noise of understanding. “Even after we lied about it not being drugged too-”

Javier spit up the water that he was previously chugging, shakily putting the top back on and storing it back inside of the camel's holding bag.

“You idiot!” ‘Boss’ hissed, turning a piercing glare unto the man beside him. “She still didn’t know-” He paused, glancing over at their very interested prisoner and forced himself to  take a deep breath. “You know what, it doesn't matter, she'll be fine.”

“But, Bora-”

“She’ll be fine!” The man who Lucy now knew as Bora raised a fist threateningly. He smirked in sick pleasure as his henchmen coward away. Before she even had time to pull a face of disgust, he turned to Lucy, eyeing her hungrily. “Now, let's get a move on. The employer is expecting us by sundown and I'd rather not have the sun beating down on me any longer than necessary.”

The rest of his men tiredly murmured in agreement, picking up the pace and forcing the blond girl to — once again —trudge through the slippery sand. She hissed as her feet pricked on some sort of stick-like plant. Oh Mavis if she could just reach into the pouch hanging off of Bora’s belt-

“I don’t see the issue, it’s not even that hot.” A new voice said, startling the crew of 14 bandits plus Lucy herself. Her head snapped up for the first time in a while. Ignoring the ache in her neck, the girl rapidly searched the area until settling upon a man with… pink hair. 

He didn’t look too shocked to see a kidnapped girl tied to a Camel. Nor did he bat an eye at the blue cat that sat on his head, lazily playing with the goggles that held his hair out of his face (Did she mention that it was pink!?). And his attire looked so incredibly… bold that Lucy was sure she would faint. Seriously, who was stupid enough to travel through the desert in a black long sleeve shirt, a tan vest and a literal scarf. It was like the guy was begging to get a heat stroke.

She had immediately decided that whoever this man was, he was insane.

“Now.” He grinned, getting into a fighting stance. “What was it you said about an employer?”

Oh look now he wanted to fight off an entire group of bandits. Lucy scoffed. Definitely insane.

Where did he even come from?

Bora snarled, holding up a hand and signaling his guys to pounce on the man wearing freaking cargo pants. Once again, the pink haired freak didn’t even flinch. He stayed rooted to his spot, grinning a wide smile and daring one of them to come at him.

They did, of course, and to Lucy’s surprise were blasted back by a large ring of— 

“Fire!”

Well that certainly explains a lot.

Even after that big scare, the men were back on “Mr. cargo pants” as soon as Bora sent each and every one of them a snarl. The blond snorted as soon enough, all 14 men were on the floor, some of them even halfway in the sand and halfway not.

Bora’s horrified face soon turned back into a scowl as he fully processed Lucy’s teasing. He jumped off of the Camel, ignoring a curious looking “Mr. cargo pants” and stomping over to her. 

“Something Funny?” He said.

“Yeah, actually.” She chuckled some more, tugging on the rope in silent frustration. “Looks like you're about to get your ass handed to you.”

Bora growled, raising his hand in an attempt to threaten her. Lucy eye’d it wearily, but made no attempt to move out of its path. To her pleasure that seemed to aggravate the man even more.

“I’ll show you!” He cried and Lucy's breath hitched as he brought his hand down to strike her across the face… 

The sound of skin hitting skin somehow echoed throughout the desert and Lucy was sure her face was stinging a bright red…

Except it wasn’t… to be honest she felt no pain. Almost as if she hadn’t been hit at all… Cracking her eyes open she realized that a figure stood in front of her, effectively blocking both the sun and her view of Bora. At this, the girl was finally able to piece together what happened.

Bora had aimed for her face, only for his wrist to be caught by “Mr. cargo pants” himself. 

What an interesting turn of events indeed. 

Lucy was quite surprised by how calm she was in this type of situation. No other girl would be able to keep a straight face as they were surrounded in an alleyway, tied up, and forced onto a camel, only to be saved by a strange man (who was definitely insane) that kicked ass and breathed fire. Though if anything she’d have to blame it on experience.

The silence was interrupted by a snarl, one almost inhuman. Bora shrieked, snatching his hand away and forcibly putting a distance between him and this insane man.

“H-how dare you!” Bora shrieked, reaching into his belt and pulling out a knife. Lucy’s eyes flashed onto the leather pouch before giving the man a hard glare.

“You’re one of those demons aren't you!” His voice shook but was filled with so much venom. “The horrible bastards that turn to rituals and blood sacrifices in favor of magical powers!?”

Mr. Cargo pants made no attempt to move, only stared Bora straight in the eyes with an unreadable expression. 

“So what if I am?” He answered.

Lucy felt her lips turn into a frown.

“Then you’re worse than me!” The man laughed maniacally, waving his knife around as he spoke. “Why bother saving this chick with magic earned by bloodlust? Wait…” He gasped dramatically looking at Lucy and then back at Mr. Cargo pants. 

“Oh…” he cackled this time, using a shaky hand to clutch his side. “You probably need her right? For another sacrifice?”

As he continued with his dumb speach Lucy felt her patience slipping. She bit her lip, tugging on the rope once again with no success. She growled, now desperate enough to be pulling against the weight of a freaking Camel.

“Let’s make a deal, hm?” Bora held the knife to his mouth in thought. “I’ll let you take her for just a bit of cash. I’m sure you and your demon friends would love such delicate, pure hearted prey right? Blah Blah Blah Blah-”

Lucy tuned him out and her pink-haired savior still made no move to attack, only balling his fists and taking deep breaths. She understood… the need to prove him wrong… to just shut him up! Which was what she was planning on doing! As soon as she got rid of this stupid rope-

Her savior lunged, slapping the knife out of the bandit's hand and catching him by the neck so quickly that Lucy had to blink, just to make sure she had actually witnessed that.

Bora struggled against his grip, clawing at his arm as he gasped for breath. “Y-you…” He coughed. “You monster!”

The pink haired boy dropped him, cracking his knuckles as Bora attempted to crawl away.

“Hit me with your best shot!” He screeched. “Monster!” 

And that’s when Lucy’s attention was directed towards a flying blue blob. It took her a minute to realize that the blue blob was the cat previously perched atop her savior's head. She couldn’t help the small shriek that erupted from her throat as the cat landed directly in front of her, a look of pride overtaking its face.

“Hold on!” It cried, using its claws to slowly cut away at the thick rope. Lucy stood stock still, mouth wide as she watched a cat! a talking cat, free her from her ‘Camel Prison’... 

