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piastriprincess · 2 months ago

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caught up in circles ⸻ oscar piastri x reader .

featuring oscar piastri , time loop , f1 med staff!reader , strangers to lovers , slow burn . tw one crash , z*k br*wn and chr*stian h*rner mentions lol word count�� 9.9k author’s note this one is for my piastri princesses ! aka it’s all about oscar and entirely self - indulgent but i hope you all like it too ! inspired by palm springs - one of my favorite movies which for some reason made me think of osc the last time i was watching it <3 this is lowkey long as hell but in my opinion it’s worth it . as always let me know what you think , and my inbox is open for requests ! i’m hoping to have an event up in the next couple of days too . love you all MWAH ! title is from time after time by cyndi lauper .

Oscar always wakes up before his alarm goes off.

He doesn’t bother checking the date anymore. Sunday, May 25, 2025 — the 82nd annual Monaco Grand Prix. It’s sunny outside, a cloudless blue sky stretching endlessly over the glittering harbor. It seems like the perfect day for racing, though it will grow overcast around the 32nd lap and rain will cover the Fairmont Hairpin by lap 41. Lance Stroll always hits the turn going too fast on his inters and skids into the barriers. Oscar knows everything about the day, down to his bones. After all, today will be the 57th time he’s lived it.

By now, his morning routine doesn’t run on instinct so much as muscle memory. He brushes his teeth, calls his mum and tells her he loves her, listens to her tell him you’ve got this, Osc (which is entirely ironic to him now, because he affirmatively does not “got this.” In fact, he thinks this might be the first time he’s ever done anything 56 times without improving at it even an ounce). He shaves, not because he needs to, but because he knows his stubble will start itching by the time he gets to the media pen. He puts on the team kit that’s always neatly folded on his chair when he wakes, even when he leaves it crumpled on his bedroom floor the night before. At least reliving the same day over and over means he never has to do his laundry.

Here’s what he knows so far (a list, meticulously kept in one of his McLaren notebooks). He’s tentatively titled it Oscar Piastri’s Guide to the Time Loop.

Number one: the loop resets every day when he falls asleep.

It doesn’t matter if he makes it past midnight; doesn’t matter if he drinks an absurd and frankly dangerous amount of Red Bulls and drives from Monaco to Woking in one caffeine-crazed night; doesn’t matter if he flies home to Australia after the race, pinching himself to stay awake for the entire twenty-hour flight. The second his eyes close, he wakes up back in Monte Carlo, the sunlight streaming through his curtains.

Number two: he can alter the day.

There are some things that are always the same, of course. The team polo on his chair. The rain on the hairpin. The offhand crack Lando makes about him having no social life — a joke that was funny the first time, but gets increasingly cruel every time it repeats. But things can change, too. He can walk a different way through the paddock. He can have different conversations, though nobody remembers them when the day resets. He can drive the race differently, drive it better. Although, even in 55 races (his gearbox crapped out before the start of the race on Day 16), he hasn’t won yet.

Number three: he can’t die.

Can’t even get injured, really. He’d gotten a couple bruises and scrapes that seemed to heal overnight, but he’d actually confirmed the theory just a couple loops ago. He made a desperate push to pass Charles on the Nouvelle Chicane, and the back end of the car just… slid out from underneath him. There was a moment, brief and terrifying and calm all at once, that he thought that might be it. The only way out. Then he slammed into the barrier, and the carbon fiber crumpled like paper around him. It’s all bits and pieces, what he can remember after that — fire licking up the back wing, the frantic radio messages in his ears, the flashing lights of the safety car, the med staff swarming the track. Someone he’d never seen before pulling him out of the car, speaking to him in a slightly panicked voice. Blinking up at their face through the haze of pain before he lost consciousness. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in his bed on Sunday morning, not a scratch on him.

The analytical conclusion Oscar has come to, after 56 days of testing, note-taking, and driving in circles both literal and existential, is that he’s trapped. Inexplicably, inescapably trapped in a day that never really changes, and he can’t for the life of him figure his way out.

When he gets to the paddock on Day 57, everything is the same. He takes pictures with a few fans as he walks in, jogs slightly to catch up with Lando up ahead, who throws an arm around him like it’s second nature and claps him on the back. They qualified P2-P3, a solid result for the team. (In the first grand prix, on what Oscar’s now calling Day 1, Lando surprised him, pipping him to second place after an absolutely vicious overtake at the first corner. Oscar hasn’t let him pull that move again for 56 days.)

Today, he just chats idly to Lando as they walk about the upcoming race, about team strategy, about the stupid TikTok that marketing is forcing them to do later in the day. Then they round the corner towards the team hub, and Oscar nearly trips over thin air, because someone is standing there.

No one is supposed to be standing there. Oscar’s learned to control variables, gotten used to experimenting and predicting what’s coming next, because nothing ever changes until he changes it. And never, not once in the fifty-six Sundays that came before this one, has a stranger been standing in front of his driver’s room, spinning their lanyard around their fingers with their eyes fixed on him like they’ve been waiting for him.

“Hey, Piastri,” the stranger says, voice tight but polite in the way that his own gets when he’s trying not to freak out in public. He walks closer, and panic slices cleanly through him. Because you’re not a stranger. He knows your voice, your face. You’re the person who pulled him out of the car after the crash. The last thing he saw before the loop reset.

“Can I ask you a weird question?” you continue, voice pitching higher, teetering on the razor’s edge of fear.

He thinks he might forget how to breathe. “Shoot.”

“You crashed two days ago,” you say, and his pulse spikes under his skin. “Pretty spectacularly, actually. I pulled you out of the car, but you were already going under. I was—I was sure you were dead.” You pause, running a hand through your hair. “Cried about it twice. It was, like, the worst day at work ever. And now…” You trail off, like you’re afraid to say it, like you think Oscar is going to laugh and call you ridiculous. “I think I’m going insane, or else I’m having the worst recorded case of deja vu in human history, because this is the third day in a row I’ve woken up on Monaco race day, and no one remembers anything that happened the day before.”

“That’s not a question,” Oscar says, dumbly, heart hammering beneath his ribs.

You look up at him, eyes wide like he holds the keys to the universe. “Yeah. My question is: what the hell did you do to me? And how do I make it stop?”

For once, Oscar’s got no answer. Just a cold, creeping realization settling into his chest.

Number four: He can pull people into the loop?

DAY 58

Oscar’s rational. He’s reasonable. He doesn’t believe in magical thinking: he believes in statistics, logic, in systems that can be measured and tested and solved. Oscar works hard for what he achieves. He doesn’t ever let himself hope, doesn’t think there’s a need for it when you have skill and diligence on your side.

But when he wakes up the next morning before his alarm, staring up at the ceiling like he has every day for the past 58 days, he really hopes you’ll be at the paddock.

Which, statistically speaking, is not likely. The rest of your conversation yesterday had… not gone well, to say the least. He’d tried to ease you into it quietly, carefully, like a doctor delivering bad news to a patient. He’d pulled the small McLaren notebook from his back pocket, frayed at the corners now, dog-eared from overuse. He’d held it out to you, as if it might bridge the gap. “Here. I started this on Day 3. It explains everything.”

You hadn’t taken it. You’d just stared at him like he’d sprouted three heads.

“It’s not just you,” Oscar had said, as gently as he could. “It’s the same Sunday for me, too. This is the 57th time I’ve lived it.”

You’d let out a laugh, shaky and high-pitched. “That’s—that’s not possible. You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I’m very much not,” he’d said dryly. “The first time I ever saw you was Day 55, after the crash. And this morning, you’re here. That’s never happened before.”

You’d blinked, color draining from your cheeks, fingers tightening around your badge like you were about to bolt. “So you think it’s my fault?”

“No,” he’d assured you, instantly. “No. I don’t know why it’s happening. We’re just both… stuck. That’s all.”

“You sound like you’ve made peace with that,” you’d said, crossing your arms over your fireproof scrubs, and something in Oscar’s chest had ached at the way your voice trembled around the words.

“Not made peace with it,” he’d shrugged, pasting on a smile that didn’t quite fit on his face. “Just ran out of ideas.” Just haven’t won yet. Haven’t proven myself yet.

“This can’t be happening,” you’d muttered, knuckles going white where you clutched at your medical badge. “This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Or we’re both concussed, or something.”

“I get it. I freaked out at first too,” Oscar had replied.

“No, you don’t get it!” you’d snapped, eyes all wildfire. “We’re trapped in time, and you’re acting like it’s another day at the office?”

He’d had to bite back his smile. “Well, it sort of is another day at the office. For both of us.”

“I’m going to fix this,” you’d said, ignoring him. “I’m going to get myself out of this.”

“I’ve tried everything. Tested everything,” Oscar had started to explain, but his voice died in his throat when you looked at him. Really looked — bottom lip stuck out slightly, color high in your cheeks, gaze shaky but defiant. The sight of you made his brain go still.

“No way can you test your way out of this. You might have started this, but I’m going to finish it,” you’d said, and stormed off without waiting for another word.

So. The chances don’t seem great that he’ll see you today. But when he gets to the paddock, he still walks past the medical centre to see if he can catch a glimpse of you, scans every face, just in case — the team members, the med staff, the engineers, every person in the paddock holding a camera or a clipboard or a latte. He even searches the grandstands, is almost late for the driver’s parade. He’s halfway through making up some stupid excuse to Lando before he realizes it doesn’t matter, he won’t remember it anyway.

You’re not here.

It’s to be expected, really. Oscar tried to break out of the loop by force when he first figured it out, too — stayed up for a full 24 hours after the race, drove as far as he could out of Monaco, wrote down every little detail he could remember about Day 1 and tweaked it as much as he possibly could over the next few days. None of it works, but you don’t know that yet. He gets it. It’s fine.

Except there’s something about your absence that makes his chest ache.

The lack of you unsettles him in a way he’s not used to. It’s an odd reaction, Oscar can admit to himself. He doesn’t actually know you. But he’d gotten used to being the only one stuck, found a way to exist in the repetition. Until yesterday, for the first time in nearly two months, when the world suddenly cracked open just enough to let someone else in, to remind Oscar what it was like to be seen. And now, just as suddenly, you’re gone again, and the loneliness feels so much worse than it did before.

He races like shit, somehow gets passed by drivers who have no business overtaking him on a circuit that makes it nearly impossible to drop places. Not that any of it matters.

Not without the only other person who might remember it.

DAY 60

“Osc, where are you going?” Lando asks when he turns right toward the team hub and Oscar starts walking to the left. They’re leaving the morning strategy briefing, which has quickly become Oscar’s least favorite unskippable part of the day (and he’s tried — the team always tracks him down, explaining that it’s crucial he attends. He doesn’t know how to tell them strategy is somewhat pointless when you’ve done the actual race every single day for two months.)

“Med centre,” he answers without thinking. It’s become part of his routine over the past few days. Brush teeth, call mum, shave, drive to the paddock, look for you. But of course, no one else knows that.

