#and stare at the countdown screen without blinking

[midnightmemoirsofher]

𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘏𝘦𝘢𝘵

“You ever notice how quiet you get when you don’t wanna leave a moment?”

ᶜᴴᴬᴾᵀᴱᴿ ¹⁰ - ᴵᴺ ᴮᴱᵀᵂᴱᴱᴺ ᴾᴸᴬʸᴸᴵˢᵀ

London stood in front of her bathroom mirror, hair still damp from the shower, hoodie sleeves tugged down over her hands. Her skin still held the faint, warm scent of cocoa butter and peppermint. Bare-faced. Clean. Comfortable.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. She didn’t rush to look. Didn’t need to. She already knew who it was.

“On the way. You sure?” His contact name was saved as Poppa. She still rolled her eyes every time she saw it.

She stared at the message for a second too long, thumb hovering. Then typed back: “Yeah. Come through.”

Her reflection blinked back at her, calm but buzzing under the surface.

She didn’t know what she was more nervous about: streaming with Stack next to her… or him just being in her space again. Like that. Casual. Close.

London turned off the bathroom light and stepped into the hallway, the familiar creak in the floorboards under her socked foot snapping her back to real life.

She was halfway through fixing her mic setup when she heard the knock. Two slow taps. Then a third one sharp.

She smirked. Of course, he had a pattern.

London opened the door, and there he was, Elias, red fitted turned backwards, white tee hugging his arms, gray sweatpants, and Jordan 4s. Same silver chain. Same sly little grin tugging at his bottom lip.

He held up a six-pack of ginger beer and a small paper bag.

“For your nerves,” he said. “And your sweet tooth.”

She didn’t laugh. Not out loud. But her lips twitched.

“That obvious?” she said.

“You blink like twelve times when you nervous,” Elias muttered, brushing past her and into the apartment like he’d always been there.

“You keepin’ count now?”

“I notice stuff.”

The door clicked shut behind her. Her hoodie suddenly felt too warm.

They sat side-by-side at her streaming desk, knees barely not touching. Her chat overlay was open. Notifications already piling up. The countdown screen showed her starting in three minutes.

Tasha had been modding since before London brushed her teeth.

tashathemod: READY FOR POPPA STACKKKKKKK 😭😭😭 ominance: bet he’s fine. Is he gonna talk? He got a grill? does he like thick women who hate everybody? nightbot: chill or banned. 🦷 chatuser87: HE RIGHT THERE I SEE HIMMM

London cleared her throat and angled her webcam just enough to cut Elias off-screen.

“You sure you don’t wanna be in it?” she asked, adjusting her mic.

“Nah,” he said, leaning back in the chair with a lazy smile. “Let the mystery breathe.”

Her monitor reflected his red cap behind her shoulder like a shadow.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, only for her. “Need me to bounce?”

“No,” she said, too fast. Then softer, “No. You cool.”

He tapped her knee under the desk. Just once. A reassurance.

She clicked into OBS. The screen blinked live. And just like that—London was on.

“What’s up, y’all,” she said, voice smooth but not steady. “Welcome to the stream. I got a special guest with me, but he shy…”

The chat exploded.

tashathemod: shy where. shy HOW. He built like gideon from mortal kombat ominance: let me see his hands i’m tryin to see something chatuser87: IF HE BLINKS TWICE THAT MEAN HE SINGLE

Elias didn’t say a word—but he leaned forward enough to be seen from the collarbone down. The chain. The tattoos. The flex in his forearm as he reached for his drink.

Chat lost its mind.

London bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too hard. Elias caught it. Smirked without looking at her.

They played a cozy horror indie called “Lakeview Signal.” He made sarcastic comments. She tried not to giggle. At one point he shouted “He behind you!” and she actually screamed.

“You a terrible co-pilot,” she muttered. “You a terrible runner,” he shot back, laughing.

Every now and then, her elbow brushed his. Once, her hoodie sleeve caught on the hem of his shirt. She tried to pull back.

He didn’t move. Just kept looking at the screen. But his fingers curled slightly… like he was remembering the touch.

Halfway through stream, her chat lit up again:

ominance: he lookin at her like he ain’t slept in a week tashathemod: it’s the way she leans toward him when she laughs for me chatuser87: Y’ALL IN LOVE STOP FAKING

London paused the game.

“Alright y’all. We takin’ a break. Y’all need water. And prayer.”

She muted the mic. Turned toward Elias. He was already looking at her.

“You havin’ fun?” she asked, voice low.

He nodded once, eyes still locked on hers.

“You know I am.”

There was a beat. Nothing moved. Not the chat. Not the room. Not her.

Then he leaned in, slow. Only enough to press his lips to her forehead. Warm. Firm.

Not teasing. Not playful.

Solid.

London blinked.

He leaned back. Didn’t say anything.

London shut the mic off with a single click, the familiar end-screen fading onto her monitor in soft pastel purples and flickering VHS static. Her stream was over, but her pulse was still ticking too high.

Elias stretched beside her, arms raised until his shirt rode up just a bit. London caught a glimpse of skin—ink and muscle and that one birthmark low on his side—and instantly looked away.

“You gettin’ hungry?” he asked, voice rough and smooth all at once.

She nodded, leaning forward to shut down the stream deck. “Yeah. I got Thai menus in the drawer.”

“Lemme guess…” he drawled. “Shrimp pad, mild, no bean sprouts?”

London turned her head, narrowed her eyes. “How’d you—”

“I notice shit,” he repeated, like it was nothing.

She stood and moved toward the kitchen, feeling his eyes follow her the entire way.

Fifteen minutes later, the scent of basil and pepper oil filled the apartment. Elias was on the floor in front of the couch, legs stretched out, flipping through her Switch games like he owned them.

“You really play this?” he asked, holding up Cooking Simulator. (AN: I may have over 100 hours on that game😂)

“It relaxes me,” she said, plopping onto the couch behind him. “Unlike men.”

He laughed from deep in his chest and looked up over his shoulder.

“You got jokes tonight.”

“I stream for a living,” she said, mouth full of rice. “Comedy’s my trauma response.”

“Same,” he muttered, stretching his long arm up behind him to steal a bite from her plate without asking.

London smacked his hand, but didn’t stop him. Not really.

The game they settled on was called Crimson Pledge, a two-player horror story set in a haunted boarding school. Pixelated graphics. Slow tension. Loud jumpscares. The perfect mix of cozy and terrifying.

Elias insisted on controlling the flashlight. London rolled her eyes every time he let it drift just out of range on purpose.

“You doing that on purpose,” she hissed as her character tripped over an empty desk.

“Nah,” he said, but he was smirking.

Eventually, she leaned forward too much, trying to read a pixelated diary clue, and her shoulder pressed fully against his.

He didn’t move.

Neither did she.

They paused to eat again. Music played low in the background from London’s playlist. 90s R&B. Of course.

“That’s Teddy, right?” Elias asked, licking sauce off his thumb.

London nodded. “One of my favorites.”

“Heard that,” he said, tapping her speaker twice with his knuckle like a salute. “I almost brought my records.”

“You got a record collection?” she asked, surprised.

“Man, I grew up on vinyl,” Elias said. “Pops used to play Teddy, Marvin, Barry… real smooth shit—before he got…” He paused. Blinked once. Then took a bite.

London didn’t push. She just let the silence breathe. That, too, was intimacy.

After dinner, she excused herself to change, claiming she was overheating.

She came back out in an oversized tee and a pair of black cotton shorts that clung just enough to outline the curve of her hips. Her legs were bare. Her hair was tied up now, curls loose and soft.

Elias looked up once, from the floor. Then again.

Slower.

She pretended not to notice the way his eyes dropped, dragged back up, then held her face.

“Comfortable?” he asked, voice a little lower now.

“Trying to be,” she said quietly, dropping beside him on the rug.

“You look it.”

She didn’t say anything. But her pulse picked up again.

The next round of the game was quieter.

He didn’t joke as much. She didn’t flinch as often.

There was a new silence between them, heavier than before, but not bad. Not awkward.

Just… aware.

He passed her the controller without brushing her fingers. But she felt the static anyway.

“Y’all need to quit playing. Go ahead and fall in love before I throw my phone in the river.”

The text from Tasha popped up on London’s lockscreen mid-game.

London smirked.

“That your mod?” Elias asked casually, still staring at the controller.

“Yeah. Tasha. She in love with your whole situation.”

“Situation?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, the whole… bossy protector, quiet thug with a soft spot vibe,” London teased.

Elias didn’t argue. He just smiled with his mouth closed and looked back at the screen.

At the next break, while London gathered the empty containers into the trash bag, Elias grabbed his phone. But instead of mindlessly scrolling Twitter, he opened Instagram and pulled up her page.

She hadn’t even noticed he was looking until she returned with two bottles of water and saw her profile photo, her face, lit by soft neon light from Halloween two years ago, reflected in his phone screen.

She didn’t say anything.

He scrolled slow. Thumb dragging like he was taking his time. Her horror art. Her messy digital sketches. A piece that looked like Blade and Ghostface at a vinyl record shop—one that had thousands of likes.

And then…

He paused.

A black-and-white post. A notebook. Lyrics scribbled across the page in ink.

“I don’t need permission to stay broken / But I’d still let you carry me / If your hands ain’t scared to hold me wrong.”

Elias’s face changed when he read it. Not big. Not dramatic. Just quiet.

London set the waters down gently. “That was from last month,” she said. “Just lyrics. Not even a song yet.”

“You write like you feel too much,” he said.

“And you talk like you feel nothing,” she said back.

He glanced at her. Smirked. “That what you think?”

“No,” she said after a beat. “I think you feel everything. You just wait too long to say it.”

The silence after that settled deep.

Elias locked his phone and set it on the floor beside him.

“You tired?” she asked softly.

“Nah,” he said, rubbing the side of his jaw. “More like… full. But in my chest.”

She nodded. Quiet again.

Then she reached out and brushed her fingers lightly along his cheekbone. Just under his eye. Like she was brushing something off.

There was nothing there. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile either.

He just let her do it.

They were back on the floor.

The screen still glowed, but the controller had been dropped beside a half-empty bag of gummy bears. The game was paused somewhere in a dark hallway, a pixelated shadow reaching for something it could never quite grab.

London sat cross-legged, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows. Elias leaned against the couch, forearms resting on his knees.

He smelled like ginger beer and clean skin.

The lights were low, but not dim enough to hide the line of ink along his bicep.

“That one,” she said, reaching out and brushing her knuckle along the thick tattoo that wrapped the inside of his forearm. “What is it?”

Elias looked down. Followed her hand. Then flexed slightly.

“That’s the first one I ever did on myself.”

“You tattooed yourself?”

He nodded. “Borrowed a kit when I was seventeen. Dumb move. Looked like trash at first. But I kept practicing.”

“You taught yourself?”

“Me and Smoke both. We was broke and angry. Needed somethin’ that didn’t talk back.”

London smiled faintly. “Did you ever mess one up?”

“Couple. Fixed most of ‘em. But I got one on my thigh that look like a possessed pigeon.”

She actually laughed.

“Show me.”

“Hell nah,” he said, grinning. “You ain’t earned that yet.”

London shook her head. Then pointed at another piece—a detailed skull surrounded by roses etched across his forearm.

“That one’s clean. What’s it mean?”

“Pain that made peace with itself.”

He didn’t blink when he said it.

Her fingers paused near his wrist. Her gaze softened.

“That’s beautiful,” she said, voice low.

“You got any?”

“Tattoos?”

“Yeah.”

She nodded. “Five.”

“All hidden?”

“Only to people who don’t know where to look.”

That made Elias raise an eyebrow.

“So if I wanted to find ‘em…” “…you’d have to be very respectful and very patient,” she said, smirking.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Then, after a long pause, he added—

“Got a design I never used.”

“Why not?”

“It ain’t for just anybody.”

London tilted her head. Curious now.

“What is it?”

“A blade.” “Like the weapon?” “Like the vampire hunter.”

That made her blink. “Blade? Like… Marvel Blade?”

He finally looked at her. Dead on. Serious.

“Yeah. You said that’s your favorite, right?”

She didn’t remember telling him that. But she must have.

“You drew a Blade piece?”

“Been sketching it for a year. Has his sword, a rose vine through the grip, blood dripping into a cassette tape.”

London sat back a little, absorbing that.

“You never inked it on anybody?”

“Nah.”

“Why?”

Elias looked at her, and for once, didn’t smirk.

“It’s not a piece for just anybody.”

She didn’t ask again. Didn’t need to.

The way he said it sounded like a bookmark. Like the conversation wasn’t over, just waiting.

London stood up suddenly and stretched, arms above her head, spine cracking softly.

“Alright,” she said, walking toward the coffee table drawer. “We need a palette cleanser.”

“Palette cleanser?” Elias asked, watching her move.

“Yes,” she said, pulling out a box of black-and-red playing cards with glossy edges. “You ever played Truth or Drink: Late Edition?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Late edition soundin’ like trouble.”

“Only if you lie.”

She dropped the deck between them and sat cross-legged, pulling her hoodie back down over her knees.

Elias leaned forward and shuffled the cards lazily. His fingers were long, precise. His chain shifted against his shirt.

The first few rounds were harmless.

“Ever been skinny-dipping?” “Nah.” “Lame.”

“Ever lied to get out of sex?” “Yes.” “Damn. Savage.”

But then came—

“Truth: Do you like being touched?”

Elias didn’t answer right away.

London blinked, realizing she’d pulled the card without thinking. She reached for the drink in case he didn’t want to answer.

But he stopped her hand.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “When it’s right.”

His fingers didn’t let go of her wrist right away.

Then they both laughed, a little too loud, a little too at the same time.

Tasha’s text popped up on London’s phone again:

tashathemod: don’t do nothin I wouldn’t do tashathemod: which really is like 3 things tashathemod: blink if he smell like sandalwood and decisions

London turned the phone face-down.

Elias caught the smirk and didn’t ask.

They kept playing. Then switched to a short indie co-op horror game with chunky animation and weird character voices. At one point, Elias let London win on purpose.

“You ain’t gotta baby me,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“I ain’t babyin’ you,” he said, stretching his legs out long. “I’m lettin’ you think you doin’ somethin’.”

“I’ll bite you.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

She tried to hide her grin behind her sleeve again, but failed. He was grinning too.

Their hands met on the same controller when they went to restart the round.

For a second—just a second—neither one pulled away.

Not a rush. Not a spark. Just warm.

Present.

London looked at his hand. The lines. The callouses. The veins.

Elias looked at her mouth. And then her eyes.

But neither said anything.

They just passed the controller back and pretended it didn’t happen.

The game system shut off with a soft click.

The only light came from her projector, where Love Jones flickered against the wall in a soft blue tint.

London lay across the couch, one leg curled beneath her. Elias sat on the floor again, back against the edge of the cushions, his head tilted slightly toward her.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

Nina and Darius bantered on screen, poetry and smoke, jazz and heartbreak. The soundtrack was soft, Lauryn Hill humming behind every conversation.

London’s hoodie sleeves were pulled over her hands again. She looked smaller like this. Still. But not tense.

Elias tilted his head back slightly, enough that it brushed her knee.

“You cold?” he asked without turning.

“No.”

“You tired?”

“Kinda.”

“Wanna tell me what you thinkin’?”

She hesitated.

“Not really.”

“That’s fair.”

He didn’t press her. Just sat there, breathing quiet.

After a moment, she shifted, her bare foot sliding along the cushion, until her calf touched the curve of his shoulder.

She didn’t pull away.

He didn’t move either.

The movie played on.

London leaned slowly forward, then down, her arms folding across the back of the couch as she lowered herself just enough to rest her cheek against the top of Elias’s shoulder.

It was a subtle move.

But intentional.

He adjusted only slightly, letting her head settle more fully. Then he reached up, gently, just once, and let his fingers curl around hers where they rested near the cushion seam.

They didn’t talk.

He didn’t kiss her again.

But he held her hand.

And her breathing slowed.

And when the credits rolled, he didn’t leave.

tag : @championshipshade @thefutureemmywinner

@honeytoffee @secretisme4 @theogbadbitch

[pissboy-pi]

[heavenlybodies333]

Friends who fuck -C.K

Clark Kent x bestfriend!reader

You’re standing in front of your full-length mirror, tugging at the hem of your dress, doing that thing where you pretend to be casual while also definitely waiting to be noticed. And Clark? He notices. He always notices.

“You look great,” he says finally, voice a little too low.

You turn over your shoulder and grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He crosses his arms over his chest, like it’ll help. Like folding his body in will somehow contain the flash of heat that just sucker-punched him straight in the gut.

It doesn’t help.

You smooth your hands down your dress. “I don’t know. It’s just a second date. Nothing crazy.”

Clark leans against the doorframe. “You don’t dress like that for nothing crazy.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying—he better be worth it.”

“Oh my God.” You roll your eyes and turn back to the mirror, cheeks flushing. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he mutters, lying through his teeth. “I just think you deserve someone who gets it.”

You laugh, distracted. “Gets what?”

He doesn’t answer. Not out loud. Because the truth is: no one else gets you like he does.

Clark tries to be normal about it. Really, he does. He goes back to his apartment. He eats a dinner he doesn’t taste. He folds the same shirt three times because his hands won’t stop shaking.

You’re out with someone else. And he told you to go. He told you—gently, carefully, with that stupid forced smile of his—that you should have fun. That Lois is his future. That he’s okay now. That he’s happy for you.

He meant it. Until you actually left. Now every second is a countdown until you come back. Until he hears your key in the lock. Until he knows you’re home safe and, for better or worse, not in someone else’s bed.

You return just after midnight, barefoot and buzzed, heels in hand. You smell like wine and your lip gloss is a little smudged and Clark knows he shouldn’t be looking at your mouth but he can’t help it.

“Did you wait up?” you ask, surprised.

Clark shrugs from the couch. “Didn’t mean to.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s not true.”

You toss your shoes to the side and crawl onto the couch next to him, settling against his shoulder like it’s muscle memory. You’ve always touched him without thinking. It never mattered before.

“You mad at me?” you ask after a minute.

Clark exhales through his nose. “No.”

“You sound mad.”

“I’m not.”

You tilt your head, cheek brushing his bicep. “It didn’t even go that well. He was kind of... cocky.”

“He’d have to be. To think he deserves you.”

You go still. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looks down at you then—eyes unreadable behind his glasses, mouth tight, jaw clenched like he’s holding back a thousand things at once. “Nothing,” he says finally.

You don’t believe him. And the silence that follows is thick with everything both of you are too scared to say.

You’re still curled beside him on the couch, the hem of your dress brushing his thigh, the scent of your shampoo worming its way into his brain. Clark’s staring at the muted TV screen like it’s offering answers he can’t seem to find anywhere else.

You break the silence first.

“So… you did wait up.”

Clark blinks. “Didn’t say I didn’t.”

“You said you didn’t mean to.”

“Which is different.”

“Barely.”

He sighs. “It’s not illegal to care if you got home safe.”

You grin and bump his shoulder with yours. “You’re a very noble bodyguard, Kent.”

He glances down at you, eyes soft. “I’m not your bodyguard.”

“You sure?” You tease. “You kinda act like one.”

“That’s because you collect red flags like Pokémon cards.”

You gasp, clutching your chest. “Wow. The slander.”

“The truth.”

You scrunch your nose. “Okay, maybe this one was more of a walking ego in loafers.”

He arches a brow. “He wore loafers?”

“I know.” You make a face. “He also called my job ‘cute.’”

Clark grimaces. “I’d be in jail.”

“You’d be a very polite jailbird,” you smirk. “They’d be like, ‘What are you in for, Kent?’ and you’d be like ‘My best friend went on a date with a walking LinkedIn profile.’”

“I’d get a life sentence,” he mutters.

You laugh and sink further into the couch. “God, I missed this.”

He frowns. “This?”

“You. Talking. Bantering. Acting normal.”

“Was I not normal lately?”

You shrug, but it’s hesitant. “You’ve been… off. Since the Lois thing.”

Clark looks down at his hands. “Yeah.”

You glance at him. “You wanna talk about it?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“I loved her,” he says. “I think I still do, in a way.”

You go quiet.

“But it’s different now. It’s not that heartbreak feeling anymore. It’s more like… I don’t know. Missing a place I used to live. Even if it wasn’t really home.”

Something softens behind your ribs. “And where’s home now?”

He looks at you. And lingers. “You tell me.”

You blink. The wine haze isn’t enough to make you misunderstand. It isn’t enough to pretend you didn’t hear him. Not when Clark Kent is looking at you like that—like he just said something true and irreversible and is already bracing for you to laugh or run or both.

But you don’t do either.

You sit up a little. The silence between you shifts, you raise your brows, trying to keep it light, trying to pretend your heart didn’t just trip in your chest. “That a line, Kent?”

Clark shifts slightly, drawing one leg up on the couch.You can feel the heat of him through his stupid flannel. “You don’t really believe that,” he says after a beat.

“That we don’t make sense?” He nods.

You look down, twisting the ring on your finger, feeling your pulse in your throat. “I think we make the kind of sense that scares people.”

Clark’s voice is soft. “Does it scare you?”

You glance up at him, deadpan. “Clark, you once bench-pressed a school bus and still apologized when you bumped someone in line at Trader Joe’s.”

He snorts. “That wasn’t an answer.”

You shrug again, weaker this time. “Of course it scares me. You scare me.”

He tilts his head, confused. “Why?”

“Because you’re the only person who really sees me.” Your voice is small now, too honest. “And that means you could wreck me if you ever decided to stop.”

His jaw tightens. “I wouldn’t.”

You nod. “I know.”

Clark’s hand drifts toward yours on the couch cushion, close enough that your pinkies brush.

You turn toward him slightly. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“If I canceled the next date… would that be stupid?”

He swallows. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Why you’re canceling it.”

You meet his eyes. “Because I don’t want to be thinking about someone else while I’m with him.”

Clark breathes out slowly, “You always think about me?” he asks, almost afraid to hear it.

You nod. “Yeah. I do.”

He closes his eyes. “Shit.”

You smirk. “Romantic, Kent. Very eloquent.”

He opens them again, gaze sharper now. “It’s not just me, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“This—” he gestures between the two of you, “—it’s not just in my head, right?”

You shake your head. “Not even a little.”

And suddenly, everything clicks. The way he’s been lingering longer after movie nights. The way you always end up in his hoodie. The fact that your fridge is stocked with his favorite oat milk and he still pretends not to notice you bought it just for him.

Clark shifts, facing you fully now. “Okay,” he says softly. “Then what do we do about it?”

You pretend to think. “We could ignore it forever and repress all our feelings. Real mature. Very emotionally healthy.”

He laughs, and it’s the first full one of the night—deep and warm and laced with disbelief. “You’d last two days.”

“You’d last two hours.”

“Fair.”

You nudge his knee. “So what do you want to do about it?”

He looks at you for a long, long moment. And then:

“I want to take you on a date.”

You blink. “You already know everything about me.”

“Then let me re-learn you,” he says. “As someone who doesn’t have to pretend this is just friendship anymore.”

You feel your throat tighten. And you try to play it cool, but your voice betrays you: “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Clark smiles, then he adds, “Also… if we’re doing this, you’re never going on a date with someone in loafers again.”

You shove his arm. “Let it go!”

THE NEXT NIGHT

He shows up at your door like he’s not a little nervous—which, of course, means he’s very nervous.

You’re in jeans this time. A sweater. Your favorite earrings. The version of you he loves best—comfortable, open, real.

“Hi,” he says, offering a bouquet of wildflowers he definitely picked himself because the stems are uneven and the bouquet is loosely tied with red string.

You beam. “You nerd.”

He shrugs. “You like flowers.”

“I love flowers.”

“Then we’re off to a great start.”

You eat outside. Some little bistro tucked on a side street Clark found because “you said once you missed places that feel like Paris.”

You did. You barely remember saying it. But he did.

You tease him mercilessly.

“Were you born this wholesome, or did a midwestern grandma raise you?”

Clark laughs, deep and warm. “You say that like it’s an insult.”

“It is when you handwrite thank-you cards.”

“You liked that card.”

You pause. “I did keep it.”

“I knew it.”

You’re both smiling so hard it hurts.

And when you lean in and whisper, “You’re still my favorite person,” he goes quiet. His hand is on the table between you, and you reach for it without thinking.

He curls his fingers through yours like he’s been waiting for permission his whole life.

Back at your place, you’re barely in the door when he kicks it shut and pins you gently against it.

You’re giggling against his throat, breath hitching when his hands slide beneath your sweater, fingertips ghosting along your waist.

“You’re really gonna be the death of me,” he murmurs.

“You’ll survive.”

He nips your earlobe. “Will I?”

You tug him toward the bedroom by the collar of his flannel. He watches you move — the way your dress rides up your thighs, the sway of your hips, the confidence that’s bloomed under his gaze like it’s always been waiting.

By the time you turn and crawl onto the bed, Clark is barely holding on. He kneels at the edge and runs a reverent hand up your calf. Over your knee. Up your thigh.

“This okay?” he asks.

You nod. “More than okay.”

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “God, you don’t even know.”

He climbs up and kisses you, biting your lip. You whimper into his mouth.

“You want me?” he asks, breath ragged.

You nod, fumbling for his belt. “No,” he says, hand over yours. “Tell me.”

You meet his eyes.

“I want you, Clark. I want all of you.”

He closes his eyes like it physically wrecks him. His mouth crashes into yours as he pushes your panties aside, fingers slicking through you once—twice—before he’s lining up and sliding in slow.

You both groan, forehead to forehead.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he pants. “Perfect. You feel so—fuck—.”

You cling to him, nails raking down his back as he sets a brutal pace, every thrust punching a breathy cry from your throat. He’s so big it hurts a little, but you don’t stop him.

You whimper his name over and over until he’s thrusting into you like he owns you, whispering, “You’re mine, you’re mine, I’ve wanted you for so long.”

He slows down halfway through. Pulls out. Rolls you on top of him.“I wanna see you,” he murmurs.

You ride him until he’s panting your name, grabbing your hips, guiding you through your orgasm—then losing it with his own, a moan deep in his throat as he pulls you flush to him and lets go.

You collapse together, sweaty and breathless. And when he kisses your shoulder, it’s the softest thing in the world.

“Still scared?” he murmurs.

You kiss him back. “Not when I’m with you.”

a/n: slut me out pleaseee

[pullmecloseman]

TAKE THE SHOT

Summary: A retro arcade night turns into something more when you're paired with Bob Floyd during a squad hangout. You start off teasing, competitive, and toeing the line—but every game, glance, and near-touch pulls you both closer to finally admitting what's been simmering for months. Sparks fly under neon lights, ending with a private moment that might just change everything.

Bob Floyd x reader

Word count: 2.1k

A/N: Inspired by old-school arcades, mutual pining, and the idea that Bob Floyd would absolutely crush a basketball machine just to impress you. don’t be afraid to comment or send asks, i love talking!

Warnings: Mutual pining, slow burn, suggestive language, light dirty talk, heated make-out scene, squad teasing, light possessiveness, and a lot of tension.

masterlist

The buzz of neon and the familiar clack of arcade buttons hit before you even stepped inside.

It was humid outside, the warm night sticky against your skin, but the instant the door swung open, cool air and the smell of popcorn and cheap floor polish wrapped around you like something nostalgic. The Dagger Squad spilled into the arcade ahead of you—half talking over each other, half already darting toward whatever game caught their eye first.

Rooster whistled low. “They really went all out with the ‘80s vibe.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix said, glancing around, unimpressed. “Even the carpet’s giving me vertigo.”

“It’s authentic,” Fanboy argued, already halfway to the skee-ball lanes. “You can practically smell the childhood trauma.”

Behind you, Bob’s shoulder brushed yours. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. You turned just enough to catch the way his mouth tilted—not a smile, not really. But close. Warm. Yours.

“Pick your poison,” he said, voice low enough that only you heard him. You tilted your head, scanning the rows of flashing machines. “Feeling brave?” Bob lifted a brow. “Always.” That earned him a grin. You didn’t say anything else—you just grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the basketball machine glowing near the corner.

Phoenix’s voice followed you. “Buddy system!” she called, loud and amused. “Use it wisely!” Hangman “Translation: try not to make out behind the pinball machine.” You flipped them both off over your shoulder.

Bob just kept walking, long strides easy to follow, that same unreadable look on his face. But you knew the truth. You’d learned how to read him. The way his fingers lingered just a second longer when you passed him a wrench during maintenance. The way he always stood close—close enough to feel, not enough to touch. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

You knew.

Tonight wasn’t going to end with just one game. Not a chance. The basketball hoop machine glowed in flickering amber, casting shadows on Bob's jaw as he leaned down to read the instructions even though both of you knew how it worked. His hand hovered near the coin slot while you dug into your back pocket and came out with two tokens. “Loser buys the next round,” you said, holding one out.

Bob took it without looking, slotting it into the machine with an audible click. “Define loser,” he murmured. You grinned. “The one with fewer points. Don’t think too hard about it.” You both took your spots, side by side. The countdown started.

3. 2. 1.