This day just kept getting weirder and weirder. 

She felt the rope loosen up and took that moment to slip her hands free.

She rubbed her wrists, absentmindedly thanking the (blue, flying, taking-) cat and zoning back in on the fight. Well… what she thought would be a fight. Instead, Lucy saw Mr. Cargo Pants kneeling by a tied up and unconscious Bora, checking his pulse with a bored look in his eyes.

The girl wanted to laugh at how quickly that ‘battle’ had ended. In fact, she did laugh! How could she not? Here was Bora, big bandit leader with unquestionable power over his 14 lakey’s, beaten black and blue after a fight that had barely even lasted a minute.

Pathetic.

Lucy was almost ashamed to have put her morals over her own safety. Taking on this guy would have been a sinch, the rest would have probably run away with their tails between their legs. 

The girl released a breath, finally finished with her laughing fit. She wiped a tear from beneath her eye, grinning wide at her two saviors.

“You’ve got guts!” The cat… the blue, flying, talking cat.. Spoke. It spoke… Lucy felt her face twist in confusion.

“Thank you…?”

Mr. Cargo pants finished tying up the rest of the men and strode over to them, his arms crossed over his chest as he gave her a somewhat proud look. “Happy’s right y’know. I’ve never seen another girl in your situation stand up to their captor…” He paused before quietly adding. “Well maybe Erza but I doubt she’d get captured in the first place…”

“Happy’s?” Lucy questioned, raising her brow. “What do you mean?”

“That’s Happy.” He stated matter factly, pointing over to the flying cat- Holy Mavis, this would take some getting used to. It waved. Lucy numbly waved back.

Mr. Cargo Pants held out his hand in greeting. “And I’m Natsu!” Oh well that’s good, he’s got a name. Mr. Cargo Pants was starting to seem a bit bland based on his earlier performance. Maybe she’d just call him Fire Freak, pyromaniac for short?

“Hey Natsu.” The girl smiled kindly, getting over her initial shock and shaking his hand. He held onto her hand for longer than necessary, his grip strong. The pink-haired traveler held her gaze, dark onyx eyes practically burning into her soul. His calloused hand gave her own one last squeeze before he let go, looking around as if nothing just happened.

“What're you doing this far out in the desert anyways?”

Lucy blinked, her brain taking a minute to compute after his strange display of… comradery? “I was… Traveling.” She admitted.

“With them?” Natsu and Happy blinked, looking back at the pile of motionless body’s. Finally the boy turned back to her, shaking his head and clicking his teeth. “Man, you need to get yourself some better travel companions.”

“N-no!” She barked. “I was kidnapped while traveling! Are you an idiot!”

“Well why didn’t you just say so?”

Lucy ground her teeth in frustration. One more word out of this man’s mouth and she’d be wanted for murder. She rolled her eyes. What a scatter brain.

“Well, thank you for saving me.” She settled with, surveying the litter of body’s decorating the wide desert floor. “Can I ask you to direct me towards the closest town?”

Natsu nodded his head, pointing in a direction. “We’re actually headed to one right now. Care to join?”

“... Sure!” Lucy agreed after a bit of hesitation. She turned around and untied her very important pouch from her precious Camel Captor. 

“Thanks for keeping these safe, I guess.” She said to it. The camel snorted out a noise of disinterest as Lucy stroked it’s neck. 

Natsu let out a snort, turning away and whistling casually as Lucy sent him a hard glare. She may have been forcefully tied to and painfully dragged across the desert by this Camel, but still, she felt a sense of comradery between them. She was going to miss him…

As Lucy turned to leave, the camel let out a large glob of spit, barely missing her head. The girl shrieked and ran to catch up to a curious Natsu.

She takes it back. That damn animal won't be missed. Not one bit.

[swtnrcmnt]

୨୧ -- pink ribbons; e.m

warnings; swearing, fem!reader, eddie's a fucking perv lol, reader's very innocent and kinda ??? oblivious

a/n; the first time i'm actually writing a fic and diving into a somewhat (but not really) suggestive realm in my writing. also hi i love the new girl trope but what's new

from the moment he saw you walk into the english class on the first day back from summer break and head over to the seat next to him of all people, he knew this was going to be an interesting year. from the pink ribbons in your hair keeping your braided pigtails together to the white frilled socks accompanying your mary jane shoes, you were the total opposite of him in every single way. and he loved it.

"is this seat taken?" you asked, snapping him out of his thoughts. he had been hearing about you as the 'new girl' and had seen you out with nancy around town one or two times but had never seen you up close. he knew you were pretty, but he didn't know you were that pretty.

zoning back in, he finally replied. "oh. uh, it's not. you can sit." he smiled up at you, removing his bag from the chair and setting it next to him on the floor.

while you took out your notebook, folder, and pencil he watched attentively. he noticed your manicured nails, they were almond shaped and baby pink. he noticed how your cardigan was a bit too long and covered some of your hands. and he especially noticed how neat you were with everything you did.

breaking the silence between you two, he finally spoke up. "so, you're new to hawkins?" you nodded your head while muttering a soft 'mhm' as you wrote the date in your notebook

august 4, 1986 ♡

he paid special attention to the heart next to the year. everything about you was just so.. cute. even though he barely knew anything about you and it had only been a few minutes of sitting next to you, there was something about you.

"i came from florida. dad got a new job here so i didn't really get a say." you said, turning to him to make eye contact. "that must suck then. i bet you miss hot and sunny florida huh." he said, slightly pouting.

"mmm, not really. especially this time of year. it always gets too hot. plus, i'm looking forward to fall in a small town." you said, smiling.

and that was the start of it.

since then, you and eddie had become friends. although you did end up joining the cheer team and most days ate with them, you always made sure to stop by the hellfire club's table to say hello and give him one of your snacks that you packed every day. his special request was always a box of nerds. though you always suggested that he eat something that wasn't straight sugar.