“Med centre? Oscar? Are you okay?” Zak’s voice rises about an octave, behind them, and Oscar has to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

“He’s fine, he’s just aura farming,” Lando giggles, and Oscar’s mouth twists into a grin instead. In a day that loops over and over again, he has to find moments that aren’t completely monotonous. He’s taken to setting up jokes for Lando, letting him hit the punchline. Oscar always laughs, even though he knows exactly what his teammate is going to say half the time. Seeing the pleased smile on Lando’s face is good enough for him to keep doing it.

“Thinks if he walks around the paddock locked in, it’ll add to the whole vibe,” Lando continues, egged on by the grin on Oscar’s face. “Mate, you know the only reason people think you’re mysterious is because you never actually go anywhere.”

The smile fades. Well. It’s nice to know that even when Oscar’s acting weirder than normal, the joke about how he’s the most boring guy in Monaco sticks around.

“Whatever, man. See you later, yeah?” Oscar mutters, hopefully sounding good-natured enough as he goes. He’s got more important shit to do anyway — namely, tracking you down.

He walks by the med centre exactly six times, nearly trips over himself when he sees someone swinging their paddock pass around their fingers. But it’s still not you. He’s starting to worry you’re not coming back. Or maybe, he thinks as he walks dejectedly back across the paddock, you figured out how to get out. And now he’s stuck and alone. By the time he opens the door to his driver’s room, shutting it behind him and leaving himself in the darkness, the surroundings are the perfect fit for his blackened mood.

“So, that didn’t work,” you say from somewhere inside, and Oscar nearly jumps out of his own skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, flipping the lights on to see you sitting cross-legged on the small bed he uses for mid-practice naps, eating Tim Tams. The absolute audacity you have to invade his space, sit on his bed, eat his snacks — he should be annoyed. But for some reason, the sight of you makes just relief spread through his body. “You came back,” he says breathlessly, immediately regretting how stupidly eager the words sound coming out of his mouth.

“I’m back,” you confirm, grinning up at him unfazed as you pop another biscuit in your mouth. “And I think I owe you an apology for how I spoke to you last time. I may have overreacted a little.”

“S’alright,” he says affably. “I did the same thing at the beginning.”

“You drove a moped off the cliff at Pointe-Saint-Martin to see if you could hit the water hard enough to shake yourself out of the loop?” you ask.

Oscar just stares. “You did that?”

“Kind of a mix of Groundhog Day and Palm Springs,” you shrug. “Thought if it worked for them, it might work for me, but I just ended up half-flooding a boat and seriously pissing off a fisherman.”

“Probably needed to drive faster then,” he replies. You roll your eyes in response, but you’re smiling. He can’t quite tell how to read you. It leaves him feeling off-kilter, like when the car snaps around a corner in a way he’s not expecting.

“Clearly taking lessons from time-travel movies didn’t work. But you’re still stuck here too, and I don’t think either of us can do this alone. Time to compare notes, Piastri.” You waggle your fingers in the space between you. “Hand over the book.”

He pulls the notebook out of his pocket automatically, passes it to you. Watches quietly from the doorway as your eyes scan over the pages. He doesn’t mean to stare, he really doesn’t. But your hair keeps falling in your face, and you keep tucking it behind your ear impatiently, and something about the sight makes Oscar’s heart stutter in his chest a little bit.

You look up suddenly, and Oscar goes pink to the tips of his ears, shaking his head slightly as if to clear the thought from his brain. “You weren’t kidding,” you say. “This is extensive. Borderline obsessive.”

“Borderline?” he deadpans, and you laugh. It’s a light sound, almost musical. Oscar can’t remember the last time he made someone laugh without planning for it in advance.

“Okay, completely obsessive,” you agree cheerfully. “But also kind of impressive.” He doesn’t quite know what to say to that; he settles for sitting carefully next to you on the bed as you flip through a few more pages. “You really think winning is the way out?”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. The only goal I haven’t managed yet. Once I get it perfect, it’ll have to end.”

You grin. “That’s such a driver answer.”

“I do happen to be a driver,” he replies dryly, and you bump your shoulder against his.

“Yeah, but not everything’s about the checkered flag, Piastri,” you say, handing the notebook back to him. He clutches it in his lap, hands curling around it like a lifeline. “What if it’s about… changing? Growing? Something that matters more than racing, at least.”

Nothing matters more than racing, Oscar wants to say. But you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure him out, running over what you know of him in your mind like he’s a puzzle you’re desperate to solve, and he wants to say something that will make you realize you’ve been looking at the pieces all wrong. To unbalance you the way you do to him.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” you say, leaning forward, elbows on your knees, and Oscar realizes he’s been silent far too long. “You keep trying to win the race, and I’ll help however I can. But only if you agree to try things my way too. Half careful, half chaos. Deal?”

Oscar hesitates, and you raise your eyebrows like you’re daring him to say no. “Okay,” he says, pretending it’s a reluctant confession. “Deal.”

You grin, and Oscar has the distinct feeling he’s lost ground that he didn’t know was up for grabs until you extend your hand out to meet his. “Shake on it.”

When he takes your hand, your fingers are warm against his, and something shifts in the air. Nothing big. Probably no one else would feel it.

If Oscar believed in things like that, he’d almost say the loop was taking notice.

DAY 63

Oscar walks away as quickly as he can. Behind him, Lewis Hamilton is yelling, because someone has dyed Roscoe a shocking papaya orange. Non-toxic, pet-safe, temporary fur dye, of course — the bulldog will be completely back to normal in a few days, no worse for the wear.

Not that Oscar has anything to do with it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he picks up his pace, and he pulls it out to see a notification from you: well done agent 081. come to the pit wall to receive your reward :)

The two of you text, now. You’d scrawled your number on a fresh page of his notebook in a glitter gel pen before you left his driver’s room the other day. The messy cursive, the careless heart drawn next to it, stood out against Oscar’s cramped, boyish handwriting. “So we can talk strategy,” you’d said, easy as pie. “Scientific purposes only, of course.”

He’d traced his fingers over the numbers later, at home after the race (P4, nothing to write home about. His lines were perfect, but his front right tyre got stuck on the car during his pit stop, and it all unraveled from there). Spent a little bit too long trying to think of something to say, ended up just sending Hi, this is Oscar Piastri.

You’d responded immediately: i figured lol. u dont need to be so formal oscar!!!

Then another, before he could overthink again: meet me tomorrow at medtent before the race. time for chaosssss >:)

When you said chaos, you meant it. That first day, you’d convinced him to hang signs reading CAUTION: VENOMOUS SNAKES all over the Red Bull garage. (“It’s a metaphor, Oscar,” you’d insisted. He had to admit, seeing Christian Horner scream into his phone until he turned purple was kind of worth it.) The next day, it was reprogramming the Alpine coffee machine so it only dispensed hot water. Oscar had told you it was stupid, but watching Pierre get increasingly frustrated, his accent getting thicker and thicker as he tried to explain the problem to any mechanic who would listen, he’d laughed so hard he’d doubled over, tears pricking mercilessly at his eyes.

You’d leaned against him, wheezing like you couldn’t catch your breath from how hard you were giggling, and that was the moment, Oscar thinks. The moment he knew you were friends.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s made a friend.

When he gets to the McLaren pit wall, you’re sitting on the base of it, head tipped back, soaking in the Monaco sun. You place a hand on your brow, squinting slightly like you’re trying to make him out, and then you wave him over.

“So. Now that we’ve done my idea, what’s your plan today?” you say, pulling two sandwiches wrapped in Ferrari-red napkins out of your bag and tossing the larger one to him. You’ve started sneaking into the different hospitality suites before lunch, figuring out which garage has the best to offer and forcing Oscar to rank them with you. “It’s caprese, by the way,” you add as he catches it. “Scuderia knows what’s up.”

“It’s gonna be a clean start. Pit stop at lap 39 to switch to wets. Overtake Leclerc late,” he repeats automatically as he unwraps the sandwich, taking a bite. It’s good — fresh mozzarella, a perfectly ripe slice of tomato. Miles better than the chicken salad bites McLaren insists on.

You hum around a mouthful of your own. “You tried that already,” you point out as you swallow. “Like, four times now.”

“Five,” he corrects, and you shake your head fondly. Something about the gesture makes his breath catch in his chest. “But, uh, I’ll tweak the timing a bit. Try an overtake in the tunnel, or something.”

“You know it’s okay if you don’t figure it out right away, right?” you say, taking a sip from your water bottle.

Oscar sighs, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem. We have all the time in the world.”

You scoot closer to him, knee settling against his. “Well then… play the long game. Maybe don’t drive yourself crazy over the race before you even start, okay?” Oscar huffs a laugh under his breath. But he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t pull away from you, either.

“Well, well, what’s this?” someone drawls very poshly from above. Oscar looks up, and there’s George Russell towering over them both. He’s wearing that stupid Mercedes cooling jacket, a deeply self-satisfied smirk on his face. Oscar knows George thinks he looks sick in the jacket. Oscar thinks he looks like an oversized alien. “Don’t tell me you’re making friends with the med staff, now.”

You smile sweetly up at George, despite the fact that he’s essentially just referred to you as the help. “Russell, right? Nice to meet you. What time does the mothership leave?”

Oscar snorts, nearly choking on his water.

George, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “Toto usually beams me up around midnight,” he replies, deadpan.

You laugh at that, bright and unguarded, and something twists uncomfortably in Oscar’s chest. It’s not jealousy. He’s not jealous. It’s just that he’s supposed to be the one who makes you laugh. Not George Russell, with his perfect hair and dimples and ridiculously plummy accent.

George notices Oscar’s scowl, and the smile on his face stretches even wider, if that’s possible. “Not friends, then,” he sings teasingly. Oscar goes red up to his ears, staring into the middle distance and taking another aggressive bite of his sandwich. “See you at the driver’s parade, Piastri.”

As George saunters off, you turn your head to watch him go. “He’s kind of funny,” you muse. “In a weird, wax-figure-come-to-life sort of way.”

“Debatable,” Oscar mutters.

“Relax, Osc,” you grin, leaning back on your elbows and letting the sun stream down on your face. You nudge your knee against his, and he feels it everywhere. “You’re still my favorite.”

The pit stop goes off without a hitch, but even with the perfect weather strategy he can’t seem to get past Charles in the back half of the race. He’s P2, again. After the race, you text him a YouTube compilation of all of Charles’ angsty radio messages from seasons past set to sad violin music.

Somehow, the loss doesn’t sting as bad as it usually does.

DAY 71

Someone is pounding at his door when Oscar’s eyes open. It’s so different that for a minute he thinks he broke out of the loop, somehow. But when he checks his phone, it’s still May 25, just about an hour and a half earlier than normal. He drags himself out of bed to the door, pulls it open, and there you are standing on the other side, sunglasses pushed to holding a white paper bag filled with pastries and two cups of coffee. You’re not dressed in your usual race gear, switching it for a filmy black sleeveless top and denim cutoff shorts that expose miles of your bare skin.

Oscar is suddenly, painfully aware that he’s only wearing boxers. You seem to be realizing that fact, too, if the way your eyes drag torturously down his bare chest is anything to go by.

“Hey,” he croaks, cheeks flushed as he takes you in. “What are you doing here?”