Then chaos. The orange foam balls rolled down in front of you, and your fingers flew. You sank the first. And the second. Missed the third. Bob didn’t miss. Not once. Calm, efficient, flicking the wrist like he’d been born for this. “Show off,” you muttered, sweat already beading at your temple. “What?” he asked, not breaking rhythm. “Nothing,” you said through gritted teeth, shooting again.

By the time the timer ran out, your score blinked up on the screen: 37. Bob’s: 38. You blinked. “You won by one?” He turned toward you slowly. His cheeks were flushed, chest rising with the effort, but his mouth pulled into something that made your stomach twist. “A win’s a win,” he said. You stared up at him, heart pounding too fast for the game. The air between you crackled. “So?” you asked, breath catching. “What does the winner get?”

Bob stepped closer. Not touching. Just enough for the energy between you to hum. “You said loser buys the next round,” he said. “That’s it?” He hesitated, then looked down at your mouth. “Not what I had in mind,” he murmured. Your pulse skittered. “Then what did you have in mind?” He didn’t answer. Just stepped even closer—until his chest almost brushed yours, until the noise of the arcade faded into a dull blur, until all you could see were the glint of his glasses and the heat in his eyes.

Then he leaned in and whispered, “You already know.” And then, without waiting, he turned back to the machine and grabbed another token. “One more game,” he said, voice maddeningly calm. “Unless you’re scared to lose again.”

You almost choked.

“Oh, it’s on.”And just like that, the air around you shifted. The game was on. But it wasn’t about basketball anymore. Not even close. This time, you didn’t bother with small talk. You launched the ball with focus sharpened by adrenaline and something far more dangerous—the heat still lingering on your lips from where his breath had brushed them. You missed the first two. Swore under your breath. Bob stayed silent beside you. Too composed. Too good. He was clearly letting it get to his head. You threw faster, harder.By the time the timer buzzed again, you were panting. The scores blinked.

You: 42. Bob: 42.

“Tie,” you said, chest rising. “What does that mean?” Bob just looked at you. Took his glasses off with one hand. Wiped them slowly on the hem of his shirt. His shirt which lifted just enough to reveal a sliver of his waist. Your mouth went dry. “Means we both win,” he said, voice lower than before. And this time, he stepped closer. You froze, breath catching, until the buzz of your name being called made you blink. You turned to find Phoenix waving dramatically from the claw machine across the room.

“Break it up, lovebirds! Come win me a plushie!” You groaned. Bob chuckled. And when you walked away, he kept his hand on the small of your back. Like he’d already won.

The claw machine was surrounded by your squad like it was a matter of national pride. “Coyote already wasted five bucks,” Hangman reported as you arrived, arms crossed. “That bear was rigged,” Coyote muttered. Rooster tossed a token your way. “Redemption round. Your turn.” You caught it and looked at Bob. “Your claws or mine?” “Together,” he said. You blinked. “What?” He reached for the joystick. “You aim. I drop.”

And just like that, it wasn’t a game anymore. It was a tactic. An alliance. Bob stood close enough that your shoulder brushed his chest, and his hand hovered over the button, waiting for your cue. “Left a little,” you murmured. “Now?” You stared at the plush shaped like a smiling plane. “Now.” He dropped it. The claw descended. Caught. And held. The plush thunked into the chute.

Your teammates lost it.

Fanboy yelled, Phoenix swore she was next, Rooster demanded a rematch. But you weren’t paying attention. Because Bob picked up the plush, held it out to you—and this time, he smiled. “For your collection,” he said. You tucked it under your arm, already glowing. “We make a good team,” you said softly. Bob glanced down at you. “We always have.” Phoenix elbowed you as the squad regrouped near a vintage pinball row lit up in reds and greens. “You guys sharing brainwaves now, too? That claw machine move was disgusting.”

“You’re just jealous we’ve got synergy,” you shot back, dodging the way she tried to flick your ear. Hangman leaned against the machine closest to Bob, narrowed his eyes, and drawled, “That synergy get steamy behind the basketball game, or you two just making intense eye contact again?” Bob, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He simply pressed the button on the pinball machine and said, “Your turn to lose.”

Hangman raised a brow. “To you?” “To both of us,” you clarified, slotting a token into the next machine and slapping your hand dramatically onto the flipper button. Rooster whistled low. “She’s getting competitive. We’re in trouble.” “Is this gonna end in another make-out?” Fanboy asked. “Only if you keep watching,” you said sweetly. That got a chorus of groans, scattered laughter, and a few half-hearted insults thrown your way. Bob didn’t say a word. But you could feel him behind you. Close. Calm. Watching.

You launched the ball and went for the flashing targets, your fingers fast, your focus sharper than it should’ve been. Half because you wanted to win. Half because you knew he was watching the way your body moved—arms, hips, every little twitch of tension. And you were doing the same to him when he took his turn. Bob leaned low over the machine, eyes narrowed behind his glasses, his mouth set just slightly. And when the ball came flying back at him, he reacted fast—shoulders flexing under his T-shirt, hands confident.

You might’ve stared a little too long. “Uh-huh,” Phoenix said behind you. “I knew she was watching the forearms.” “Can you blame her?” Fanboy added. “He’s got the arms of a man who builds airplanes and repressed feelings.” You snorted but didn’t deny it. Because yeah, you were watching.

When Bob finally lost the ball and the machine flashed GAME OVER, he stepped back and gave you a look. Not cocky. Not smug. Just… warm. Steady. Like he knew every single thought in your head—and agreed with most of them. You bit your lip and leaned in, voice low.

“Need a breather?” His eyes flicked to your mouth. “You offering?” You nodded toward the back hallway. “Let’s take five.” No one said anything when you slipped away. But you were sure Phoenix wiggled her eyebrows and Fanboy made kissy noises behind your back.

The back of the arcade smelled like grease and warm plastic and distant popcorn. A little quieter, lit mostly by neon reflecting off the black-and-blue tile floors. Bob followed without hesitation, hands in his pockets, steps just a half-second behind yours. You found the vending machine room—empty, quiet, cooler than the rest of the place—and slipped inside. Bob didn’t say anything. You didn’t, either.

Not until you turned to face him. “Hey,” you said, breath catching. He looked at you. “Tonight’s been…” you trailed off. You didn’t know how to finish it. He did. “Different,” he said, stepping closer. “But not unexpected.” Your brows lifted. “No?” Bob shook his head. “You think I haven’t noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

“The way you look at me.”

You swallowed hard. “You’re the one who kissed me with your eyes back there.” His mouth curved. “You kissed me first—with that look.”Your back hit the vending machine behind you. Bob didn’t touch you. Not yet. “I’ve been patient,” he said, voice low. “For a long time.”“Why?” Your voice was barely a whisper. “Because once I start, I’m not gonna want to stop.” And then he did touch you. His hand came up to cup your cheek, slow and careful, his thumb brushing over your skin like he was committing the texture to memory. You didn’t speak. You just leaned in. And he met you halfway.

The kiss was deep instantly—hot, sure, full of all the unsaid things between you. His body pressed against yours, not shy now, not hesitant. You felt the edge of the vending machine dig into your back as his hand slipped down to your waist, fingers gripping your hip like he didn’t plan to let go. Your arms wrapped around his neck, one hand slipping into the hair at the back of his head. He groaned—quiet and rough—right against your lips, and that was it.

Whatever line you’d been toeing? Gone. Bob pulled you even closer, hips pressing against yours. Your body fit against his like it had always meant to. Like it had been waiting.

“You drive me insane,” he murmured between kisses, mouth trailing down your jaw, then your neck. “You’ve got no idea.”

“I do,” you whispered. “I really do.” You barely noticed your hands sliding under the hem of his shirt, fingertips grazing warm skin. He sucked in a breath. Then kissed you again—open-mouthed, hungry, needy in a way that made your legs tremble. “You gonna stop me?” he asked. “Not unless you want me to.” His teeth grazed your throat. “Not a chance.”

And just when it felt like the world might collapse around the heat between you—

You both heard it.

A loud, unmistakable honk from outside the room. Rooster’s voice yelling something about a photo booth and a timer running out. Bob exhaled against your neck. “Saved by the cock,” you muttered. He laughed. Deep and ragged. “I’ll kill him later.” You pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your lips were red, your chest was rising fast, your skin flushed.

Bob looked wrecked. In the best way. “Come on,” you said, brushing your fingers down his shirt. “Let’s go before the strip comes out with them all trying to kill each other.”

And maybe, if you had time after? Lose a few more games together. Or win. Hard to tell which mattered more anymore.

taglist: @yagurlannastasia

[nocturnebite]

#1 Fan boy ♬⋆.˚

(i know you're a star) - fanboy!jake x fem-idol!reader

synopsis: shes an idol. he's her biggest fan. what starts in secret slowly turns into something real— shared dances, late-night messages, and a love they were never supposed to have. But in a world that watches everything... how long can a secret stay safe? fic notes: fluff || slowburn || secret romance || idols x fan || emotional tension || soft angst || cozy scenes || private love || wc: 16.85k

ash's notes: HEYY! this one took me so long.. so sorry. but i really hope you enjoy this soft lil fic for jake! i love him so bad! ALSO thank you so much for all the love and support i've been getting! it means the world to me! <3 (also i had no idea that you could only have 1,000 spaces in a post.. so i randomly went through combining things.. if it seems a little off paced.. i blame that lmao)

The dressing room buzzes with low chatter, the scent of hairspray clinging to the air like static. Somewhere to your left, a curling iron hisses against a strand of hair. The floor beneath your heels is slick with polish and dust, and someone’s laughing—but it doesn’t reach you.

You sit beneath the harsh vanity lights, staring at a version of yourself you’ve seen too many times. Glitter-shadowed eyes, lips tinted just shy of red, skin airbrushed into something near divine. Not a flaw in sight. Not a crack.

Stage-ready.

You flex your fingers in your lap. They're cold.

"Three minutes, Cherie," a stage manager calls through the crack in the door, voice clipped and urgent. "You're closing."

Cherie. That’s the group. Four girls molded from sleepless nights and survival instincts, packaged into a dream. They call it glamorous. You call it exhausting. You rise slowly, the hem of your silver dress brushing against your thigh as you move. The fabric feels expensive and hollow.

“Hey,” your leader, Naya, murmurs, brushing invisible lint from your sleeve. “You good?” You nod. You're always good.

Your heels click against the tile as you move toward the back hallway, a sound swallowed by the murmur of nerves that cling to the air. The corridors behind the stage are narrow, dimly lit, and colder than the dressing room. Fluorescent lights buzz faintly above your head. You can hear the muffled pulse of the crowd on the other side of the wall—it’s a sound like thunder underwater. Distant. Alive. Your stylists hover nearby, making last-second adjustments: a shimmer dabbed onto the inner corners of your eyes, a flyaway smoothed behind your ear, the clasp of your earring tightened without a word. It all happens around you like clockwork, like you’re a porcelain figure being carefully prepared for a museum display.

You barely blink. “Final checks,” someone says.

You exhale through your nose. It’s not nerves, exactly. Not fear. It’s something tighter. Thinner. A ribbon pulled too taut. A screen nearby shows the stage just seconds before your entrance. The lighting rig sweeps across the crowd like a sunbeam, and the fans roar louder. Your groupmates stand beside you in a practiced formation, each of them focused, stretching, rolling their shoulders. You do the same, even though your limbs feel more mechanical than your own. Your fingers drift to the in-ear monitor tucked behind your hair. The soft buzz of the backing track hums quietly now—a countdown in code.

“Mic check,” someone murmurs through your earpiece. You answer quietly, voice steady, even though your throat’s a little dry. The lemon tea you drank earlier didn’t help. Nothing ever really helps. There’s a moment before every performance that feels like falling. Not in the way people romanticize it. Not flying. Not freedom. It’s the other kind—like slipping just as you reach the top step, heart hitching as gravity remembers you. That one breath before the lights catch your face, before thousands of eyes lock on yours. Before you become the version of yourself they paid to see.

You swallow hard. Taste nerves at the back of your tongue. From somewhere deep inside, the mask rises again. You tilt your chin, adjust your posture, and exhale. Right on cue, the curtain begins to rise. It hits you all at once—the heat of the stage lights, the colors exploding overhead, the synchronized stomp of backup dancers hitting their mark behind you. Music crashes like a tidal wave. Your body moves before your mind does, choreography pulling at your muscles like thread. You hit every beat—sharp, flawless, designed. The kind of perfection they screen-cap and replay in slow motion.

But even as your lips form the words, even as you throw your arm outward and spin in time with the next hook—you feel it. That ache. That ghost of emptiness just beneath the surface. Like you’re watching yourself from a few inches to the left. Like your smile doesn’t quite fit your mouth. Then it happens.

Midway through the second verse, during the fan-favorite part of the song—when your group pauses just long enough for the camera to pan close to your face—you glance out at the sea of lightsticks and signs and phones and colors— And for a moment, your eyes snag. There, in the fourth row, just off-center. A boy. Not one of the shouting ones. Not flailing. Not holding a flashing sign with your name in LED. Just… standing there. Camera in hand. Focused. Still. The kind of stillness that makes you notice.

His face is soft. His mouth slightly parted, like he’s afraid to blink and miss you. He’s not the type to scream. He’s the type to remember. Every note. Every expression. Every time your fingers trembled on a high note you swore no one noticed. His lightstick glows quietly at his side. Not raised, not demanding. Just... there. Like he’s not trying to take from you—only to witness you. You don’t realize you’re staring until the beat drops and your body reacts a half second late.

The delay is minuscule. No one notices. Except maybe him. You look away fast. And yet, even as the performance charges forward, lights flashing and sweat beginning to gather at your spine, there’s a flicker behind your ribs you can’t shake. You’ve seen thousands of faces. But his felt like something. You don’t even know his name. Not yet.

The stage continues to swell around you—LED panels shifting, bass vibrating through your shoes, backup dancers circling as the final chorus begins its climb. Your voice cuts through the roar, flawless on the outside, but underneath it all, your thoughts are slipping.

You don’t usually look at individual faces. It’s a rule you taught yourself early on. Look over the crowd, never into it. It’s easier that way. Safer. If you see someone crying, someone reaching out like they know you—it becomes too real. And this industry has taught you how dangerous real can be. But that boy. The still one. The one who wasn’t cheering, but watching. He didn’t look like someone who saw a star. He looked like someone who saw you.

Your feet move through the final formation, hips angled just right, arms outstretched with the practiced grace of a thousand rehearsals. Naya hits her high note beside you, her voice slicing through the haze of lights like silk drawn over glass. You keep your smile steady, the exact kind they expect—soft, mysterious, composed—but your heartbeat is anything but. It pounds in your ears louder than the track. A strange, subtle panic spreads through your chest like ripples across still water.

Why did that feel like something? Your hand brushes your side during the final spin. You’re supposed to wink on the last beat. You always do. Fans love it. It trends. But this time, your eyes find that spot in the crowd again. He’s still there. And for just a second, he lifts his camera from his chest—slowly, reverently—and takes a photo. You don’t see the flash. You feel it. It’s not a click you hear. It’s something quieter. A thread being pulled. Your chest flutters. Then the lights explode gold. Confetti shoots into the air, raining down in metallic flakes. The crowd screams, drowning out every thought. You hold your final pose, breath shallow, smile frozen. He disappears into the noise. The music fades.

Applause crashes forward like a tidal wave, relentless and bright. You bow automatically with the others, waving toward the fans, smile never wavering. You squeeze Harin’s hand without meaning to. Her fingers squeeze back. You don’t remember walking offstage. Only the heat still clinging to your skin. Backstage is dimmer. Quieter. The roar of the crowd is muffled again, reduced to static behind concrete walls. Your chest is rising and falling too fast. Naya wraps an arm around your shoulders as the four of you file down the hallway, heading toward your waiting room. She smells like hairspray and citrus perfume, her sweat glistening under the collar of her jeweled jacket. “We killed it,” she says breathlessly, grinning. You nod again. You’ve done it a hundred times. It's muscle memory now.

The stylists are waiting with towels, cool bottles of water, soothing pads for your face. You take them with a dazed kind of precision. Your body knows what to do, even if your brain is stuck somewhere else. Someone is speaking to you—Juna, probably, joking about a missed cue or a wardrobe slip—but it all feels muted. Like glass between you and the world. You sit down slowly on the dressing room couch, the leather creaking beneath your weight. The towel in your hands is warm now. You don’t remember when you stopped holding it to your neck. You blink. You can still see his face. Not perfectly—just impressions. The shape of his eyes. The softness of his expression. The way he stood as if he wasn’t sure he was supposed to be there. He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t trying to be noticed. But he was the only thing you saw. There’s a moment where you let your head fall back against the couch, eyes closing. The voices of your groupmates swirl around you—Naya laughing, Harin humming the chorus under her breath—but for once, you don’t chime in. You don’t move. You just sit there. And you wonder:

Why did it feel like he was looking for you… before you even knew to look for him?

The soft murmur of your groupmates’ voices slices through the haze just as you start to drift away. Juna nudges your arm with a grin, her eyes sparkling like she’s caught you daydreaming again. “Heyy, hellooo? Anyone home?” she teases lightly, voice warm. “You zoning out or what?” You blink, focus snapping back like a rubber band. Harin is already standing, stretching her arms overhead, while Naya checks her phone with a faint smile. The room shifts, the energy picking up—it's time to move for the send-off. You stand slowly, muscles still heavy from the show but aching for the familiar rhythm of movement. Your heels click quietly against the floor as the four of you slip out of the dressing room and toward the exit. The backstage corridors are narrower now, the bustle swelling as the night grows deeper. As you step into the cool night air, the roar of the crowd washes over you like a tidal wave again. Lights flash from hundreds of phones, and voices rise in a chorus of cheers and cries.

Near the barricade, you spot him. He’s easy to miss if you weren’t looking for him: just a boy in a simple hoodie, his lightstick held loosely in one hand, a soft smile brightening his face. Hopeful. Patient. Your heart jolts, breath catching in your throat. You push forward, weaving through the cluster of fans and staff, desperate to reach him. But before you can slip through, Juna steps past you, effortlessly reaching the barricade first. She flashes a bright smile, signing autographs and chatting briefly with the fans pressed close. You watch as his gaze shifts from Juna’s familiar face to yours. Your eyes meet for a heartbeat—an electric pulse of recognition and something unspoken.

You almost falter, the world narrowing to that fragile moment. His smile widens, just a little, before he turns his attention back to the Juna in front of him. You catch his eye again as Juna steps back, handing over the moment like a silent promise. You inch closer, your fingers twitching to reach out, but the crowd surges slightly, and he’s pushed back. Still, every glance between you feels like a secret conversation—small, intense, and filled with more meaning than words ever could. After the send-off, the night stretches thin as you ride back to the dorms. The hum of the city blurs past the tinted windows, your mind replaying the stolen moments. Back inside your room, the quiet wraps around you like a balm. You slip off your stage clothes, the fabric falling away like a second skin, slipping into the pajamas you left out just for this moment. The bed beckons, but your hands tremble just enough as you reach for your phone. You unlock the screen and open the “fake” TikTok account you keep hidden from your company and fans—a quiet corner of the internet where you watch without being watched. Tonight, the feed shows something new. An edit of you. But not just any edit. This one is different. It feels intimate. Raw. Like it was captured through someone’s eyes... Through his eyes.

The footage moves slowly—a close-up of your face under the spotlight, the way your fingers twitch mid-chorus, your “signature” move during that song. And oddly enough they seem to be taken from where he would have been standing. Your breath hitches. You tap the username. yourcheriefanboy. It’s unfamiliar. Yet somehow, the world inside that screen feels closer than the one outside your window. And in the dark, you wonder what it means.

You lie back on your bed, the cool sheets tangling around your arms like a gentle weight. The city hums faintly outside your window, distant and unobtrusive, a soft lullaby that somehow sharpens the silence in your room. Your phone rests on your stomach, screen glowing softly in the dim light. The video you found loops silently—a montage of you. You stare at it again, heart fluttering with an ache you didn’t expect. On a whim that feels like a secret rebellion against the loneliness you carry, you tap Follow. A tiny ripple in your quiet world. You set your phone gently down beside you, letting your breath slow, your thoughts scatter like fragile leaves.

Then, almost instantly, your phone vibrates. They followed you back. The words feel heavy, electric. Your fingers tremble as you reach for your phone, eyes flickering between the screen and the dim ceiling. You want to believe it’s real. That this isn’t just another fragment of your isolated life. You open the video’s comment section, fingers hovering for a moment before you type, the words small and cautious:

Cherieoffgrid: Was this from tonight’s concert?

Almost immediately, the reply pops up:

yourcheriefanboy: Yes.

Simple. Unadorned. Honest. A shiver curls through your spine, warm and unexpected. Could it really be him? You slide open the profile, eyes searching for clues. The profile picture is a blurry mirror selfie, shadows swallowing most of the frame, the faint outline of a face just visible. Too dark to recognize. Too vague to be certain. Yet, something about the faint smile etched in the shadow feels familiar—like a whispered promise. You scroll through their videos, each one a tender glimpse into a world you rarely see. Clips from concerts, candid fan edits, moments caught through a lens you never imagined looking through. No hype. No drama. Just quiet admiration. Your thumb hesitates over the message icon. Then it glows. A new notification. You tap it open.

yourcheriefanboy: Hi! How are you?

Your breath catches. Usually, you don’t respond to messages from fan accounts. Not anymore. It’s safer not to. But something about this one is different. Sincere. Soft. You pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. You wonder if you should ignore it, but instead, you type back simply:

Cherieoffgrid: I’m doing good!

The reply is swift, almost eager.

yourcheriefanboy: Are you a fan of Cherie?

Your lips press into a thin line. You hesitate. It’s your undercover account. No one must know. You type carefully:

Cherieoffgrid: Yes.

A beat. And then:

yourcheriefanboy: Who’s your bias?

You chew your lip, thinking of your groupmates—their faces, their laughs, their fierce dedication. Your fingers move before your mind catches up:

Cherieoffgrid: Juna.

Seconds stretch like hours. Then his message comes. Your chest tightens. It’s you. Your name. On your screen. From whoever this mystery fan may be. The weight of those words presses against your skin like a secret meant only for you. You blink, heart hammering so loud it drowns out the distant city hum. For the first time in so long, you sorta feel seen. Truly seen. Not as the idol the world demands you be. But as you.

You stare at the screen, the gentle glow illuminating your face in the dark room. And wonder if this quiet fan watching from the crowd, might be the beginning of something real. The conversation unfolds like a thread pulled gently, night after night. You never tell him who you are. You don’t have to. He doesn’t ask in the way others do—not with greed, not with demand, just with curiosity. One night, curled beneath your blanket with the phone warm in your hand, he types:

yourcheriefanboy: What’s your name?

You stare at the message for a while, the cursor blinking. A real name would be reckless. Obvious. But something about him—the way he talks to you, like he isn’t trying to pry under your skin—makes you want to be known. A little. After a pause, you type back:

Cherieoffgrid: Yeji.

A fake name you thought of on the spot. You almost don’t send it. But you do.

yourcheriefanboy: Pretty,

He replies simply. 

I’m Jake.

You smile faintly, eyes softening. Jake. It suits him. Then days pass.

The rhythm of your chats are simple, natural. You talk about little things—your favorite snacks, music that makes you feel something, the way city lights look when it rains. He tells you about school, about how he works a part-time job at a coffee shop. He tells you he doesn’t have a ton of friends who understand his love for idols. You listen. You laugh quietly when he says he once camped overnight for a Cherie merch drop and got sick after but still swears it was worth it. You don’t say much about yourself. You don’t have to. He fills the space with softness, not noise. Then one night, he sends you something.

yourcheriefanboy: Thought you might like this one

You click the video. And there he is. For the first time. Standing on a quiet street, just out of frame at first, then laughing as he holds his phone and pans upward. The night sky behind him is deep and silver-dusted. His face is lit only by a streetlamp. His eyes crinkle when he smiles. It’s him. Him. The boy from the crowd. From the send-off. The boy with the steady gaze who made your chest twist onstage. Your fingers pause over the screen. So it’s really him. You don’t reply for a few minutes. You just watch the video again. And again.

—

The fansign is loud. Hot lights beat down on your skin. The chatter of the crowd blends with the shuffle of papers, the clatter of pens, and the familiar refrain of “Can you sign this?” “Can I take a picture?” “Can you write my name like this?” You smile. You always do. It’s practiced. Perfect. Everything about you is fine-tuned for this—the nods, the giggles, the little tilt of your head when someone says something sweet. They love you for it. You’re good at it. But something in your chest already knows. He’s here. You feel it before you see him. Then the next fan steps forward. And it’s him. Jake.

He looks just like the video. More alive than memory, softer than screenlight. Hoodie sleeves tugged over his palms, fingers wrapped gently around an album. He doesn’t start speaking right away. Doesn’t rush. He sits down in front of you and meets your eyes like no one else does. You paste on the same bright, rehearsed smile. “Hi!” you say in your polished fanservice voice. But he doesn’t play along. He just smiles. Soft. Steady.

“You look tired,” he says gently after a few seconds, not accusing, not unkind. Your smile falters for half a second. Almost invisible. Almost. His voice lowers, quiet enough that only you can hear it.

“I just wanted to say I’m really proud of you.” Your fingers pause over the page you’re signing. Jake’s eyes flick to the crowd behind him, then return to yours.

“All of these people,” he says, nodding toward the fans buzzing with energy behind him, “they love you. You give them so much. Even when it’s hard.”

You swallow tightly. He smiles again, softer now, more fragile.

“So don’t give up, okay? You’re doing amazing.”

Something cracks in you. A gentle fissure. The exhaustion you buried all day suddenly rises like a tide. Your eyes sting. Just a little. You look up at him. And he sees it. His smile shifts—still kind, but worried now. His expression flickers, caught between reaching for you and respecting the space between your worlds. He opens his mouth to say something else. But a staff member steps forward.

“Time’s up,” they say with mechanical efficiency. Jake glances at them, then back at you. He stands slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. And for the briefest, barest moment, he looks like he doesn’t want to leave. Like there’s more he wants to say. You smile again. The one they all expect. Polished. Bright. It hurts this time. He smiles back—but it’s different now. Quieter. A little sad. Like he knows what’s hiding behind your shine. As he moves down the line to the next member, your eyes follow him for one last second, then snap away when you realize you're still watching. You turn to the next fan, all glitter and laughs again. You sign their album. You tilt your head. You laugh when they tell you you’re perfect. You’re not. And Jake knows it. From across the table, you feel his eyes on you. Not judging. Not disappointed. Just watching. Seeing. The weight of it presses against your ribs like a truth you don’t know how to carry.

—

The black van hums low beneath your legs as you lean against the cool window, the lights of the city blurring into yellow streaks against your reflection. Naya is scrolling through fan messages beside you, earbuds half in, her head tilted toward the glass. Juna is sitting cross-legged in her seat, laughing softly at a meme Harin showed her, something about a fan bringing twenty albums to the fansign just to get a longer interaction. You’re quiet. You don’t mean to be. But the weight of that last moment clings to you like humidity. Jake’s voice is still in your ears—You look tired… I’m proud of you… don’t give up. The way he saw you, even through all the polished edges and soft smiles you wear like armor. You rest your forehead against the glass, eyes half-lidded.

“You okay?” Naya asks, glancing at you.

You lift your head slowly. “Just tired.”

“Mm.” She studies you a moment longer than usual. “You sure? You were quiet even during that fan’s whole confession poem to you.” She nudges your knee playfully. “That usually gets a laugh.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah. Just... tired.”

Juna leans over the seat. “We all are,” she says gently. “But hey. One more week, right? Then we finally get that break.”

Harin makes a dramatic sigh. “I’m going to sleep for two straight days.”

You smile for real this time, warm and soft. They mean it. You all need this break like air. But as the conversation drifts, you slip back into silence. You don’t mean to think about Jake. But you do. You already are. At home, you drop onto your bed with a sigh, tugging off your hoodie and toeing off your shoes. Your body aches. Your face feels stiff from smiling. Your bones are tired in that way that doesn’t quite go away, even after sleep. You grab your phone off the nightstand and flick open your fake account. Jake’s just posted. It’s a selfie. The fansign banner in the background, the sun hitting one side of his face, a soft grin tugging at his lips.

yourcheriefanboy “still can’t believe today was real 🥹 thank you @cherie_official 💙 you were all amazing. so proud.”

Your heart jumps. Before you can stop yourself, you message him.

Cherieoffgrid: How was it?

You ask, pretending you don’t already know. Pretending you weren’t on the other side of that table, staring into his eyes like you were about to fall apart. His reply comes fast:

yourcheriefanboy: Insane lol. I was so nervous. I think I forgot how to talk when I sat down??

You smile softly.

Cherieoffgrid: You looked calm in the selfie yourcheriefanboy: Faking it

He says quickly. Then after a beat: 

yourcheriefanboy: One of the members—she looked kinda tired, though. I hope she’s okay.

Your chest tightens. You type slowly:

Cherieoffgrid: She’s probably fine. It’s their job. I wouldn’t worry too much.