"great suggestion angel, but i'm gonna stick with the sugar." was always his excuse to why he won't eat healthier snacks.

now, eddie always thought you were attractive and sort of always had a crush on you, ever since that first day of school in english class. but through getting to know you, the crush, and slight obsession, started to escalate.

you fully consumed his mind, and he both hated and loved it. anytime he saw a pink pair of platform heels, he thought of you. olivia newton-john starts playing? you.

it got to the extent he even thought of you while he was in his bedroom pleasuring himself. you, you, you. it's all he could ever think about.

which is why he couldn't control himself when he saw you at school or on weekends. you always wore the shortest skirts and tiniest tops, and eddie's mega tall so the height difference would never help, especially with the way you always had to look up at him to make eye contact. and he never wanted to be a perv but he just couldn't help but look down at your chest, but he always made sure to never make it obvious enough to make you uncomfortable.

but his not-so-innocent thoughts always got the best of him. cute pigtails he would think to himself whenever he saw you wear them to your weekend get togethers, but somehow his perverted brain finds a way to turn something as innocent as your pigtails into something dirty.

he felt terrible for seeing you that way so often. but he needed you so badly he needed you to know at some point.

so he calls you one night while he's smoking a joint and watching television home alone hoping the marijuana would calm his nerves. "yes eddie?" your somewhat raspy voice signaled to him you were already asleep even though it was only 10pm.

"sorry for waking you, angel" "oh it's alright. what did you need eds?" the weed in fact did not calm his nerves as he was already shaking thinking about what he's about to ask you. he didn't realize he had zoned out until you called his name again. "eddie? it's late, was there something you needed?" you asked again.

"oh um yes. i know it's already ten, but i was wondering if you wanted to spend the night?" now this shouldn't have made him so nervous. you had spent the night countless times before. but with his intentions being different this time, he was a nervous wreck.

he was mostly nervous because he wasn't sure if you even saw him the way he saw you, but little did he know he had the same effect on you as you did on him.

so many nights were spent thinking about him in ways that made your tummy feel weird, but you never knew what it meant so you just kept it to yourself. you noticed all the times he stared at your chest, or at your ass, or when he would stutter whenever you looked up at him while you were sitting. the worst part was that these things made you excited. you liked eddie, a lot. and you knew he liked you back, it was so obvious. you only hesitated to pursue him because you didn't know if the feelings the thought of him brought you were normal.

"um. sure. i'll tell my parents i'm at nancy's. i'll be over in about 15 minutes." you agreed, seeing this as your chance to finally confess to him about how you've been feeling.

now eddie on the other hand was practically shitting his pants, and his thought out plan to when you reject his offer had to be forgotten. quickly cleaning his room to the best of his ability, although he knew you wouldn't mind either way.

he froze once he heard the knocking on the trailer door. had it already been 15 minutes? trying to collect himself he took a deep breath and headed to open the door for you. and once he did? oh my.

you were wearing almost see-through white short shorts with a lace tank top that cut just before the hem of said shorts, paired with an oversized cardigan. and my goodness, your face. you even looked perfect when you were half asleep with that lip gloss you always had on and long lashes. you even wore his favorite hair ribbons to sleep.

seeing you at his doorstep instantly made his jeans tighten. but you didn't need to know that yet.

"hey, come in let's go to my room." he opened the door wider to give you some space to walk inside. he couldn't help but watch as your shorts gradually rode up the inside of your thighs. no. he had to control himself.

"so, uh. before you go to sleep can i talk to you about something?" he said, sitting next to you as you already underneath the covers and cuddled into his bed. you always loved going to his trailer. you loved the freedom, being able to listen to music as loud as you could, never really having any rules when his uncle wayne wasn't at home.

getting out from underneath the covers and sitting on your knees to get closer to him, you put your head on his shoulder. "sure eds, what is it?" you said, looking up at him. he looked back down at you and sighed. "i don't know how to say this without being.. weird."

giving him a confused look, you removed your head from his shoulder. "just say it eddie, i'm sure it's not so bad." if only you knew.

part 2???? :')

[trivial-pokemon-ramblings]

More champion headcannons because I haven’t posted in a while and my Wally draft is gone (thx tumblr)! Yay! These are more on the platonic side.

Most of my champion head cannons don’t really include Steven all that much. He’s too busy with playing with rocks to hang out with the others. Steven’s like that one friend who hangs out with you, but they barely talk at all. I should know, because I am that friend.

Wallace and Lance talk shit about Leon all the time. It’s because of his cape. Leon is too oblivious to know. They don’t talk to Leon unless it’s necessary. They sit on the other end of the table during Champion meetings too. They just sip their tea and judge silently. One time, Cynthia and Diantha came to Wyndon Stadium just to see Wallace and Lance stare at Leon. They 100% saw Lance and Wallace stare at Leon with murderous intent.

Wallace is trans no one can tell me otherwise. Wallace is mid-transition at the time of the games. I think Lance is intersex. There’s no logic to it, it just tickles a part of my brain. I don’t know much about intersex people, so I don’t want to go too in depth about it. Wallace definitely told Lance to get HRT because they both hate periods.

Cynthia is that one meme: “in the winter I like to wear a nice cozy black jacket. In the summer, I wear the same exact thing because I look good in black, and I’m willing to suffer.” And because Lance is everyone’s big brother, he tries to convince Cynthia to wear something white. It doesn’t work out. Diantha told Cynthia that she’d look good in white. Since Cynthia cannot say no to Diantha, Cynthia wore a white blouse with a floral skirt. Diantha went feral that day. Lance almost jumped off a cliff that day.

Wallace invites Diantha and Cynthia to have tea with them. He made mouth-watering sweets, and the two Champions devoured them in two minutes.

Lance is notorious for his hatred of the cold, and for some sick reason, Arceus made his birthday on the coldest day in the whole entire year. He hates it. He is big spoon until it gets colder, then he’s little spoon.

Steven is afraid of Gyarados, which is ironic since his closest friends have a dumb fuck amount of them. Wallace had to wait for two fuckin years to get a Feebass. Lance’s Kingdra keeps adopting magikarps, so Lance has no choice to catch them, so now he has 20% of the Gyarados population.

He also hates serpentine pokemon too. He almost never visits Blackthorn because Dratini and Dragonair are everywhere. The first time he visited, one of Lance’s Dratini somehow slithered into the bed he was sleeping in, so he screamed like a girl bloody murder. Lance came running in, finding Steven curled up in the corner of the room with a Dratini slithering closer and closer. Lance reminds Steven of it all the time.

When Wallace challenged Steven for the Champion title, Steven just gave him the title after Wallace sent out Milotic. Whenever Wallace says he wants to be Champion, he brings Milotic out to scare Steven into giving it to him.

Clair and Lisia like to torment Wallace and Lance for fun. Clair is Lisia’s best friend and partner in crime. Iris sometimes joins in too. Sometimes Iris enlists Zinnia’s help to include Steven in the torment.