You clear your throat, looking back up at him. Your eyes meet, and for a moment the air sparks between you, electric. Then you just smile mysteriously before you push your way inside, handing him one of the coffee cups as you go. “New pre-race hypothesis. Get dressed and come with me.”

Ten minutes later, Oscar’s sitting in the passenger seat of your tiny, beat-up car, watching the sun rise through the windshield. You’re an unexpectedly cautious driver, too slow around the corners, hands planted firmly at 10 and 2, eyes fixed on the road. It’s nice to know that even after weeks of spending May 25 together, you can still surprise him. (Even if his hands are itching to take the wheel from you, see just how hard he can push the Mini Cooper down these famous streets).

You pull to a stop near the harbor, the car’s brakes squealing at the effort. Oscar makes a mental note that when you both get out of the loop, he needs to take you to a mechanic. Or maybe a dealership.

“C’mon,” you say, getting out of the car and walking towards the dock. You’re moving in that sort of effortless way you do when you have a really ridiculous idea, the kind of way that makes Oscar follow you against his better judgment because he just wants to see what you’ll do next. He’s jogging slightly to catch up, sipping at his coffee, when you slow ahead of him, touching your pockets like you’re looking for something.

“Hold this for me?” you ask as he catches up to you, passing him your cup. At the moment he takes it with his free hand, almost reflexively, you pluck his phone out of his hoodie pocket and toss it over the railing.

“What the fuck,” Oscar says flatly, watching it land with a soft plop! in the azure water.

You toss your own phone in after his. Oscar grabs the railing, watches the twin black mirrors swirl around each other, sinking deep into the harbor. “So I might’ve lied a little,” you say sheepishly. “This isn’t a pre-race hypothesis. This is an instead-of-race hypothesis.”

“You’re not serious,” he says, and you just grin, wild and unapologetic.

“Oscar Piastri’s first-ever DNS,” you sing, turning and walking down the dock towards a frankly massive boat, waving off the dockhand like you own the fucking thing and starting to untie the knots holding it to the dock. “You coming or not?”

Unleash The Lion, the stern reads in script as big as his head.

You’re going to commandeer Max Verstappen’s fucking yacht.

“Max will kill us, you know,” he says as you step onto the back of the boat, pulling yourself up to the deck.

“Max won’t remember this tomorrow,” you reply over your shoulder as you rifle through the boat’s glove compartment.

“He could,” Oscar protests, mostly just to argue, because he likes the way your eyes flash when he challenges you. “Who knows? This could be the day the loop resets. Then I’ll get fired, and we’ll both go to jail.”

You grin down at him, wicked light gleaming in your gaze as you dangle the keys over the side of the boat. “Monaco prison is probably pretty nice. D’you think they’ll let us be cell mates?”

He sighs, looking up at you. The morning light kisses off your cheekbones, your skin glowing golden and sun-warmed. How is he meant to say no to you, looking at him like that? “I hate how persuasive you are,” he grumbles halfheartedly, taking your hand and climbing up the back until he lands ungracefully on the deck.

“No, you don’t,” you reply cheerfully, turning the key in the ignition. The yacht roars to life, and you pilot it out of the harbor with confidence that feels somewhat unearned, given you’ve basically stolen the thing.

That’s the problem, Oscar thinks. He really, really doesn’t.

An hour or so later, you’ve lowered the anchor, far enough out that no one will catch you for the day. Monaco is a distant speck behind you, though if Oscar squints he swears he can still see the paddock. You’ve pulled him to the bow of the boat, laying next to each other on deck chairs with a pilfered bottle of champagne between you. Your sunglasses are sliding down your nose, the boat rocking gently in the waves. It might be the bubbles talking, might be the fact that his edges have been softened by sun and champagne and you, but Oscar can’t remember a better day in a long time.

“Not bad for our first grand theft yacht,” you say, and Oscar laughs in spite of himself. “Although next time, we should probably bring sunscreen.” You look over at him with such fondness that it makes his heart squeeze in his chest, and touch your finger to the tip of his nose, gently. “You’re gonna be scorched.”

He’s warm, but it’s definitely not from the sun. “I’ll be fine,” he says, aiming for a light tone. You touched his nose, and he’s melting down like a complete weirdo. Get it together, Piastri, he tells himself. You’re a Formula One driver, for god’s sake.

You don’t seem to notice. You just hum, unconvinced, then go quiet for a beat. Too quiet. The kind of quiet Oscar’s learned to recognize as very dangerous when it’s coming from you.

“I’m bored,” you say, finally. “New plan.”

Oscar sits up so fast he nearly knocks over the champagne bottle. “This isn’t enough for today?”

You just smile mischievously at him. “Wanna go for a swim?”

“We don’t have bathing suits,” he says, dumbly. But you’re already peeling your shirt over your head, stripping to your underwear, and racing barefoot on the hot wood, your laugh trailing in the air like the kind of song he wants to learn every word to.

Oscar’s brain short-circuits somewhere around seeing your bare shoulders. He has to stare at the sky and think about Zak Brown for a minute before he can strip off his joggers and follow you.

When he climbs the ladder to the top, you’re already at the edge, toes curled over the lip of the roof, the sea breeze teasing at the ends of your hair. You look over your shoulder at him, eyes dancing, and then you leap.

It’s not graceful by any means, but you look glorious — arms thrown wide, a yell of pure exhilaration tearing out of your lungs as you plunge feet-first into the sparkling ocean below. Oscar scrambles to the side, watching for you to come up. For a second, there’s silence. Then, you resurface with a whoop that seems to echo to the horizon, and you’re smiling so wide it makes his chest ache.

“Come on!” you yell, treading water fifty feet beneath him. “Don’t make me swim all the way back to push you off.”

“You’re insane,” he calls back, but there’s no heat in it. Just that strange, subtle warmth still blooming in his chest. He steps to the edge, glances over his shoulder once at Monaco sparkling like a jewel on the coastline, at the tiny smudge that might be the paddock, that might be his real life.

And then he jumps.

For one perfect moment, he’s airborne — weightless, untethered. Free. The wind rushes by him, salt air biting at his sunburnt skin, and then the sea swallows him whole. The water is cool, soothing around him, and when he surfaces, gasping for air, you’re already swimming towards him with a smile on your face.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you say breathlessly.

“More to me than meets the eye, I guess,” he replies, steadying his eyes on you, and your cheeks flush under his gaze.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of warmth and motion. The two of you let your skin dry in the sun, pass another bottle of champagne back and forth until there’s nothing left, talk about everything and nothing. He tells you about his first karting race, how he was older than all the other kids when he started and cried because he still didn’t think he was ready. You tell him about a trip you took to Japan when you were younger, how you took pictures of the temples on your digital camera and still dream of the scent of the cherry blossoms in the air.

Later, as the sun starts to sink over the horizon, blue bleeding into soft pinks and golds, you sit together on the bow, your legs dangling over the edge, shoulders touching. Oscar’s tongue feels looser than usual, whether it’s the champagne or whether it’s you to blame, so he doesn’t think, just asks the question that’s been playing on his mind all day. “Why do you think you’re in the loop?”

You turn to look at him, like it’s the last thing you expected him to say. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I have to win the race,” he says, and you roll your eyes fondly. “But — what do you have to do? Why are you here?”

You’re quiet for a moment. “I suppose there’s something I have to learn, too.”

“Like what?” Oscar asks, pressing his shoulder against yours.

You sigh, staring out at the horizon. You don’t look at him when you speak. Oscar wonders if you won’t, or you can’t. “I’ve always been good at a lot of things,” you say. “But I never committed to anything. I just kept bouncing from place to place, from project to project. Now, I love working here, but it just feels like I figured it out too late, and now I’m stuck. To get a permanent job with the team, I’d have to go to med school, and…” you pause, teeth sinking into your lip. “What if I try and fail? What if I’m average?”

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. Instead, he watches the way the fading light reflects in your eyes, golden catching on the edge of something tender and raw. He wants to tell you you’re not average, you’re brilliant. That the past few weeks with you in the loop has been the most alive he’s felt in months, maybe ever.

But he doesn’t.

“Today is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this,” he says, the words falling ungracefully off his tongue. “Taken a risk like this. Everything in my life has been planned out. I made it to Formula One off of being consistent, composed, controlled. I’m perfect because everyone expects it. But — racing used to be fun. I used to love it.”

You tilt your head toward him slightly, enough that he can see the pout of your bottom lip. “You don’t love it anymore?” you ask softly, like he’s a scared animal you’re trying not to spook.

Oscar shrugs, chest tightening. “Feels like I’ve been trying to win for so long that I forgot why I wanted to in the first place.”

“Maybe that’s what the loop’s for,” you say, leaning back on the cushions. “Not to win. To find the joy again.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you speak. The silence feels suspended, like the whole world is holding its breath along with you both. Oscar lies back next to you, his heart thudding a little too hard in his chest for such a quiet moment.

You both lay there for a while as the stars slowly reveal themselves one by one, scattered like glitter across the indigo sky. You start pointing out constellations, making up ridiculous stories that make him laugh lowly, helplessly. He’s lying close enough to you that your arms are pressed together, breath syncing in the quiet.

When he turns to look at you, you’re already looking at him, eyes half-lidded, and you’re so beautiful in the moonlight that it almost makes him lean in to kiss you. But something holds him back. Fear, maybe, or uncertainty — not knowing if you feel it too, or if it’s the champagne, or the loop, living another borrowed day that doesn’t quite feel like his own.

He looks back at the sky. You sigh next to him, shifting closer so that your head rests on his shoulder, and his heart stutters in his chest.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches the pale moon reflect off the waves until he drifts off into the blackness.

When he opens his eyes next, he’s in his apartment, sunlight streaming through his curtains. Oscar swears under his breath, picks up the phone that should be sitting at the bottom of the harbor. Sunday, May 25. Just like always.

He flops back onto his bed, pressing a pillow over his face. His skin is still sticky from the salt water. It’s not even the fact that he didn’t break the loop that hurts today.

It’s waking up without you.

DAY 80

Oscar’s nervous, which is completely irrational. He’s lived this day eighty times now. Done press completely hungover, slipped past Charles Leclerc on his home track, crashed full-speed into a barrier and nearly died. But none of that made his palms sweat the way they’re sweating now.

You’re in his apartment. You’re having dinner in his apartment.

The race had gone fairly spectacularly for him, all things considered. He’d made a few mistakes, taken the chicane a little too wide, and still Charles barely beat him. Oscar’s about to figure it out, the perfect race so close he can almost taste it.

You, on the other hand, had quite the busy day. Stroll’s crash started it, but in lap 60 there’d been a major pileup at the back of the race — one of the rookies hitting the brakes just a little too late, slamming into another driver. By the time he found you after the race, you looked exhausted, muttered something about how you wished this particular loop was over already, couldn’t fathom the idea of driving home, cooking dinner for yourself, going to sleep alone.

Oscar invited you over before he could think too hard about it.