You stare at the message as it sends, hating how hollow it feels. How much it sounds like something your manager would say. Jake doesn’t wait long.

yourcheriefanboy: Still… she deserves rest. They all do. They work so hard and care so much. It’s not fair how overworked they are. I hope they get a break soon.

Your throat closes. You blink a few times too fast. You don’t know what to say. So you say nothing. And he keeps talking. Casual again. You let the conversation drift back into warmth. He tells you how he almost missed his train to the fansign. How he waited in line behind a guy with a massive lightstick bouquet and felt like he brought nothing. How he accidentally waved to one of the staff thinking it was a member. You laugh under your breath. And for a moment… it’s easy. Then he types it:

yourcheriefanboy: We should go to one of their pop-ups together sometime. Like meet up. It’d be cool to talk in person.

You freeze. You don’t know how to answer. Of course you can’t. You want to. You really, really want to. But this life you’re trapped inside doesn’t allow things like that. You type:

Cherieoffgrid: I don’t really meet up with people I don’t know… sorry 😅

He doesn’t take it personally. He sends a heart emoji. Then: 

yourcheriefanboy: No worries. Maybe someday.

You don’t reply. But you reread it five times before locking your phone and pressing it to your chest.

—

The break begins. No schedules. No cameras. You wear a hoodie two sizes too big, a mask pulled up over your cheeks, a baseball cap hiding your face. Naya and Juna went to the spa. Harin’s sleeping in. You needed out. Air. Coffee. Something that didn’t taste like makeup wipes and lipstick. The café is quiet. Tucked into a side street in Mapo. You order an iced Americano and sit near the window, scrolling through your phone. You don’t mean to check Jake’s account. You just do. Still sweet. Still full of edits. Nothing about you specifically. Then the bell above the door rings. You glance up. Your heart nearly stops. It’s him. Jake.

Real. Taller than you remember. Hoodie sleeves rolled up. That same calm presence. He orders something and steps to the side, waiting. You don’t think. You just watch. You want to say something. You want to rip off your mask and walk up to him and say, It’s me. I’m right here. I’ve been here this whole time. But you can’t. So you sit. Frozen. He turns toward the tables. Your head lowers instinctively. You lift your cup to take a sip and your mask dips slightly below your chin. You don’t notice. But he does. A voice across the room—someone calling your name. A barista. Familiar.

“Hey, isn’t that—?”

Jake’s head turns. Your eyes meet. Everything stills. He tilts his head, squinting. Recognition sparks. You move. Fast. Shoving your cup down, pulling your mask back up, pushing past a couple entering through the door. You run. Out the door. Into the street. Heart pounding. Your phone slips from your hand in the panic. Hits the sidewalk. You don’t notice. Jake does. He hurries forward, calling out. “Wait—hey, you dropped—”

He picks it up. And freezes. The screen is lit. Still open to your messages with him. His own name across the top. His last message glowing blue. His hands go cold. Then— He looks up. And runs. Through the crowd. Across the street. Dodging cars, horns blaring, lungs burning. He turns a corner. And there— There you are. A blur of black hoodie and trembling shoulders turning down an alley, trying to disappear.

“Wait!” he calls, voice cracking. He runs faster. Your name—your real name—is forming on his lips. But you’re already vanishing. You’re breathless by the time you reach your building. Your hoodie’s damp from sweat and nerves, your mask pushed too tight to your lips, heart thrumming so loud it’s in your teeth. You don’t remember the walk back. Only that you left something behind. Your phone. You tear open your bag the second you get through the door, hands trembling, knuckles white. Not there. Panic blooms, jagged and rising.

You rip open your laptop, fingers flying across the keys as you log into the device tracker. The little pulsing dot appears—still close. Just a few blocks from the café. Somewhere by the park. Before you can fully process it, the first notification lights up on your laptop screen.

yourcheriefanboy [6:28PM]: …is it you? yourcheriefanboy [6:30PM]: Please tell me I’m not imagining this. yourcheriefanboy [6:32PM]: Your phone was left on the messages. I know what I saw.

You freeze. Another one appears.

yourcheriefanboy [6:34PM]: I swear I won’t tell anyone. Not a soul. Please. Just talk to me.

Your stomach flips. A cold sweat breaks across your back. Then more, faster:

yourcheriefanboy [6:35PM]: Was it always you? Yeji… well ig that’s not even your name.. Please, you can trust me. I won’t ruin this. I promise. I just want to know if I ever really knew you.

You slam the laptop shut, hands covering your face, trying not to scream. You want to cry, want to laugh, want to disappear. But you need your phone. You take a deep breath, pull the laptop back open.

Cherieoffgrid [6:39PM]: Leave the phone on the bench by the big tree in Seonghwa Park. Text me when it’s there.

His reply is almost instant.

yourcheriefanboy: Can I talk to you? Please. Just for a second.

You hesitate. Your hands curl into fists.

Cherieoffgrid: Just drop it off. Please.

Ten minutes later, you’re crouched behind a retaining wall near the park entrance. Hoodie zipped to your chin, a different mask pulled on, a hat shadowing your eyes. A whole new disguise. You glance down at your laptop.

yourcheriefanboy [6:52PM]: I’m here.

You peer around the stone edge. There he is. Jake. Alone on the bench under the wide, old tree—its branches bare in the late winter dusk, lights from the lamppost casting gold on his shoulders. He doesn’t leave right away. He just sits. His hands rest on his knees. His gaze slowly moves around the park, like maybe—just maybe—he hopes you’re watching. You are. And it hurts. He reaches into his backpack. Sets a small box down on the bench beside him. Stands. Looks around again. Then, without another glance, he walks away. You don’t move until he’s fully gone—until his silhouette disappears between the hedges, swallowed by the street. Then, cautiously, you emerge.

The box is simple. Wrapped in brown paper, like a gift left behind on purpose. You lift the lid. Your phone rests inside. Fully intact. And on top, folded neatly: a note.

You ignore it. You snatch the phone, shove it in your back pocket. You start to close the box… then stop. Your fingers tremble as you reach back for the note. You shove it into the pocket of your jacket without reading it and hurry away, heart hammering like footsteps on marble. What you don’t know is that just beyond the trees, hidden in the shadows behind a park wall— Jake is still watching.

He sees you grab the phone. Sees you hesitate. Sees the exact moment you reach for the note. He exhales softly, barely smiling.

yourcheriefanboy [7:08PM]: Did you get it?

You don’t reply. He waits. Posts a vague message—nothing anyone would notice. Just a sunset picture with a caption that says:

"Some things are real even if you can’t name them."

Still, no reply. Then:

yourcheriefanboy [8:11PM]: I won’t say anything. I swear. Please talk to me. Please.

You stare at the screen for what feels like hours. And then— You press the little heart on his earlier message. Seen. His next text comes seconds later. Then another. Then three more. You let them sit. Unread. The next day, he messages again. The day after that, too. You scroll through them once. Then slowly swipe right. Block. The last message you see before the screen fades is:

yourcheriefanboy [Last seen 10:04PM]: It really is you… isn’t it?

—

It’s been a few days now since you blocked him. You do everything you can not to sign into that account. Then one morning you’re pulling on your coat, still half-asleep, yawning as you stuff chapstick into your pocket when your fingers brush something slightly rough yet thin.

Paper. You pause. Your breath catches. The note. You’d forgotten. You pull it out slowly, carefully, like it might dissolve if handled too fast. Your members are already by the door—Juna calling, “Come on, we’re gonna be late!” You don’t answer. You stare down at the folded note, heart racing. You open it. Jake’s handwriting is cute, a little messy and shaky, yet legible. 

“I don’t know if I’m imagining this, but if it really is you— Thank you. For talking to me. For making me feel heard. For being a friend, even if you couldn’t say it out loud. You were always kind. Honest. Warm. Even if I didn’t know your real name, I knew your heart. I’m really glad you’re getting the break you deserve. Rest well. Be safe. You’re someone worth the world.”

Your chest caves a little. Tears burn quietly behind your eyes. You want so badly to run back to that bench. To tell him it was you. That he wasn’t imagining it. That you saw him, too. But instead, you hear your name being called again. You look up. The girls are already piling into the van. You look down at the note once more. Then fold it slowly and tuck it back into your pocket. And walk away.

—

The days stretch long and hollow after the note. You tuck it away like a fragile secret, a warm weight against your heart that you can’t share with anyone—not the members, not your manager, no one.

Blocking Jake had been a reflex—an act of self-preservation more than anything else. You needed space to breathe, to protect the life you’d built behind the mask. But the silence that followed was deafening.

You avoid his secret account altogether, refusing to let yourself stalk or even glance at the one place you once found comfort. It’s too painful to watch, to remember what you’re hiding. Instead, since you blocked him on your “fake” account, you use your real social media—where you’re just the idol everyone expects you to be, nothing more—to quietly check if he’s alright.

His posts are sparse, shy even. Pictures of cafés, sunsets, an occasional thoughtful quote. Nothing about the fan sign, nothing personal. You don’t follow, don’t comment. Just watch from a distance.

Then, the day of the sponsored pop-up event arrives, announced with flashy ads plastered across city billboards and social feeds. You know Jake will see it—he has to. It’s impossible not to. You change into something casual under your oversized hoodie, pulling your hair back loosely, trying to hide the familiar nervous flutter in your chest.

The streets buzz with excitement. Fans gather in tight clusters, laughter and chatter filling the air, mixing with the scent of roasted chestnuts and street food. Bright tents are set up, decorated in the group’s colors, with posters of you and the members smiling widely. Your heart pounds as you slip into the crowd, eyes scanning every face, every possible shadow. For hours, you find nothing. Until—there.

Near the edge of the crowd, leaning against a lamppost with his hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket, is Jake. He’s not close. Not trying to push forward or get attention. Just observing, calm and still. His gaze sweeps the crowd, and then—finally—it locks with yours. The world narrows to the space between your eyes. His cheeks flush pink, faint but unmistakable. His smile softens into something almost shy, as if he’s caught but trying not to be. You feel your breath hitch, your lips parting slightly. He glances away quickly, blinking as if to clear a fog, then looks back, just for a heartbeat more. Your heart aches with the weight of that brief connection. You want to step forward, to reach out, to say I’m still here—but the wall you’ve built tightens again.

Instead, you give the smallest, most fragile smile you can muster. He returns it, gentler now, eyes full of warmth and quiet hope. And then he steps back, melting into the crowd, respectful of the distance, of the silence, of the things you both can’t say. The pop-up is nearing its end when your manager gives you the nod.

“Do you want to go up front for a bit?” he asks gently. “Sign a few things, give the fans a moment?”

You glance at Naya, who’s already talking to a small group near the barricades. Juna’s posing with merch, Harin’s taking Polaroids with staff. All the cameras are off now—this part isn’t meant to be promotional. It’s just for them. For the ones who waited.

You nod. “Yeah,” you say, adjusting your hoodie, tugging the sleeves past your palms. “Just for a little bit.”

The crowd notices immediately when you step closer. Cheers rise—not too loud, but warm. Hands lift albums, posters, phones. Voices call out your name in that way that doesn’t feel scripted. This isn’t like a fansign. It’s more real. Messier. Softer. You move down the line slowly, signing things, offering soft thanks, smiling when someone hands you a hand-lettered note or a charm bracelet they made. Your fingers are cold, but you don’t notice. You’re searching. Where is he? Your eyes scan the crowd again—and finally, there. Jake. Still leaning back against the edge of the sidewalk, arms folded, head tilted slightly as he watches you. His expression is unreadable. Not sad. Not angry. Just… distant. Careful. Your chest twists. You hold his gaze, even as you sign something blindly in front of you. You hope—you pray—that the small, tentative lift of your eyebrows says what your mouth can’t.

Come closer. He shifts. Eyes flick toward the crowd between you. Then back to you. Still not moving. You hold his gaze a second longer, and then—slowly—you glance at the barricade, then back at him again. A silent invitation. Please. He hesitates. Your heart is thudding now, loud in your ears, because you can see the moment he almost steps forward. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

You smile softly—too soft to be fanservice, too personal to be anything else—and nod. Come on. He blinks like he’s waking up. Then finally, he takes a step forward— But it’s too late.

“Alright, let’s wrap it up,” a staff voice calls.

Arms gently usher you away from the edge of the crowd. More voices, more movement, a hand at your back. You glance over your shoulder, desperate, trying to find him again— He’s frozen mid-step. The space between you filled instantly with staff and fans and noise. You don’t get to say anything. You don’t get to see the look on his face as he stops walking. You just walk away.

That night, alone in your room, you sit on the floor with your hoodie pulled over your knees. The fan in your window hums quietly. Your phone’s still buzzing from mentions and updates and schedules. You toss it aside and reach for your laptop instead. You hesitate.

Then slowly, carefully, you type in the username: yourcheriefanboy. Blocked. Still. You breathe in deep. And unblock him. The screen refreshes. Everything floods in. All the messages you’d missed. They aren’t angry. They aren’t desperate. They’re just... him.

yourcheriefanboy [June 6]: Make sure you eat something today, okay? I know breaks get busy too. yourcheriefanboy [June 10]: It’s cold out—bundle up. Hoodie over hoodie, I’m serious. yourcheriefanboy [June 12]: Saw a clip of the pop-up. You looked happy. I hope it’s real. yourcheriefanboy [June 14]: I miss talking to you..

You stare at the screen, your heart heavy in your throat. They go on. Each one a little pocket of care. A soft tether. Your chest aches. You don’t reply. But he notices. Because the next one comes quickly.

yourcheriefanboy [Today 10:28PM]: You unblocked me. I was hoping you’d come around. Still not ready to talk? That’s okay. I can wait.

You don’t know what to say. You want to tell him everything. You want to rewind to the park bench, the alley, the moment you ran and never looked back. But instead, you stare at his words. And let the silence speak for you.

Seen.

—

You haven’t told anyone. Not about Jake. Not about the secret messages. Not about the way your heart nearly beat out of your chest when you saw him again at the pop-up. Not even about the quiet way he said I can wait. You carry it around like a hidden bruise—tender, pulsing, visible only when pressed. It’s been a week since you unblocked him. Since that message. You haven’t replied. But you’ve reread it more times than you can count.

Your phone sits beside you on the dorm’s kitchen table now, screen dark. The girls are gathered around eating late-night snacks after practice, half-laughing, half-exhausted. Instant noodles. Harin’s spilling broth. Juna is on her third can of soda. Naya is scrolling, eyes half-lidded but still sharp. You’re not talking. Again.

“Okay, what is going on with you lately?” Juna finally blurts, waving her chopsticks. “You’ve been, like… possessed. Zoning out every five minutes, walking into walls—like today! You almost ate a mic pack.”

Naya raises an eyebrow without looking up. “That was impressive, honestly.”

You blink out of your daze, cheeks warming. “What? Nothing. I’m just tired.”

“You’ve been tired for like.. two years,” Harin says, giggling to herself softly,  flopping across the table dramatically. “But this is new tired. This is like... daydreaming tired.”

You smile faintly and look down at your half-finished noodles. They’re not wrong. You’ve been a mess. Quiet. Distracted. Wandering around the dorm like a ghost that forgot what it’s haunting.

“Okay,” Naya says, sitting up straighter. “Spill.”

You freeze. “What?” you say, but too defensively. All three of them look at you.

“Whatever’s going on,” Juna says gently. “You need to let us in.” And then—something in your chest shifts. A crack forming in the dam. You hesitate. Then you breathe out, slow and shaking. And you tell them everything. It all spills out in waves. The fan account. The late-night chats. The note in the box. The park. The pop-up. The eye contact. The messages after you blocked him. By the time you finish, the room is silent. Your throat is tight. Juna’s eyes are wide. Harin’s mouth is open like she forgot how to close it. Naya’s still, unreadable. You bite your lip.

“I know it’s reckless,” you murmur. “I just… he didn’t know it was me at first. And then when he did, he still didn’t try to use it against me. He just… cared. And I don’t even know why I’m so scared, but it’s like—he sees me. Not the stage version. Not the mask. Me.”

The silence stretches. And then— “Okay,” Harin says, softly. “That’s kinda hot.”

“Harin,” Naya warns, half-laughing.

“I mean!” she holds up her hands. “He made you a fan edit before knowing it was you. That’s next-level devotion.”

Juna turns to you, serious now. “Do you want to talk to him again?”

You don’t answer right away. But you nod. Just once.

Naya crosses her arms, thinking. “Look,” she says carefully, “I’m not going to lie—I don’t love the idea of anyone having leverage over you. It’s risky. But... it sounds like he doesn’t want anything from you except to be in your life. Even just as a friend.”

You nod again, lip trembling slightly.

“And just because we’re idols,” she continues, “doesn’t mean we’re not human. We’re allowed to feel things. We’re allowed to live. Just... be smart. Let us have your back. We’ll protect you.”

You feel your heart twist.

“I love you guys,” you whisper.

Harin throws her chopstick at you. “You better. Now go text your fanboy.”

Later that night, once the dorm is quiet and the lights are off, you lie on your bed, staring at the soft glow of your phone screen. You hover over the message thread. The last thing Jake sent is still there. "I can wait." You bite your lip. Then you type.

Cherieoffgrid [11:42PM]: Hey. Sorry it took me a while. I saw what you said. Thank you for waiting.

There’s no typing bubble for a few seconds. Then— It pops up. You exhale, holding the screen closer.

yourcheriefanboy [11:44PM]: Hey. It’s okay. I didn’t think you would, but… I hoped. Are you okay?

You smile, small but real.

Cherieoffgrid [11:45PM]: Getting there.

— 

You don’t expect it to happen all at once. In fact, it doesn’t. But that’s what makes it feel so real. After that first reply—Getting there—Jake doesn’t flood your inbox. He waits a few hours before responding. Then a day. Then another. And then, slowly, it begins.

yourcheriefanboy: Did you get caught in the rain today too? I swear the sky hates Seoul. Cherieoffgrid: I was already home. But I love rain, actually. yourcheriefanboy: That feels like a main character answer.

You start talking again. Mostly late at night. Safe hours. He sends you songs, playlists with cryptic titles like "for no one in particular” and "if you ever look up at the same moon." You send back blurry selfies of your window view, captions like “long day” or “i’m tired but okay.” You don’t talk about the group. You don’t talk about what almost happened. You don’t talk about the fact that your fans still have no idea that the anonymous account you're using is you. But it’s comfortable. Quiet. Easy. Like you never stopped.

One night, long after a rehearsal that leaves your body aching, you find yourself scrolling through Jake’s account. You’ve been avoiding it. But now? You’re ready. And you weren’t expecting what you find. Because while you were gone—while you blocked him, while you ignored him, while you were protecting yourself—Jake didn’t disappear. He thrived.

The profile is still named yourcheriefanboy. But it’s different now. More refined. Still soft and sweet, but less anonymous. He posts dance covers now—full-on polished performances. Your choreo. Clean angles. Warm lighting. His form? Sharp. Intentional. Beautiful. Your jaw drops a little as you scroll through dozens of posts. He’s got rhythm. Style. Stage presence. His energy is magnetic. And the comments? Your fans love him.

“How is this not an official dancer for Cherie?” “Not to be parasocial but he might be my comfort person.” “My dream is for Cherie to do a duet with this fanboy omg.” “No one does their choreo like he does. He gets it.” “Cherie’s #1 fanboy fr.”

Some of them even use his edits to promote your group. And the hashtags? #fanboyforever, #cherieloyal, #jakeisour5thmember

You can’t lie. You’re floored. You smile without meaning to, staring at a video he posted last week: a slowed-down, emotionally-charged rendition of one of your most complex routines. There’s something about the way he moves that reminds you of your own feelings while performing it. The kind you never talk about. The way your knees go weak at the crescendo. The invisible ache in the bridge.

You whisper out loud, “You saw it…” Because he did. Jake saw you—the part that went unseen by everyone else. You text him for the first time that night without waiting for a prompt.

Cherieoffgrid [12:04AM]: i saw your choreo cover. the latest one. you’re… really good.

He responds within seconds.

yourcheriefanboy [12:06AM]: you saw that? wait i mean—thank you. i didn’t think you’d ever look. yourcheriefanboy [12:07AM]: did you like it? Cherieoffgrid [12:08AM]: it made me cry a little. yourcheriefanboy [12:09AM]: now i’m gonna cry.

A few days later, the members catch you smiling into your phone after practice while sitting on the floor with your legs stretched out.

Harin gasps. “Is this about him again?”

Juna drops beside you. “Wait, are you finally talking again?”

You blink up at them. “How did you—?”

“You hum when you text him,” Naya says from behind you. “You never hum.”

“I do not—”

“You do,” all three of them say in unison.

You bury your face in your hands as Juna throws an arm around your shoulders, grinning. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“We’re totally doing a deep dive on his account tonight.”

That night, the dorm is filled with screams, laughter, and Harin aggressively clutching your arm every time a fan calls Jake “the future Cherie husband.”

“THEY’RE SHIPPING YOU,” she screeches, “AND THEY DON’T EVEN KNOW.”

You’re halfway between mortified and soft. Because somewhere inside… you like it. You want them to know. One day. Not yet. But someday.

Cherieoffgrid [2:41AM]: you’re kind of famous now btw. how does it feel to be internet royalty. yourcheriefanboy [2:43AM]: i’m just glad i get to share the things that matter to me. which is you. i mean. your group. your music. you know what i mean. Cherieoffgrid: yeah. i know.

—

It starts with a video. Posted late one night—@yourcheriefanboy. Jake. But this time, he’s not alone. The caption is simple, playful:

“had some help with this one :) tagging my partners in crime below. hope you guys like it <3 #cheriecomeback #cherrychemistrychallenge”

You tap the screen. Your breath catches. Jake, front and center, dances through your latest comeback choreo with six friends. They’re clean, dynamic, sharp—but your eyes never leave him. He’s magnetic. The others flank him like he’s the sun they orbit. And his timing—perfect. Every movement mirrors your group’s intent, every breath like he lived the song in his bones. You sit up in bed, blinking hard. This is not just a cute fan video. This is performance. And the fans know it. You scroll the comments and it’s chaos:

“JAKES ERA STARTS NOW.” “THEY GOT IT DOWN BETTER THAN HALF THE INDUSTRY.” “THIS NEEDS TO BE AN OFFICIAL COLLAB PLEASEEEEE.” “YOUR #1 FANBOY IS YOUR #1 DANCER.”

You’re still in shock when you practically trip out of bed, tablet in hand, stumbling into the kitchen where the others are eating cereal on the floor, in oversized shirts and tangled hair.

“Naya. Juna. Harin.” You hold up the screen. They scream. Like full-body, bowl-dropping screams.

“OH MY GOSH THEY LOOK SO—” “LOOK AT JAKE—” “He’s center. He’s main character-ing—”

Then, you do something you’ve never done before. You repost it. Not just from your private account. From @cherieofficial. No caption. Just a cherry emoji and the reposted clip. The detonation is instant. Jake’s comments explode:

“YOU GOT NOTICED. YOU GOT NOTICED. YOU GOT NOTICED.” “CHERIE KNOWS YOU EXIST. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.” “COLLAB WHEN. COLLAB WHEN. COLLAB WHEN.”

Even your own DMs are filled with fans tagging you, sending clips, screaming in all caps. You’re still watching the comments scroll when a message from him comes in.

yourcheriefanboy [9:01PM]: you reposted it. you didn’t have to, but… thank you. i still can’t believe you did that. Cherieoffgrid: you deserve everything, jake.

You don’t say more. But he does.

yourcheriefanboy [9:05PM]: i hope i can give something back someday.

You smile, not knowing what the next day will bring. The next day begins quiet. Too quiet. The dorm is washed in soft morning light, the scent of cinnamon oatmeal drifting from the kitchen. You’re curled into the far end of the couch in an old hoodie, scrolling through muted videos on your phone, your mind still playing back Jake’s latest post. You’d watched it three times before even blinking. You’ve watched it nine times now. You don’t know why you’re smiling. Or maybe you do. The room is peaceful—until your manager bursts in like a thunderclap. His heavy footsteps pound against the wood floor, and his phone is clutched in one tight fist like it’s a live grenade.

“Naya.”

She startles, spoon halfway to her mouth. “Mm?”

He stops in the center of the living room, panting like he just ran up the stairs. His shirt is wrinkled. His eyes are too bright.

“I want you to do a choreo collab video,” he says, breathless. “With that Jake guy. You know… the yourcheriefanboy person.”

Your heart drops so fast it takes your breath with it. There’s a pause in the room, heavy and sharp. Harin’s spoon clinks against her mug. Juna straightens slowly, frowning, eyes darting to you. Naya lowers her bowl, blinking. “Wait—what?”

Your throat is dry. The air feels thick like humidity before a storm.

“Why me?” Naya asks.

“I’ve already arranged it,” your manager says briskly, flipping his phone screen toward her. “The video went viral. Fans are frothing at the mouth. But we can’t have her involved—” he gestures vaguely toward you “—not yet. It’s too risky. Fans will think theres something there, and we can’t have that.”

Your chest constricts. Risky? You blink once. Hard.

“We need someone safe. Controlled. Professional,” he continues, pacing. “Someone who won’t complicate things.”

“I—” Naya stammers. “But she—”

“She knows the choreo better than anyone,” Juna says, bold.

He cuts her off with a sharp look. “It’s not about the choreo. This is about optics. Strategy. Exposure. And not about spreading baseless rumors.” He’s not looking at you when he says it, but you feel the sting anyway. Like glass behind the ribs.

“We’re going with Naya,” he finishes. Final.

He turns and walks out, leaving silence in his wake. Your lip trembles as you press your thumb into it. You taste iron. You’re still frozen when Naya turns toward you slowly. Her expression is tight, like she’s ashamed.

“I didn’t know,” she whispers.

“It’s okay,” you say. Your voice barely works. But it’s not okay. You spend the rest of the day pretending it is. That night, you’re curled up in bed, blanket over your shoulders, phone glowing dim against your fingers. You hesitate. Then type.

Cherieoffgrid [11:02PM]: Hey. Has anyone contacted you about a collab or something? yourcheriefanboy [11:04PM]: No? Wait, what? Should they have?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

Cherieoffgrid: Don’t worry about it. Just wondering.

You stare at the screen until your eyes blur. Then you toss your phone onto the pillow and turn away, curling tighter, like that might make the twist in your stomach disappear. And eventually it does.. That is until you wake up the next morning with more messages from him.

yourcheriefanboy [7:51AM]: HOLY SHIT THEY EMAILED ME I’M GONNA DO A COLLAB CHOREO VIDEO WITH YOU I SAID YES. I’M STILL SHAKING. THIS IS INSANE.

You smile. But it’s a hollow thing. He thinks it’s you. And it should’ve been. Two days pass like a fog you can’t wade through. Then Naya knocks gently on your bedroom door. You glance up. She’s standing there with her phone pressed against her chest.

“I think you should see this.”

You sit up slowly. It’s Jake. No friends. No background. Just him and a studio floor and the spotlight cutting across his figure like stage lighting. He’s dancing your solo choreo. The emotional centerpiece from your last comeback. A piece born from every overworked night, every sleepless breakdown, every cracked smile you wore for the camera. He’s perfect. It’s not just technical. It’s emotional. He feels it.

Your lips part slightly. “He’s…”

“He’s really good,” Naya murmurs. You both go quiet. And then she whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Your voice is barely a breath. “It’s not your fault.” But it still hurts.

—

The day of the shoot finally arrives. You're in the practice room early, but it doesn’t calm the nervous energy buzzing under your skin. You roll your wrists. Breathe. Stretch. Count. Across from you, Naya reties her shoes again. And again. Her hands are shaking. Then she misses a basic warmup move. Twice.

You glance over. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” But she’s pale. Lips pressed tight.

Juna looks at her worriedly. Harin frowns. The door creaks open. Your manager strides in, tapping at his phone.

“Jake will be here in five.”

Naya visibly pales. She sways slightly, then grabs the barre for support.

The manager pauses. “You look off. Are you sick?”

She swallows hard. “No, I’m—”

Then it happens. She claps a hand over her mouth and bolts. The door slams behind her.

“Shit,” your manager hisses. “Is she seriously—?”

Juna immediately runs after her, calling her name. You step forward, concern growing, but Harin suddenly intercepts you, stepping in smoothly with a wide-eyed smile.

“Manager-nim,” she says sweetly, “Naya’s been sick all morning. We thought it’d pass, but it’s not looking good.”

He gapes. “We can’t cancel. This is riding the wave right now.”

Harin tilts her head. “We don’t have to.”

She turns to you and nods. “She can do it. She’s ready.”

Your eyes widen. “Wait, what—”

“She knows the choreo better than anyone. After all.. it’s hers. Not to mention the fans want THEM. He covers all her choreo in every video. Let’s just give them what they want and worry about potential rumors if they come.”

The manager looks you over, panic battling calculation on his face. His phone buzzes again.

He sighs, hard. “Fine. Get her ready.”

You’re rushed down the hall. Hair. Makeup. Fit change. They style you like the comeback video—cherry red accents, sharp liner, silver jewelry. Clean but bold.

It all blurs. You’re ushered to the threshold of the studio— And the door opens at the same time. He steps in. Jake. He freezes. So do you.