Cynthia has a Lapras. I don’t know why I think this way. I just do.

Lance and Cynthia have this conspiracy theory that Will and Lucian are the same person. Turns out their distant relatives.

Sycamore had to grow up with two sisters: Diantha and Cynthia.

[atherflame-theconcubus]

Important announcement in the undercut. This is a long..

OK, so a lot has been going on so I’m just gonna say this now. Between the false harassment document, a document from a year ago that’s now just getting traction again, and then an anonymous person seemingly spreading it around from malicious intention. The community genuinely sucks.

Sucks considering I literally just came up with two different alternate universes yesterday that I do not plan on keeping (if anyone wants them, I can give you some rundowns on them)

I’m not abandoning my friends from the community, and I will keep interacting with them with the AU that I’ve already gotten built up upon a lot, and I will hopefully at some point talk about the other AUs for the community I have already listed on my pinned post, and possibly write for some of them over on my A03 account, but I will not be making any more, nor do I want to interact with this community anymore.

As someone who was formally in the buddies community (for a brief rundown on that community, a group of a bunch of children, deciding to get together to make death threat videos to another child who happened to be making troll animal abuse videos that got way out of hand and has a lot of genuinely problematic stuff, including philia, porn, incest, porn, and Loli art. All of which I have unfortunately seen, and become desensitized to) I never thought I would say this, but this community is worse than that one. Because even with how toxic they all are, that community is mostly children. Heck the biggest person in the community/founder of it is possibly 12 right now.

I would sooner go back to that community and apologize to people who accused me of harassment then ever wish to have a positive thought about the sun and moon show community. The community really is that bad.

And I stress this a lot because most of the people perpetuating the harassment in the bud community are children, who most likely don’t know any better. All the people perpetuating the harassment in this community are adults. And people are labeled as harassers, just standing with victims of horrible people.

All in all. This community somehow managed to take the crown for the most toxic community I’ve ever been in. And that is a lot consistently that this community would not be worse than the hate community.

And the biggest reason I say that is because despite me leaving the community and barely interacting with any of it which actually has decent content and is giving us a story with all the characters buds has, I can still make alternate universes and have fun while doing it there. If I make an alternate universe here I have to fear the big blog or other people trying to pressure me into including incest in it.

All in all. I’m saying this, but I hate this community more than the buds hate community. And I can consistently compare it to a cult.

If anyone is getting into this community from the Gacha community, I have recommendations on blogs you should avoid as they will willingly harass you for just trying to stand by people who are sent inappropriate artwork for just liking family dynamics

Dana-the-control-brain

Cephalon ghost

Witchy

Alexandraisyes

Ayyy-imma-ninja (mainly because she’s been standing by and letting people be harassed by her friends for just standing up for victims of harassment from people sending them Gore and corrective rape porn )

Pixelchills (I still genuinely do not want to believe that they actually participated in that fucking document, especially after I tried to clear a situation and keeping them from getting dragged in. I genuinely can’t look at their content the same anymore )

Shattered-sparks (they are someone who I trust, however, I currently now have conflicted feelings because of a document recently shared. I have yet to read it and I would like to trust my friend saying that since the document shattered has improved, however, I’m aware of the fact that everyone would be comfortable with them.)

A-Voice-For-The-Victims (I understand what they’re trying to do, but the way they’re going about it, at least from how I can see it, is only hurting everyone. They’re dragging something that should’ve been dead a long time ago on for longer than it should be because a random anon purposely dug up a year old document, and from what they said, they’re gonna continue to be a stalker. I get what they’re trying to do, but they’re just going about it in the worst way possible) (extra edition here, they just pulled a manipulation tactic. That is another reason why I do not feel safe with them in tsams community.)

My overall experience in this community was fun in the beginning because I got dragged into it by good people, then in the midpoint, I got scared about shipping my comfort ship because of the aforementioned family dynamics in the show, But a bunch of big users in the community have managed to make me hate a community for a show I already disliked.

I also want to skate this right now before I end the post.

DO NOT HARASS ANYONE I MENTIONED. IF YOU DON’T LIKE THEM JUST BLOCK AND GO ABOUT YOUR DAY.

Extra little addition due to something that happened that I’m gonna keep mostly private, the only people outside my friend group that I am interacting with in the sun and moon show community are the role-play blogs, as generally speaking I am 90% sure they are safe people interact with, plus it’s just fun seeing the chaos that goes down over there.. what has been stated above still applies.

[boxheadpaint]

juice induced hill depression. Back on meds again and hopefully going to get in touch with a new psych who can prescribe me something else. Have been very tired and unjoyful the past week but better now and playing modded Skyrim, initially just to make my oc in it but then just kept slamming more thangs in there. Mod that puts bunny rabbits everywhere. Also is there a mod that adds cute animal ears/suits as wearables or one that even makes the girl armor less sucks. Like im either fully leaning into the immersion breaking for self indulgence sake or im getting rid of the annoying shit.

visiting mom in Vegas earlier this month was nice except for the part where I hate Vegas. I know im not great with travel and settling into places can be a tough one for my brain but also my god it’s just evil there. Brilliantly so but still evil. I would have loved to enjoy the scenery surrounding the place more as deserts are just very beautiful and fascinating places but at no point during the day was the temperature less than a full hundred degrees Fahrenheit. It barely dropped during the night either. Between that and varying physical ailments (Oof Ouch My Digestive Sensitivities Lol) (Oof Ouch My Tendons Lol) (Oof Ouch The Agony Caused By Using Stairs Lol) it was the perfect conditions to be a miserable pile when I wanted to be with my family. As sad I was to part ways again I was not sorry to leave that place. Gained a new appreciation for changing up what I eat randomly to keep my body on its toes. At one point mom brought us to a pub and her husband asked for Diet Pepsi while I asked for regular Pepsi. Visually there’s no difference so we got handed the others pepsi and swapped. And then later after he refilled his Diet Pepsi another waiter came up and wordlessly refilled mine as well. With Diet Pepsi. Wasn’t even asked. Fucking stunned. Also went to a near dead mall that was nice anyway

stuck on brain zaps as a symptom of Specifically antidepressants withdrawal. There’s some things describing them as “mini seizures” in function. To me it’s like the body noticing the usual isn’t happening for some reason so it tries to jumpstart the brain into working good like before. universities I can go to with my theories. Back in and at it this week, hopefully to remain consistent for longer than before which will also likely help with the depression and anxiety. More people should just put stuff in their blood if they can