He drove you back to his place, cooked dinner while you showered — some pasta dish his mum had taught him ages ago, surely worried that he’d try to survive in Monaco solely off of frozen dinners and takeout. He’s dug up some candles from a dusty box in the closet, uncorked a bottle of wine he thinks Charles gave him for Secret Santa last year, and is just putting the plates on the table when you emerge from his room, fresh-faced and hair damp. You’re wearing one of his McLaren hoodies and a pair of bike shorts, and for a moment Oscar forgets how to form sentences.

“Smells amazing,” you say, sitting on the floor across from him. “Thanks.”

You chat idly for a while, but Oscar can’t shake the feeling that the air between you feels different tonight. It’s in the way your laugh sticks in his brain longer than usual, the way he can feel his gaze searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. It’s almost simmering, like there’s some invisible boundary you’re about to break through. Things have been different since the day on Max’s boat — the glances between the two of you weightier, the touches softer, gentler. But there’s something about tonight that feels inevitable, like the weeks of being together are all pinpointing into a logical, tidy conclusion.

“You’ve barely touched your pasta,” you point out, nudging your knee against his under the table.

Oscar just shrugs, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Not hungry.” He is actually, the feeling turning to a pleasant ache in his stomach. If he’s honest with himself, he’s just too busy looking at you to bother with the food.

You raise your eyebrow, slurping up a noodle. It leaves a small smudge of sauce on the edge of your mouth. “You okay?”

“Hold on,” he says, leaning over the table. “You’ve got —”

You flush, hand flying to your cheek, but Oscar’s already there, leaning over the table and brushing his thumb against your lip carefully. You blink up at him, breath catching slightly, and then, unmistakably, your eyes flick to his lips. The moment stretches, fragile and loaded like the night Oscar stargazed with you, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to make the same mistake twice.

And then — because he’s been thinking about it for hours, days, weeks — he kisses you.

Your lips are soft, warm against his, and you taste like vanilla lip balm and red wine. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, and you let out the tiniest sigh against his mouth before kissing him back. It’s slow, soft at first, then deeper, like the buildup of all the days circling each other has finally burned down to this single point of gravity, rooting you both to the spot. Your hand tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, like you’re trying to pull him closer to you.

It’s perfect. And then you break away, foreheads pressed together, and Oscar opens his mouth.

“Well, that’s a new variable,” he breathes, dazed, and you flinch away from him like you’ve been slapped.

“Oscar,” you say, voice sharp, and for someone with world-class reflexes and awareness he’s definitely caught the shift in your tone too late. “You just kissed me, and your first thought was fucking data?”

“No, I —” he stops, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reset his brain. “That’s not what I meant.”

You breathe out disbelievingly, the sound shaky as it leaves your lungs. “Yes, it was,” you say flatly, standing up, and Oscar scrambles to his feet after you.

“No,” he pleads, but you’re already heading towards his bedroom, throwing your things back in your bag. “I just thought, if the loop’s trigger is emotional…”

“Don’t,” you spit, words like venom. “Don’t reduce this to numbers and logic. Don’t treat it like it’s another page in your stupid fucking notebook.”

He opens his mouth to try to fix things, but nothing comes out. Even from across the room, he can see the tears slipping down your cheek, and he knows the damage is already done.

“I thought it was real,” you whisper. “I thought we were real. And the first time you actually let yourself feel something, you turn around and treat it like evidence to be catalogued.”

“It was real,” he blurts desperately, and you scoff. “Please,” he begs. “I’m trying, I’m just — I don’t know how to do this. It’s — it’s never mattered like this.”

Your lips press together, jaw tight, and Oscar can still taste the red wine against his mouth. “Well, maybe don’t kiss me again until you figure it out.”

You don’t wait for him to reply. You turn on your heel, slamming the door behind you and storming down the hall like you’re leading an army of one to battle against his stupid, broken heart.

Oscar doesn’t know how long he stands there staring at the door, the silence ringing in his ears, before he blows out the candles. He leaves the dishes on the table, crawls into his bed and stares at the ceiling. The notebook sits on his dresser, taunting him, but he doesn’t reach for it.

Nothing about this day is worth remembering anymore.

DAY 81

Oscar doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to sunlight through the curtains and silence and the distinct feeling that his chest has been scraped hollow.

He’s never felt more stupid in his life. He had you, in his apartment, lips pressed to his, the thing he’s been dreaming about doing for weeks, and he completely fucking bottled it.

But if there’s anything to learn from being in a time loop, it’s that he’s got a chance to fix things. To learn from his own mistakes, and do something better. He sits up in bed, watching the boats in the harbor for a long moment. Then he gets up, gets dressed. Leaves the notebook sitting on his dresser, untouched. And goes to find you.

Except, clearly, you don’t want to be found. He searches the entire paddock, but you’re like a ghost. Your station at the med centre is empty, half-cleared out like you came to work before deciding seeing Oscar would hurt too much. You’re not in his driver’s room, stealing his snacks, or by the pit wall watching the team principals flit around with a scary kind of efficiency. He even tries going to the med centre HR to ask for your address, but the woman behind the desk is very particular about her employees’ privacy, won’t give him your contact information no matter how many times he drops that he’s a driver, just hands him a pamphlet about respecting workplace boundaries.

The day wears on, sun arcing high in the sky, and Oscar has to accept he’s not going to see you before the race. Maybe he’ll crash on the first lap, he thinks. Knock himself unconscious, reset the loop. He doesn’t care what it takes. He just has to find you.

Like a vision, or some sort of twisted prophecy, he turns the corner to the garage, and you’re standing there. Always standing where you’re not supposed to be, he thinks for a moment, mind racing wildly. The thought feels hysterical in his head. You’re wearing your fireproof scrubs, eyes red-rimmed, arms crossed over your chest, and you look like fate. Or his future. He’s not sure which. Oscar doesn’t waste another second before he runs to you.

“It was real,” he blurts, before you can open your mouth to speak. “I think it’s been real for me since the minute you pulled me out of that car. I’m shit at feelings, and I’m sorry, because I’m about to be even worse at—” he gestures between the two of you, the confession he’s word-vomiting into the space between you. “—this, but... I’ve spent my whole life being cool, calm, collected, trying to perfect things, trying to keep everything under control, but I can’t control love, and you fucking — you turn me in circles, and I don’t want to live another day, of the loop or anything else, without you around.”

You just stare at him, and he runs a hand over his face. Out of all the ways he’d been thinking up to profess his love while he was looking for you, this had to be one of his worst. Did he even say it? He thinks back, unsure.

“I love you,” he adds, sighing. “In case that wasn’t clear. I’m really fucking in love with you.”

“You’re an idiot,” you say to him in response, voice trembling.

“I know,” he says, helplessly. “But I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”

You shake your head, but there’s a ghost of a smile on your face. “Of course I’ll have you,” you say, eyes bright with tears. “I’m really fucking in love with you too.”

Oscar files the sound of your voice saying those words somewhere deep in his chest. Closes the distance between you and smashes his lips to yours. It’s not sweet, not soft — it’s raw, wanting, hot with need. You squeak against his mouth, your hands flying up to cup his face, and when your tongue slides against his, his knees actually buckle.

You’re both giggling when you come up for air, dazed and giddy. “Wow,” you say, fingers resting against your lips, like you can’t believe it’s real. “Glad I came back in time for that.”

“Yeah,” Oscar breathes. “What took you so long?”

You look up at him, a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Well, I wasn’t gonna show up because I was still pissed at you,” you crack, and he laughs. “But then I decided I couldn’t let you drive alone. And I was late,” you say slowly, “because I just applied to med school.”

His heart skips a beat in his chest. “You did what?”

“You were right,” you say simply. “I’m not stuck. And maybe I’ll fail spectacularly, but I’ll never know if I don’t try.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Oscar says, and you just smile. Someone from inside the garage is calling for him. He’s running out of time.

“It’ll be a colossal waste of time if we don’t break out, though,” you huff out a laugh. “So now it’s on you.” You pause for a moment, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You got this,” you say, and for once Oscar believes it. “Go have fun out there.”

Ten minutes later, he sits P2 on the grid, heart beating hard in his chest. For the past 80 days, he’s been in this exact same position, obsessing over the perfect line, how to time the pit stop, where he can shave a tenth of a second off his time.

Today, when the lights go out, Oscar’s thinking about you.

He lets Lando pass him on the first lap again, for the first time in eighty days. Drives like a maniac to pass him back three laps later, waving to him as he goes. It’s a risky move; Tom is half-screaming, half-laughing at him through the radio, and Oscar’s cheeks hurt from smiling underneath his helmet. He nearly takes it on two wheels around the Tabac corner, back skidding out from underneath him. The car is responsive as he pushes to the limit; the drive feels messy, imperfect, alive. He’s never had so much fun in a Formula One car.

When the last lap starts, he’s leading the race. The sun’s starting to come back out again, the rain drying on the track. Oscar’s cruising.

By the time he gets to the hairpin, Charles Leclerc is in his mirrors.

It’s an all-out battle to the finish, red car and orange dueling side by side. Oscar presses his foot to the pedal as hard as he can, thinks if this race is the one that breaks the loop, it’ll probably go down in history as the most exciting Monaco GP of all time.

They get to the Nouvelle Chicane, and Charles slices around it with the elegance of a ballerina, the power of a heavyweight fighter. Oscar’s in his dust before he even knows what’s happened.

He finishes behind the Ferrari by a half second, and he’s never been so happy to lose.

He pulls into parc ferme, rips off his helmet, searches the crowd wildly. The paddock is bustling. It takes him a minute to spot you running towards him, your scrubs unzipped to your waist, smiling and crying all at once.

This time, Oscar doesn’t wait. He jumps off the car, reaches you in three strides, and kisses you like he’ll never get the chance again. It’s all adrenaline and aching sweetness, teeth knocking, the taste of tears on both your lips like you’re both tumbling toward something you can’t name.

You break away first, pressing your forehead against his, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “You were amazing,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry you lost.”

“I don’t care,” Oscar laughs wetly, because it’s true, and because eighty Sundays ago he would have died before he said something like that. “That was the best drive I’ve ever had.”

“You found the joy,” you say, a giggle bubbling out of you.

The sound nearly coaxes a laugh out of him too, but he shakes his head instead, smiling at you softly. “I found that a long time ago. Standing outside my driver’s room spinning their med badge like a weapon.”

You make a noise at that, somewhere in between a sigh and a sob, and he pulls you into his chest, holding you like you’re the first-place trophy. “I love you, you know,” he says into your hair, and he can hear you mumbling the exact same thing into his race suit.

You walk back to Oscar’s apartment together, a silent agreement that he’ll skip the post-race interviews, just this once. You sit on the balcony he never uses, watch the sunset over the harbor. He doesn’t let go of your hand for a single moment, like he needs to feel your touch under his fingertips to remind himself he’s still here.

“D’you think we did it?” you mumble later when you’ve both found your way to his bed, voice slurring around the edges from exhaustion. “Broke the loop, I mean.”

“Dunno,” Oscar says, his fingers brushing through your hair slowly. “I’ve thought we did, before, and obviously we hadn’t.”

“Me too,” you say, but there’s something hanging in the air between you. An unspoken confession, like you’re both afraid to jinx it. This time feels different.