The staff’s voices melt into a dull roar. His lips part. Eyes widening. He hadn’t expected this. And it shows. For a second, his expression flickers—confusion, disbelief, awe. Then something softer. You feel your heart lurch. Someone says his name. Someone introduces you both.

“Nice to meet you,” Jake says, almost too quietly.

You nod. “You too.”

But your throat burns with everything unsaid. Practice begins. The track plays. Your body moves without hesitation. So does his. It’s a dance you both know—just not like this. You can feel the heat of his palm before it ever brushes yours. The choreography is sharp, intimate. Not romantic—but connected. It asks for trust. Proximity. Precision. Your movements synchronize like breathing in stereo. When your eyes lock, it’s not just choreo anymore. It’s confession.

There’s electricity in the silence between each beat. In the glide of your fingers near his ribs. In the pivot of his shoulder brushing yours.

He looks at you like he remembers everything you never said. And maybe he does. The camera rolls. One take. No cuts.

The music ends—

—and you’re both frozen in the final pose.

Chest to chest. Breath mingling. His hand still extended just near yours. Silence. Neither of you moves. Then:

“Cut.”

The spell breaks. He smiles first. Not the wide, goofy grin from his fan videos. Something smaller. Something real. You smile back. Barely. But this time, it’s enough. And for the first time, the air between you isn’t a wall. It’s a doorway. The rest of the room doesn’t move when they call cut.

Jake is still standing there, close—too close—his chest lifting with shallow breaths. Yours mirrors his. Neither of you has stepped back yet, even though the final note has long since faded. You’re both just… there. Suspended.

Frozen in the afterglow of something that shouldn’t have felt so much like a goodbye.

The staff starts clapping. Someone shouts, “One take?! That was insane!” Equipment rustles behind you. Lights adjust. The illusion cracks.

You step back first.

The cool air that rushes between you nearly makes you shiver.

Jake blinks like he’s waking up. His lips part like he might say something, but you don’t give him the chance. You turn toward the others as stylists flood the floor, pretending you don’t notice the way he watches you walk away.

But you feel it.

Like gravity.

You're back in the changing room, unzipping your top, when Juna bursts in.

“Oh my gosh,” she hisses, slamming the door behind her. “That was not just dancing. That was practically emotional warfare.”

You give her a look. “Don’t start.”

Harin follows, already mid-cackle. “The way he looked at you,” she says, flopping onto the couch. “Like he was trying to memorize your face.”

Naya peeks around the corner, her bun messy from earlier. Her voice is softer. “You okay?”

You hesitate, holding your reflection in the mirror.

“I don’t know,” you whisper.

Your manager’s still talking to Jake outside when you exit the dressing room. You catch his voice through the wall.

“...really well done. Thank you again for being flexible.”

Jake’s voice is quieter. “Of course. She’s great, I really look up to her and— I mean…” He pauses. “It really meant a lot.”

You freeze behind the door, heart skidding sideways.

Before you can decide whether to walk out or wait, someone opens it from the other side.

It’s him. Jake. And for a split second, you’re alone again. Just the two of you in the hallway. He sees you—and the breath catches in his throat. You try to smile. He does first. It’s shy, but something flickers behind it—like maybe he’s holding something in.

“I didn’t think it’d be you,” he says quietly.

“I didn’t either,” you murmur, voice dry.

A beat of silence.

“I’m glad it was,” he adds.

You open your mouth to answer—but your manager rounds the corner and the moment shatters.

“There you are,” he says, clapping Jake on the shoulder. “Let’s get some photos before you go.”

Jake’s eyes linger on you. You watch him walk away. You can’t remember the last time you hated a goodbye this much. That night, you lie in bed, hood pulled up, phone in hand. He messages you.

yourcheriefanboy [9:47PM]: i don’t know how to say this without sounding dumb but… thank you for today. i’ll never forget it.

You read it three times. You don’t reply. But you hold the phone to your chest like it might stop your heart from breaking.

—

It doesn’t happen all at once. But the internet notices. First. The collab video drops and within minutes—chaos. The comments are feral:

“NO WAY THIS IS REAL??” “THE CHEMISTRY?? i’m on the FLOOR.” “cherie noticed him??? i can’t breathe” “She’s so good but jake?? jake has IT.”

Clips from the collab flood TikTok. Your name trends. So does his username. Fan accounts start dissecting every frame:

—The way you smiled in the background. —How Jake subtly glances off-camera after every move. —The soft electricity in your eyes.

You scroll in the dark, heart pounding. Everywhere you look—

“Youcheriefanboy supremacy.” “HE’S HER #1 FAN FOR A REASON.” “Not to be delusional but this is giving actual love story.”

He hasn’t texted you yet. But he will.

It starts with a message. The kind that comes in late. When the dorm lights are off and the others are asleep. When the air feels heavier, quieter, like the world is giving you permission to be vulnerable.

yourcheriefanboy [1:04AM]: you awake?

You stare at the screen. The profile picture is still that blurry mirror selfie. Still unreadable. Still… safe.

Cherieoffgrid [1:08AM]: i am now

A beat.

yourcheriefanboy: sorry if i’m being annoying. it’s just… i can’t sleep i keep thinking about our collab about you

Your breath catches.

You type. Delete. Type again.

Cherieoffgrid: me too

You can feel his exhale through the screen.

yourcheriefanboy: can i tell you something without it being weird? Cherieoffgrid: go for it yourcheriefanboy: it felt different with you like we already knew each other i don’t know how to explain it but it’s like my body just… remembered yours

Your hand trembles. You hesitate before typing your reply.

Cherieoffgrid: it didn’t feel weird i felt it too

The typing bubble appears. Then disappears. Then comes back.

yourcheriefanboy: i don’t want to do this in DMs anymore can i text you?

You pause.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. Every warning in your head flashes like a red siren. But your heart? It’s whispering something else.

Cherieoffgrid: okay. here.

You send your number.

The second it leaves your phone, you flip it screen-down and inhale like you just jumped off a cliff.

Seconds later—it vibrates.

Unknown Number: hey. it’s me. jake.

Texting Jake is like exhaling after years of holding your breath.

He’s funny. Smart. Unfiltered. You talk about music. Life. Burnout. He tells you about the time he fell off a stage in high school. You tell him about Naya’s sleep-talking. It’s slow and tender and surprisingly normal.

And then one night:

Jake [11:56PM]: not trying to be bold or anything but… what if we met up? like. really. in person. no cameras. just 2 friends.. 

You stare at it for a long time.

You [12:03AM]: we can’t. it’s dangerous. you know that. Jake: i know. just had to say it.

—

A week passes. A slow, uneventful, moral questioning week.

And then.. Before you know it.. it somehow happens. Like you just could not resist it any longer.

You’re in a hoodie and sunglasses, sitting beside Jake on a tucked-away bench under a willow tree near the Han River. You haven’t smiled this freely in weeks. He brought you hot tea. The lid has a cat doodle drawn on it. You’re laughing at something dumb he said about idol stage names when he suddenly goes quiet.

“Don’t move,” he whispers.

Your body locks. He shifts forward slightly, his eyes scanning over your shoulder.

“What is it?” you murmur.

He lowers his voice. “There’s a girl across the park. She’s been watching us for five minutes.”

Your stomach drops. He shifts subtly in front of you, shielding your face.

“Phone?” you ask.

“Already out,” he confirms. “She’s pretending to stretch.”

“Shit.”

Jake leans in close, voice barely audible. “We’re gonna walk. Slowly. Don’t look back.”

You nod. He stands first, casually stretching, then offers you a hand. You take it. His grip is firm. Protective. You walk side by side. He murmurs directions like a bodyguard. Turns. Timing. You slip through alleys. Shortcut near a bookstore. Jake pulls his hoodie low.

And then—

A car. His friend. Already waiting. Jake opens the back door and helps you in.

You don’t look up until the door shuts and the car pulls away. Your pulse is thundering. Hands shaking. Jake leans down to the window and taps twice. You don’t roll it down. He mouths: I’m sorry.

You don’t text him that night. You don’t text him for days. But he does.

Jake [9:14AM]: are you okay? please tell me you’re okay i’m so sorry i should’ve known better Jake [next day]: i miss talking to you i’ll stop if you want me to i just… can’t stop thinking about you

You never reply. Until one night. You’re scrolling. Exhausted. Aching. And then it hits. A message. Just one line.

Jake [11:41PM]: when are we gonna stop pretending?

You freeze. You type.

You [11:46PM]: what if i showed up? Jake: i’d open the door. You: no questions? Jake: none. just you.

It’s late. Rain taps the sidewalk in soft rhythms. You’re wearing no disguise. No mask. Just a hoodie pulled over clean skin and tired eyes. You stand at his apartment door. It opens like he was already waiting. Jake stares at you. You stare at him. No one speaks.

You step in. And this time— You stay.

The door closes softly behind you. The room is quiet. Almost too quiet. Jake gestures loosely to the couch, like he’s unsure of what to say. “You, uh… want to sit?” You nod, but neither of you move.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I thought I’d say something clever. But you kind of caught me off guard.”

You huff a laugh. “Me too.”

He finally crosses the room, sits on the far end of the couch. You follow a beat later, leaving a polite, awkward distance between you.

Seconds pass. He taps his knee. You trace a thread on the hem of your sleeve.

It’s not tense—just… fragile. Like the moment might shatter if either of you breathe wrong.

Jake clears his throat. “So… how’ve you been?”

You blink. “Busy. Tired. Being an idol is—well. You know.”

“I don’t, really. Not like that. But… I can imagine.” He pauses. “I saw your interview. The one last week.”

You look at him sideways. “The one where I accidentally zoned out mid-question?”

He smiles. “No one noticed.”

“You did.”

“Always.”

The silence returns, but it’s heavier now. Something flickering just beneath it.

You shift. “I saw your new video.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Yeah?”

You nod. “You’re getting really good. Like, scary good.”

Jake shrugs, ducking his head. “I just… I like it. I like dancing. It’s how I feel close to you. Even if we’re not talking.”

The confession lands between you like a thunderclap—quiet, but impossible to ignore.

You open your mouth. Close it. Then finally whisper, “I watched everything I missed. Every post. Every caption.”

“I didn’t think you would,” he says softly. “After you blocked me.”

“I didn’t want to,” you admit. “But I had to.”

Jake leans back against the cushion, gaze fixed on the ceiling. “Because of the job. The fans. The risk.”

You nod.

“But we’re here anyway,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice quiet, almost breaking. “We are.”

There’s a long beat. Neither of you move. The air is so thick with unsaid things it almost hums.

Jake tilts his head, finally meeting your eyes. “What are we doing?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“This,” he gestures between you. “It’s not just texting. It’s not just a collab. And that wasn’t just tea by the river.”

Your breath hitches.

“I know what we should be doing,” he adds. “Keeping distance. Playing it safe. But I can’t stop thinking about you. And I don’t think I want to anymore.”

You exhale shakily, looking down at your hands. “I want to see you. For real. Not behind glasses or masks or through DMs. But…”

Jake waits.

“But I’m scared,” you whisper.

He nods once, slowly. “Me too.”

Your eyes meet again. There’s no fear there. Just understanding. Longing. Quiet defiance.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he says finally. “Not now. Not yet. I just… I want you to know you don’t have to pretend around me.”

Your throat tightens. “That’s the problem. I’ve been pretending so long, I don’t always know when I’m not.”

Jake’s voice drops. “Then let’s figure it out. Together. Slowly.”

A silence settles between you. But this time, it doesn’t feel awkward. It feels like a beginning. You glance down at your hands, then over at his—resting beside him on the couch. Slowly, you reach out. Just pinkies. Barely touching.

His breath stutters. But he doesn’t move away. Neither do you. The lightest touch. Not even a grip. Just the barest brush of your pinkie against his. But it’s enough.

Jake doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His gaze stays forward, fixed somewhere ahead—but you can feel the way he shifts toward you. Like gravity.

You don’t look at him either. Your heart is pounding too loud. Your throat too tight.

But you don’t pull away.

It’s quiet for a long time. Then softly, so softly, Jake says, “Thank you.”

You glance at him. “For what?”

“For showing up.”

You smile, just barely. “I almost didn’t.”

“I almost didn’t believe you would.”

You look down where your fingers still touch.

And then—his pinkie curls slightly around yours. Just enough to hold.

It makes your stomach turn in the best, slowest way.

“You don’t have to stay long,” Jake says, voice low, almost shy. “I just… didn’t want to end the night wondering.”

You nod slowly. “I’m glad I came.”

He glances at you then, a real look. Eyes searching. “Are you tired?”

You pause. “Always.”

He laughs under his breath. “Want tea? Or water? Or like… the worst instant ramen of your life?”

You laugh, too. “Honestly? Ramen sounds perfect.”

Jake jumps up, nervous energy flickering under the surface. “Okay, but I warned you. This is broke-style desperation cooking. Like, scandalously low-budget.”

You tuck your legs up under you on the couch, watching as he disappears into the kitchen. The clatter of a pot, the hiss of a kettle. It’s domestic. Real. A little surreal.

He’s humming. You don’t recognize the melody, but it sounds like comfort. You let yourself relax.

His place is small—bare, but cozy. There’s a worn hoodie tossed over the back of a chair. A polaroid of a dog stuck to the fridge. A chipped mug on the counter.

You know nothing about his real life, and yet here you are. In the middle of it.

A few minutes later, he brings two bowls over—steaming and wildly uneven in noodle distribution.

“Don’t judge me,” he says, sheepish.

You grin. “I’d never.”

You both sit on the floor with your backs against the couch, bowls in your laps. The steam fogs your glasses briefly, and Jake hands you a napkin without a word.

You eat in silence for a while. Not awkward. Just… quiet.

Jake finishes first and leans his head back against the couch. “Can I ask something?”

You nod. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks. “Is this gonna be it?”

You pause, chopsticks still in your hand.

“Like…” he swallows, “just this one night?”

You don’t answer right away. Because you don’t know. Because you’re scared of what it might mean if you say no. But you also know the truth. So you place your bowl down carefully. And whisper, “I don’t want it to be.”

Jake turns his head slowly. Looks right at you. The softest breath leaves his lips. And then he smiles. Not a wide one. Not excited. Just… relieved. Like he’s been holding his breath, too. You shift slightly closer, knees brushing. Still no kiss. Still no bold confessions.

But something shifts between you in that moment. The air thickens, deepens. And it becomes clear that whatever this is—it’s not ending here. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

—

It starts with small things.

A soft hum in the mornings. A spring in your step during rehearsals. The others notice before you do—how you laugh more. How your eyes light up when your phone buzzes.

They don’t say anything at first. But they see it.

Naya catches you grinning at your phone one night and just tosses a throw pillow at you with a knowing look. “Tell loverboy he’s keeping you up past curfew.”

You snort. “He’s not—”

“Mmhm.”

Still, they help. Every time.

Every cover story. Every excuse. Every well-timed distraction when a staff member walks too close to your room while you're slipping out in a hoodie.

Juna even keeps a spare jacket by the door “just in case someone needs to sneak out fast.”

You’re careful. You have to be. But you’re also the happiest you’ve ever been. And the fans notice. Your fancams hit different now. They flood the comments with things like:

“She’s GLOWING lately??” “Something’s changed, she looks so at peace.” “Whoever’s making her smile like that, thank you.”

At every pop-up, concert, street show—he’s there. Jake never tries to get your attention. Never causes a scene.

But somehow you always find him. His warm gaze in the crowd. The soft nod. That half-smile like he’s rooting for you even from a distance.

You swear your heart beats differently when he’s near. On a gray, wind-swept Tuesday, you meet again.

The girls cover for you without question. You slip out disguised in a bucket hat and oversized jacket, slipping through the back entrance of a quiet neighborhood café where he waits, already seated.

He’s facing the window. When he sees you, he stands, smiling wide. Like it’s the first time, every time. You sit across from him, the table small and warm between you.

“You ordered already?” you ask behind your mask.

Jake nods. “Your usual. I figured you wouldn’t want to be here too long.”

You smile beneath the fabric. “You figured right.”

He hands you the cup, fingertips brushing. Your heart flutters. You sip quietly, the two of you tucked in your little corner of the world. Safe. Hidden. Real.

When you leave, you both take the long way around, weaving through alleys and tree-lined paths.

It’s quiet between you. But not awkward.

Jake’s telling you about a viral dance challenge he got roped into when— He reaches down. And takes your hand.

Like it’s nothing. Like he’s done it a hundred times.

Your steps falter. You look at him, shocked.

But he doesn’t even glance your way. Just smiles to himself, like you’re not the only one who’s been dying to feel this close.

You don’t let go. You can’t.

For hours, you walk. Talking. Laughing. A world away from cameras, costumes, and curfews.

Until the sun starts to dip. You’re about to say goodbye when you feel it. A shift in the air. Jake freezes first. You follow his eyes—and see it.

A girl, no older than a student, standing across the street, phone halfway lifted. You don’t know if she’s aiming it at you. If she recognizes you. But she’s staring. Jake’s hand drops from yours instantly.

You both turn quickly, walking the opposite direction. Fast. Heads low. Adrenaline spiking.Your pulse is a war drum in your throat. Around the corner. Down another alley. Breath hitching.

“She saw,” you whisper, panic flaring. “I know she did—”

Jake hushes you gently. “Just keep walking. I’ll get you a ride.”

He already has his phone out. You duck under a stairwell, breathing hard, pulling your hood up, masking again.

Jake stays with you the whole time, guarding the edge of the sidewalk like a shield. When the car arrives, he opens the door for you.

“Go,” he says softly. “It’ll be okay.”

You look at him. Your fingers ache from not holding his. Your throat aches from the weight of the goodbye. But you nod. And then you’re gone. Later that night, your group’s manager knocks on your door.

“You saw the photo?” he asks flatly.

You freeze.

The photo is grainy. You’re in profile, mostly hidden, but it’s enough.

Just enough to make hearts race.

“Who is she?” “His girlfriend?” “She looks familiar…” “Wait, could it be—?”

The internet is frothing. The photo’s climbing trending tags fast.

Your manager sighs angrily. “Lay low. We’ll handle it. But.. we need to talk.”

You nod slowly, numb. In your room, your phone buzzes.

Jake [9:52PM]: i’m sorry. i swear i didn’t see her. are you okay?

You don’t answer. Not yet. Not until your heart stops sprinting. But deep down, you know this isn’t over. Because secrets can’t stay secret forever. And because the second he took your hand—you knew:

You never wanted to let go again.

—

The next morning, everything collapses.

You’re still in your hoodie from last night, curled on the couch with a half-finished tea cooling beside you. Your head’s resting on Naya’s shoulder as she softly scrolls through her phone, both of you too tired to speak.

Then—

SLAM.

The front door crashes open like a gunshot. You jolt upright.

Your manager’s voice cracks through the dorm like lightning. “WHAT. THE HELL. WERE YOU THINKING?”

Harin drops her cereal with a clang. Juna flinches so hard she spills milk down her leg. Naya straightens immediately, eyes dark. He storms into the room, red-faced and breathing like he’s run a mile. Phone in hand. Screen glowing. Already open to a photo.

A photo you know.

You and Jake.

From the coffee shop. Just before you parted ways. Just before the flash went off.

He holds it up like a weapon. “You think I wouldn’t see this? You think I’m stupid?”

“I—” Your throat closes. “It wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Do not insult me with some excuse.”

He throws his hand out. “Give me your phone.”

You hesitate. Then Naya puts a hand on your arm. Gently. You pass it over.

He rips it from your grasp.

“You’re off. Hiatus. Immediately. No more social. No press. No rehearsals. No messaging anyone.”

“What?” you whisper.

He doesn’t even blink. “You’re lucky we don’t terminate your contract.”

The silence is suffocating.

“You can’t do that,” Juna says, voice shaking. “You can’t.”

“Watch me,” he hisses, and storms out before anyone else can speak.

You don’t cry at first. You sit still. Frozen. Like your soul has left your body.

The girls hover, frantic.

“Unbelievable,” Harin mutters, pacing the room.

Juna pulls you into a quiet hug, whispering, “It’s gonna be okay.”

That night, she slips you her phone. Her eyes say don’t get caught.

You type only three words:

I miss you.

His reply comes within seconds.

Jake: i’m here. always.

And he means it. You message one more night. Just once. But the third day, it’s over.

He finds out. No one knows how.

Maybe a slip-up. Maybe a tracker on the company Wi-Fi. Maybe he’s just watching everything.

He bans the girls from helping. Juna sobs in the kitchen. Naya throws her shoe at the wall. Harin rips the charger from her phone like it’s the manager’s throat.

But none of it helps. You’re alone again. Two days later the door slams open again—but this time, it’s Naya.

“Look,” she says, voice trembling. “You need to see this.”

She shoves her phone into your hand. Photos. New ones.

From the side. From behind. Someone clearly followed you.

You with Jake. His arm gently touching yours. Your hands interlocking. Your eyes on him, soft.

The article headline reads: “Is Cherie’s main dancer secretly dating her #1 fan?”

The comments are a firestorm.

“THIS is why she’s on hiatus.” “She’s reckless. Unprofessional.” “lol that’s what happens when you get too close to fans.” “I’m so disappointed.”

But then—

“She looks happy. Look at her smile.” “I hope it’s true. She deserves soft love.” “She choreographed half their discography and she can’t even date someone? Y’all are insane.” “This better be real or I’ll cry.” “If she’s with him… she’s winning.”

You read for an hour. The hate is loud. But the support? It's deafening. Your hands shake. You cry again, quietly this time, into the sleeve of Naya’s hoodie.

The next morning, a sudden meeting is called. All four of you stand awkwardly in the studio, tension high. The manager walks in, eyes tired.

“We’re dropping the new single,” he says. “This week.”

Stunned silence.

Your heart leaps for half a second. “Wait… really?”

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even acknowledge your voice.

“Yes. But you’re not part of it.”

The floor falls out beneath you.

“What?” Juna gasps.

“You’re joking,” Harin breathes.

“She choreographed everything,” Naya growls. “The hook, the chorus, the damn bridge—”

“She’s a liability right now,” he snaps. “Too much press. We need clean faces. We’ll push with the three of you.”

“No,” Naya says, loud and firm.

He freezes.

“I said no.”

“We won’t do it,” Harin adds.

“She’s our sister,” Juna says, her voice breaking. “You don’t get to treat her like this.”

“If she’s not in it, we’re not in it.”

A beat of silence. Then he storms out without a word. You collapse back into the dorm, shaking. The girls surround you, soft and warm, full of fire and loyalty.

They make tea. Naya puts on your favorite movie. Juna paints your nails terribly on purpose to make you laugh. Harin makes heart-shaped toast.

And that night, you quietly thank them. You hug them all. And then go to your room. Lock the door. Sit on the edge of your bed. You try not to cry again.

Then—

A knock. You tense.

“Please go away,” you whisper.

Another knock. Silence. Then again.

You snap. Fling the door open— And stop breathing. Jake. In your dorm. In the hallway.

Soaked from rain. Hoodie clinging to his shoulders. Hair curling at his forehead. Breath heavy like he ran the whole way.

Your knees give out. He catches you instantly.

Arms around your waist, tight. Secure. Your face presses into his chest and the floodgates break.

You cry like your bones are splintering.

He holds you through it all.

“I missed you,” you sob. “I missed you so much, Jake. Everything hurts.”

He strokes your hair, voice choked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“No—”

“I ruined it. I was your biggest fan and I ruined your career.”

“You didn’t—”

“I just wanted to know you,” he breathes. “I never meant for this. I never wanted to make your life harder.”

You shake your head. “You’re the only good thing that happened.”

He swallows thickly. “I’ll go. I just wanted to say goodbye. I won’t ruin this anymore.”

“No.”

He moves to stand. But your hand darts out—grabs his wrist.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Please. Don’t go.”

His eyes shine. And you’re already crying again. You tug him gently into your room. He steps in. You shut the door. No cameras. No lies. No disguises. Just you and him. And finally, the quiet love you’ve both been trying to outrun.

But can no longer deny.

—

The apology post goes up a day later. You're the one who types it—but only technically. Every word is scrutinized, softened, sanitized. You're told to be thoughtful. Professional. Grateful. You're told to apologize for "the miscommunication." You're told to remind them that you're "still learning." But between the lines, you slip something in. Something real.

“Even idols are human. I’m still figuring out what that means. Thank you for your patience.”

The comments erupt. Not with hate—but with fire.

“Why is she apologizing for EXISTING???” “She literally did nothing wrong omg let her breathe.” “Let idols love. Let HER love.” “THE MANAGER NEEDS TO BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE”

Your inbox floods with love letters. Fan mail. Support. And hate mail, too—only this time, it's aimed squarely at the company.

“Let your artists live.” “Protect your idols, don’t punish them.” “Stop policing their happiness.”

It builds. Fast. Loud. Global. Enough that your manager finally looks at you in the practice room one night, exhales slowly, and mutters—

“Just… be careful.”

Not a yes. Not a no. But enough. You clutch your phone like it’s holy when it’s returned to your hand. And that night—

You [8:43PM]: Can I come over next week? Jake: Wait what??? YES. YES. you can come over right now if you want. or tomorrow. i’ll clear my whole schedule.

You laugh for the first time in what feels like days. But you don’t go yet. Because you have a plan.

It starts with a knock on Naya’s door.

Then Harin’s. Then Juna’s.

They don’t even hesitate.

They help you pick a chord progression. Fix your lyrics. Harmonize the hook.

It's just a short song. Small. Soft. For him.

Then the day comes.

You ride the train with your guitar strapped to your back, head ducked, heart thudding in your chest the whole way there. You don’t text before you arrive. You just show up.

You lift your hand to knock, but the door’s already open before your knuckles touch wood.

Jake stands there. He looks like he ran. Socks mismatched. Hair a mess. Breathless. He doesn't even greet you. He just pulls you in.

Arms wrapping around you so fast, so tight, like he’s been holding his breath since the last time he saw you.

You drop your bag and cling back. The silence is thick with relief. He pulls back just a little and notices the guitar.

“Wait—what’s this?”

You suddenly forget how to breathe. You’re never nervous to perform. Not for thousands. Not for cameras. But now? Your palms are sweating. Your voice tight in your throat.

You kneel on his living room rug, pulling the guitar from its case. Adjust the strap. Re-tune a string or two. Clear your throat.

Jake sits across from you on the floor, legs criss-crossed, arms resting on his knees. Watching.

Not expectant. Not eager. Just… open. Waiting.

You glance up at him, and then— You begin.

Your fingers pluck soft, trembling notes. A hush falls over the room.

The first lyric slips from your mouth like a secret you’ve never told anyone else.

“you called yourself a fanboy / but you made me feel like more / like i was someone to come home to / someone worth fighting for…”

Jake’s chest rises—slow. His mouth parts slightly. His eyes don’t leave you for a second.

“i was a name in lights / you were a face in the crowd / and somehow… you saw me / when i forgot how”

You look down as you play, afraid if you meet his gaze again, you’ll fall apart.

Your fingers tremble just slightly against the strings, but the melody is clear. Honest. It spills into the space between you like a secret finally brave enough to speak.

The lyrics come softer now, voice barely above a whisper. A line about a boy with stars in his eyes, Another about how he made you feel seen when you were disappearing.

The bridge builds gently, like your heart is learning how to breathe again, like it’s remembering how to feel without fear. Each note feels like confession. Like forgiveness.

And when the final chord fades, your breath catches in your throat.

Silence. No clapping. No smile.

Jake sits motionless on the edge of the couch, hands curled into loose fists on his knees. His chest rises, but he doesn’t exhale. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.

For a second, you think you’ve gone too far. That maybe this was too much.

Then you see it. Just one. A single tear, sliding slow and quiet down his cheek. Your heart drops.

You fumble to set the guitar down and rush toward him, panic blooming in your chest.

“Oh my gosh—Jake, I didn’t mean to—was that weird? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Stop.”

His voice is raw, thick like it’s been buried under too much silence for too long.

You freeze mid-step.

His hand reaches for you, tentative at first, then more certain as it curls gently under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

His eyes are red-rimmed, glassy, locked onto yours like they’ve been searching for you across lifetimes.

“Don’t apologize,” he breathes, voice just above a whisper.

And then—

He kisses you. Not soft. Not slow.

It crashes into you like a wave that’s been building since the day he learned your name. Desperate. Fierce. Like every sleepless night, every hidden smile, every text left unsent is behind it.

Your fingers twist into his hoodie, anchoring yourself to him. His hands cup the sides of your face, thumbs brushing away tears you hadn’t noticed had fallen.

He kisses you like the moment will collapse if he stops. Like if he doesn’t taste every second of it, he’ll regret it for the rest of his life.

It’s messy. A little unsteady. But so painfully real.

When you finally part, gasping, lips tingling and hearts racing, he doesn’t move far—his forehead presses against yours, breath warm against your skin.

He still hasn’t let go of your face.

He’s watching you. Carefully. Reverently. Like you’re a galaxy he’s terrified to disturb.

You blink, overwhelmed.

He smiles. A real one. Soft. Shy. Staggering.

“That song…” he murmurs.