it can be embarrassing to express your misery more clearly to someone, specifying the fact fact thoughts running through your head. But then again it’s only embarrassing because your mind convinced you so, and will convince you that holding it in is also cruel and selfish. Finding it funny that animals probably don’t have as complex spirals and bouts of depression because they dont have a language to articulate to themselves in their own heads that something is awful in a very specific and contradicting way. Or actually no because there is still pattern recognition but that’s more a paranoia learned thing. Is there an animal that can randomly, for seemingly no reason evident to anyone including itself, experience crushing dread and self doubt. Is there an animal that feels shame besides man

had a tilt table test that was embarrassing too but for much more clear concrete reasons. Somehow didn’t know about that second part, and did complain through most of the first part because Oof Ouch Everything Hurts Lol. REALLY did not know the iv thing and had to once again sadly state that no, It has to go in the hand . I will say the experience was funny in the second part from the other ways because my first reaction was literally just “Uh Oh.” The moment I realized it was going to get worse. all I know is my blood pressure stayed consistent throughout, I don’t know what else im gonna hear about it. Hopefully something helpful.

is setting up an ABLE account difficult? Can anybody do it? It’s an issue dealt with by a lot of people but I should at least try to find a way to save money from benefits for the future or in case some stupid medical shit happens that the health won’t cover. I just looked up and saw Vinny sleeping while propping lubics head up with his foot. Hoping I can enjoy things normally again shortly,

8/26/2024, Still better than july

[starnotavailable]

Kiss of Death

Pairings: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung

Genre: psychological thriller 

Chapter: 6/?

Word Count: 3.8K

Warnings: HUGE MENTIONS OF DEATH!!!! violence, murder, death of a loved one, psychological distress, stalking?, gaslighting/manipulation, graphic autopsy/medical descriptions

Summary: Serial Killer Wooyoung picks San as his next victim until he finds out that San is the Medical Examiner working his case. Keeping him around could be useful, couldn't it?

masterlist

A/N:

I made a post about this previously but if you read chapter 5 when it came out there was an update!!! its only a couple hundred words at the end of the chapter but I feel it rounded it out a lot better!!

San wakes up warm.

Which is weird, because he usually wakes up cold. His apartment in the winter is unforgiving, and no matter how many blankets he piles on, it never quite keeps the chill away. But now—now, he’s completely surrounded by heat, something solid pressed against his chest, something soft beneath his cheek.

For a moment, he lets himself sink into it, caught between sleep and wakefulness, content in the lingering haze of warmth and wine.

It takes a second for everything to click. The couch. The soft weight against his chest. The fact that his arm is still loosely draped around Wooyoung’s waist.

San barely breathes, his entire body locked in place as his brain scrambles to process the situation. He’s curled up against Wooyoung—fully curled up, their legs tangled, San’s arm draped loosely around his waist. Worse, Wooyoung’s hand is resting lightly against San’s back, as if at some point in the night, he’d held him there on purpose.

San stiffens, his breath catching in his throat. His body feels sluggish, still heavy with sleep, but his mind is waking up fast. Carefully, he shifts, trying to pull away without making it obvious—

"Leaving so soon?"

Wooyoung’s voice is raspy with sleep but still carries that teasing lilt, and San immediately stops moving. He swallows, his brain scrambling for something—anything—to say.

"I—uh." His voice is hoarse, and he clears his throat before trying again. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you."

Wooyoung lets out a soft hum, stretching slightly but making no effort to move away. "You were warm."

San presses his lips together, unwilling to let the fact simmer too long. His face feels hot, but that could also just be leftover sleep. Slowly, he pushes himself upright, running a hand through his hair. "Still. I should probably—" He gestures vaguely, not really sure what he’s even trying to say.

San rubs at his face, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep as he reaches for his phone. The screen lights up, and the moment he sees the time, his stomach drops.

“Shit.” He whispered it so softly he thought he had only said it internally. He was supposed to wake up way earlier than this. He didn’t even set an alarm, he hadn’t expected Wooyoung to actually let him sleep the whole night.

San sits up straighter, suddenly way more awake. He scrolls through his notifications, checking the time again as if it’ll somehow change. Nope. He’s screwed.

"Something wrong?" Wooyoung asks, still lounging against the couch like he has all the time in the world.

San groans, ruffling a hand through his already-messy hair. "I don’t have time to go home before work."

Wooyoung raises an eyebrow, and San can already see the teasing forming in his expression.

"So what you’re saying is... you need to borrow my clothes?"

San sighs, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "I hate that you’re enjoying this."

"What can I say?" Wooyoung grins. "You waking up in my arms and wearing my clothes? Feels like a win for me."

San doesn’t even have the energy to argue.

San sighs, and drops his head to hide the blush creeping onto his face. "Just—tell me where I can find something decent for work."

Wooyoung stretches lazily before nodding toward the stairway. "Closet’s open. Help yourself." San doesn’t need to be told twice. He pushes himself off the couch, still feeling a little unsteady, and heads up to Wooyoung’s bedroom.

San steps into Wooyoung’s bedroom, still rubbing the last traces of sleep from his face. The room is clean, but not overly meticulous—lived-in, in a way that makes it feel warmer than San expected. He makes his way to the closet, pulling it open and scanning for something that won’t make him look like he just rolled out of someone else’s bed.

Nothing immediately jumps out at him, so he tugs open one of the drawers. Inside, a neat row of belts is coiled into compartments, like they’ve been deliberately organized.

Except for one.

San’s fingers hover over the empty slot. It’s not like there isn’t enough to fill the space—there are plenty of belts, different colors and styles, all perfectly arranged—but something about that lone, missing piece feels... off.

He glances around the room without thinking. Wooyoung obviously isn’t wearing a belt to sleep. There isn’t one thrown over a chair, on the bed, or anywhere in sight. Just that one empty space, like something was there and isn’t anymore. It doesn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t. But a weird feeling settles in his chest anyway. 

San is pulled from his thoughts by the sound of wooyoung in the kitchen beneath him, the sizzling sound accompanied by the smell of bacon telling him he was making breakfast.

By the time he comes downstairs, he’s still buttoning up the cuffs of his borrowed shirt, his vest left undone for now. The scent of coffee and something sweet drifts through the air, warm and inviting, and it’s enough to pull him from his thoughts.