You yawn gently, burrow tighter into his side, and his heart feels like it might crack open in his chest. “M’getting pretty tired,” you say. “So I think whatever the answer is, we’ll know pretty soon.”

There’s silence, for a moment. What do you say when your entire universe hangs in the balance?

“If this was the last day, if we really figured it out,” Oscar says finally, breath catching in his throat as he stares at the ceiling, “I really liked spending forever with you.”

DAY 82 DAY 1

Oscar wakes up to the beep of his alarm and the sound of rain on his roof.

You’re there, too. Curled against his body, still asleep. Oscar watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, listens to the soft sounds of your breathing. You smell like that jasmine perfume you started wearing around Day 68 and you’re snuggled in one of his old McLaren hoodies and you’re so real that he thinks he might die of happiness.

It is Monday, May 26, 2025, and Oscar Piastri is so in love with you that he’s stooped to watching you sleep like a total weirdo and using ridiculous hyperbole to describe his feelings instead of waking you up to tell you the news. He nudges you gently, and you stir.

“Osc?” you mumble disbelievingly as your eyes flutter open, like you’re not sure if you’re still dreaming or not.

“We did it,” he whispers back to you, and the smile on his face is starting to hurt his cheeks. “We’re out.”

You don’t even respond — well, with words, anyway. You just drag his face to yours, kiss him like you’re making up for 81 days of lost time. You still taste like vanilla, and your mouth, your tongue work against his in a way that makes it hard to think of anything else.

“We’re out,” you repeat as you pull away from each other. You’re looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky, and Oscar can’t resist kissing you again. Small pecks this time, scattered from your lips to your cheekbones, each one like a drop of water for a man dying of thirst. He thinks absentmindedly that kissing you might be his new favorite thing.

“God, I can’t believe this is real,” you giggle as his lips brush down your collarbones, and Oscar laughs, because he was just thinking the same thing about you.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you sigh it back sweetly, your pulse thrumming beneath his lips.

Forever isn’t an easy concept to swallow for a man who’s just been stuck in a time loop. But Oscar thinks if you’re by his side, he could definitely get used to it.

#f1 #f1 x reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fluff #f1 imagine #oscar piastri #f1 driver x reader #f1 driver x you #oscar piastri x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #❀ my work .

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daechwitatamic · 6 months ago

Text

Not So Loud || LC

banner by @itaeewon <3

Not So Loud lee chan x afab reader || fluff smut baby angst || f2l, only one bed trope NSFW - minors DNI

Summary: You've been in love with Lee Chan for almost two years, despite his rejection seven months ago. When you're impossibly coupled up on a friendcation, you're determined not to make it everyone else's problem. Of course, you weren't expecting to have to room with him, and you certainly weren't expecting only one bed...

wc: 16.6k

warnings: language, recreational drinking, sooo much pining, baby misunderstandings, kissing, breast play, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), piv sex (no protection mentioned either way), reader on top, mentions of shower sex

request by @eoieopda:

yes my fearless leader you may have even two crumbs of lee dino getting laid at the beach, i hope you enjoy every single second of it <3

“This,” you sigh blissfully, “is the happiest I may ever be.”

The sun is shining. Upbeat pop music runs like an undercurrent below the sound of the highway from the stereo of your best friend’s junky, decade-old sedan. Your iced coffee - light and sweet, but not too much of either - tastes like heaven. And the best part, the part that makes this day the best even if you didn’t have iced coffee or sunshine or Ruby or happy music, is that you’re less than an hour away from the beachfront house you and your friends have rented for the next five days.

All six of you had collectively been saving up for a full year and a half to make this happen, and there were times during the wait when it seemed like it would never come together between scheduling and money and rental availability. But now you’re here, racing down the highway to keep up with the flow of traffic, the ocean beckoning you closer.

“Now, now,” Ruby, the aforementioned best friend, scolds lightly. “What about your wedding day?”

You blow a raspberry. “What wedding day?” you shoot back sourly, but then you take another sip of caffeinated, iced perfection and your mood buoys immediately. It’s gonna take a lot to keep you down, today. Still, you rationalize, “I can’t even get to a third date.”

It was true. Your last third date had been almost two years ago. Since then, everything fizzled after one or two. Embarrassing. Something only Ruby - and, by proxy, her boyfriend Mingyu - would know about you.

“Because you compare them all to Chan,” Ruby says sagely.

The beams of sunlight are glaring. The pop music grates on your nerves, too boppy and much too happy. You set your coffee in the cup holder, your hand suddenly smarting from the bite of cold.

Coincidental to the third date thing, you’ve been in love with Lee Chan for almost two years. Another embarrassing Ruby-and-thus-Mingyu-only tidbit.

“Stooo-ooppp,” you whine. “If you’re going to spend the whole time making it weird about him, I’m going to find a way back home! I will walk there, just try me!”

“Now, now,” she says again, mildly. Your dramatics are nothing new to her. “I’ll behave. But I keep telling you - it would be significantly less weird if you’d just tell him you have a thing for him.”

You narrow your eyes at her. A thing.

An every problem I’ve ever had melts away and my soul floats three feet above my body every time your smile crosses your face kind of thing. A hearing your laugh makes me laugh even if I didn’t hear the joke kind of thing. A finding your gaze across a loud room makes me feel like no one else is there but us kind of thing.

A he doesn’t feel the same way, and he never will kind of thing. He made that super clear, about seven months ago.

And it gets worse.

You’ve had a week to accept your fate on this trip - a week since she’d called to tell you that the original rental had fallen through. To tell you that the replacement place is almost better (closer to the beach! a huge deck! a private pool!) except for the number of rooms. That since the other four people attending are made up of two couples, you and Chan would have to share a room.

(“The rooms are huge,” she’d assured you. “And the third room’s got bunk-beds! I bet will Chan will let you have top bunk if you want it - he’s a nice guy.”

You didn’t say, even though it is very true, that bunk-beds are really only a selling point if you are ten years old. But there were more important arguments to make. “I know he’s a nice guy,” you’d bit out. “He’s the nicest fucking guy I’ve ever met in my life, actually!” Hence the thing.

She’d paused and then pointed out, “You’ve met Seokmin, though.”

And, yeah, maybe on paper Seokmin is nicer but looking at his smile doesn’t feel like being filled with sunshine, so the point is moot.)

Anyway. You’ve had time to accept the fact that you have to share a room with the guy you’ve been in love with for over a year and a half. You’ve had time to accept that he might hear you snore, will see that you’re messy, that you’ll have to get changed in the bathroom for the whole trip, that you’ll have to get really good at pretending not to moon over him every time he speaks.

“I think,” you tell Ruby mildly, “that telling him that I want to lick his body from top to bottom and then get married might actually make things more weird.”

“I would just like to say,” Ruby’s boyfriend Mingyu pipes up from the backseat, his voice weary and long-suffering, “that this is an incredibly uncomfortable conversation for me.”

In your defense, you’d thought he was asleep.

Ruby descends on him like a swarm of locusts. “Don’t you think she should tell him she’s in love with him?”

“I actually do,” Mingyu says, covering his eyes with his hands as if he can’t bear to see what a disaster you are. “But I would heavily advise against mentioning the licking. Or the marriage.”

“It’s hyperbole,” you defend, flapping a hand in his direction. But, yeah, noted.

Excitement bubbles in your stomach, despite the rooming situation, when Ruby flicks on her turn signal and moves to exit the highway. Already, the smell of the air through the open windows has turned salty, and the thick tree-line along the highway has given way to cloudless blue sky and the occasional palm tree. It had been almost hazy when you’d set off at the crack of dawn (Mingyu had taken the back seat so he could stretch out and sleep a little longer) but now the sunrise has burned away all of that haze and given way to a perfect morning.

It takes only minutes for Ruby to navigate through the small, coastal town and to a row of vacation homes. You lose yourself in a daydream of waking up to take coffee on a sunlit balcony, listening to waves crash in time below you. In your daydream, across the balcony someone stretches their arms above their head, a sliver of belly peeking out for only a second, then turns to give you a sleepy smile, thinly-wired glasses perched on his nose.

Someone.

You shake yourself free of the fantasy; part of you feels like Ruby can read your mind, like she’s seconds away from calling you out for placing Chan in your seaside fantasy life.

Ruby, however, is too focused on finding the house to read your mind, and she slows the car and turns into a driveway, chirping, “We’re here!”

You all start grabbing luggage to carry in; the sun feels amazing on your skin, the sea breeze cool almost to the point of chilly and so salty it makes your nose twitch. You three aren’t even done emptying your car when you’re startled by a beep-beep-beepbeep-beep from the road behind you.

“That’s Soonyoung,” Mingyu says without even turning to look.

He’s right - it is. The second car, which carries Soonyoung, his girlfriend Lara, and Chan, pulls into the driveway next to you.

Chan greets you with a wide, happy grin (that, yes, makes you feel full of sunshine, whatever) and a quick, one-armed hug as he comes around the front of the parked car. Your moronic heart lifts, stupidly hopeful - until Soonyoung does the same thing. Your heart deflates again with the reminder that they’re just like this - nice, affectionate with their friends. It doesn’t mean anything. Chan’s attention to you is just as platonic as Soonyoung’s - which is to say, entirely.

You all manage to gather the luggage from both cars, and Mingyu follows the rental app’s directions to work the keypad at the front door. You all ooh and ahh as you step inside - the place is roomy, well-lit from sliding glass doors and windows that face the ocean, and decorated with (what else?) a kitschy, nautical theme.

You kick off your flip-flops onto a mat with an anchor on it (per the theme), and follow the others further into the house.

You head straight back through the house - the living room gives way into a dining room that ends with the sliding-glass doors. In tandem with Ruby, you press your face to the glass of the door and peer outside. You’re delighted to see that the ocean is right there, beckoning you to come play. Gulls swoop and call, loud enough that you can hear their cries from inside. Further down the beach you can see colorful umbrellas and tents that other beachgoers have set up. Below the deck, you can see just a strip of the private pool.

You pull yourself away from the back door and head into the adjoining kitchen, where Lara is standing at an open cupboard, examining its contents.

“We’re going to need to do a grocery run,” she muses, looking over at you. “I think all Soonyoung packed was ramen and soju.”

“What else could we possibly need?” he jokes from down the hall, his voice echoing.

“Coffee,” you say immediately.

“Beer,” Mingyu says seriously.

“Meat? Vegetables? Stuff for breakfast? Something to drink that isn’t alcohol?” Lara suggests.

“Who invited the Capricorn?” Soonyoung (the person who invited the Capricorn) grouses.

“Without me,” she tells him seriously, though the corner of her mouth twitches, “you’d be malnourished at best, and at worst? Dead.”

“Probably true,” you say, giving her a conspiratorial nod, and then you hear Ruby call your name from upstairs. Her voice sounds strained, and a little alarm bell goes off inside your head.

“Yes?” you answer loudly, hoping your voice will carry up to her.

“Can you come up here for a minute?” she calls down to you. Yes, there is definitely an edge to her voice that you don’t like. “Now?”

“Oh jeez,” you mutter, starting to make your way towards the stairs at the front of the house. You take the stairs quickly, calling Ruby’s name as you navigate the unfamiliar house.