You look up at him, unsure if you can handle the weight of whatever comes next. His voice is barely there now. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

And in the stillness that follows—

There is no idol. No fan. No fear. No world to chase or escape from. Just you. And him.

And the quiet, breathless bloom of something finally allowed to take root. Something permanent.

Something yours.

—

You and Jake have settled into a rhythm no one else fully understands. You keep things casual, deliberate—not officially “together,” not publicly seen hand-in-hand, but close enough that the members and a few trusted friends know. The rest? They speculate endlessly. Fans watch your social media, piecing together the hints, the moments he appears just outside the frame of your photos, the way your smiles brighten when he’s near.

At public events, Jake’s usually just a shadow in the crowd—never too close, never too obvious. But your fans notice. They see the subtle warmth in your eyes, the way your steps quicken when he shows up, the quiet moments you steal when no one’s looking. The rumors swirl, but you never confirm or deny. Why spoil the magic?

Your members tease you endlessly. Naya nudges you with a grin, “Girl, we all see it. You’re glowing.”

Juna laughs, “Yeah, it’s like you’re walking on sunshine every time he’s around.”

Harin winks, “Keep playing coy, but you’re basically a walking love song.”

You laugh, cheeks flushed, but there’s a comfort in their knowing smiles. They have your back. You have each other.

Then one evening, at the dorm you’re curled up on the couch, scrolling through fan tweets, half amused, half touched.

"‘She’s finally happy. About time!’" one fan writes. "‘He better treat her right, or else.’" "‘If this is real, I’m here for it.’"

You smile softly and tuck your phone away, unaware that Jake is quietly watching you from the hallway, his heart full and aching in equal measure. He steps inside, a little hesitant but smiling.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You look up, startled but delighted.

“Hey.”

You fall into easy conversation, voices low, the comfort of presence filling the room. It’s not public, not official, but it’s yours.

—

The afternoon sun poured softly through the sheer curtains, dust motes floating lazily in the warm light. You sat cross-legged on the windowsill of your room, the city skyline stretching out behind you like a familiar, comforting backdrop. Your phone was perched just right on the windowsill, front camera activated, ready for your live stream. The gentle hum of the dorm around you—the clinking of dishes, muffled laughter, the distant sound of music—made the moment feel cozy and real.

Your members were scattered nearby, teasing you playfully off-camera. Juna poked her head into the frame, making exaggerated funny faces that sent you into a soft fit of laughter. Harin waved enthusiastically and mouthed “You got this!” while Naya leaned against the doorframe, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.

You adjusted the camera slightly, then smiled warmly at the little crowd gathering in the chat box, where thousands of fans eagerly typed questions and compliments. The screen flickered with colorful hearts and messages of love. Your voice was light and casual as you answered questions, shared bits about your day, and gave gentle encouragement to those struggling to get through theirs.

You told a funny story about Naya’s latest kitchen disaster, and the chat exploded with laughing emojis. The tension of weeks past seemed miles away in that room, in that moment — here, you were just you.

Then, suddenly, the sound of the front door swinging open echoed through the dorm. A pair of soft footsteps came down the hall. Your gaze flicked toward the doorway, and there he was.

Jake.

Barefoot, his hair tousled from sleep or a restless afternoon. A steaming cup of coffee cradled in his hands. He wore an oversized hoodie that swallowed his frame in the most endearing way. His eyes caught the gentle glow of your phone screen, flickering with your face.

Time seemed to slow.

Your fingers froze mid-air, heart stuttering like a skipping record.

His eyes widened—surprised, amused—and a slow, sheepish grin spread across his face.

“Shit,” you whispered, instinctively covering the camera lens with your hand, cheeks flaming hotter than the afternoon sun.

“Shit,” he echoed, stepping closer, the soft scrape of his bare feet against the hardwood floor barely audible.

The members peeked around the corner, trying desperately not to laugh at the sudden burst of awkwardness.

Your heart hammered in your chest as the chat exploded:

“OMG IS THAT JAKE???” “GIRL WHY YOU WORRIED? WE ALL KNEW.” “FINALLY, THE SECRET’S OUT!” “Y’ALL ARE SO CUTE.”

Jake’s gaze flicked from your flushed face to the chat window. His eyes crinkled with warmth and quiet affection as he leaned slightly forward, whispering just loud enough for you to hear, “Guess the secret’s out.”

You bit your lip, still blushing, and slowly uncovered the camera. Your smile was shy but real, catching his gaze and holding it.

After the live stream ended, you set the phone aside and scooted down from the windowsill, curling up on the couch beside him. His hand found yours, fingers threading together like a perfect puzzle.

Jake brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear with gentle reverence, his thumb caressing your skin. His voice was low, steady, as he murmured, “Guess we don’t have to hide anymore.”

You tilted your head up, eyes shining with a mix of relief and anticipation. “Not yet,” you whispered, voice trembling with the weight of everything unsaid. “But soon.”

He nodded slowly, the light in his eyes soft and sure. “And when that day comes,” he said, voice husky, “we’ll take it slow. Together.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. The quiet around you was full of promise—of whispered confessions yet to come, shared glances across crowded rooms, the kind of love that grows in the shadows before stepping fully into the light.

Because some stories, you both knew, were meant to be whispered first—before they were ever sung aloud.

——————

EPILOG :)

The final night of the tour was electric, the air thick with anticipation and the collective heartbeat of thousands of fans. The stage lights pulsed in rhythm with the music as the crowd roared, waving light sticks that painted the arena in a sea of colors.

After the last high-energy track, the music faded, but the cheers kept rising, demanding an encore. You stepped back on stage, this time.. just you. Your heart was pounding like a drum. The spotlight found you, crisp and warm against the cool night.

“Thank you all for being with me on this journey,” you began, your voice steady but soft, carrying a weight of meaning. “Tonight, I want to share something special—a song I wrote for someone… very special.”

You paused, your eyes scanning the sea of faces, and then you smiled, the kind of smile that held years of secret stories finally ready to be told.

From the side, a stagehand handed you your guitar, polished and familiar in your hands. You strummed the first gentle chords, the melody weaving through the hush that fell over the crowd. You began to sing softly, strumming lightly. Everyone was silent as the melody filled the air of the venue.

Then, just as the track music began to flow fully, a figure stepped onto the stage’s edge — Jake. His presence was electric but calm, eyes locked on yours as he moved with quiet confidence.

The crowd erupted, screams mixing with cheers as you and Jake shared a glance filled with everything unspoken, everything finally free.

As the song’s rhythm picked up, someone took your guitar and you both began to dance—simple, sweet movements that told a story of connection and trust. His hands found yours, fingers intertwining effortlessly as the music carried you both through every note.

The audience was spellbound, watching two souls finally stepping out of shadows, bathed in the glow of stage lights and genuine love.

When the last note lingered in the air, you and Jake stood side by side, breathless and smiling, the applause crashing over you like a wave of pure joy.

You looked out at the crowd—at the fans who had waited, hoped, and now celebrated with you—and whispered, “This is just the beginning.”

Jake squeezed your hand, eyes sparkling, and together you took a bow, stepping forward into a future no longer hidden but shining bright for all to see.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌

tl: (read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

[belit0]

Boys I’m going to Adam and Eve (the store), do you have any preference(s) as to what I should bring you?

The moment that ask dropped, it was like a pheromone bomb went off in the house.

Doors creaked. Footsteps shuffled. Somewhere in the background, the living room fan spun in lazy circles like a countdown to debauchery.

Izuna was the first to react, obviously. He came skidding into the hallway like a hyena on cocaine, shirtless, sunglasses on for no reason.

-Vibrating cock ring,- he said, dead serious, already typing back to the anon. -One that syncs to music. I wanna see if I can nut to Skrillex.-

Shisui, sitting backwards on a kitchen chair like the slutty delinquent he was, blinked once. -That’s actually genius.- Then, raising two fingers without looking up: -Also, get the strawberries flavored lube. I’m just curious.-

From behind the fridge door, Obito’s voice came out flat: -that’s what they all say.- His ears, of course, were visibly pink.

Izuna cackled, -You blushing like that and you’re not even the one getting railed.-

-I’m not blushing,- Obito mumbled, which only made it worse.

Shisui smirked. -Yeah, sure, baby slut.-

Madara stepped into the room last, holding a newspaper, a physical fucking newspaper, and stared at the screen. -Adam and who?-

Shisui looked at him. -It’s a sex shop.-

Madara blinked once, like someone just slapped him with a concept from another dimension. -Why is it named after biblical figures?-

-You’re asking the wrong questions, old man,- Izuna muttered.

Madara scoffed and left muttering about the fall of empires and moral degradation.

Then came the voice from the other side of the room, sharp, low, and bone-dry: -If any of you leave a single package with my name on it, I will kill belit0.-

Indra hadn’t even looked up from his book. His coffee sat untouched beside him, pale beige from too much milk, and suspiciously sweet. No one dared mention it.

Shisui grinned, leaning back. -So… that’s a yes to nipple clamps, then?-

Indra turned the page.

Silence.

-…noted,- Shisui whispered.

[1dvision]

08 || Live Again? What Could Go Wrong?

Rylee wasn't planning to go live.

In fact, she was curled up in hotel sweats, hair half-dried, scrolling through Netflix without actually watching anything when her phone buzzed.

Kyle 💫:

go live w me

5 min

i'll send the invite

don't bail

She groaned but smiled. She'd made the mistake of saying, "We should do this again sometime," and clearly, Kyle took that as a verbal contract. The girl fixed her hoodie, wiped off the faint remnants of eye makeup, and cracked her knuckles.

Five minutes later, she were staring at a countdown:

Connecting... with @kyle.alsssandro

LIVE: 1.2k viewers and climbing

He popped on screen first — as usual, looking effortlessly put together in that way only Norwegians and anime protagonists could pull off. She followed a second later, and the chat exploded instantly.

Comments:

"They're backkkk 😭"

"Eurovision royalty ACTUALLY"

"The Irish x Norwegian energy is unmatchable"

"Kiss—"

"NO"

Kyle grinned. "Look who showed up! I was worried I'd have to FaceTime your PR manager to get permission."

"She'd hang up and block you," you shot back. "She's still recovering from your soft-launch video."

"Soft-launch?" He tilted his head, mock-innocent. "I just said I was grateful."

Rylee raised an eyebrow. "You added the blurry FaceTime shot."

He laughed, boyish and completely unbothered. "It was aesthetic."

The chat was losing its collective mind.

Comments:

"THEY'RE SO SELF-AWARE"

"Kyle's the chaos, [Your Name] is the damage control"

"I feel like I'm third-wheeling a friendship???"

The Irish shook her head. "Anyway, what are we doing here? You dragged me on live with no warning."

Kyle held up a whiteboard. "We're playing 'Who's More Likely To: Eurovision Edition.' I wrote down questions. Winner gets... bragging rights and my last Norwegian chocolate bar."

Rylee snorted. "This feels rigged."

It wasn't. It was worse. Over the next twenty minutes, Kyle exposed both of them.

"Who's more likely to trip on stage?"

Rylee: "Me."

Kyle: "Also you."

Comments:

"SHE TRIPPED AT SOUND CHECK WE SAW IT 😭"

"Who's more likely to ignore their press obligations?"

Kyle: "Me. I do it for the drama."

Rylee: "Siobhán's already typing."

By the time the final question came — "Who's more likely to win Eurovision?" — they both went quiet.

Then Kyle said, soft but sincere, "You've got something special, you know. Even if the jury doesn't see it, we do."

She blinked. "That was... unexpectedly heartfelt."

He shrugged. "Even chaos has depth."

The chat exploded again, but neither of them read it right away. For a second, the screen felt smaller. Calmer. Like it really was just the two of the

, despite the thousands watching.

Eventually, the ginger waved. "Alright, I'm logging off before Siobhán parachutes through my window."

Kyle blew a kiss to the camera. "See you soon, Ireland."

And just like that, the Live ended.

But the buzz didn't.

#EuroBesties was trending within the hour.

[agirlwithdemonblood]

Hold On - Chapter 15 - The Text

Pairings: Beau Arlen x Reader

Series Summary: When darkness closes in, hope can be found in the most unexpected places — if they’re brave enough to hold on.

Chapter Summary: After receiving a message he knows isn’t real, Beau clings to the reminders she left behind—silent promises that no matter how deep the fear runs, he isn’t giving up on her.

Series Masterlist here!! & Main masterlist here!

Beau didn’t have the luxury of pride anymore.

Not when every hour felt like a countdown. Not when he could still feel her slipping further away.

This wasn’t about right and wrong. It wasn’t about the badge. It was about her.

He sat in his truck outside your apartment, the headlights off, the engine ticking as it cooled.

He stared up at your window — dark and empty — and tried to pretend you were still in there somewhere.

Reading a book. Humming under your breath. Alive.

But it was getting harder.

Harder to pretend. Harder to hope.

It had been two weeks. Two weeks since anyone had seen your smile, heard your laugh, felt your warmth.

And the ugly truth was gnawing at him like an animal:

Why would Sharron keep you alive? Why risk it? It made no sense.

He pressed his forehead to the steering wheel, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked.

The ping of his phone made him jerk upright.

He blinked blearily, wiping his sleeve across his face.

Another message from Rogers telling him to "go home," probably. Another meaningless text he didn’t want to read.

But when he glanced at the screen, his blood ran cold.

[New Message — Y/N]

His hands shook violently as he unlocked it.

The text was short.Simple.

"I'm okay. I just needed to get away for a while. Please don't worry about me."

Beau stared at the screen until the letters blurred.

His heart exploded in his chest — wild, desperate hope for a split second.

Until reality sank in. You would never say that. Not like that. Not after everything.

And not to him.

Not without an explanation — you told him before you disappeared that you'd never leave.

He read the text again.

And again.

And again.

It was wrong.

The words were wrong. The tone was wrong.

He knew.

It wasn’t you. It was her. Sharron.

Beau clutched the phone so hard it cracked.

A broken, gasping sound escaped him — not quite a sob, not quite a growl.

Because now he knew.

Sharron wasn’t trying to reassure him. She was trying to shut him down.

Trying to make him doubt. Trying to make him stop searching.

Because she knew he was close.

Because she knew he was circling the truth.

Because she was desperate.

Sharron thought she could fake her voice. Thought she could erase her with a few typed lies. Thought he was stupid enough — desperate enough — to believe it.

Beau dropped the phone on the seat beside him and buried his face in his hands.

Tears stung his eyes, but he didn't wipe them away.

"I'm not that easy to break, sweetheart," he whispered, voice hoarse. "And you sure as hell didn’t run."

He stayed there, breathing hard, heart hammering in his chest.

It wasn't just about finding her anymore.

It was about bringing her home before it was too late.

Before Sharron took something from her that couldn’t ever be given back.

The next morning bled into the kind of day that didn’t feel real.

Grey sky. Cold coffee. And too much quiet.

Beau sat on the edge of his bed, the phone loose in his hand, the fake text still sitting there like a loaded gun.

He didn’t call her. He wasn’t that reckless.

But he wanted to. God, he wanted to. Just to hear her voice on that voicemail of hers. But he didn't.

Instead, he opened the old notes she used to send him —the dumb little things she slipped into his jacket pocket when she topped off his coffee at the diner.

The ones she thought he didn’t notice.

"Stay strong." "You’re doing better than you think." "You’re not as alone as you feel."

He read them like prayers, one after the other, letting the words hit where they needed to.

It didn’t fix anything.

But it reminded him why he was still fighting.

She didn’t leave. She didn’t run. She was still out there.

And until the day he knew different — he was going to act like she was waiting for him.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Chapter  coming soon! Like, comment, and reblog, feedback is my fuel 💕

[rizzanon]

02 | A QUITTER?

m.list | prev | next

The words hung in the air, heavy and absolute.

Bruce’s brows furrowed, his usually calm expression giving way to faint confusion. “You’re… quitting?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, silence filled the cavernous Batcave, save for the faint hum of the Batcomputer. He studied you, his piercing blue eyes narrowing slightly as though trying to read your mind. “Why?” he asked finally, his voice measured, almost clinical.

You froze, caught off guard. Why? Why had you suddenly decided to quit? Sixteen-year-old you wouldn’t have even entertained the idea. This life was everything she had worked for—every patrol, every bruise, every sleepless night fueled by a desperate need for validation. Why had the words come so easily to you now?

Your mind reeled, racing to string together an explanation that made sense. After a long pause, you took a deep breath and met his gaze. “Because… you were right,” you said finally, your voice quieter than you intended. “This life… it was never meant for me. I was just too dumb to realize it before. But now, I do.”

The admission felt strange, almost foreign. Sixteen-year-old you wouldn’t have said that—not to him, not to anyone. And yet, as the words left your mouth, they felt right.

Bruce didn’t respond immediately. He just watched you, his gaze intense, cold, and calculating. You could almost feel him inspecting every inch of you, every nuance in your expression, searching for cracks in your resolve or signs of insincerity. The weight of his scrutiny was almost unbearable, and you found yourself holding your breath.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he leaned back slightly and nodded. “If that’s what you’ve decided,” he said simply, his tone unreadable. Without another word, he turned back to the Batcomputer, his eyes scanning the reports as if the conversation had never happened.

You blinked, stunned. That easy? He really just let you go like that?

For a moment, a flicker of relief passed through you, but it was quickly overshadowed by another thought: Just how much did he not want you to take up the Batgirl mantle? The thought gnawed at you, but you shoved it down, forcing yourself to nod.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely audible. Without waiting for a response, you turned and walked back toward the staircase, your footsteps echoing in the vast space.

As you ascended, you couldn’t help but glance back once, but Bruce didn’t move, his attention fixed on the screen. You pressed your lips together and forced yourself to keep going.

Bruce heard your footsteps fading up the stairs, each one echoing through the cavern like a countdown. He stared at the Batcomputer, his hands resting motionless on the console. But his eyes weren’t scanning the reports anymore.

He couldn’t stop himself from glancing over his shoulder as the clock door slid shut behind you. His expression hardened, his brows furrowing deeply.

Something about this felt… wrong. Letting you walk away like that—it felt final, like a line had been drawn in the sand. A line he couldn’t cross.

You’d said you were quitting because the life wasn’t meant for you. Bruce should be relieved that you were no longer putting yourself on the line, no longer risking your life for the sake of crime-fighting.

But now, it was as if he was watching you slip through his fingers, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Should he have said something? Say what exactly? That you shouldn’t quit being Batgirl? That he wanted you in his this life?

Bruce clenched his jaw and forced himself to look back at the screen, willing the unease in his chest to go away. He told himself it was for the best. He already long knew that this path was never meant for you.

And yet…

A faint, nagging voice whispered at the back of his mind, telling him he’d made a mistake. That letting you go like this wasn’t just about the Batgirl mantle—it was about you. About him. About the growing distance between the two of you.

He couldn’t afford to dwell on it, not now. Pushing the thoughts aside with the same discipline he applied to every other personal distraction, Bruce returned his focus to his work.

But that unease lingered, a heavy weight in his chest that no amount of reports or missions could quite shake.

“Richard,” Damian began, his tone flat and serious. “What does it mean when a girl cuts her hair short?”

The fast-food restaurant buzzed with the usual cacophony of clinking trays and murmured conversations. Damian sat stiffly across from Dick, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed in a way that made it clear he’d rather be anywhere else.

Dick, mid-bite of his burger, froze. Slowly, he put the burger down, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. Then, with a sly grin, he leaned forward. “Why’re you asking? Is there someone who caught your eye, little D? Someone from school, maybe?”

Damian scowled, his cheeks tinging slightly pink. “Do not be absurd. This is not about me.”

Dick chuckled, brushing crumbs off his hands. “Oh, so it’s not about you. But you want my expertise on the matter? Man, I didn’t know you valued my opinion so much.”

“I don’t,” Damian snapped, his glare intensifying. “But you’re a certified idiot when it comes to women, so your insight into their ridiculous behavior might be useful.”

“Ouch.” Dick placed a hand over his heart, feigning injury. “And here I thought we were bonding.”

“We’re not,” Damian replied flatly, though his posture shifted in discomfort.

At that moment, Tim approached the table, balancing a tray piled high with burgers and fries. He slid into the booth beside Dick, setting the tray down with a thud.

“What’s going on?” Tim asked, popping a fry into his mouth.

“Damian here wants to know why a girl would cut her hair short,” Dick said, his grin widening. “And apparently, I’m the expert on ‘ridiculous behavior.’”

Tim raised an eyebrow at Damian, who was now scowling at both of them. “Uh… okay. Who are we talking about?”

“It’s about… (name),” Damian muttered.

The lighthearted teasing immediately stalled. Tim and Dick exchanged a quick glance, their expressions shifting to something more serious.

Dick, however, quickly recovered, leaning back in his seat. “Nah, no way. (name) wouldn’t cut her hair. She’s been growing it out for years. You’re making this up.”

“I am not,” Damian snapped, crossing his arms. “You’ll see for yourselves later if you’re too thick-headed to believe me.”

“Okay, first of all, rude,” Dick said, grabbing a fry. “Second, I don’t know, man. She’s always been pretty attached to her hair. Like, she used to freak out if even half an inch got trimmed too short when she was younger.”

Damian scoffed audibly, narrowing his eyes at Dick. “Tsk. It’s not just a trim, Grayson. She cut her hair to her shoulders.” He said the word shoulders like it was a personal affront. “And it looks ridiculous.”

Dick frowned immediately. “Don’t say that, Damian,” he chided, but then his voice trailed off as his mind wandered. Shoulders? That was… really short.

His brow furrowed slightly as he thought about it. Had you really cut your hair? You were always so particular about it. He remembered vividly the offhanded comment you made years ago about how you liked your hair long because it made you feel elegant, pretty—like yourself.

Wait, years ago?

That sinking feeling began to gnaw at him. Sure, people changed their preferences all the time, but this felt… odd. Why now? Why so drastic?

“Grayson?” Damian’s sharp tone cut into his thoughts. “Are you malfunctioning, or have I rendered you speechless for once?”

“Huh?” Dick blinked, refocusing on the youngest Wayne.

“Useless,” Damian muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “I should have known better than to seek advice from you.”

Dick snapped out of it, shooting Damian a half-hearted glare. “Hey, you came to me, remember? And cutting hair isn’t ridiculous; it’s just a personal choice. People grow, Damian. Maybe she just… wanted a change.”

Damian raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Wanted a change? That’s the best you can come up with? Tt. I thought you were supposed to be insightful.”

“Okay, first of all,” Dick said, pointing at him with a fry, “you’re lucky I don’t throw this at you. And second, you’re the one acting all worked up about her hair. I’m just trying to figure out why you even care.”

“I don’t care,” Damian replied curtly. “I simply have standards, unlike you.”

“Oh, trust me, buddy, we know your standards are very high.” Dick smirked. “For someone who claims not to care, you’re putting a lot of energy into this.”

Damian glared, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I will not waste further time explaining myself to a fool.”

“Love you too, Dami,” Dick said with a cheeky grin, earning an eye roll from the younger boy.

Tim, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up. “Alright, so… are we just going to sit here debating haircuts, or are we going to eat?”

“Good idea,” Dick said, popping a fry into his mouth. But the momentary distraction didn’t stop his mind from circling back to you.

Why did you cut your hair? Was it really just a preference change? Maybe.

Damian’s voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts again. “Grayson, you’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Staring into space like a dim-witted cow.”

Dick sighed, shoving a fry into his mouth. “Great talk, Damian. Really helpful.”

“Likewise,” Damian muttered, clearly unimpressed.

But Dick was already tuning him out. He needed to check in with you later. He heard you had patrol tonight—or at least that’s what Barbara had mentioned. Wait, why didn’t you tell him that yourself?

Whatever. He’d figure it out. If you were on patrol, he’d just join you and ask about that then. That is, if Damian doesn’t insist later on being his patrol partner…

Maybe it was nothing…

Tim sat in the booth, idly picking at a fry as his mind wandered. He’d been the one to steer the conversation away from your haircut, but now he couldn’t help but think about what Damian had said. You cut your hair? That didn’t sound like you at all.

Then again, what did Tim really know? It wasn’t like the two of you were close. Despite living in the same manor for the past three—almost four—years, there had always been this… distance between you.

He frowned, resting his chin on his hand. It hadn’t always been that way. He remembered the earlier days, when both you and him were just starting out. Back then, you used to ask him the most ridiculous questions about cases and missions—questions that made him pause and wonder if you were even paying attention to the briefing.

“What do you mean, ‘How do you know which lead to follow?’” Tim had asked once, incredulous. He’d given you a look, that signature are you serious expression he reserved for when someone asked something truly baffling. Then, as always, he ended up solving the issue himself, bypassing the need to answer you at all.

At the time, it was mildly annoying but manageable. He figured you were just trying to find your footing. He told himself it wasn’t a big deal. But gradually, the number of times you came to him for help lessened. At first, Tim thought it was progress, that you were finally figuring things out on your own.

But no.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that your work was slipping. You’d miss key details, overlook evidence, or focus on the wrong leads entirely. And every time, it was Tim who ended up fixing it behind the scenes, covering for your mistakes before they could turn a case—or worse, a mission—into a disaster.

He hadn’t minded at first. But as it kept happening, as he kept watching you barrel forward with that same stubborn, hard-headed determination, something shifted.

Tim’s frustration grew. He started to wonder why you were even in this line of work. If you couldn’t handle the basics, what were you doing risking your life out there? Of course, he never said it out loud. He wasn’t that cruel, and he knew voicing those thoughts would probably lead to a fight neither of you wanted.

But still, it gnawed at him. That unspoken tension built over time, creating the invisible wall that now sat between you. He’d distanced himself on purpose, convinced that staying out of your way was better for the both of you.

But was it?

Tim sighed, pushing his tray of fries away as Damian and Dick bickered in the background. Now, the idea of you cutting your hair had wormed its way into his thoughts, and he couldn’t shake it.

You cut your hair.

It wasn’t about the haircut itself—it wasn’t about aesthetics or style. It was about what it represented. Something had changed. Had you?

And while Tim told himself he didn’t care, deep down, a small part of him wondered if he’d made a mistake keeping you at arm’s length all this time.

“Hold up, Babs, why exactly am I needed at the Batcave tonight again?” Stephanie said, twisting the tool in her hand to tighten a small screw.

She sat at Barbara’s clocktower, absentmindedly flicking through her phone while doing a small repair on one of her gadgets. She was content, for the moment at least, doing something mindless and waiting for whatever task Barbara would assign her for the night.

But when Barbara called her name and asked her to suit up for the night, Stephanie couldn’t help but frown.

Barbara sighed, her voice a little tired but still managing to hold a calm tone. “Tonight, we’re a little short-handed, Steph.”

“A little short-handed?” Stephanie repeated, letting out a disbelieving scoff. She glanced up at Barbara, clearly unimpressed. “How can it be short-handed when she’s around?”

Barbara knew who Stephanie meant by “she”. Why? Because you used to grab every mission or patrol you could, like you were always hungry for action, hungry for validation. There had always been this one-sided animosity between you and the blonde—more so you toward her. And it wasn’t like Stephanie was oblivious to the reason why.

It was because she’s Batgirl too. When Barbara and Dick allowed her to don the cowl during the events after Bruce’s “death,” Stephanie had been given the opportunities you wanted for yourself. Barbara knew that too, but she had chosen not to intervene, thinking that the animosity you felt would die down after a while.

Well, it did. But not in the way anyone expected.

Barbara adjusted her glasses as she leaned back in her chair. “(Name)’s not around tonight.”

Stephanie raised an eyebrow, confused by the simple statement. “Well that’s a first. Why not?”

Barbara hesitated, the words slow to come. “She… she quit.”

“…..”

“…..”

“WHAT??!?”

Barbara didn’t flinch at the outburst, her calm demeanor masking her own lingering confusion.

“Wait, wait,” Stephanie said, waving her hands in the air like she was trying to physically stop Barbara from speaking nonsense. “She quit? Are we talking about the same person? (Name) Wayne? The same person who basically begged to be Batgirl?”

Barbara shrugged slightly. “Bruce told me earlier today. Said she came into the cave, and told him she was done, and walked out. That’s all I know.”

“That’s all you know?” Stephanie repeated, her voice tinged with disbelief. She shook her head, scoffing. “That’s insane. She’s gotta be pulling some kind of dramatic move. Like, I don’t know, trying to get some attention or whatever. She’ll come back. Give her, like, two days, tops.”

Barbara frowned, though she didn’t entirely disagree. You were the type to make bold, emotional decisions, always seeking to prove yourself in some way. But there was something about how quiet and decisive you’d been when you quit that didn’t sit right with her.

“You don’t think she’s serious, do you?” Stephanie asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Barbara admitted. “It’s… unlike her, I’ll say that.”

Stephanie scoffed again, shaking her head as she stood up to grab her Batgirl suit. “Whatever. I’m calling it now—she’ll be back, and when she is, I’m going to remind her just how ridiculous she’s being.”

Barbara watched Stephanie slip into her suit, her mind racing with questions she didn’t have answers to. This wasn’t like you at all. You were persistent, stubborn even. You fought tooth and nail for the Batgirl mantle, always pushing to prove yourself despite the doubts and obstacles.