Wooyoung is standing at the stove, humming to himself as he flips a pancake onto a growing stack. He looks over his shoulder when he hears San approach, a lazy smirk forming on his lips.

"Well, don’t you clean up nice," he teases.

San sighs, rolling his eyes as he fastens the last button on his vest. "I feel weird wearing your clothes."

Wooyoung just shrugs. "You look good in them, though."

San pointedly ignores that, instead reaching for the mug of coffee already waiting for him on the counter. He hesitates for half a second before taking a sip—just the way he likes it.

He eyes Wooyoung. "You put sugar in this?"

Wooyoung grins. "What do you take me for, a bad host?"

San exhales, shaking his head as he leans against the counter. In this quiet little moment he lets himself focus on the warmth of the coffee in his hands, the smell of pancakes in the air, and the way Wooyoung moves effortlessly around the kitchen.

For now, this is enough.

San takes another sip of coffee, letting the warmth settle into his chest when Wooyoung slides a plate in front of where he's sitting at the island.

He’s halfway through his pancakes, focused on buttoning up his cuffs in between bites, when Wooyoung leans against the counter with a casual smirk.

"You know," Wooyoung starts, tone light but unmistakably mischievous, "I've never made dinner and breakfast for someone under these circumstances."

San hums absently. "Huh?" He glances up, confused.

Wooyoung’s grin widens, eyes glinting with amusement. "I mean, usually if I’m feeding a guy twice in one night, it’s because we—"

He swallows a little too quickly, nearly choking.

Wooyoung cackles, clearly pleased with himself. "What? It’s true!"

San quickly shoves another bite of pancake into his mouth, mostly to stop himself from saying anything dumb. His face is burning.

Wooyoung, fully enjoying his reaction, tilts his head. "So? No thoughts? No witty comeback?"

San swallows, then mumbles, "I just wasn’t expecting that."

"Adorable." Wooyoung grins, turning back to the stove to clean up.

San groans softly, finishing the last of his food while he buttons up his vest. He thanks Wooyoung and makes his way to the bathroom where he had gotten changed before, his clothes neatly folded up and stored in a basket on top of the sink. He quickly grabs his belt and watch that was laying on top of everything and pulls them on. 

By the time he exits the bathroom and grabs his coat, his face has cooled slightly—but when he heads toward the door, Wooyoung just has to get the last word in.

"Oh, and San?"

San hesitates. "Yes?"

Wooyoung flashes him a cheeky smile. "Next time, you could at least kiss me goodnight."

San nearly trips over his own feet. "I’m leaving!"

Wooyoung just laughs as San rushes out, the warmth of his teasing lingering even as San steps into the cold morning air.

San barely registers the cold as he steps outside, pulling his coat tighter around himself out of habit more than anything. His body moves on autopilot—down the street, onto the subway, earbuds in—but his mind is elsewhere.

He replays the morning in his head, over and over, like a song stuck on repeat. The warmth of Wooyoung’s body against his. The way their legs had been tangled under the blanket. The slow, steady rise and fall of Wooyoung’s breathing.

His face heats up again.

And then, the teasing. The way Wooyoung knew exactly what he was doing—just to see him squirm. San groans softly, covering his face with one hand as he leans against the train window.

It’s not like he didn’t already know that he likes Wooyoung. That much had been clear for a while now. But something about last night made it feel real in a way that caught him off guard. They weren’t just messing around. They weren’t just dancing around the edges of something unspoken.

San had fallen asleep in Wooyoung’s arms. And when he woke up, Wooyoung was still there, holding him like it was the most natural thing in the world. It would be so easy to pretend none of this means anything. To act like he’s just overthinking it, like it’s just Wooyoung being Wooyoung. But then he remembers the way Wooyoung looked at him. The way he made him coffee without being asked. The way he lingered in the doorway as San left, like he had more to say but didn’t.

San exhales, tilting his head back against the seat.

I should’ve kissed him.

The thought slips in so suddenly that it knocks the breath out of him. His stomach flips. He shakes his head quickly, as if that’ll make the idea disappear. Nope. Nope, not thinking about that right now. He watches the lights blurring past the window, willing himself to focus on anything else. But even as the train rattles on, the warmth of the morning lingers, settling deep in his chest.

Before he knows it, he’s stepping through the doors of the morgue, the familiar scent of lingering coffee and chemicals snapping him back to reality. He’s barely made it to his desk when a voice cuts through the noise.

"You smell like syrup."

San freezes. Slowly, very slowly, he turns his head to find Hongjoong leaning against his desk, arms crossed, an eyebrow raised.

San blinks. "What?"

"Syrup," Hongjoong repeats, tilting his head. "As in, the kind you pour over pancakes. Which is interesting, considering I know you don’t eat breakfast before work." San opens his mouth, then closes it. His brain short-circuits for a full two seconds before he stammers, 

"I-uh-had breakfast with Wooyoung."

Hongjoong hums, as if this is the most fascinating discovery he’s made all week. "Right. Because you were at his place last night."

San stiffens. "I—"

"Mingi told me."

San groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Of course he did."

"So you were with Wooyoung this morning," Hongjoong says, slow and deliberate.

San swallows. "Yes."

"And you weren’t at home last night."

San hesitates. "…No."

Hongjoong’s lips twitch. He doesn’t smile—not exactly—but the amusement is unmistakable. "Hm." San shifts awkwardly, heat creeping up his neck. "It’s not—It wasn’t—"

Hongjoong holds up a hand. "You don’t have to explain. I’m just observing." He pauses, eyes flicking over San’s outfit. "And those are… Wooyoung’s clothes?"

San bristles, tugging at his vest instinctively. "No! I mean—just the shirt. And the tie. And the vest." Hongjoong hums. "Right." There’s a beat of silence. San can feel the teasing lingering in the air, waiting to strike.

Then, finally, Hongjoong grins. "So. When’s the wedding?" San groans, dropping his head onto his desk. He’s never going to live this down.

San groans again, already regretting coming in today. He barely manages to shake off the embarrassment as he shrugs on his lab coat, but the warmth in his chest—the memory of Wooyoung’s teasing smile, the lingering taste of syrup on his lips—stays with him.

San is still recovering from Hongjoong’s teasing when his assistant flips open a folder and slides it across the table.

"Alright, lover boy," Hongjoong says, all business now. "Time to focus. We’ve got another body."