She and Chan are both standing in the hallway, open doors all around them. Their faces mirror each other - disbelief, anxiety.

“What?” you ask, a little breathless both from the stairs and from anticipation. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s, uh,” Ruby stammers. It’s very unlike her to lose her confidence, and the unease in your gut churns again.

“What?” you say again, and when she doesn’t answer, you turn to Chan, who looks stricken. “What is it?”

“No bunk beds,” he manages, finishing Ruby’s sentence and gesturing to the room behind him.

You’re pressing forward without making the decision to move, without answering either of them, crowding Chan’s space so you’re chest to chest, peering over his shoulder. His hands hover near your elbows, like you might overbalance and he’s ready to steady you.

The room behind him is huge - as Ruby promised - complete with an ensuite bathroom and the balcony straight out of your daydream in the car. It also, as Chan pointed out, does not have bunk-beds. Instead, one king-sized bed is centered against the far wall, flanked by wicker nightstands with lamps on each and an old-school radio alarm clock on one.

You say nothing - you just back out of Chan’s personal space and swivel, heading for the other doors. Surely that was just the wrong room - one meant for one of the couples. Surely they just didn’t look hard enough, didn’t check the other doors, didn’t find the room with two beds that you’d been promised.

You find a full bathroom, a linen closet, one door that remains locked, and - to your dismay - two identical bedrooms, neither of which hosts more than one single bed.

Realization trickles through you slowly, building up higher and higher as you check the doors a second, and then a third, time. Ruby and Chan stay frozen in place in the dimly lit hallway, watching your frantic, pointless searching.

“Oh, my God,” you say hollowly. Then, turning, you narrow your eyes. “Ruby,” you growl. “You promised. Where is my top bunk?!”

“I don’t know!” she squeaks. “The listing said four beds!”

“Call them,” you demand flatly.

Beside Ruby, Chan’s eyebrows scrunch as he frowns. He says your name quietly, holding up a hand as if to calm you. “We don’t need to move houses,” he says gently. “I’ll take a couch. It’s not a big deal.”

You feel yourself shaking your head immediately. “I will feel like shit if you spend your vacation sleeping on the couch because of me,” you tell him.

He and Ruby exchange a long look (something that you don’t like very much, but no one is asking you) and then she tentatively says, “Could we work it out later? Maybe one of the couches pulls out into a bed or something? Or do you really want me to try and get us a different rental? This is already our second one, I’m not sure there are even other options still available…” She trails off, eyes wide.

You sigh, eyeing the ceiling above you as if it has answers. “Fine,” you say, because you can’t stand the thought of being the one who’s causing problems, ever the people-pleaser. “We’ll figure it out later.”

You head back down the hall, tromping down the stairs in silence to get your luggage.

Chan tries to take one of your bags for you, but you shrug him off and he lets you. You follow him back up the stairs, to the large room you’d looked at a few minutes ago. You both stand in the middle of it, looking around. You’re unsure if you should even unpack in here if there’s a chance you’ll end up moving to the couches.

“It’ll be okay,” Chan says, and it startles you out of your thoughts so badly that you flinch.

“Mhm,” you manage, because you don’t want to lie to him by agreeing.

“Hey,” he says, a little insistently, and you look up at him. He’s looking at you openly, his expression an impossible mix of concern and optimism. It disarms you immediately, in a way nothing else ever has.

There’s something always so earnest about Chan, one of your favorite things about him, and you can’t help but believe him when he continues to speak. “It will. We can, like, take turns with the bed or something. It’s not that big of a deal. Don’t let this ruin your trip. Okay?”

You nod silently, thinking about this. He’s right - there’ll be a solution. “Okay,” you say, managing to give him a little smile. “You’re right.”

The grin he gives you is mischievous. “I usually am,” he quips - and you love that about him, too: the way he’s playfully cocky, something ironic in the way he displays it, like you’re all in on the joke and he’s happily his own punchline. He disappears into the hallway, where you hear him heading down the stairs.

You wait for the tornado of butterflies in your belly to calm back down and then you look around the room. You finally decide to just leave your bags in a pile near the dresser, and head back down to find the others.

Everyone is standing around the kitchen table, where it seems like a grocery list is being split into Things That Can versus Things That Cannot be bought at the local liquor store.

“We can take one car and handle the drinks,” Mingyu is saying as you walk up and lean your chin on Ruby’s shoulder from behind. She absently reaches up to give your head an affectionate pat as you both listen. “Then the grocery team can take the second car, and whoever is handling the rental office can just walk.”

“Rental office?” you ask. “What for?”

“Just to grab our passes for the beach,” Lara answers you. “They’re like little tags. It’s part of what we paid for.”

“The rental’s under your name,” Soonyoung reminds her, “so we should probably handle that.”

“Yah, you just want the easy task,” Mingyu complains.

Soonyoung grins, guilty as charged not at all sorry about it. He grabs for Lara’s hand and heads for the front door. “If we aren’t here when you get back, we’ll leave your passes on the table!” he calls, and then the door slams shut.

“Asshole,” Mingyu grumbles affectionately.

The four of you look at each other in the resulting quiet. Then, Ruby asks, “Anything you want to add to our list?”

You lean further around her to read her phone screen, scanning what drinks had already been requested.

“Nope,” you tell her. “I’m good with that. Does this mean I’m on the grocery team?”

Chan looks up from his phone when you ask this, waiting to hear the answer.

Ruby and Mingyu meet gazes, seeming to have a silent conversation. Then, she gives you a sheepish look, almost a grimace. “Yeah - sorry, but I kind of wanted to go with Gyu on the drinks run, if that’s okay?”

You’ve been best friends with Ruby for a long time. You know her in and out, and you know this: she’s not like this, not sweet and apologetic. If it was just you two, she’d just say what she wanted. The act is for a reason.

You blink at her, trying to figure it out. “Of course it’s okay,” you say slowly. “If you and Mingyu are handling the drink run, then I’ll handle groceries with Chan.”

Ah. That was Ruby’s game - she paired you with Chan on purpose.

Meddler. Pain in the ass. Angel. Light of your life. She contains multitudes.

His eyes drop back to his phone. “You don’t have to,” he says, not looking at you. “If you want to go with them or catch up with Lara then I can handle it by myself.”

You frown. “It’s not really a one person job,” you observe. “And I don’t mind - really.”

“So it’s decided!” Ruby says brightly, moving to rest her hand on her boyfriend’s forearm. “We should beat you back, but we’ll wait for you guys so we can help unload the car.”

“Thanks,” you say, meaning it. For everything.

Ruby and Mingyu head out, and you meander closer to Chan. You’re not alone together very often - you’re pretty much always in a group setting.

You’d met through Ruby and Mingyu, years ago. You and Ruby were a very packaged deal, and Mingyu had a crew of friends that filtered in and out of your social events like they kept a scheduled rotation. When Soonyoung had settled into a serious relationship with Lara, the two of them became pretty permanent fixtures with Ruby and Mingyu, and Chan usually went where Soonyoung did. So then you were six.

How perfectly even. How serendipitous. How nearly fated.

If only he saw it that way.

But he doesn’t, he’s made that clear. It was Lara’s fault, actually. That night is burned into your brain, an unpleasant memory custom-made to slither into your brain when you’re trying to sleep before a big day.

The six of you had been bar-hopping on a Saturday night about seven months ago. It had been cool - late autumn teasing winter, and you’d been shivering as the six of you rowdily made your way up the block to your next stop. Laughing at something Soonyoung had said, Chan had reached around your shoulders sloppily, pulling you tight against him.

“Cold?” he’d asked you, as you tried to keep walking - a challenge because of both the alcohol in your system and the alarm bells going off in your head over his hand on your arm.

“Definitely chilly,” you’d managed to reply, looking up at him sideways. His profile was sharper than you’d realized before, and it sent a wave down your core, sinking like a weight through your stomach and into your lower belly and he grinned down at you.

You never wanted him to let go. Never, for the rest of your lives.

“You two are cute,” Lara had said drunkenly, the words a little slurred, as she leaned heavily on Soonyoung. You’d flushed, a little embarrassed, but Chan’s reaction had mortified you. His eyes had widened and he’d gone so far as to retract his arm from around you as quick as lightning, moving sideways to put inches between you again.

It left you frozen, a block of ice.

“No - we’re - we’re only friends,” he had said emphatically, and Lara had apologized, her hand over her mouth. Then, Ruby had tripped on the sidewalk and ripped the knees of her jeans, and the whole incident was forgotten.

Not by you, though. Never by you. This was the moment that floated up like the ghost of Christmas past whenever Ruby urged you to confess to Chan, which was more frequent than you’d like. The rush of cold in the absence of his arm, the way he’d stuttered in his hurry to refute the misunderstanding.

Message received, Lee Chan. Loud and fucking clear.

Didn’t change a thing about how you feel, though.

Presently, you try to push this out of your head - the fact that there’s no social buffer between you, no Ruby or Soonyoung to hide behind - before it can trip you up. “What’s on the list?” you ask. He hands you his phone, lets you scroll through everything he’d typed up.

“Okay,” you say, handing it back. “I’m ready when you are.”

“Yeah,” he says, a little absently, then starts patting at his pockets, eyes scanning the tabletop. “Yeah, I’m ready. Aish, Lee Chan, where did you put the keys?”

“They’re by the door,” you offer, remembering the small table you’d all dropped them on as you came in.

He shoots you a grateful smile. “Thanks. Let’s go?”

You nod, grabbing your sunglasses from the table and following him to the driveway out front.

It’s less than ten minutes to the nearest grocery, not even enough time for three whole songs to play through the car’s stereo, half-drowned by the roar of wind and sea through the open windows. Chan grins sideways at you as he parks, running a hand through his messy hair before unbuckling and stepping out of the car. You shake yourself from your daze and hurry to follow.

“What’s the game plan?” you ask, as you step out of the summer sun and into the fluorescents and air conditioning. Your skin prickles instantly upon the change. “Divide and conquer?”

He pulls out his phone and brings the list up. “I’d rather just stick together,” he says, looking at you sideways, his voice a bit thin - like he’s nervous you’ll reject the plan. “If that’s okay?”

“Of course,” you say, shrugging easily.. “I’m just following you. I’m the assistant. You’re in charge.”

Something flashes across his face - a shooting star of an expression, gone before you’re sure you saw it - and then he’s pushing the cart into the produce section, calling over his shoulder for you to go grab some peaches.

You wind your way together through the store. Each time he stops the cart, you each dart after something else from the nearby shelves then reconvene to look at the list again, shoulders pressed together as you squint at the small font.

It thrills you each time that he doesn’t pull away, each time that he doesn’t hurry to put space between you again as he had back in November.

Don’t make it weird, you beg yourself as you load a few cases of soda into the cart. Keep it in check.

A few rows over, the cart a third of the way full, you pause at a row of sauces. You step back, scanning the labels, then drop into a crouch to read those on the bottom shelf. Chan drops beside you, his knee gently bumping yours as he reaches for one of the jars, bringing it closer to scan the label.

“This one’s my favorite,” he says, and there’s something low in his voice that makes you look over at him. Your fingers overlap his for a second as you take the jar from him, turning it over so you can see which one it is. The moment feels staticky, charged with something.