For you to just walk away, without warning, felt… wrong.

As Stephanie tightened her utility belt and prepared to head out, she didn’t notice the far-off look in Barbara’s eyes. Even if you were planning to come back, the decision to quit felt too deliberate, too final.

And for the first time in a long time, Barbara found herself worrying about you in a way she hadn’t before.

After telling your father that you quit—and seeing how easily he let you go—you couldn’t stop replaying the scene in your head.

You walked through the halls of Wayne Manor, your mind heavy with frustration, confusion, and a gnawing emptiness that you couldn’t quite name. As you turned the corner, too lost in your thoughts to pay attention, you bumped into someone.

“Sorry,” you muttered automatically, not even looking up at first. But when you did, you froze.

Cassandra.

She stood in front of you, already suited up in her sleek black Bat costume, the faint outline of her emblem catching the light. She looked ready for patrol, or maybe she was just on her way to the Batcave. Her mask wasn’t on yet, so her sharp eyes were trained directly on you, studying you in the way that always made you feel exposed.

For a moment, you two just stared at each other in silence.

You were the first to move, brushing past her quickly without another word. But before you could make it more than a few steps, her voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Your hair.”

You turned around, confused, and caught her still looking at you with that unreadable expression of hers.

“Yeah,” you said, your tone clipped. “I cut it. I know. I get it. It’s awful.”

You made a move to leave again, but her next words surprised you enough to freeze you in place.

“No,” Cassandra said simply, her voice softer now. “It looks… really nice.”

You blinked, staring at her like she’d grown a second head. A compliment? From Cassandra? That wasn’t something you were used to.

“Thanks,” you said after a moment, your voice quieter now. “I guess.”

Without waiting for her to say anything else, you turned and headed back to your room. Your mind raced with the strangeness of the interaction as you climbed the stairs, the faintest trace of heat rising to your cheeks.

It wasn’t just her compliment that threw you off. It was the fact that she’d initiated a conversation at all. Cassandra had always been silent around you, her communication limited to nods, gestures, or the occasional word when necessary. For her to speak up, to make an effort, felt… different.

Weird, you thought as you closed the door behind you.

Uncharacteristic.

But as you sat on the edge of your bed, you couldn’t help but replay her words in your mind.

“It looks… really nice.”

For some reason, they lingered longer than you expected.

From the moment Cassandra bumped into you in the hallway, she could tell something was off. The way you carried yourself, the weight in your movements—it was different. Subtle, but undeniable. She couldn’t quite place what had changed, but it unsettled her.

As she descended into the Batcave, the low hum of tension greeted her before she even stepped off the elevator.

Bruce and Damian were mid-argument, their voices sharp and escalating. Damian’s fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his face twisted in anger, while Bruce’s tone was firm but weary, as if he’d been repeating himself for the hundredth time.

Nearby, Dick stood between them, hands raised in a futile attempt to diffuse the tension. Stephanie leaned casually against the wall, scrolling on her phone while occasionally glancing at Tim, who was tinkering with one of his gadgets. They were the only ones who seemed unaffected by the brewing storm.

When Cassandra stepped into view, Steph looked up and gave her a warm smile. “Cass! Finally, someone sane. Come join us before this place explodes.”

Tim glanced up as well, offering a quick wave before turning back to his project. Cassandra hesitated for a moment but walked over to join them, her eyes still flicking toward the argument at the center of the cave.

Damian’s sharp voice cut through the relative calm of her corner. “Why is Brown here? Isn’t it supposed to be (Name)’s turn to patrol tonight?”

Stephanie scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Wow, thanks for the warm welcome, little guy,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Damian ignored her, his gaze locked on Bruce. “Well?” he demanded.

Bruce sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “She’s not patrolling tonight.”

Damian’s brows furrowed, his tone growing more impatient. “And why not? Where is she?”

The tension in the room thickened as Bruce finally answered. “She quit.”

For a moment, the entire cave went still. Everyone except Stephanie and Bruce froze, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief.

“What?” Damian said flatly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

Dick was the first to intervene, stepping forward and addressing Bruce directly. “What do you mean, she quit?”

Bruce’s tone was even, but there was an edge of finality in it. “Exactly what I said. She told me she quit, and I respected her decision.”

Damian’s jaw clenched, his hands tightening into fists. “And you just let her?”

Bruce gave him a calm but firm look. “If that’s what she wants, who am I to stop her?”

Damian’s expression darkened, his anger bubbling over. “Unacceptable,” he growled. “There’s no way she just quits. Something’s wrong.”

Before Bruce could respond, Damian spun on his heel. “I’m asking her myself,” he snapped, already storming toward the elevator.

“Damian—” Bruce started, but Damian ignored him, disappearing up the elevator shaft before anyone could stop him.

The silence that followed was palpable, the weight of Damian’s fury lingering in the air.

Dick broke it first, his voice calm but resolute. “I’ll go talk to him.”

Bruce hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Go. Make sure he doesn’t do something reckless.”

As Dick followed after Damian, the remaining group stayed quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. Cassandra’s gaze lingered on Bruce, her mind still replaying your distant expression from earlier. Something about all of this felt… wrong.

And she wasn’t the only one who thought so.

The peace and quiet of your room shattered when the door slammed open without so much as a knock. You looked up, startled, to see Damian standing in the doorway, his eyes blazing with fury and confusion.

“You quit?” he demanded, his voice sharp and biting, his tone leaving no room for pleasantries.

Caught off guard, you blinked at him. “Good evening to you too, Damian,” you said dryly, already bracing yourself for the argument that was clearly brewing.

He stepped inside, fists clenched tightly at his sides. “Don’t give me that,” he snapped. “What do you mean you quit? You seriously quit? Why?”

You let out an annoyed sigh, already tired of his interrogation. “Why? Can’t I quit?” you said, sarcasm dripping from your voice.

Damian’s jaw tightened, his expression shifting from anger to utter disbelief. “Are you right in the head?” he shot back, his voice rising. “What kind of madness is this? Did all those late nights finally drive you insane?”

Ok, that ticked you off. Slightly.

“Seriously?” you deadpanned, giving him a pointed look. “You think this is about me losing it?”

“Yes!” Damian barked, his voice ringing through the room. “First, you cut your hair off like it didn’t mean a damn thing to you, and now you suddenly walk up to Father and say you’re done being Batgirl? Just like that? You’ve completely lost it!”

You frowned, irritation creeping into your voice, but you kept calm. “Nothing is wrong with me,” you replied firmly. “I made a decision. I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Not my business?” Damian repeated, his voice incredulous. He stepped closer, pointing a finger at you. “This affects all of us! You can’t just make a decision like this without considering what it means for the rest of the family!”

You stood up, arms crossed. “And why does that bother you so much? You’ve never cared about what I do. All you’ve ever done is criticize me, undermine me, act like I don’t belong here in the first place! So why do you care now?”

“I don’t care!” Damian snapped, though his voice faltered for just a second. “I care about what your actions mean for our family. You walking away like this—it’s selfish, reckless—”

That was it. The breaking point.

“Selfish?” you shot back, the irritation in your voice finally boiling over. “You’re calling me selfish? After everything I’ve done to prove myself? After all the crap I’ve put up with just to show all of you that I deserve to be here? And you have the audacity to call me selfish?”

Damian threw his hands up in frustration. “This isn’t just about you! Do you even realize what you’re throwing away? What your actions say about the rest of us? You’re acting like—”

“Like what? Like I’m done?” you yelled, cutting him off. “Because I am, Damian! I’m done trying to live up to expectations that no one even thought I could meet in the first place! I’m done being the one who has to prove herself every damn day just to get a shred of acknowledgment!”

“That’s ridiculous!” Damian shot back, his tone defensive. “Father wouldn’t have given you the mantle if you didn’t deserve it. You’re just—”

You cut him off again, your voice sharper, harsher. “He gave me the mantle because I practically begged him to. Not because he thought I deserved it. And every day since, I’ve tried to make up for it, to prove that I do deserve it. But nothing ever works. I get sidelined, tossed aside, whenever Father or Dick or anyone else decides I’m not good enough to help.”

Damian scoffed, crossing his arms. “You don’t get sidelined. You’re just making things up.”

“Oh, shut up,” you snapped, your tone biting now. “Don’t act like you know what I go through.”

Damian opened his mouth to retort, but you cut him off again, your voice rising. “No, don’t you dare. You don’t know. You don’t know how it feels to constantly feel like you’re not good enough, to be compared to everyone else and always come up short. You don’t get it, Damian, and you never will. Because you’ve always been the heir, the one Father sees as his true successor. But me? I’ve been nothing but an afterthought.”

Damian’s face faltered for a brief moment, something unspoken flashing in his eyes. He hated the way his chest ached at your words.

“That’s not true,” he said finally, though his voice lacked conviction.

“Isn’t it?” you challenged, your voice trembling with exhaustion and frustration. “Because it sure doesn’t feel like it. Not when I’m constantly being sidelined, not when I have to fight for scraps of approval while everyone else gets a free pass. And definitely not when even you can’t see me as anything but second-rate!”

Damian hesitated, caught off guard by the raw emotion in your voice. He quickly shook it off, doubling down. “This is beneath you,” he said coldly. “Throwing a tantrum and walking away won’t fix anything.”

“A tantrum?” you echoed, your voice trembling with a mix of fury and hurt. “You think this is a tantrum? Damian, this is me saying I’ve had enough. I’m tired of breaking myself for a family that doesn’t even see me!”

“Then make them see you!” Damian countered, his voice rising again. “You don’t just quit because it’s hard! You don’t just give up!”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “Of course, that’s your answer. Just fight harder, right? Because that’s all you know how to do. But I’m not like you, Damian. I can’t keep pretending that this fight is worth it.”

“Not worth it?” Damian repeated, his tone disbelieving. “Are you actually kidding me? Richard told me that fighting for family is always worth it—”

“Well Richard can go fuck himself for all I care,” you snapped, cutting him off. “For someone who prides himself as a family guy, he’s done a great fucking job proving that, hasn’t he?”

Damian bristled, his voice rising. “Don’t talk about Richard that way—”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said with a roll of your eyes. “I forgot he actually gives a damn about you. No wonder you have such a biased perspective on how he really is.”

Damian froze, stunned into silence by your words. The room grew unbearably quiet, tension heavy in the air.

Finally, Damian let out a sharp breath, his voice low but laced with finality. “This isn’t over,” he said, turning on his heel.

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving you alone, your chest heaving from the intensity of the argument. You sank back into your chair, exhaustion settling in as the adrenaline faded. But the ache in your heart lingered, sharp and unyielding.

Damian’s words echoed in your mind, each one like a sharp jab to the chest. Selfish. Reckless. The words rang in your ears, infuriating and unfair.

Damnit. You hadn’t meant to blow up on him. But everything was just… too much. It wasn’t like you could keep pretending it was fine anymore.

Your fingers dug into the armrest of the chair as you shut your eyes, the headache beginning to set in behind your eyes. You could almost feel the physical ache of the emotional turmoil. I don’t care… You repeated the words silently, but it only made the ache in your chest worse. You had always cared about this family. You had tried so hard to belong, to prove yourself.

But what had it gotten you? You fought tooth and nail for the mantle of Batgirl, begging for the chance to prove you were worthy of it. Yet, here you were, useless in Damian’s eyes, ready to walk away. Maybe he was right—maybe you were being reckless, selfish. Because if you weren’t being Batgirl, who were you anymore? You certainly didn’t feel like the Bruce Wayne’s daughter.

You scoffed bitterly, shaking your head. They’d be fine without you, you thought. They always are. It wasn’t like your role in the family made a difference. You had always felt like an afterthought, never quite fitting in the way your siblings did. They all had their roles—Damian was the heir, Tim was the brain, Jason was the wild card, Cassandra was the silent powerhouse, and Dick was the one holding everyone together. You? You were just… there. Batgirl, but only when they needed you, only when it was convenient. When Stephanie wasn’t around. You hated to admit it, but she was undeniably a better Batgirl than you could ever be. You only saw that now, after everything you’ve been through.

“I should’ve quit a long time ago,” you muttered to yourself, your voice hollow.

They didn’t need you. Not really.

You clenched your fists at your sides, frustration building again. But then, as much as you tried to convince yourself that quitting was the right decision, you felt the doubt creep in. The sting of Damian’s words lingered like a cut, refusing to heal. What had you really thrown away?

Damian thought it was selfish? Well, maybe it was. But that wasn’t all there was to it. He couldn’t see it. He didn’t know the pain you’d been carrying all this time. The weight of the mantle, the pressure to be someone you weren’t sure you could be. You literally died because you wanted to prove you deserved this mantle.

But Damian didn’t know that. No one in the family did. To them, you were still 16. But you were 20, somehow in your 16 year old body. And frankly, you didn’t think anyone would have believed you if you told them. They’d probably rule you off as delirious.

Was it selfish to want to take a step back, to breathe, to figure out who you were without the costume, without feeling the need to live up to unrealistic expectations?

You ran a hand through your hair, pulling at the ends of the newly cut strands. It felt different—lighter, maybe—but it didn’t fix anything. The ache in your chest remained.

Taking a deep breath, you stood up and walked over to the window, staring out at the Gotham skyline. The night was quiet, peaceful even, but you felt nothing but turmoil inside. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You weren’t supposed to feel so lost, so empty after making a decision that was supposed to bring you peace.

But all you felt was the sting of Damian’s words, the echo of a family that would carry on without you. Maybe you weren’t meant to fit in. Maybe you were never meant to be Batgirl. Maybe quitting was the only way to let go of the weight you couldn’t carry anymore.

But the thought of it didn’t bring relief. It only brought more questions. More doubts. And the ache in your chest kept growing.

Dick made his way out of the Batcave, the soft hum of the cave’s equipment still echoing in his ears as he began his search. He knew the halls of the Batcave well, had spent hours running through them as a child, but for some reason, he couldn’t place exactly where Damian had gone.

Where would he be?

He knew Damian wasn’t the type to go off and brood in silence. No, if Damian had something to say, he’d say it—loudly. So the question was: Where would he go to find you?

Dick’s feet moved without thought, his mind running through options, trying to remember every possible place Damian could have gone. There was the training room, sure, but that didn’t seem likely. The library, maybe? No. He probably went to look for you in your room.

Dick’s boots echoed softly on the polished floor as he headed toward the hall where your room was supposed to be. His steps slowed, however, as a troubling realization settled in his chest.

Wait… where was your room?

Dick froze in the hallway, blinking in confusion. His gaze wandered down the corridor, his mind grinding to a halt. He’d known you for years, shared the same space, even lived under the same roof for what felt like forever—but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember where your room was.

It was a simple enough question—where was your room? He’d been there countless times, right? He’d spent so much time around the Manor, yet now, all he could think about was the fact that he couldn’t pinpoint the location of your room. The door had been right there, hadn’t it? Near the end of the hall? Or maybe down by the study?

Dick’s breath caught in his chest, and he quickly shook the thought off.

This is ridiculous.

He was probably just overthinking it. He was the oldest, the one who had been around the longest. It didn’t make sense for him to suddenly forget something so simple. Get it together, Grayson.

But the more he tried to focus, the more his thoughts twisted into a spiral. He knew where everyone’s room was.

How could he not know? Sixteen years. He’d known you for sixteen years. He’d visited this house, stayed in this house, lived in this house for years, and yet…

His breath hitched. The realization was almost too absurd to comprehend.

He knew where Damian’s room was. Knew where Tim’s was. Knew Cassandra’s, hell, he even knew where Jason’s childhood room was—Jason, who didn’t even live here anymore. He even knew the little quirks about each of their spaces: the sword display in Damian’s, the books stacked haphazardly in Tim’s.

But your room?

His mind was blank. He couldn’t even picture it.

Had he ever been to your room? Surely, he must have at some point. Right? His stomach twisted as he tried to remember, as if dredging up a memory he wasn’t sure even existed. Why couldn’t he see it in his mind? How could he have let this slip past him?

Panic began to rise in his chest as the uncertainty clawed at him. He’d been part of this family for years. He knows you the longest out of everyone. He should have known this.

Dick stood in the middle of the hall, mind reeling. How could he forget?

Before he could descend further into his spiral, he heard it. Muffled voices, raised in anger, followed by the unmistakable sound of a door slamming shut.

Your room.

Without thinking, Dick’s instincts kicked in, and he started moving toward the sound. He rounded the corner just in time to see Damian storming off, his face set in a mask of fury. He didn’t even spare Dick a glance, his steps quick, purposeful.

“Damian!” Dick called, jogging after him, a mix of concern and confusion flooding his mind. “Hey, wait up.”

Damian didn’t slow down. If anything, his pace quickened, and he shot a look over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “I don’t have time for this, Grayson.”

Dick’s frustration only grew. “What’s going on? What happened in there?”

Damian’s fists clenched at his sides as he turned his head back toward the direction he was walking. “Nothing you need to know.” His voice was tight, clipped.

Dick’s steps faltered, but he wasn’t about to back down. “Damian, come on—don’t shut me out. What happened with you and (name)?”

Damian, however, wasn’t interested in talking. His head jerked up with a scowl. “I don’t need you to fix this, Grayson. I don’t need anyone’s help.”

Dick, unwilling to let it go, caught up to him and blocked his path. “Damian, I’m not trying to fix anything. I just want to understand what happened. Why are you so upset?”

Damian’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with something more than anger. “Because I don’t understand it!” he snapped. “(Name) quit. She quit, Dick! And you’re all just standing around pretending like nothing’s wrong! That it doesn’t matter!”

That stopped Dick in his tracks. His heart sank as the weight of Damian’s words hit him. Standing around and pretending like nothing’s wrong? That it doesn’t matter? Of course not. He’s worried too. You quit? It didn’t make sense. But before Dick could respond, Damian was already pushing past him, practically shoving him out of the way.

“Damian—” Dick started again, but the younger boy cut him off, raising a hand to silence him.

“Don’t. Just don’t. I’m done with this conversation.”

Dick’s hand shot out instinctively, grabbing Damian’s arm before he could walk past. “Damian, stop. Just talk to me for a second.”

Damian whirled around, his eyes full of frustration and barely contained rage. “Why? So you can tell me everything’s fine? That we’re just supposed to accept this?” His voice cracked, just slightly, and Dick saw the sharp pain beneath the anger. “You don’t get it, Grayson. She quit. She walked away, and it feels like no one’s doing anything about it. No one cares!” His fists clenched tighter, the tension in his body radiating off him like a live wire.

Dick felt a heavy lump settle in his throat, a mixture of confusion and concern. He understood Damian’s anger—he was angry too, but his reaction was much more raw, and far more personal than Dick had anticipated.

Dick’s hand remained on Damian’s arm, his grip tightening ever so slightly, trying to ground him in the chaos of the moment. He stared at Damian, confusion and concern evident in his eyes. “What do you mean by that?” Dick asked, his voice softer now, tinged with confusion. “Of course I care about her, Damian. But getting upset won’t change anything.”

Damian let out a sharp, humorless laugh, his eyes narrowing in frustration. “Sure, you care now,” he scoffed. “But it doesn’t feel like that to her, does it?”

Dick froze, his hand still gripping Damian’s arm, but now it felt more like a lifeline for him, trying to hold onto something solid in the midst of this emotional storm. “What are you talking about?” he asked, his heart starting to pound. “You’re not making sense.”

Damian pulled his arm away sharply, his movements tense and jerky. “Whatever,” he muttered, his voice growing colder. “I don’t have time for this. I’m going to the cave.” He turned on his heel, striding away, his anger still hanging heavy in the air.

Dick stood there for a moment, his mind reeling. Damian’s words were like a punch to the gut, and Dick couldn’t make sense of them. It doesn’t feel like that to her. What was he talking about? Was Damian implying that you didn’t believe Dick cared about you? That you’d somehow gotten the impression that no one cared, that no one was doing anything to stop you from leaving?

A knot of anxiety formed in Dick’s stomach as the implications of Damian’s words settled in. Did you really think he didn’t care? The thought gnawed at him, twisting and turning in his chest.

He had always assumed you knew how much he valued you, how much he cared for you—as family, as his sister. But now, he wondered if he’d ever truly shown that.

Damian’s words continued to echo in his head as he stood there, frozen for a moment longer. What did he mean? Dick couldn’t fathom why you would feel that way.

With a sigh, he pushed those thoughts aside, his mind refocusing. He had to find you. He couldn’t let this go on any longer, especially if you thought you weren’t seen, weren’t valued. He had to fix this, whatever it took. But when he makes his way to your room, Dick just freezes in his place. What should he say to you? What would make you feel better? Dick hates how nothing instantly comes to his mind, hates how he couldn’t form a solution to try and resolve whatever conflict you had with Damian.

Without another word, Dick turned towards the cave, his resolve hardening. He’ll just wait until you’ve calmed down from your emotional argument with Damian, and then talk to you.

how we feeling about this chapter 😘

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[littleliterarylesbian]

AU where Regulus was a popular actress before running away after a boating "accident"

//blink and you'll miss it mentions of ca, and accidental misgendering

It took six months for the media to properly lose hope and consider him dead. He wasn't, of course, he used the money he had been saving for years to transition. He's not at all dead, but the media just sees their favorite starlette, lost at sea. It wasn't a secret he couldn't swim, he talked about it all the time as something to make him seem a little more down to earth despite the fact that he definitely started as a nepo baby. So they thought he was dead. Article after article, story after headline spoke about how his body had never been recovered but how he was still gone and that they will forever look for him in the sky and the movies he starred in.

Regulus thought it was quite ridiculous. Sure, he wanted people to think he was dead, and he'll definitely miss his few actual friends, but it's for the best. They'll live without him, the world will keep on spinning and no one except those creepy fucks online who had made a countdown for him turning 18 or young girls who looked up to him would truly be sad, and even then they'd probably get over it. So he looked at the picture of the old him on the cover of a magazine one last time before walking away. Time to find a job in case all that movie money runs out, and he never really learned how to manage money anyways so it's always good to have a backup plan. It was time to start his life as Regulus. No last name, no attachments or ties, just Regulus. And he felt he couldn't wait.

Sirius doesn't think he'll ever forget the day he saw his estranged sister on the cover of every magazine he possibly came across. He kept tabs on her, of course he did, what older brother would he be if he didn't, but he hadn't in a while. He just stared at the headline. He should have checked in more.

YOUNG ACTRESS DIES AT SEA

He felt sick. She was the one made to survive, she was the one meant to be in the spotlight since he couldn't handle it. She was supposed to outlive him. He was never supposed to be alive by the time her death became news, but here he is. Only 27 and finding out his baby sister is assumed dead at sea, no body yet to be found. It hurt, it hurt so much. He remembers when they were young, before he got sent to an all boys school and she went to an all girls school a year later. He remembers how she snuck into his room instead of their parents whenever she had nightmares, how every year until the dreaded age of 12 when he thought he was too good for things like a little sister, she helped the staff in the kitchen to make him a small birthday treat because their parents obviously wouldn't.

He remembered the rage and sadness he felt the first time he saw a red mark across her cheek, intended slightly where their mothers nails dug in. He remembers doing anything to redirect anger on her onto him before it got too much. He remembers watching his sister's first movie at the Potter's house, crying throughout the whole thing despite it being a lighthearted romance simply because he wasn't there to celebrate her accomplishment with, how every time she came on screen he cried harder and whenever the main guy and her kissed he felt a surge of protectiveness that he thought had fizzled out and how that surge had popped up again whenever there where headlines of her and some famous guy possibly dating, or whenever she was involved in any other movie that had romance in it that she was apart of.

And now she's gone. And he can't help but feel like it's his fault. Even if Moony and Prongs and Wormtail say it's not. Even if others swear the world keeps on moving while his is at a standstill and he doesn't know how to get it to turn again.

Even when James starts talking about a pretty mean boy who he's been flirting with. Even when Peter finally lands that promotion and they go to a bar and celebrate and Peter finally lands some guys who think he's endearing. Even when Remus kisses him and he finally gets a taste of the thing he's wanted for what felt like forever. His sister is still dead and he has no idea how he'll ever cope.

[ichigomis]

PHOTO BOOTH SHINANIGANS

⤷ with ushijima, semi, sakusa, atsumu

in which you drag him to a photo booth, for no particular reason (just some fluff and love)

note: idk where this idea came from and idk if i did it any good, but here!! something about @lovingjeankirstein's semi playlist got me missing him huhu

❊ USHIJIMA stares at the screen, trying to make sense of the many buttons you were excitedly pressing. he darts his eyes from the screen then at you and wonders just how you're always able to make him do the most unsensible of things. he wonders how with just one word and a little pout, you've got him wrapped around your fingers. not that he's complaining, he's just at a loss at your power over him.

"okay! it's ready, the countdown's starting!" you shake him from his thoughts as you sit back down with a little bounce.

you beam at the camera as ushijima tilts his head, what is going on?

he blinks.

and just like that your faces are on the screen—your bright smile and his confused face, mid-blink.

"i think i missed it," he says eyeing the photo. he doesn't really mind, as long as you were happy. perhaps this is why you have such a hold of him? the edge of his lips curls up in a small smile as he thinks back to his previous thoughts.

you couldn't help but giggle, "that's okay! we can doodle on our photo instead." you sit up and start drawing whiskers and cat ears on his face from the screen.

you feel ushijima move from his seat and follow your example. his big mighty hands, ever so gently and with utmost love and care, draws little hearts around you. you gaze at him as he squints, focused and determined to fit in as many hearts as he can.

"it’s cute," he beams as he looks at his and your's little artwork.

you couldn’t help yourself, you pull him and kiss his cheek just the way that makes him scrunch his nose and laugh. "mhm, and so are you."

❊ SEMI raises an eyebrow at you, "so this was your emergency?" he asks as you drag him inside the photo booth. when you called him about a certain "emergency" that he definitely had to help you with, this was not what he had in mind. but now, semi just chuckles at your excitement. your silly antics are one of the reasons he loves you, how can he ever refuse?

you only look up at him with a sly grin and nod. "it’s been a while since we did this, right?" you sit down on the booth and start fixing your hair. he sits down beside you and presses the start button, the countdown begins almost immediately and you squeal in excitement.

you wrap your arm around his and get ready to pose. the shutter captures your cute smiles and bright giggles, preserving the quick little moment forever. and just before the last shutter goes off, semi softly grabs your chin and pulls you in. his lips brush against yours and you hold your breath in surprise. he doesn't let go even after the booth lights go off or when you hear your photo start printing outside.

he pulls away and smirks down at you, revenge. "photo booth dates aren't complete without that, right?" he muses.

you scoff and pull him back in by the collar of his shirt, much to his delight. "of course."

❊ SAKUSA eyes the photo booth cautiously as you use all your strength to try and drag him inside. "come on omi just one picture, please?" you cruelly look up at him with those doe eyes, knowing well that he can never say no to them. and like on cue, sakusa heaves out a sigh of defeat and lifts his once planted feet off the ground. he lets you drag him inside and you can't help but let the triumphant grin slip from your lips.

"it's starting!!" you exclaim as you sit back down beside sakusa who's been staring at the screen, a blank and confused look on his face. his eyes dart around, looking for the camera.

"where should i look?" he asks you, slightly panicking at the countdown on the screen.

you grab his arm and pull him closer, getting ready to strike a pose, "anywhere! just smileeeeeee!" and with that, the booth rings with the shutter of the camera and your playful carefree giggles.

"fun, right?" you ask still clinging onto sakusa's arm as you two wait for the picture to print.

he only gives you a shrug, "i couldn't see where the camera was."

you smile up at him and pat his curls, "that's okay, i bet you still look cute." and just as his cheeks turn red, your photo comes out the printer.

"uh, see? i wasn't even looking," he mutters as he takes the photo and hands it to you. and he's right, he really wasn't looking. instead, he was looking at you with the same doe eyes you gave him before. you smirk up at him and you swear he stepped back in caution, "one more, please?"

❊ ATSUMU matches your pace, skipping like children off on a field trip for the first time. when you told him you saw a photo booth not far from the place you two were eating, he let you drag him out without another word. it never was hard to drag atsumu to do silly things with you, in fact, it's the two of you's little thing.

you let out a squeal as atsumu grabs a hold of you, sitting you down on his lap. "first pose is this." he beams his toothy grin at the camera and you can't help but do the same.

the shutter goes off and you tear yourself off of him to get ready for your next pose, but your footing fails you and you find your face taking up half of the shot.

"nooooo" you groan as the shutter goes off once again. atsumu just gives up his secure hold on you and throws a peace sign in the air as another shot is taken, your frown and pout clearly displayed on the screen.

"alright, last one. com' here," atsumu pulls you in again and chuckles at the pout that still hasn't left your lips. you wrap your arms around him, not caring about what you look like anymore. and just as the shutter goes off, he presses his lips to your cheek with an animated smooching sound. you light up and an unintentional grin escapes your lips.