San exhales, grateful for the change in subject—until he actually looks at the file. His brow furrows. 

"Wait… this victim is male?"

—

Case No. : ME-854-10

Date of Examination: January 19, 2025

Autopsy Performed by : 

Choi San, M.D.

10 Ipchun-ro

Gangnam, Seoul 06000

Patient Information

Name: John Doe

Age: Unknown 

Sex: Male

Date of Death: 01/17/2025

Investigative Agency:

Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency

External Examination:

External Examination:

The autopsy begins at 9:15 A.M. on January 19, 2025. The body is presented in a black body bag. The victim is wearing a dark green button-up shirt, partially unbuttoned, and black dress slacks. A black wristwatch with a silver face is fastened to the left wrist. The victim is barefoot. A 1.25-inch wide dark fabric ligature is wrapped around the neck, knotted at the back. The fabric appears to have been pulled tightly and secured with a double knot.

The body is that of a Korean male measuring 70 inches, weighing 152 pounds, and appearing to be in his mid to late twenties. The body is cold and unembalmed. Petechial hemorrhaging is present in the conjunctival surfaces of the eyes. The pupils measure 0.4 cm. The hair is dark, straight, and approximately 9 inches in length.

Removal of the ligature revealed a distinct ligature mark (known throughout the report as Ligature A) across the mid-neck region, measuring approximately 1.25 inches in width. The mark is dark red with a sharp lower border and a slightly diffuse upper border, consistent with a soft ligature. Minor abrasions are present along the posterior aspect of the ligature mark. The presence of hemorrhage in the subcutaneous tissue surrounding Ligature A indicates antemortem application.

Additionally, faint contusions are present on either side of the laryngeal prominence, inconsistent with the ligature’s width and placement. These contusions are roughly oval-shaped, measuring approximately 1.5 cm in diameter, and are symmetrically positioned along the lateral aspects of the neck. The distribution and shape suggest possible manual pressure applied prior to or during ligature strangulation.

Further examination of the skin revealed faint linear abrasions on the victim’s wrists, though no binding materials were present upon arrival. No defensive wounds or additional external injuries were noted.

Opinion

Time of Death: Body temperature, rigor and livor mortis, and stomach contents approximate the time of death between 7:30 and 9:30 P.M. on 01/17/2025

Immediate Cause of Death: Asphyxia due to ligature strangulation (Ligature B). Ligature A is made post mortem.

Remarks: Decedent originally presented to this office as a suicide victim. Presence of the post mortem ligature mark suggest that suicide in this case is highly improbable. SMPA detectives were notified of this finding immediately upon conclusion of examination.

Manner of Death: Homicide

// Choi San M.D.

Gangnam National Forensics Service Coroner’s Office

January 10, 2025

Hongjoong crosses his arms. "Same age range as the others, same cause of death—strangulation. Same precise ligature marks. But this is the first time our guy has targeted a man."

San flips through the report, stomach twisting slightly as he takes in the familiar autopsy notes. The bruising, the angle of the pressure applied, the eerily consistent pattern of the wounds. Everything about it matches. Except for this.

"It’s a break in the pattern," San murmurs.

"Exactly," Hongjoong says. "Which means it’s either a mistake, a new preference, or something personal."

San hums, still reading. The victims had been strangled, but the murder weapon had varied—some with rope, others with fabric, a few with what seemed to be a belt. This victim, though…

His gaze lands on the evidence list, a brief mention of fibers found on the neck. Not rope. Not ordinary cloth. Something thick, durable.

San’s fingers twitch slightly.

"What is it?" Hongjoong asks, watching him.

San hesitates. "Nothing. Just… wondering."

Hongjoong shrugs. "Forensics is still running tests. But whatever it was, it left a pretty distinct imprint. Almost like a” — He pauses, flipping through the notes. “A belt maybe?” 

San’s throat goes dry at Hongjoong’s words. He pictures Wooyoung’s room. The organized drawers. The empty space where a belt should have been.

It’s probably nothing. A coincidence. But still, his pulse ticks a little faster.

San stares at the report, pen hovering over where he just scribbled his signature, but the words don’t make sense. His eyes flick over the details again. The clothing. The time of death. The marks on the body.

A man.

The first break in the pattern.

It was easier before. Easier to categorize, to make sense of. Women. Smaller. Easier to overpower. They were always dressed like they had been out, not comfortable enough to go clubbing so a date made more sense. That made it simple. Maybe they left with the wrong person. Maybe they trusted someone they shouldn’t have. Maybe they didn’t see it coming.

But this? This is different.

Why take the risk? Why go after someone stronger?

Unless the killer knew him. Unless there was something else tying him to the others. Unless…

San exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. His food sits untouched beside him, the heat long since fading. He hadn’t even meant to get lunch. He just ended up here, tray in front of him, brain running in circles. His knee bounces under the table. His fingers drum against the edge of his phone, restless, unfocused.

Then it buzzes. He jumps slightly before glancing down. The notification flashes across the screen.

[Wooyoung]: Did you make it to work on time? Or did I ruin your whole morning? 

San blinks at it, his mind taking a second too long to switch gears. He wasn’t even thinking about this morning. About Wooyoung’s warmth still clinging to his skin, about the way he had woken up tangled against him. About the syrup.

His stomach twists. Not now. Not the time.

But before he can lock his phone, it buzzes again.

[Wooyoung]: You didn’t eat much this morning. Don’t skip lunch.

San stares at the message, something tight curling in his chest. Wooyoung had noticed.

He swallows hard at the cold food he had barely touched. His thoughts are still running rampant, but now, in between them, Wooyoung’s voice lingers.

He exhales, fingers finally moving to type a reply.

I made it. Barely. And I’m eating. 

He hesitates, then adds—

You don’t have to worry about me.

[Wooyoung]: You? Eating? I don’t believe it. Send proof. [Wooyoung]: If not, I’ll have to start meal-prepping for you, and I really don’t want to be that person.

A breathy chuckle escapes before he can stop it. He can practically hear Wooyoung’s teasing tone, the playful tint of his voice. The words are light, easy. A reminder of something outside this hospital, outside this case.

But right now, San can’t bring himself to play along.

He locks his phone without responding, tucking it into his pocket as he stands. His food remains untouched. He doesn’t even remember ordering it.

By the time he makes it back downstairs, the sterile scent of the morgue fills his lungs, and for the first time, it feels suffocating. His stomach churns. He barely registers Hongjoong’s voice until it’s directed at him.