You chicken out, shuffle back on your heels so your knees no longer touch. “It is a good one,” you agree, putting it back in his hand and pressing your palms to your knees as you rise again. “Get a few - I think Ruby likes that one too.”

He nods, looking away again, dutifully reaching to grab a second jar. You move on to the next aisle in silence. You almost feel like his energy seems… disappointed. But that wouldn’t make sense at all.

Turning the corner to the first row of freezers, you feel your body react instantly to the cold and you immediately fold in around yourself, goosebumps rising up your arms.

“Oh, it’s cold,” you complain. “Let’s hurry. Please.”

Chan doesn’t respond, but you can feel his eyes sweep over you, heavy, before he starts pushing the cart past you at, yes, a quicker speed. You shiver once, violently, before you hurry after him.

When you’re done, stepping outside into the sunlight feels like being released - like leaving school on the last day before summer break, like leaving work before a vacation, like stepping outside for the first time after rain has kept you inside for days on end. You let it warm you, happy, as you help Chan load the bags into the car.

You drive the few minutes back to the house in silence. As Chan makes the last turn, you wonder out loud, “Do you think Ruby and Mingyu finished before us?”

“Definitely,” Chan says, and he’s right - as the house comes into view, you can see that the second car is already parked.

True to their word, Ruby and Mingyu greet you at the door to help carry everything in and put it away.

“Lara grabbed us a spot down on the beach,” Ruby informs you, as you both stand at the back of the car, scanning for the lighter bags. “As soon as we’re ready we can head down.”

You let out a happy sigh. “I think an afternoon at the beach will cure me.”

“Nothing will cure you,” she deadpans, then literally stops mid-stride to correct herself. “Actually, something could. And it’s here, and available, and sharing your room.”

“I hate you a lot!” you tell her brightly, pushing past her with an armful of groceries and heading into the relative dark of the house, praying Chan hadn’t overheard her bullshit.

You hurry through the rest - getting the groceries away, getting changed for the beach, throwing the things you need to bring into a tote. Downstairs, the others wait for you by the back door. Chan is wearing Mingyu’s dumb-ass sunglasses and is clearly in the middle of an old-man bit, his voice reedy and sarcastic. Ruby cackles as Mingyu shoves Chan’s shoulder playfully, reaching to get his eyewear back. You can’t help the wave of affection you feel for them, your goofy friends.

You all step out into the sand, eyes adjusting to the sun. You follow Mingyu’s shadow on the ground as he makes his way towards the spot Soonyoung and Lara saved for you. You drop your tote in the sand and help Ruby spread out a blanket, using your shoes and bags to hold down the corners. Mingyu and Chan settle a small cooler off to one side, filled to the brim with ice and drinks.

You pull your cover-up over your head and toss it in the direction of your tote bag and stretch out, closing your eyes happily and letting your body relax under the warmth of the sun, the sound of breaking waves rhythmic and soothing. You’re startled by the sound of music and open your eyes again to find Ruby setting up a bluetooth speaker near the cooler. She looks at you sheepishly and hurries to lower the volume.

“Sorry,” she giggles. “Didn’t mean it to start so loud.”

To your left, Chan is pulling his white t-shirt over his head. Your eyes widen and you look away as fast as you can, catching Ruby react exactly the same, her eyes comically large.

You both turn your backs to the boys, and she mouths at you, what the fuck?

What the fuck is right. You’re used to being around Mingyu, who has an admittedly perfect body, and even Soonyoung is shockingly cut under those baggy t-shirts and cropped hoodies he sports. Chan’s always been the little one, the most normal, the most obtainable in his regular-ness.

Something’s changed since the last time you were all swimming together. He’d always had a nice body, but this…

You close your eyes against the bright summer sun, as if you can block out the curve of his pecs, the shadowed lines hinting at abs. None of those had been there last summer.

That motherfucker. First, he rejects you, then he gets hotter? You hope he gets eaten by a shark today.

You push yourself to stand.

“Where are you going?” Ruby hisses.

“I need a beer,” you tell her flatly. “Actually, maybe ten beers.”

“I’m not holding your hair today,” she warns you flatly, and you flip her off and make your way to the cooler. It’s going to be a long day.

You manage to get a few hours of peace and sanity by laying out with Ruby and Lara, just enjoying the music and occasional chitchat. Further down the beach, the guys run around with a volleyball but no net, making their own asinine rules.

“I still say you should tell him,” Ruby grumbles, after catching you watching Chan from behind your sunglasses for the ninth time, and you shoot her a warning look. But the damage is done - Lara latches on, her eyes sharp.

“Him… Chan?” she guesses. You feel your face heat.

“I’m that obvious, huh?” you murmur reproachfully.

“I mean,” she says uncertainly, looking to Ruby as if for backup, “I think you both are? If it helps?”

“Both?” you repeat flatly. “I wish.”

She exchanges a look with Ruby again, a silent conversation that you aren’t part of.

“He’s not into me,” you say, easy, like the words don’t cut at you. The salty air hits the wounds and makes them sting. “He’s been clear about that.”

Ruby’s brow furrows; you’ve never actually articulated this in front of her before.

“He has?” she asks, her voice suddenly gentle and almost sorrowful. “You never told me-”

“You were there,” you protest, then look over at the guys to make sure they hadn’t stopped yelling and running. “You both were, actually. That night when you tore your knee open outside of Ivy and Ivory?”

“Yeah,” Lara says slowly, her eyes on you, “I remember that night. That was… kind of the first time I thought he had a thing for you? Like, I know it was a while ago, but -”

“A thing for me?” you echo, working hard to keep your voice quiet. “When you called us out he was so horrified he couldn’t even touch me - he acted like it burned him -”

“Honey, no,” she says seriously, leaning forward. She looks incredulous at your perspective.

“Bestie,” Ruby says, giving you a please believe me, your best friend, who would never lead you astray look. “He was terrified that you’d get spooked.”

You press your mostly-empty beer can to your chin, eyes narrowing. “Explain.”

“He wasn’t embarrassed at the idea of being coupled with you,” Lara whispers, her eyes on the guys, whose game has drifted only minutely closer to your blanket. “It was one of those like, shut up or you’ll scare her away moments. He wanted to kill me.”

“Literally, if he’d had a cartoon thought bubble, it would have said shhhh, not so loud!” Ruby adds. She peers at you. “Did you really take it like that this whole time? You thought it was a rejection?”

“He practically pushed me into traffic!” you hiss defensively, and both girls explode into laughter.

“That is not what happened,” Lara insists, and then heads to the cooler, leaving you, Ruby, and your very confused thoughts.

You look at her. She looks at you.

“I thought you knew,” she says finally, holding up her hands in mock innocence. “I had no idea you took it that way.”

You can’t respond - the boys return at this exact moment, Mingyu flops dramatically next to Ruby, panting heavily, sweat running down his face.

“Jagiya,” he gasps like he’s dying. “Water. Please.”

Ruby rolls her eyes, but a water bottle lands next to Mingyu’s head before she can get up. You turn towards the cooler and see Soonyoung standing with his hands on his knees, also panting, while Chan digs around for presumably another water bottle.

“You need anything out of here?” he asks you over his shoulder.

You shake your head. “Thanks, though.”

You rise, brushing errant sand from the backs of your thighs, squinting at the water. The waves are breaking evenly, and there’s room to tread further out past the breaking point. “I think I’m gonna go in,” you announce to whoever is listening.

Lara shakes her head, reaching one hand up to tug at Soonyoung, obviously wanting him to sit by her. Ruby flaps her hand at you as if to tell you go on. She’s never been a big swimmer, more of a giant unicorn floatie kind of girl.

You stop when you’re ankle-deep, letting a few waves break and rush over the tops of your feet, adjusting to the temperature. You start to wade in, the water rushing around your shins, when you hear your name called breathlessly behind you.

Chan jogs up, his hair pushed back, a thin silver chain bouncing against his collarbones. You look away before you can get caught. Ruby and Lara’s words race through your brain. Have you been wrong about him this whole time? Have you misread every signal over the last three years, viewed it through the wrong lens?

“You can’t leave me alone with them,” he complains, face twisting in exaggerated suffering.

You laugh. “Can’t stand being the fifth wheel, huh?”

He shakes his head, smiling, still trying to catch his breath from volleyball and then the jog over here.

“You coming in?” you ask him. “I was gonna go out and tread for a while.”

He nods. “You don’t mind if I join?”

You look at him appraisingly, new information starting to process inside your mind, shifting the rules you’d followed for months. The sea air makes you bold. “You?” you say. “I would never mind.”

You don’t wait to see his reaction; you step further into the water, hitting just above your knees when you reach the spot where the waves are breaking. You stumble a little as a wave hits your thighs, and Chan’s hand finds your elbow, firm but unassuming, helping you steady yourself again.

When you reach waist-deep water, you eye the spot just ahead where the waves reach their tallest point as they gather on their way to shore.

“We’re gonna have to go under that,” you tell Chan. He actually looks nervous, which makes you laugh. “Want me to hold your hand?”

The smile he sends you is both self-deprecating and relieved, like he can’t believe his answer is yes, but yes, and he’s so glad you asked.

“Come on,” you say, laughing again. You hold out your hand and he takes it, and when the next ocean swell rises before you like a mighty wall you hold your breath and tug him under. It’s an act of faith, dipping below the roaring ocean, hoping you time it right. You keep his fingers tight between yours and let your body sink.

You surface on the other side, in an area of relative calm. Beside you, Chan wipes at his face with his spare hand, which makes you realize you’re still holding the other. You release it gently, treading water easily. Chan can probably just touch sand if he stretches.

You tread together quietly for a few minutes, less than six inches apart. The sun glints off the water around you, dancing and sparkling as the water moves. You wish you could ask him about that night, years ago, confirm Lara and Ruby’s interpretation of the events. You could - you just aren’t brave enough.

You look at him, familiar and beautiful and - until today - unobtainable. What if you swam closer, what if you pressed yourself close and kissed him, right here in the ocean?

If it ruined everything, you could just let yourself drown. And if it didn’t… well, you could let yourself drown a different way, then.

You chicken out. You chat about inconsequential things instead - his upcoming trip with his family, a work project you’d recently wrapped up that you’d been talking about for months, what the plan will be for dinner when you all get tired of the sunshine.

It’s easy to talk to Chan - it always has been. He’s quick with a joke or a bit, but always open and earnest. He watches you quietly when you talk, accentuates his stories with his hands when it’s his turn. Eventually, Ruby joins you. Mingyu stands at the edge of the water, one hand shielding his eyes, watching her go.

“He’s not coming in?” you ask.

She rolls her eyes. “Doesn’t want to get his hair wet. God, the water feels great. Anyway, we’re thinking of heading in soon, to get showers and stuff before we figure out dinner?”

“Sounds good,” Chan says.

“I’ll be right in,” you say, and beneath the water you grab at Ruby’s hand. Stay.

Chan gives you both a wave goodbye and heads towards the beach. You both watch as he steps onto land, approaches Mingyu, and shakes like a dog, spraying water all over his friend. You can hear Mingyu’s shout of protest even from here, and Ruby’s maniacal laughter echoes around you.