———

"it's a mess," atsumu chuckles as you furrow your eyebrows at your photo. you let out a groan and his smile only doubles in size, "but i like it." he whispers as he pulls you in and kisses your head.

you groan, still upset over the whole ordeal. "why though? it’s so... chaotic."

his chest vibrates with laughter and he squeezes you even tighter, "exactly. it’s just like ya."

p.s.: not me always writing about either sakusa, atsumu, or ushijima 🤡

» m. list

[do0zy-artz]

And The Clock Keeps Ticking

Chapter Two: The Coral Kids - 5k words

A03 Link

As far as first days went, Limited Life had a pretty good one. After the countdown it was like any other normal day on any other server. Scott had gotten the basics, some food, a crafting table and some stone tools. He always liked doing the basics during these games, it made him feel more relaxed. It made him forget about everything else. 

And then on the second day, things started going downhill immediately. It was kinda surprising how fast his day went from normal to terrible, actually. He’d been listening in on Etho and Martyn talk when it happened. The other two had been unaware Scott was listening to their conversation in a cave below. Lightly, his communicator had suddenly buzzed in his pocket, and Scott curiously pulled it out. It seemed the universe decided that right then was a great time for his least favorite message to appear in chat. 

The boogeyman will be chosen in 1 minute. 

Scott stared at the communicator in his hands, gripping it tightly. Why right now, when he was supposed to be doing a fun silly little harmless eavesdrop? If he revealed himself after the boogeyman was chosen they might get suspicious of him. Of course Scott had to be calm enough to reveal himself in the first place.  

Scott took a deep breath, trying to steady his shaking hands. He slipped the communicator back into his pocket. He turned back into Etho and Martyn’s conversation, which was now about the beloathed announcement. Martyn was very clearly in a bit of a panic, like Scott. Etho was also panicking, just internally. He was trying to not let it slip, but Scott knew what a panicking Etho sounded like from prior games. He could tell because Etho tended to use more filler words than normal when panicking, he never let it show in his body language or tone of voice. 

In the time that had taken him to calm down and ground himself, it was time for the boogeyman to be chosen. Scott quickly pulled out his communicator again, forgetting he was supposed to be hiding from the two people above him. He watched the countdown with baited breath, hoping and praying to God or whatever else was out there that he would be spared, that he would not get Boogeyman. 

Unfortunately luck was not on Scotts side, and the message flashed across his screen. 

You are…The Boogeyman. 

Scott felt his breathing quicken as dread pooled in his stomach. No, no not again. Not again. The communicator began shaking with his hands, and he fumbled to get back into his pocket without dropping it. He slowly sat down against the stone floor of the cave, gripping the hem of his jacket tightly as his throat began closing up. He couldn’t breathe and was starting to hyperventilate. Breathe Scott, breathe. He tried his best to take a few deep breaths, focusing on a random spot in the cave wall. You are not doing this in a cave below Etho and Martyn. Absolutely not. 

It took a few seconds of steadying his breathing and wiping away some tears, but Scott calmed his panic. He blinked a few times, wanting to get rid of any remaining tears. Martyn and Etho were still above him, they must’ve been standing in the same spot the whole time. 

“Not the boogeyman!” Scott heard Etho declare. Martyn’s own announcement of the same thing came a moment later. 

“You said that way too quickly.” Ethos' voice was suspicious, but had a friendly undertone. He’d stopped panicking as well, Scott noted. He began walking out of his small cave towards the surface. Might as well leave now, he’d taken all the ores he needed. “You're always on a delay with this.” Martyn responded teasingly “It's definitely not me Martyn, definitely not me.” Etho said. Scott guessed he was smirking under the mask. 

“That didn’t sound convincing, I'm just gonna say.” Scott said, coming out of the cave. The other two were standing a few feet away from the cave opening. Both of them seemed startled by his sudden appearance, Etho giving him a suspicious glance. Martyn just smiled.

“Yeah!” The blonde backed Scott, hand on his hip and a teasing glint in his eyes. Etho rolled his own eye, giving Scott a wave of greeting. “Whatcha doing down there?” Martyn asked him, curious

“Just needed to smelt some ores.” Scott said, and it wasn’t even a lie. Him being boogey wasn’t the reason he’d ended up listening in afterall. He set his furnace down as if to further prove his point, a crafting table being put down next to it. 

“You’re not the boogey, are ya?” Etho asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“If i was a boogey, why would i suddenly show up right after the announcement? That’d be suspicious.” Scott says, placing coal and iron into their respective slots inside the furnace. 

“True, true.” Martyn nodded. “How long were you in that cave mate?” 

“A few minutes.” Scott decided to be a little truthful. “Accidently ended up eavesdropping.” 

“Sure, accidentally.” The teasing undertone had returned to Etho’s voice, and Scott faked offense. “I would never purposefully eavesdrop on someone!” He declared, putting a hand on his chest. 

“Sure~” Martyn laughed, turning back to Etho. Scott resumed his smelting listening as their voices faded into the distance. It had been really hard to not kill one of them. He’d had to keep his hand away from his axe, as a just in case. 

Scott picked up his things, thoughts racing. I need to do this early, get it done quickly. If there’s no alliances yet, I won't have a whole group against me. Scott hated this, he hated this so much. He hated how he’d thought about slicing a sword against Etho’s throat just a few minutes ago, how he’d wanted to behead Martyn the same way the blonde had beheaded Ren in Third Life. It made him sick to his stomach. On red life he could just distract himself, or isolate, but not as boogey. If he wanted to keep eight hours he had to do this. 

He looked up at the sky, at whatever was up there creating these games. Of course the only person to ever purposely not get a boogey kill gets the curse first. The one who’d been defying them the past two games becomes Boogeyman first, of course. That was probably the whole point of Scott getting it, actually. “Is this a joke to you!?” Scott yelled at the sky, a snarl in his voice. He yelled at nothing, but was sure something heard him. He hoped they were getting some sort of sick enjoyment out of this, at least.  

He sighed, going to find somewhere to rest. It was getting dark fast, the sun already halfway through setting. It was going to be a long night. 

_______________________________

Scott stayed on Boogey for about two days. Maybe it was three, he couldn’t be sure. The curse had left him with sleepless nights, and anytime his body tried to get the rest it desired he was plagued with dreams about killing all his friends. On what Scott thought was the second day he tried to get some sleep, but had been awoken by nightmares of his previous times under the curse. 

He was also filled with a constant, never ending urge to kill. Anytime he saw someone he had to restrain himself from slicing his axe through them. And usually whoever happened across him had a friend in tow, and was very reluctant to be alone with anyone who wasn’t an ally because of the unknown boogeyman. It wasn’t easy to get rid of this curse at the moment. 

That was until he’d stumbled across the recently formed T.I.E.S. They’d been trying to wrangle cows, Impulse and Skizz protecting one in a boat. Impulse eventually ran off towards Tango, and Scott was left alone with a poor unfortunate Skizzleman.   

Now Scott hadn’t wanted to kill Skizz, he really hadn’t. The man just returned from Last Life, this was his first time seeing most of the group in over a year. But he was talking about how life was short and how they couldn’t murder anyone. And being Boogeyman was frankly driving Scott a little bit insane at this point. They were alone as well. It was the perfect opportunity with the perfect set up, what was he supposed to do? Not take it? 

Scott didn’t even fully remember it, he never remembered his boogey kills in detail. He was aware of what he was doing though, somewhat. He knew he’d taken out an axe, and he’d known Skizzle had screamed as Scott sliced his weapon through his chest, blood splattering over the metal part of the axe. Next thing he was really aware of was the feeling of relief as his neverending bloodlust faded, the sign he had been cured of his curse. 

Scott’s chest heaved, he breathed deeply as he came down from a curse fueled adrenaline high. He stared at the cow in the boat, right in front of where Skizz had despawned and disappeared into dust. The axe had a fair amount of blood on it, though the grass arguably had it much worse. He’d clean his weapon in the nearby river before he headed off. Thankfully only a little blood was on his clothes, he’d get it out best he could later. 

“Skizz!’ Scott’s head turned, hearing Tango’s voice come from over the hill behind him. The blaze hybrid came into view, tail moving wildly in panic as he ran over. Impulse was behind him, Etho appearing out of nowhere from the left, as he tended to do. All of Skizz’s allies had come to see his killer. I’m lucky this is early game, or else I'd probably be dead now. 

The aftermath was a blur too, honestly. Grian had declared that there wasn’t enough suspense, so the boogeyman was to be rerolled. Scott supposed that was fair, but in his defense he had a panic attack about it. Getting rid of the curse had been for his own mental state. The only other thing Scott remembered was that Joel had shown up and killed the boat cow. Poor Skizz had died in vain, his beloved cow going only a few minutes after him.

Joel was being concerning when it came to murder, actually. Scott had heard him be all disappointed over not being a boogeyman when the reroll happened. Scott had jokingly said something back to him, but it was still disturbing. Joel was probably the only person to enjoy being in that state. I think being red so long in Last Life affected him. Scott mused. The bloodlust never quite left. 

The next boogey struck quite quickly, like three seconds after the announcement quickly. Poor Skizzleman was dead again, this time at the hands of Bdubs himself. Scott felt bad for the guy, he really did. The man had already lost four hours of his time in the first week. Once Grian announced a second boogey reroll, Scott decided it was time to get away from the majority of people. Three groups were all concentrated around spawn, and he was not having any of that. He had an extra hour of life and he was not risking it. Though he’d make a few stops on his journey, just to make sure he was buddy buddy with the other groups. 

Scott, for whatever reason was drawn back to the beach he spawned on. It just felt right. It felt like home. It took him a few days to get there, which were eventful to say the least. He spent a few days with The Clockers, who had chosen to base at spawn. The group consisted of Cleo, Scar, and Bdubs. It was an unlikely partnership at first glance, but the alliance had potential to be a real problem later. Across from the Clocker mountain was the woodland mansion, where the self proclaimed Bad Boys resided

The Bad Boys consisted of Grian, Joel and Jimmy, the last one night quite fitting the role of a bad boy whatsoever. At the moment they seemed to be a minor nuisance, popping in occasionally to annoy the Clockers. For now they were harmless, but Scott knew once people got down to red it was likely for Joel, and maybe Grian, to start getting desperate. And a desperate Joel on red meant some murder, if his record held true.  

The next mountain over held the Nosy Neighbors, Pearl and BigB. They lived up to their name quite well, popping into the Clockers and Bad Boys bases whenever they felt like. Though they were less annoying than the latter group, more of a friendly nuisance than an annoying one. Scott quite enjoyed their visits when staying with the Clockers, even if they only stayed for a few minutes. 

Scott actually ended up swindled by Scar before he left, trading iron for moss. It was a good trade from Scar actually, and Scott was surprised he hadn’t been scammed. The iron was unsmelted, so Scar even got experience points out of the deal. Along the way Jimmy and Joel died to lava, and Scar himself blew up. There had been seven deaths in the first week, which was quite alarming. Scott tried not to think about it, reasoning that they could be a bit more lenient and a bit more risky this season. He couldn’t really complain about the deaths, since he caused the first one. 

When he got back to his beloved island he quickly found that he had neighbors, the T.I.E.S as they called themselves. It was like B.E.S.T, but they kicked out Bdubs, which Scott found a little amusing. The quartet was Tango, Impulse, Etho and Skizz. 

Skizz, Skizzleman, the man Scott killed. He was his neighbor. 

He’d run into Skizz quite quickly actually, and they’d managed to smooth things over a bit. Skizz said not to worry about the incident, and that he understood completely. Scott had just decided to bury any uneasiness he felt, any suspicion that Skizz would kill him, and work on his island. He really wanted a place to sleep, and thinking about the murder would just make him feel worse. Besides, he didn’t want to stay at T.I.E.S. Their small piece of land was just grass, some cows, and a big hole that had been dug into the ground. It hardly looked like a pleasant place to stay, regardless if he’d murdered one of them or not.  It was also on his spawn place, but Scott could just base nearby. 

Half the map was unoccupied anyways, the group could still relocate elsewhere. And Scott would happily make them move house if he ever needed too.  

His new home island was built out of dirt, a bridge of it extending to the mainland so the grass could spread from it. The outer edge of the base had sugarcane and bamboo planted, giving him a harvest and a sort of wall from the other side. Scott liked it, the plants really brought in the beach vibes he was trying to achieve. 

Martyn had stopped by in the middle of the construction. The blonde played a small prank, trying to steal Scott’s zombie villager. He was foiled quickly, as the open ocean didn’t provide much cover or any good hiding places.  

“No thank you.” Scott said, pushing Martyn out of the boat and away from the villager. Martyn walked down the dirt bridge, laugh filling the air around them. Scott let himself laugh along with the other. He wasn’t actually upset. The prank was quite harmless, and he doubted Martyn had anywhere to take the zombified person anyways. 

“You the only one around here?” The blonde asked, sitting down on the bridge. His legs dangled in the cool water beneath, sandals getting soaked.

Scott nodded his head no, pointing to where the T.I.E.S hole was on the small island where he’d spawned.  “Skizz, Tango, Impulse and Etho are living there. They call themselves the T.I.E.S” 

“Did they just kick Bdubs out of B.E.S.T and replace him with his soulmate?” Martyn asked, eyes following where Scott pointed. “Yep.” Scott said, a smirk forming on his face. 

“Oh that’s great,” Martyn grinned. His eyes moved away from the island and  to the shoreline, scanning it curiously. “Anyone live in the Mansion?” The blonde leaned back on his hands. 

“The Bad Boys do,” Scott informed him, stepping closer. “Joel and Jimmy took in Grian a few days ago.” He’d thought about sitting down next to the other, but didn’t want to get wet at the moment. He did it anyway though, Martyn patting the dirt next to him. It’d be rude to decline an invitation, so Scott sat on the dirt next to his friend. He sat cross-legged instead of letting his feet dangle in the water, he preferred non squeaky shoes, unlike Martyn. 

Scott pointed to the mountain across from Bad Boys Manor, as the building had been dubbed. “That’s where the Clockers live.” 

“Oh that has to be the group with Bdubs.” Martyn said, snickering. 

“Yep. Bdubs, Cleo and Scar.” Scott glanced at the blonde. “They’ve started calling Cleo mum.” 

Martyn shuddered, face twisting into a small frown. He clearly also thought Cleo being called Mum was a tad uncomfortable, for them anyways. “That feels like a weird thing to call her, she’s not very mum-like. Though i guess she is the mom friend of those three” 

Scott nodded. “Apparently Etho is the dad who left.”

“That is such a weird pairing.” Scott agreed with Martyn, they could’ve at least picked someone Cleo had a previous relationship with, some sort of tension was needed for a good dysfunctional family after all. “But I can believe Etho would leave his kids to get milk.” 

He let the other sit on those group formations for a minute, listening to the sound of the waves. It was relaxing, sitting with a friend by the ocean. Maybe he would need a roommate this season. Scott had never lived alone in these games, frankly he was scared too. 

“Where’re BigB and Pearl?’ Martyn asked, pointing in the direction of where the dirt bridge started. “Are they that way?” 

“Nope, that way’s the world border.” Scott directed Martyn’s gaze back towards where the dark oak forest was. “You can’t see it from here, but they live by the Clockers and Bad Boy Mansion, past the trees.” 

“Ohh I see,” Martyn said. “We’re all based close together this time huh.” Scott hummed in response. 

“Are you with anyone?” Scott asked after another few minutes of silence. Martyn seemed to be enjoying their time together as well, his eyes having closed as he relaxed. “Nope.” He said, opening one eye to look at Scott. “You by yourself here?”

“Mhmm, just me and the bamboo.” Scott looked out to the sea, watching the waves as he made his proposal. “You could become a…coral kid if you wanted.” Asking someone to partner up was nerve wracking, in the past it had just happened naturally, or the universe had tried to force someone upon him. The name “Coral Kids” was something he’d come up with right then and there. 

“Coral kid…” Martyn contemplated, pushing himself forwards, hands now resting in his legs instead of the dirt. “I like that name.” He smiled. “It’s a tempting offer.” Martyn stood slowly, grimacing at the squeaky sound his wet sandals made. Scott smiled slightly. 

“Offers always open, oceans always here.” He said, watching the blonde begin to walk away.  

“I’ll be back! Probably!” Matryn called once he reached the mainland, turning to wave goodbye to Scott. The coral kid waved back, smiling softly as he watched the other disappear into the trees. 

He really hoped he came back. 

_______________________________

The little island progressed quickly over the days, though the grass was spreading over the dirt bridge at a snail pace. It annoyed Scott whenever he looked over, so he’d just elected to never look over that way till his island started to become green and grassy. 

He’d begun to explore the ocean under his man made island, partly so he didn't have to stare at dirt all day. It was quite beautiful, even if he hadn’t been able to stay for long before. 

One morning Scott had woken up with fins where his ears were previously. It freaked him out honestly, and it got worse when he felt gills on the side of his neck and smaller fins on his other limbs. It’d taken him almost an hour to calm down, partly because he found more fins on his legs and arms after finishing his first freakout. 

That was a few days ago, and Scott was becoming used to the fins. He was just glad he hadn’t sprouted a tail. Scott could now breathe under water, meaning he was able to stay under longer and enjoy his ocean. When he wasn’t on land he was hiding in the coral reef that surrounded the man made island. It made him feel like some sort of sea monster, which he quite liked. 

He tried not to be too fish like when others came around, not wanting to weird anybody out with his new appearance. The only person who’d stopped by was Etho, who’d just wanted a chat with a neighbor apparently. The masked man seemed to be the loner of Team T.I.E.S. 

Speaking of T.I.E.S, he’d almost died at their house. Martyn had put down an explosive, the blonde having been boogeyman the whole time. It had upset Scott, making him wonder if Martyn hadn’t been genuine in allying with him, and if he’d just been trying to get an easy kill. Scott didn’t understand why he’d been sparred, as no one was around during their little talk on the dirt bridge, and he had extra hours from getting the first boogey kill so early on. Maybe Martyn had wanted to be a Coral Kid? Scott wasn’t sure, and thinking about it wasn’t fun. 

That was another thing he was taking his mind off of, that and the grass, when he went into the reef. He’d distracted himself by building a secret underwater room. It would be a good place to hide his valuables, and a good bunker if he ever needed one. He didn’t doubt he would need it eventually, as reds tended to like arson and he was collecting wood to build a house. 

It was when Scott was moving sand for his little bunker he saw a familiar shade of yellow swimming through the water nearby. His head whipped around towards the creature, frills twitching in excitement. A puffer fish was swimming a few feet away. 

Scott swam over, giddy with excitement. Puffer Fish spawned where he lived! He hadn’t seen one since the first time, and he quite missed the sight of the little creature. It made him think of a happier time, a time in a flower valley and flower petals seemingly always in his hair somehow. It reminded him of poppies and hobbit holes and a doomed alliance. 

Scott pulled a bucket out from his inventory, gently scooping up the poisonous fish. It seemed to not mind him, as he was now more sea creature than person. That would certainly make transporting it easier. 

He surfaced, wasting no time as he used his only name tag on the bucket. He even ignored the ugly dirt under his feet as he ran across his small bridge to the mainland. He wanted to get to Bad Boy’s manor as soon as possible. Sadly, the universe wanted to slow Scott down, as he ran into BigB and Pearl as soon as he entered the oak forest on the shore, the two presumably on their Nosy Neighbor duties. 

“Hi Scott!” BigB greeted him with a smile, and Scott had to stop himself from running into them. Pearl looked mildly surprised at his new fish features, though she didn’t stare too long. BigB had gotten dog ears and a tail last season because of Ren.

“Hi.” Scott gave a return greeting, trying not to seem like he was just sprinting away from his house. He clutched the bucket closer to his chest. “What are you two doing here?”

“Just being nosy.” Pearl smiled, glancing at the item he held in his hands. Scott shifted his weight from foot to foot, antsy. He wanted to see his husband now.  

Former Husband. Scott reminded himself, noticing how he referred to the other in his head. He didn’t like saying Ex-Husband, it made it feel like they’d gotten split on bad terms. They hadn’t, for the record. 

“What’s that?” His former soulmate asked, looking directly at his pufferish. Scott hugged the precious cargo close to his chest. 

“Nothing.” His tone was short, and he didn’t mean to be rude, but he was getting slightly impatient. He started trying to think of a way to leave the situation, when BigB put a hand in front of Pearl, as if telling her to stop. 

Scott looked at BigB, feeling a rush of gratitude for the other man. BigB had noticed how antsy he was, how the bucket was clutched close to his chest. BigB hadn’t seen him much during Third Life, but he’d known about their pufferfish. He understood what it meant. Pearl didn’t quite know, but Scott had never explained it to her, so he couldn’t blame her for her curiosity. 

She gave them both a confused look as BigB let Scott pass, the latter muttering words of gratitude as he passed. BigB just smiled kindly as watched Scott run into the trees, bucket still clutched tightly in his arms.  

_______________________________

“Jimmy!” Scott called, climbing to the top of Bad Boy Manor. The bucket of pufferfish was still in his arms. He was anxious to put it away in case something happened to the animal inside. Scott was pretty sure he would start crying real tears if that fish died. “Jimmy!?”

“Scott! Over here!” Jimmy waved from across the mansion roof, Scott now seeing his former partner. The blonde had gained a leather jacket since he last saw him, the denim jacket he’d borrowed from Scott so long ago presumably shoved in a chest somewhere. Sunglasses with green-tinted lenses also rested on the top of his head. He looked stupid, the attire wasn’t really Jimmy’s fashion sense. But it was stupid in a cute kinda way. 

“Jimmy!” Scott beamed, walking over. Jimmy smiled back, eyes falling to what Scott was carrying. 

“What’s that?” Jimmy questioned, looking down at the bucket. Scott’s smile softened, slowly moving the item towards Jimmy. The blonde moved to take his, hands brushing Scott’s as he gently took the bucket from him. Brown eyes lit up in recognition as he saw what was inside. 

Jimmy looked up at Scott, seemingly rendered speechless. He seemed to be asking if it was what he thought it was, as if he couldn't believe it. Scott couldn’t blame him, he’d barely believed it himself when he first saw the little fish. 

“A gift for you.” Scott’s voice was soft, gaze fond as he watched Jimmy. 

“A pufferish of peace!” Jimmy’s tone was excited, but he spoke softly and without the normal loudness that came with his excitement. He clutched the gift to his chest just as Scott had done, as if it was the most precious thing in the world. It probably was, to them anyways. Scott knew with certainty that both of them would kill anyone who dared to harm the fish. 

Scott felt himself melt a little, watching Jimmy stare at the pufferish with all the love in the world. It brought him back to happier times, how’d they had laughed at the original misspelling of the word pufferfish. How upset he’d been when it was stolen and used in war against them. It reminded Scott of how he loved Jimmy, and a small part of him wanted to kiss him right now. Just a small one. 

“I’ll put it somewhere safe.” Jimmy promised, turning to the chests that stood a few feet behind them. Scott watched as his former husband carefully placed the bucket in his chest, seemingly hiding it amongst his other things and supplies. Maybe he didn’t want Joel or Grian to find it and ask questions, though Scott didn’t see why they would rummage through Jimmy’s personal chest. They’d understand once they saw what it had been name tagged anyways. 

Jimmy turned back to Scott, opening his mouth to say something. He closed it before he did though, alarm clear on his face. The smell of smoke and burning wood was filling the air, burning dark oak wood to be precise. Scott turned to look over his shoulder, seeing a fire starting to creep up the side of the building and towards the roof they stood on. 

“The Mansion!” Jimmy screamed, running over. He frantically started pouring water onto the burning wood. Scott went to help him after a moment, getting over his initial shock of the situation. He was expecting the building to be burned down, but not that fast. 

“Jimmy!” He yelled, picking up the other’s communicator from where it’d been dropped beside him and into his hands. “Call Joel and Grian!” Jimmy looked at him for a moment, processing, before he furiously started typing into his communicator. 

The other two Bad Boys arrived quite quickly, yelling about the fire and for Jimmy to put it out faster. “It’s burning the inside Joel, there’s no saving this!” Jimmy growled at the shorter man in response

“Tim!” Grian called. “You were supposed to watch the place! Place more water!” 

“I was watching the place!” Scott thought Jimmy was going to throw a bucket at one of them, honestly. He rarely ever got this mad. He wouldn’t blame him if he did either. 

“The forest is burning!” Scott called over his shoulder, it was an attempt to get them to stop bickering. He was pretty sure Joel muttered a swear under his breath as another stream of water began to flow down the side of the manor. 

Martyn showed up to help at one point, but disappeared just as fast as he came. Scott didn’t care at the moment though, as the fire was now out and he was being accused of starting it.  

“Why would I start a fire then help you put it out Joel?” Scott asked, glaring at the smaller. Joel pushed his sunglasses further down on his face, scowling. 

“I don’t know! Some backwards attempt to gain our trust!” 

Jimmy snapped at his ally. “Scott was with me before it started!” The blonde’s voice was full of genuine anger, which was weird. Jimmy usually took whatever was thrown at him, and everyone knew it. Joel seemed to take that as the hint to back off, throwing his hands up in surrender. 

“I’m a lot of things, but I wouldn’t give him a pufferish of peace then burn down the mansion.” He stated, crossing his arms. Joel muttered an apology to him, now seeming somewhat ashamed for getting so worked up. Scott couldn’t really blame him though, he’d wanted to stab Joel himself after the whole wall burning incident in Third Life. These games got a little frustrating sometimes. This would‘ve been good revenge for the wall stunt though..

Scott looked at Grian, who’d taken the hint of “Tim’s gonna kill someone if we keep yelling at him” a lot earlier than his brunette ally had. The avian now stood a few feet away, sighing. 

“The mansion needs resetting anyways, so it doesn’t matter. We’ll have our house back by next week.” 

The announcement seemed to relive a lot of tension, and Scott used this as an opportunity to slip away, giving Jimmy a wave goodbye before slipping into the forest below, and back to his home. 

_______________________________

Scott laid down in his makeshift bed, sighing as he pulled out his communicator. He hadn’t checked it in the chaos of the last few hours. 

He scrolled through the messages, reading each one a few times over due to tiredness. It was almost midnight, and he had to stop himself from drifting off to sleep. He wanted to know what had gone on elsewhere. 

At some point Impulse and Skizz had both died to a creeper, which sucked for Skizz. The man had died three times now, and two of those were boogey kills. Scott felt pretty bad for him, the guy had already lost five hours of his precious time in the first week. 

Scott briefly remembered seeing a crowd at the Clockers place, and that was apparently where Martyn made his next move, if Scott was guessing correctly that is. The blonde had taken an opportunity to get his much needed boogey kill while everyone watched the manor burn. Martyn had killed BigB, the same person who’d been so kind to Scott earlier that day. Poor BigB never quite deserved any of his deaths in these games. 

The chat messages brought his mind back to the Martyn issue, and Scott looked at the night sky. He once again wondered if Martyn actually cared about being his teammate this time. He hoped he did, he really hoped so. The waves crashing softly into the island were comforting, and helped lull him to sleep. 

But didn’t think he could be alone with the waves forever. 

[mooniefics]

AFTER CONTEMPLATING FOR SEVERAL MINUTES:

reiner braun 🤪 + “please?? just pretend we’re dating. it’s only for today, i promise!”

this is literally the cutest moonie, i'm proud of you for hitting 250!! ilysm 💖✨💕

oh my gosh i’m so sorry this took me so long,, thank u so much for the request n the congratulations mar !! very happy that my first work for this event can be for my love, our one n only reiner ♡(｡- ω -)

in all your years of knowing reiner, you couldn’t say that you’d ever once heard him sounding so frantic.

“please?? just pretend we’re dating. it’s only for today, i promise!”

those were the exact words he’d used over the phone, imploring for you to come to the official marley high ten-year reunion and pose as his girlfriend. despite how you assured him that you were certain no one would judge him for being single, he seemed adamant that it would be the exact opposite. and after a few apologies for your laughter at his predicament and a brief negotiation over his payment of getting you your favorite drink from the cafe near your workplace for the next few weeks, it was a done deal.

though you admittedly felt a twinge of anxiety upon entering the venue of chattering adults, dressed in the best semi-formal outfit you had in your closet, you could see that he was the more obviously nervous one between the two of you.

“just relax, rei.” you murmured, slipping your hand in his and giggling at the way his arm tensed, “these are your high school friends! i’m sure they’ll be surprised enough that you managed to find a nice girl like me all by yourself—“ he huffed disapprovingly, earning another small laugh, “—and only ask about your work or something.”

you barely finished your brief attempt at a pep talk when a loud voice came from somewhere by the food table. “is that you, braun?!”

reiner’s jaw shifted, a sign you’d come to learn meant him holding back a wince, turning to see a man with slicked back hair and a broad grin on his face approaching. based on his heavy-lidded gaze, paired with the red solo cup tipping dangerously horizontal in his grasp, you assumed he was quite tipsy already.

“considering how late you are, i wasn’t sure you’d even show,” he chuckled, still having to peer up at reiner despite still being taller than you, “but the more i thought about it, the more i remembered you never were the punctual type anyways.”