“You look like shit.”

San blinks, glancing up to find Hongjoong watching him with narrowed eyes, arms crossed. He’s never been one to sugarcoat things.

“I’m fine,” San mutters, brushing past him to grab a pair of gloves.

Hongjoong doesn’t let it go. “No, you’re not.”

San huffs, exasperated. “I’m just tired.”

“After your super comfy sleepover?” Hongjoong counters, leaning against the metal table. “You’re always tired, but today? You’re off.You didn’t even hear me the first two times I called your name.”

San clenches his jaw. He hadn’t realized.

Hongjoong sighs, pushing off the table. “Look, I know you’re overthinking. You always do.” His voice softens—just slightly. “But you’re not gonna figure this out if you work yourself into the ground. Go home.”

San shakes his head immediately. “No. I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Hongjoong says, firmer this time. “I’ll cover for you. Just—take the night. Sleep. Eat something that isn’t caffeine. Whatever you need to do to not look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

San exhales through his nose, tension coiled tight in his chest. His first instinct is to argue, to insist he can handle it.

But he doesn’t.

Because, for once, Hongjoong is right.

San exhales, rubbing his temples. Every instinct tells him to push through, to do something—but for once, he doesn’t fight it.

“…Alright.” The word leaves him quieter than he expected. “I’ll go.”

Hongjoong looks surprised for a split second before nodding. “Good. You need it.”

San hesitates, glancing toward the exam table. “If you need me—”

“I’ll call,” Hongjoong interrupts, waving a hand. “But I won’t need to. I’m just wrapping up tests and putting everything away.”

San exhales through his nose, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, just go before I change my mind.”

Hongjoong turns back to his work, and San doesn’t give himself time to second-guess. He pulls off his gloves, tosses them, and grabs his coat. His mind is still racing, but at least for now, he’s leaving.

San doesn’t remember deciding to come here. One moment, he was leaving work, his thoughts a tangled mess, and the next, he was standing in front of Wooyoung’s door.

He hesitates, fingers hovering over the handle before he exhales and knocks.

A few seconds pass. Then footsteps. The door swings open, revealing Wooyoung in sweats and an oversized hoodie, hair slightly tousled like he’d just gotten up. His brows lift in surprise before his lips curve into something smug.

He hums, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon. Miss me already?”

San exhales, something like a laugh but more tired than amused. He should’ve expected that.

“I…” He hesitates, his grip tightening at his sides. The words feel heavy in his mouth. “I just—ended up here.”

For a moment, Wooyoung just watches him, the teasing glint in his eyes softening into something else. Then, without a word, he steps aside, holding the door open.

“C’mon in.”

San doesn’t think twice before stepping inside, the familiar warmth of Wooyoung’s apartment settling around him. The door clicks shut behind him, quiet but certain.

And for the first time all day, he lets himself breathe.

----

OKAY!!! finally getting to tie everything in to each other and im super excited. the beginning of the end if you will :3

[pouringoutmythoyghtsbefore1drown]

JJK MANGA SPOILERS AHEAD:

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i found this in my notes app and was like yeah i could post it. why not?

(BELOW)

My vision of what Megumi might say if he wrote a eulogy for Gojo and was probably mega sleep deprived:

I don’t think he’d willingly make any sort of public speech. this is quite ooc. Though honestly I think Megumi would agree with some of these points i don’t think he’d actually verbalise them. but fuck it. He isn’t real anyways lmao.

Gojo Satoru is not ‘The Strongest’. He was I guess at some point but not anymore because… well… he’s dead. I think Gojo would appreciate some jokes in this speech thing… but comedy and public speaking are two things I’m not great at and generally avoid so bare with me.

Gojo was a teacher, a mentor… whatever you want to say his job was he was really shit at it because he was so good at everything that teaching anything step by step was almost impossible. Somehow, he did well enough since i’m here talking to you guys and you guys are here listening.

Gojo, in general, pissed me off and I made sure he was aware of it. He was annoying in a sibling way. An older brother who was better, faster, stronger. He wasn’t around much when I was younger and calling him a parental figure would be a lie since when we first met he was basically as old as i am now. which is… weird… very weird… because back then he was an adult in my brain.

Knowing what I know now… about Gojo and my biological father as well as reflecting on what Gojo would call ‘Megumi’s Teenage Angst Era’, I’m surprised I didn’t end up the same way as my father.

(Megumi has to actually try not to laugh here. No one else finds this funny but Yuji gives a forced awkward laugh because he feels bad.) (Maki probably laughs a bit)

For some reason, this overpowered guy who could literally have the world do what he pleased because no one could stop him decided to be a teacher. What a dumbass? Seriously. Or… I mean… I guess I’m a dumbass for not seeing how much he chose to do to help us. Not only us as a collective, but as individuals.

I don’t really know what else to say except the fact that he cared. Do you know how important that is? When you’re a kid and no one gives a shit about you and you’re alone it sucks and it’s scary but then some tall dumbass with stupid white hair comes into your life and you can’t get rid of him… no matter how hard you try. A guy who can’t really cook or take you to school in the mornings. A guy who sometimes appears at the apartment you live at that he payed for. A guy who somehow manages to show up when you need him. No matter how hard I tried to push Gojo away he was always just… there. Well… not anymore but you get the point.

It’s quiet without him. That’s the biggest difference. I enjoy silence. I like being alone and by myself and I definitely make that clear to everyone I know. Gojo obviously chooses- chose to ignore this. It’s stupid… but sometimes I expect him to pull a stupid stunt and pop out of a box saying it was all a prank. I feel like he’s just one hallway away from disturbing any peace and quiet that settles over the rubble we pretend isn’t around us. But he’s not. He’s dead.

(Megumi becomes aware that he is actually speaking out loud in front of a group of people and not just to himself. He quickly gets back to the rough script he has on the scrap paper before him)

Gojo made so many of us feel like we have a purpose in life. Because when no one else believed in you he’d always make that infuriatingly stupid smirk and then say something equally as annoying and wise like ‘the only thing holding you back is yourself’ or ‘i know you have potential’ or even just ‘you’re doing great. keep going’. Honestly, it pissed me off because he was usually right. Not that i’d ever admit that to him. Not that… not that i really can admit it to him anymore.

Im tired. We’re all tired and I hate public speaking. I hope you didn’t expect me to go on about his achievements or whatever because then I think you either don’t know me or you never knew him.