“great to see you too, porco..” reiner replied half-heartedly, palm already getting clammy in your grasp.

you glanced momentarily between them, deciding to come to your friend’s rescue by clearing your throat, drawing the teasing attention away from him. “actually, he was late because of me.” you flashed a smile, leaning into reiner’s side. “just wanted to look my best since i knew i was gonna be meeting his old friends.”

“holy shit..” porco muttered after a moment of silence, hazel eyes blowing wide as he stared at you like you’d disappear if he blinked even once, only breaking his gaze to turn over his shoulder and call out, “piecky, c’mere! i think reiner’s actually got a fuckin’ girlfriend!!”

you barely stifled a laugh at reiner’s low sigh of discomfort, pointedly ignoring how the people around glanced at porco’s shout. “did you seriously used to hang around with that guy?”

“no..” he grumbled back, “he hung around the people i hung around with and always gave me shit for no reason.”

“wow, rei, feeling a little feisty tonight, are we?”

he scoffed as you reached up to poke at his cheek, able to see the pink flush that had settled over his sharp features despite the dim lighting, dodging your inquiry while he looked ahead. “he’s coming back.”

putting on the smile you’d practiced so many times right back on, you caught sight of a cheerful dark-haired woman sidling over to your small group. “reiner?! you seriously got even taller? who’s this?”

you both exchanged names, offering a hand for her to shake which she eagerly took, turning to reiner for affirmation of your identity, to which he said, “yeah, she's my.. girlfriend...”

“how long have the two of you been together?”

“a couple months—”

“—almost a year.”

you quickly laughed off the sudden nerves of giving conflicting answers, turning back to reiner’s friends and recovering with, “we’re not super big on keeping track of dates. you know how time flies when you love someone.” you turned up to reiner, lips perking into a doting smile, “right?”

his cheeks flushed an even darker red, a sheepish smile brightening his expression. “right.”

“looks like you’re the only single one, pock.” pieck teased, laughing when the man rolled his eyes and huffed.

“you’re still with zeke?” reiner asked, prompting her to extend her left hand, waggling her fingers to show off the large diamond ring on her finger.

“yep, engaged for two years now!”

“apparently still too good to come to anything she invites him to.” porco grumbled in response.

“i already told you he’s on a business trip,” she frowned, taking his cup from his hand and taking a generous sip from it, “i’m sure he would’ve come if he hadn’t had somewhere else to be.”

“whatever you say..” he sighed, letting her finish his drink despite his apparent annoyance.

thankfully, your small slip up had been ignored, allowing both you and reiner to relax when the two finally turned their attention back to you. the night progressed much less turbulently than you’d previously anticipated, reiner allowing you to handle any questions directed at your relationship, not saying anything when you frequently slipped in little white lies to make everything seem more convincing. it didn’t stray terribly far from the truth, you were entirely honest about the way you’d met and the things that had made you “fall in love with him”. 

you took a strange amount of joy in posing as his significant other, just as he gave equally genuine reactions when you wrapped his arm around your shoulder or ate something from his plate of food, flustered and smiling all throughout. for a few brief moments, you almost forgot that he was meant to be pretending too. he’d seemed more than happy to see that you were getting along well with all his old friends.

you learned more about reiner in the hour that you’d been milling around the room with him than you probably ever had in the confines of the job environment that you’d met him in—intrigued to hear that he’d been the captain of the football team, feuded with the neighboring high-school’s while being head over heels for the captain of their cheer team, held the title of champion arm-wrestler for all four years he attended marley—little details that you made you would’ve never known had you never agreed to come. the unintentionally intimidating, humble, easy-to-fluster human resources manager that you’d befriended apparently used to be a total jock, always getting himself into trouble. 

and, based on how many times you’d been congratulated on managing to stick by his side for longer than a few months, you could only assume that you hadn’t even scratched the surface of discovering the entirety of reiner’s character.

eventually, your small group of four that’d you started out the night with had reconvened, tipsy from constantly sipping on spiked punch, an excited exclamation from pieck made all of you turn. “look! the photo booth finally opened up!!”

she was already rushing away for the corner of the venue before anyone could say a word, everyone following suit with a laugh as she stuffed a five dollar bill into the pay slot.

“uhh, pieck, i think this thing was only meant for two people.. max.” porco said after drawing open the curtain, earning a frown from her.

“but i want us all to take a picture together!” she slid into the booth despite the observation, turning to you, “c’mon, i’m sure we could all squeeze in if you sat on reiner’s lap.”

you felt your face flush, knowing there was no way to work around her request without raising some kind of suspicion and ruining the act you’d both somehow maintained for the entire night. “sounds like a plan..!”

you could feel how tense reiner was behind you as you got settled on his thighs, hesitating to rest his hands on either side of you while pieck and porco struggled to work the screen before them. you were starting to regret not asking if this was okay with him before agreeing, but you were sure he would’ve found some way out of the situation if he was truly uncomfortable. he only seemed to be preoccupied with the thought of making you uncomfortable, something which made a flicker of affection warm your chest.

“alright! we’ve got four pictures,” pieck announced, “starting... now! and make the first a normal one!”

the first three pictures were the standard photo booth antics—one with all of you smiling normally, one with all of you making the most ridiculous face you could think of in five seconds, and one of all of you arguing over what the third photo should’ve been.

“do something cute for the last one to make up for the messed up one!” pieck demanded through her laughter, pointing urgently at the countdown on the screen, “hurry up an’ kiss or something!!”

you turned back to look at reiner, wide golden eyes gazing down at you, obviously unprepared for the steadily escalating circumstance that was only being intensified by the chanting of “kiss, kiss, kiss!” coming from the woman who’d paid for the photos in the first place. and although you knew you had no obligation to do what she asked just because she had been so kind to you despite only meeting you tonight, or because the timer was winding down towards zero all too quickly, you still found yourself reaching out a hand to settle just under his jaw, heart racing impossibly fast when you realized he was already leaning down to meet you halfway.

his lips were still sweet with whatever juice had been mixed with alcohol, skin warm and blushing from your proximity, the hand that had been resting in your lap wandering to lace your fingers with his. the exchange didn't last nearly long enough, the click of the camera drawing you back to the cramped reality, pieck's cheers through giggles and porco's disgusted scoff for you two to get a room.

"i better be invited to your wedding!" pieck joked, reaching across you to draw open the curtains in a silent sign for you to pry yourself away from reiner.

"likewise." you replied with a smile, almost giddy with excitement as you clambered out of the photo booth.

though reiner's expression just barely passed as casual, his cheeks were burning red, even the tips of his ears flushed as the four of you waiting for the machine to dispense your photos. the function was winding down fast, and as soon as your drawn-out goodbyes were finally finished, you and reiner left, hand-in-hand, much to talk over but neither of you willing to speak until you'd reached the privacy of his car.

you turned to him, smiling in the dim glow on the lights of his dash, laughing softly at his sheepish expression, "i know you said we'd only pretend for a day but.. you think i could request a little extension?"

[prettylittlewrites]

Glory and Gore Pt. 1

In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up A male and female between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public “Reaping”. These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the capitol And then transferred to a public arena where they will fight to the death until a lone victor remains Henceforth and forevermore This pageant shall be known as

The Hunger Games

***

The sound of a harsh wind echoed through the area. The screen flashing to 24 children as they rose out of metal tubes that were surrounded by desert covered in decaying structures, they all stood still as if they were frozen.

Then the countdown began, zooming in on all of the tributes, especially the favorites from different districts. The eyes of the determined, scared, and hopeless stared back into the camera. The screen then showed the surrounding arena. A small area was dedicated to the cornucopia, muted orange sand covered the land with decaying houses that looked like they belonged in a history book surrounding them. A matte silver horn-shaped structure that was full of deadly weapons reflected the hot sun beating down on the tributes.

Suddenly as if time and motion had resumed, children launched off of the metal tubes and towards the horn-like structure. The camera focused on a brunette girl, a dark green two on the left sleeve of her thin t-shirt to represent her district. She reached the cornucopia first and grabbed the first thing she could get her hands on. She whipped around and with a machete in her hand raised it high above her head and brought it down with a yell on a boy who was coming up behind her, beheading him as blood squirted on her.

And with that, the Hunger Games bloodbath had begun. The screen continued to flash images of the bloodbath, one tribute after another hitting the ground in various odd shapes with forms of fatal wounds. The camera once again zoomed in on the brunette girl covered in dried blood, her face blank as she looked down at a boy trying to crawl away. Without blinking she twirled a dagger around her ring finger before releasing it in the direction of the boy, watching as it landed right in the back of his neck severing his spinal cord. The bloodbath was over.

The next scene to appear on the screen was a group called the Careers. They normally consisted of the tributes from districts 1,2 and 4. A tribute from these districts almost always won the Games. They were the fan favorites.

They were hunting in what looked to be an old town Main Street on day four just as the sun was rising. The buildings were faded bright colors and had peeling paint and windows boarded up with wood. Most of the buildings had signs on them or lighter paint that held the names of what was assumed to be old store fronts.

District 2 was leading the way, tracking other tributes; following their footprints that remain imprinted in the cracking red clay that covered the streets. The tracks belonged to the two youngest tributes that year, the boy from 10 and the girl from 3, both only 12 years old. They found them hiding in a narrow space between the buildings hidden behind a half torn down brick wall.

The brunette girl from 2 looked away as they were killed by the District 1 female with a sword who had a sickening smile on her face.

The hunting trip didn’t end there, they also found the male from District 4. He managed to throw his own spear, impelling the District 2 boy in the chest, killing him. The District 2 female threw a knife with a yell of anger, embedding it in his left eye, killing him instantly.

That night the last tribute from District 2 left the careers, but not before slitting open the throats of both tributes. Bringing it down to the top four. After that the images flashed full of mutts, the girl from 7 getting mauled by a Mountain Lion while trying to climb onto the roof of a small house to get to safety, the boy from 5 rinsing off in a shallow pond only for mutant flesh-eating fish to attack him and the green water to turn a murky red.

The Final Showdown was after that. The females from districts five and two were in the middle of fighting when the cameras turned to them, drenched in sweat and blood, both theirs and others. The district five girl’s face was split open, a cut stretching from the corner of her mouth up to her cheek leaving the skin to rip further whenever she opened her mouth. She was missing her right arm from her elbow down, the discarded limb feet away and had a nasty gash across her stomach, blood gushing out with each deep ragged breath she took.

The district two female was only a little better. She had a leg wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding on her right thigh making it hard for her to put pressure on that leg, she had multiple cuts on her face, one in particular on her hairline that was dripping blood into her eyes, she had three broken ribs one of them puncturing her lung making it near impossible to breath.

The district five female screamed and charged, and in one fluid movement, the district two female took her last dagger off her belt and slammed it into the other girl's chest, before ripping it out. The district five girl went limp and she rested on district two’s arm, she shoved her off and looked up at the sky as she heard the sound of the air carrier.

She had won the 72nd Hunger Games.

The screen went black.

The room filled with cheers as the lights came back on, Capolians of every size, shape, and color stood on their feet applauding the girl on stage.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the Victor of the 72nd Hunger Games. From District Two Adele Eilmerson!” Caesar Flickerman’s puke green colored lips screamed gesturing to the brunette girl on stage, she smiled big and took in all the cheers and cries of each person. Her hair was curled to perfection, the dress she wore looked like melted gold against her fake tanned skin. The dress was backless with a plunging neckline that went down to just above her belly button; it flowed to the floor and seemed to ripple with every step that she took. Her skin was dusted with gold glitter allowing for her to look like she had this glow around her, she was breathtaking. Like she was the golden trophy.

When the crowd settled down Caesar turned to the now seated Adele, ready to begin the interview portion of the post-game ceremony, most of it was pretty normal. How does it feel to win? Why did you choose that weapon? What was your token from home? How did it feel to lose your district partner? Are you excited to go home? She answered with polite smiles and appropriate answers, never once letting her facade drop. She was still playing their game, she had to survive.

[homoose]

okay so i saw your recent post about wanting morcia requests and this is more of like a suggestion??? i guess i don’t know but it just came into my head and i think you could write it so well omg idk if its already been done BUT

morcia in that episode where morgan is driving the ambulance and its about to explode right well he’s asking garcia to keep talking to him right?? and she just like blurts out in her rambling that she loves him like for real for real

🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 the dialogue of the beginning is taken straight from the episode, which is 4x01 Mayhem.

———

Penelope worked quickly with Officer Bartelby to triangulate the signal and shut down the cell towers. Then, she called Derek through her earpiece. “Morgan?”

It felt like an eternity before he replied, “Yeah, baby.”

His breathing was labored, his voice slightly threadier than usual. She kept her tone as even as she could, though her nerves began to build. “You sound stressed.”

“Do I?”

She would have said something snarky, bantered a little, but there was a knot growing in the pit of her stomach. “Where are you?”

He took another heavy breath. “Not where I wanna be right now.” There was a pause. “Garcia, take this down for me: FDNY 108.”

“That’s an ambulance,” she said cautiously, and the nerves became amplified. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied, and she didn’t believe him for a second. “Just track it for me.” And then he let out a stressed, frustrated sigh.

Penelope didn’t say anything, just worked with frantic fingers to get the information he asked for.

Thirty seconds later he was back over the comm. “Oh my god,” he muttered, not meant for her to hear. Then, “Garcia, how long can you keep jamming the cell phone lines?”

Nothing good ever followed an inquiry about a time limit. “Uh— a few minutes. Max. Why?”

“‘Cause I’m gonna have to get this ambulance out of here.”

Her heart went cold. “Or you could just evacuate the building like everybody else,” she corrected, a little desperately.

“No,” he answered. “As soon as the airways are clear this thing’s going up.”

The determination in his voice was enough to have her scrambling. “Going— oh, my god, that’s in, like, three minutes because that’s when the satellite moves position.”

He didn’t respond, and she could hear the slamming of the ambulance door, an incessant beeping sound, and Derek fumbling around, muttering out a, “Come on.”

She could feel the tears starting to well up, watched helplessly as the blocked cell towers blinked on her computer screen. This could not be happening. She was not going to lose Derek Morgan like this.

“Garcia, listen to me.” His voice broke her out of her spiral. “I need you to find an area of town I can drive this thing, and you tell everybody— you hear me, everybody— that I’m comin’.”

She nodded even though she knew he couldn’t see her, fingers slamming over the keys to find the closest open area she could. She heard Derek begging the ambulance, “Come on, baby. Do it. Go.”

And she knew it wasn’t her he was talking to, but it gave her the boost, the motivation she needed to figure this out. To save his ass, like she always did.

“All right, talk to me, Garcia.”

His voice was frantic, and she worked to keep hers level, even though she felt like screaming. “Okay, head north... and floor it. I’ll tell you where to turn.”

She heard Derek’s breathing, the squealing of the ambulance tires, and then what sounded like fireworks. “What was that?” she demanded.

“It was nothing, it was noth— just talk to me.”

She murmured quiet directions to him, tried her best to soothe him, keep him calm and focused. Turn left here, use this side street, keep going north. Derek’s frantic breathing dominated her ears more than the blaring of the siren. He didn’t speak at all, just listened and navigated and drove a ticking time bomb through the streets of New York.

“How am I doing, Garcia?”

“How’s he doing?” she asked Bartelby.

“One minute, fifty seconds,” came the response.

Less than two minutes left with this man who had spent the last five years teasing her, supporting her, building her up, cherishing her— just as she was, and she couldn’t keep it together any longer. “Why does it always have to be you? Why do you always have to do this?”

He didn’t respond to her, and now the panic was turning to anger. “Derek, you don’t have much time. Please be smart about this. Signal’s coming back online.”

“30 seconds to full coverage,” Bartelby warned.

“Derek, drive to the opening and then get the hell out,” Penelope demanded.

“There’s something I really want you to know, Garcia,” he murmured.

“20 seconds.”

“Save it,” she begged, because there was no reason to be doing final confessions. He was going to be fine. “Just get out.”

“No, no, no, I’m not quite there yet.”

The tears bled through in her voice as they rolled down her cheek. “Morgan... please.”

Bartelby’s countdown rang in her ears, and then Derek tried again. “Just listen to me.”

“No, you listen to me, Derek Morgan,” she shot back. “Because you’re not gonna die in that stupid ambulance, but since you’re acting like you will, I’m gonna yell my love at you, and you’re gonna listen.”

She stared at the countdown of the cell towers. “You’re strong and kind and patient and supportive. You’re chivalrous without being chauvinistic, and you’re protective without being patronizing. You’re a hero and the best man that I know. You’re— you are my absolute favorite person.”

She was crying now, tears running hot down her cheeks and burning tracks that she was sure she’d still feel long after the saline dried up. But he needed to know, and she was angry with him for putting himself in this position, and she was angry with herself for being such a coward for so long.

“You can’t die, because I don’t know how I’m supposed to live without you, Derek. I— I love you. I know we’ve said it before, and I meant it then, in that way. But I’m— I’m in love with you. I don’t know when it happened, but it’s— it feels as natural as breathing. Like a fish loves water, like dry ground loves rain, all those pretty, flowery similes they write on planners and coffee mugs.”

Bartelby informed her they had ten seconds, and she rushed out the rest, all the things she’d been holding inside because she wanted to keep Derek in any way she could have him. “But I also love you when it’s hard, when we’re not in very good moods, when we’re struggling with demons that we thought we’d conquered. And I— I’ve never loved anybody like that.” She let out a shaky breath, shook her head and felt a sob building in her chest. “I need you to get the hell out of that stupid ambulance, because I can’t do this without you.”

“We just lost tracking,” Bartelby murmured.

The breath caught in Penelope’s throat, and she closed her eyes. “Morgan?”

The explosion rattled through the earpiece, Bartelby dropped her elbows to the desk in defeat, and Penelope couldn’t breathe. “Derek?”

For a long moment, there was nothing, and she was sure that she’d lost him. The man she should have been able to fix up houses with and play scrabble with and bake vegan treats with and raise children with and grow old with— was gone. And then...

“You know what you are Garcia?”

Penelope’s heart jump started and relief rolled through her like a tsunami, and then she rolled her eyes with absolute and pure (loving) disgust.

“I’ll tell you what you are to me,” Derek panted. “You’re my god-given solace.”

Penelope closed her eyes, brought a shaky hand up to wipe the tears from her cheeks. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bartelby lean back with a small smile.

Derek continued, “Woman, you promise me one thing— whatever happens, don’t you ever stop talking to me.”

Penelope huffed. “I can’t right now because I’m mad at you.”

“I can wait.” He sighed into her ear piece, and it was the most beautiful symphony she’d ever heard. “And Penelope?”

She sniffed in response, and he laughed a little at her pettiness. “Ditto, baby girl.”

[leejungchans]

— unexpected.

🆕 ask juliet anything!! | juliet’s masterlist

word count: 2.1k

warning(s): mentions of self-doubt, insecurities and intrusive thoughts; someone says some pretty harsh words to juliet here but nothing extreme

disclaimer: please keep in mind that the trainer mentioned in this is a completely fictional character hence why his name is never mentioned!!

set in june 2019; a few days after ateez’s first win for wave

summary: in which the boys help juliet when she gets a message from someone who she never expected, nor wants, to see again.

a/n: putting juliet in a bit of Pain™️ here 😔 as always, you are always welcome to leave feedback or chat with me!! 💕💕

As Seonghwa clears away the dishes after dinner, he notices Juliet curled up on the sofa with her phone in hand. Normally, he wouldn’t think much of it, given the other members are doing the same as they lounge around the living room. But one look at the maknae’s grave expression tells him that something is wrong.

Jongho, who’s been helping Seonghwa take the plates into the kitchen, catches him staring and follows his gaze. The two silently watch as Juliet types something on her phone before furiously tapping on the screen to delete whatever she wrote with a frustrated sigh, her long acrylic nails creating a crisp tapping noise. This draws the attention of the other six boys as they all turn to look at her with concern, though she doesn’t seem to notice from being so focused on her phone.

“Minyoungie, is everything okay?” Hongjoong finally asks, sitting up from his spot on the ground.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. I’m fine, don’t worry,” she reassures with a stiff smile, but it’s evident that something is clearly bothering her.

The leader gets up to sit next to her on the couch. “Do you want to talk about it? Or do you want some time to yourself first?”

Juliet contemplates his question for a few seconds before speaking again. “It’s nothing serious, I guess,” she admits, “but one of my former trainers at SM messaged me just before dinner asking me to meet up with him, and I don’t know how to respond.”

“Oh,” Hongjoong says. The mention of her former company causes the others to pay full attention to their conversation, knowing how unpleasant her experiences with a few of her former trainers were though she never talked about such incidents in detail. “Do you want to, though?”

“No,” Juliet responds immediately, expression turning cold. “Not now, probably not ever.”

“What happened with him?” Wooyoung asks before quickly adding, “you don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to.”

Juliet sighs, stuffing her phone into the pocket of her hoodie before hugging her knees to her chest. “No, no. I think it’s about time I told you guys what happened exactly, I guess I never did because it felt like there was never a right time to bring him up, and also because it feels stupid to talk about it when I haven’t seen him in years, and have no intention of changing that.”

Wooyoung pats her knee comfortingly. “Tell us however much you’re okay with,” he says with a gentle smile, “you don’t have to go into full detail if you don’t want to.”

Juliet pants heavily when the music stops, crouching down to catch her breath desperately while cursing the horrible cold she’s been dealing with for the past few days.

She just knows everyone noticed how her movements have gotten more sluggish with every time they go over the dance, and the humiliation sears through her body like a raging fire.

Someone—she can’t see who and is too dizzy to even turn her head in that direction to check—comes up from behind to rub her back soothingly as her chest continues to heave from exhaustion.

“Five minutes,” the gruff voice of their dance trainer says, and the group of girls instantly scramble to where their water bottles are lined up neatly against the wall. “Baek Minyoung, not you.”

At the sound of her name, Juliet looks up to see the man crooking a finger, motioning for her to walk over to where he is in a secluded corner of the practice room. Shakily, she stands up as the other girls murmur quiet encouragements, though they quickly leave her side from the glare the man sends towards them.

Juliet knows that no amount of mental preparation is enough when it comes to this particular trainer, and it makes her heart sink deeper and deeper with every step she takes towards him.

Her head is bowed when he starts speaking, not daring to look into his flaring eyes. “What’s wrong with you?” the man wastes no time in asking accusingly. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice how terrible your dancing has gotten these few days? Do you think slackers have a place here? You looked like a dying slug out there.”

“No, Sir. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to slack off, I have a cold, which is why—”

“I’m not interested in hearing your excuses,” he cuts her off icily. “Do you know what idols do when they get sick? They keep pushing. And that’s the complete opposite of what you’re doing.”

“I understand. I’m really sorry. I will do better,” Juliet replies softly, voice barely above a whisper, hoping that he’ll let her off easy.

But today is not her lucky day. The sound of a dry chuckle sends chills down her spine.

“Do you want to know something?” She doesn’t. In fact, she dreads knowing. But something tells her she doesn’t have the luxury of choosing, so she continues to keep her head down and tries to zero in on her shoes to hold back her tears.

She can feel the weight of everyone’s stares on her back, and she wants nothing more than to disappear into thin air.

“There were discussions about adding you to Red Velvet along with Yeri. A few people thought you were too young, others saw potential in you,” the trainer sneers. “Personally, I don’t see any of that, and I’m glad that they ultimately did not debut you, because all I see is an ungrateful, lazy brat.”

Juliet bites down harder on the inside of her cheeks to keep the tears at bay, and it doesn’t take long for her to taste iron.

“You better go back there and get your crap sorted out. Because if I see you not being up to par with the others again, I will not hesitate to go to the higher-ups with this, then you can kiss your future in this industry goodbye. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Look at me when you answer.”

Juliet swears she’s never seen so much hatred and disdain in someone’s eyes until the moment their eyes meet. And it takes everything in her not to burst into tears as she repeats her response in a trembling voice.

The man scoffs, dismissing her with a wave of his hand as though batting away an insect before clapping his hands together to gain the others’ attention.

“Break’s over! Let’s hope some of you actually know what you’re doing this time,” he says scornfully, blissfully ignorant of the fact that every word he said feels like another stab to her heart.

When Juliet looks up at her reflection in the mirror, she barely recognised herself from how hollow and empty her gaze looks, a far cry from the girl who started her journey as a trainee with starry eyes and a fiery passion.

What had she become? is the last thought that comes to mind before the music starts again, and she can only hope that she can make it through the rest of the session without making a mistake or collapsing.

“So... that’s basically what happened,” Juliet chokes out, leaning her head back as she blinks back tears. To be honest, she had to give herself credit for getting through that story without crying, knowing that that incident in particular instilled a new, and much more profound, sense of fear and self-doubt within her. “You can now probably see why I don’t want to meet with him.”

San comes to sit on the armrest of the couch so he can wrap his arms around the girl. “I’m so sorry that happened, but I’m glad you’re not in that situation anymore.”

“Yeah, me too,” Juliet chuckles bitterly, still not meeting any of the boys’ eyes by looking down at her hands. “I don’t think I’ve been the same since then. I mean, not that it’s completely his fault because there were so many contributing factors, but... I’ve never looked at myself so negatively until that day... it suddenly felt like I was the only person who couldn’t see how utterly worthless I was... I don’t know.”

“But what did he text you?” Despite the anger he feels for this man for hurting her in such a way, Seonghwa still manages to stay levelheaded.

Juliet takes her phone out to reread the message. “He said he was watching M Countdown a few days ago and recognised me when we got our first win. He congratulated me and apologised for everything he said to me when I was at SM. Then he asked me if I wanted to meet with him for lunch.”

“But how did he get your number?” Yeosang wonders out loud, frowning deeply. “That’s kinda creepy.”

The girl shrugs. “Who knows? I don’t know what he’s up to now, but he likely still has contacts in the industry and asked around for my number.”

Wooyoung scoffs. “The fact that he only reached out now shows he’s probably not that apologetic, since he’s the one who implied he remembers everything he’s said to you. If he really felt guilty, he would’ve made use of those contacts of his to reach out to you to apologise a lot earlier.”

“That’s what I thought,” Juliet agrees. “The fact that he texted me right after our first win doesn’t seem like a coincidence.”

Mingi huffs. “Maybe just tell him to get lost or something. He’s not worth the time.”

“If she isn’t an idol, she can cuss him out all she wants. But if like you said,” Hongjoong muses thoughtfully, turning back to Juliet, “and he’s either still in the industry or has contacts, then you can’t be too rude to him in case he tries to use it against you to paint you as some villain. You know how some people are.”

The others nod defeatedly. He has a point.

“Then... what do we do? We can’t let her go meet with him,” San says, his arms subconsciously holding Juliet a little tighter protectively.

“Of course not,” the leader assures, “I think the best course of action is to thank him for congratulating you, accept his apology—even if you don’t really want to, it can just be for show—and politely decline his invitation because your schedule is full.”

Juliet hesitates. “But what if he says that I’m lying to get out of it?”

“I mean, it’s not really a lie,” Yunho points out. “Our tour is coming up soon and we’re gonna be busy practising for it, so it really is the truth that you don’t have the time to see him. Plus, you don’t owe him anything, who cares if he thinks you’re lying or not?”

Juliet nods slowly, fingers hovering over the keyboard as she tries to think of a response, but her mind is so overwhelmed from the sudden message and the memories that nothing comes up.

“Do you want me to help you type it?” Seonghwa asks tenderly after a while of watching her struggle to formulate anything.

“Yes, please,” Juliet says immediately, visibly relieved as she pushes her phone into Seonghwa’s hand. The oldest member cocks his head to the side while he thinks before typing something down.

A few moments later, he hands her back her phone. “Here. If you’re okay with this, then you can send it to him.”

The other boys crowd around Juliet so they can all read the message Seonghwa typed out. When done, she looks up at Hongjoong for confirmation.

“It’s good, I think,” he says approvingly. “It’s short and concise, polite but not too friendly or curt so there’s no way it can be taken out of context in case it somehow gets leaked.”

Juliet nods, pressing on the “send” button with bated breath. The moment she sends the message, she feels as though a huge weight has been lifted off her, having spent the whole time during dinner silently stressing over how she should respond to the point where she could barely get down her food.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she says, leaping off the sofa to throw her arms around Seonghwa’s neck. “I wouldn’t know what to do if it wasn’t for you guys. I actually contemplated pretending he had the wrong number or even meeting with him once so he’d leave me alone after that,” she admits, “but I’m glad you stepped in before I did either of those things.”

“And I’m glad you told us about this so we could work through it together,” Seonghwa smiles, stroking the girl’s head. “You don’t have to struggle with these things alone.”

“Now that we took care of that jerk, I think we should order chicken to celebrate!”

Seonghwa looks at the younger boy in disbelief. “Yeosang, we literally just had dinner!”

Juliet laughs. “It’s okay, there’s always room for chicken! Besides, I’m paying this time as a thank you!”

“In that case, who am I to complain?”

a/n: that incident was a pretty huge turning point for juliet in terms of her mental health. she already doesn’t feel confident in herself as most trainees are, but to hear from someone directly that she didn’t get to debut because she was apparently all those horrible things made a lasting impact on her, and since then she’s felt even more horrible about herself :( but she’s gotten a lot better at managing those feelings now and of course she has the support of the boys!!