“How’s it going?” she asks you slyly, when she’s finished laughing at her man. Like she knows the answer already.

“Nice of you to ask!” you cry. “Actually! I’m kind of having a meltdown! Because for nearly eight months I thought he’d told me unequivocally, irrevocably no, and now I am finding out that he… I don’t even know. What does it mean? That was ages ago, surely even if he felt something then…”

“Only one way to find out,” Ruby says, way too sensibly.

“That’s not helpful,” you grumble.

“It is helpful, it’s just not easy,” she says sagely. You splash a handful of water towards her head and she shrieks, swimming further away from you.

“That’s enough of you,” you tell her, and start heading in towards the sand.

Back at the blanket, the boys and Lara have mostly packed up. You pull your rolled up towel out of your tote and dry off briskly. When everyone is accounted for, you all collect your things and head back up the walkway towards the house.

You put everything away - leftover drinks in the fridge, wet towels in the washing machine, etc - and the couples disappear into their rooms, doors closing and locking up and down the hallway.

Which just leaves you and Chan.

You follow him to the end of the hall and into the large room you’ll be somehow sharing. He turns on one of the bedside lamps and stops to plug his phone in, then looks over at you.

“You wanna shower?” he asks, tossing his phone lightly onto the bed. You can only stare at him, short-circuiting, until he clarifies. “Do you want to go first?”

“Oh,” you utter, quickly trying to recover. “Yeah, if you don’t mind?”

He waves his hand graciously towards the dark bathroom, as if to say, be my guest.

Showering turns into a reprieve - a locked door between you allowing you to jumpstart your brain again as you feel the hot water remove all the hidden bits of sand clinging to your legs and back.

While Chan takes his turn after you, you escape outside with a cold soda from the fridge. The beach beyond your rental’s deck is still pretty busy, but the crowd has thinned a bit since you all packed up. The sun descends behind the house, which means the sunrise tomorrow morning will come over the beach.

Mingyu seems to be preparing the grill, and Ruby bustles around, bringing out ingredients and setting them close to the grill. On one of the cushioned benches, Lara drapes her legs over Soonyoung’s legs and talks with him quietly, both of them giggling.

Since it seems like your help isn’t needed anywhere - you’ll help set the table when the food is almost ready, as is your usual job as a non-cook - you sit with your cold drink and watch the waves break, lost in thought.

Lara and Ruby seemed so sure that you’d misread Chan that autumn night. There’s a small part of you that’s still doubtful, but at the end of the day you do trust their judgement. So, assuming they’re right, Chan had been interested in you. That was over six months ago, though. It doesn’t mean anything now except that… well… if he was interested in you once, there’s a possibility he could be again. Or still.

Your move, it seems, is to figure out if that’s the case. Chan hasn’t done anything recently to indicate that he’s disinterested, but he also hasn’t done anything to indicate that he is. He - like you - has played it very safe. It isn’t until now that you’ve questioned if it’s because he actually sees you platonically, or if he thinks that’s what you want.

One of you is going to have to push the boundary, to test the waters.

When Chan emerges from the house, freshly showered and hair falling over his forehead nearly to his eyes, you look up from where you’re sitting and watch him thoughtfully. He pauses at the grill to ask Mingyu something, then passes by the mess of limbs that is Soonyoung and Lara, then drops onto the seat next to you.

“Mingyu says it’ll be another twenty minutes or so until everything’s done,” he informs you.

“Guess I should get the plates and stuff,” you sigh, leaning forward to set your drink on the table.

“I can help you,” he offers, and follows you inside, where you both open cabinets and drawers in the unfamiliar kitchen until you find everything you need.

He heads outside ahead of you, his hands loaded with utensils and condiments, and you pause, watching his dark silhouette against the evening sunlight. Your heart tumbles, and you jerk back into motion, following him into the light.

You all stay on the back deck until well after sunset. As the sky sinks into deeper and deeper blues, you rise and plug in the string of lights that weave through the beams above the deck, casting everyone in a nearly-orange glow. Mingyu sets up the tabletop fire pit, but you end up chilly anyway as night takes hold.

You shiver once, and you notice Chan looking sideways at you.

“Cold?” he asks, and the wave of deja vu you get is almost dizzying.

You shake your head instinctively, more against the memory than actually answering the question. “I’m fine,” you say, even though you do have goosebumps rising along your arms.

He gets up anyway, heading into the unlit house without a word. You rise a beat later and head across the deck.

Ruby calls your name like a question, and in answer you point at the cooler tucked behind the grill, where you’d all stashed beer and water bottles. She gives a quick “ah” of understanding.

“You need one?” you ask her, as you shuffle behind the grill and pull on the cooler’s lid.

“I’ll take a beer,” Mingyu answers for her, and you dig through the bottles and cans until you find his preferred brand, reaching to pass it to him over Soonyoung’s head. Then you turn back and look at your options, trying to decide if you want a can of spiked seltzer or if you want to go inside and mix something a little harder.

While you’re deciding, the glass door to your left slides open, and Chan steps quietly back onto the deck. He’s in a baby blue hoodie that he hadn’t been wearing before, and he carries a bundle of dark material in his hands.

“Here,” he says quietly, holding it out to you. “It felt weird to dig through your luggage, so I grabbed one of mine.”

You take his offering silently, fighting a tiny smile. “Thanks,” you say, equally quiet, like you’ve both agreed you want to keep this moment between you, not call the attention of the others. You shake the dark hoodie out and pull it over your head, slipping your arms into the sleeves and fixing the hood so it’s not inside-out. The hem falls almost past your shorts, and the sleeves reach past your fingers.

Chan bends to grab a beer from the cooler, then heads back to where he was sitting before. You reach for your own drink, settling on a seltzer after all, and when you turn to head back to your spot you can’t help but notice him watching you through the flickering fire pit, something unreadable on his face.

“You good?” you ask him as you settle back into your spot.

“Yeah,” he says, but there’s something tight in his voice that makes the goosebumps rise on your arms again despite the new layer of warmth you’re wearing. That smells like him. You tug on the edges of the sleeves to pull the shoulders tighter and curl up on your chair, tucking your legs into the baggy material and locking back into the conversation.

The night moves slowly, the constellations rotating centimeter by centimeter above you, everything made comfortably fuzzy by the drinks and the firelight. Sometime before midnight, Ruby suggests a walk along the beach.

You go in bare feet, the cool wood of the deck stairs giving way to sand as soft as silk. Mingyu and Ruby take the lead, the rest of you trailing behind. At some point - long after the house disappears from view - Lara stops, pointing up at the moon - a sliver above the undulating sea.

The four of you stop and look for a minute. Down the beach, you can hear Ruby and Mingyu but they’re out of sight in the dark.

“We should probably catch up with them,” you say, looking in the direction of their disembodied voices.

“I think we’re gonna head back to the house, actually,” Lara says, looking up at Soonyoung to gauge if he agrees. “We’ll leave the back door unlocked for you all?”

They say their goodbyes and head back hand in hand, leaving you alone with Chan and that sliver of moon. For a minute, the night seems to expand around you, growing bigger and bigger and leaving the two of you so small within it. Chan looks at you silently, as if he’s waiting for something, one side of his mouth quirked into an almost-smile that makes your stomach swim with the desire to cause a real smile, to push that little almost into something fully-formed.

Then, Ruby calls your names loudly from further up the beach, and the spell is broken.

“Guess we better catch up,” Chan says wryly. You both turn and start walking in silence, nearly shoulder to shoulder. As you walk, the back of your hand brushes the back of his just once, and your entire body prickles at the contact. You almost shift away, give him a little more space, but something urges you to hold the line. You want to see what he will do.

You keep walking, close enough that you can hear him breathing, hear the sand slide each time he takes a step. The back of his hands brushes yours again, warm. He doesn’t react, so neither do you.

You carry on, knuckles occasionally bumping his, until you find Ruby and Mingyu. They’re standing watching the moon, Mingyu wrapped around Ruby’s back like a giant, love-sick koala.

“Where’re Soonyoung and Lara?” Ruby asks, when she notices you.

“They headed back,” you say, stopping a few feet away.

“We should, too,” Ruby muses, eyes on the moon. “But it’s so pretty here.”

“It is,” Chan murmurs from beside you and you glance sideways at him, trying to read him. He’s staring out at the dark sea, the stars flickering in and out above it, giving you his profile. Ruby’s eyes flick to you, one eyebrow quirked. You look away, not wanting to get caught in this silent conversation, but you can feel the heat on your face, the smile tugging at your mouth.

The house is dark when you all return, and you let yourselves back in quietly, just in case Soonyoung and Lara are actually sleeping. You bid Ruby and Mingyu goodnight in whispers and head to the end of the hall. Chan closes the door and you flick on the bedside lamp, casting a low yellow light through the room.

Wordlessly, Chan begins to rummage through his suitcase, transferring items to a small pile - a pair of loose shorts, a toothbrush, his phone charger. It occurs to you, suddenly, that he’s gathering what he needs to leave - to go sleep on a couch.

“Chan,” you say. You don’t even know what you want to say next. You just know you don’t want him to go, don’t want him to sleep on a couch, don’t want to be here alone.

He pauses, turning to look at you over his shoulder.

What do you want to say? Stay? You balk, suddenly chicken again.

“I can take the couch tonight,” you say instead. He shakes his head, but you press on. “We can switch tomorrow.”

“Nope,” he says easily.

“Chan,” you say again. He keeps rummaging, his back to you.

“Chan,” you repeat, insistent. He turns fully, still crouching, and raises his eyebrows as if to say, yes?

“Do you want to just stay here?” you ask, trying to keep your voice from shaking. It feels like a moment of great enormity.

He shakes his head, and the rejection stings enough that you feel your breath catch.

But then he says, “No, I’m not letting you sleep on a couch. I’m trying to be a gentleman - quit fighting me.”

You realize, slowly, that he misunderstood what you were offering.

“No,” you say. “I meant… like… no one on the couch.”

He stares at you blankly, his hands open like he forgot he was searching for something.

Embarrassment licks up the back of your neck like flames. “The bed isn’t that small,” you say, a little defensive. “We could just, like, stay on our own sides.”

The blank look on his face slowly transforms. His brows come together, his mouth tucking into a rare frown. He opens his mouth like he’s going to ask something, but nothing comes out. His eyes flick to the bed and then back to you.

“I don’t…” he says, and the heat of embarrassment heightens. He clears his throat and tries again, “I don’t want you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable,” he says slowly.

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I wasn’t okay with it,” you point out.

He nods slowly, then pushes himself to stand. “Are you extremely sure?” he asks, peering at you. “This isn’t a High Noon decision, is it?”

You laugh, the tension dissipating a little. “No,” you assure him. “I just… feel bad putting you on a couch… and I don’t particularly want to sleep on a couch either… and I think we can… not make it weird?”

“We can,” he says, like a promise.

You second-guess your decision the whole time you get ready for bed - as you brush your teeth, as you change into pajamas, as you settle into the side of the bed by the balcony and plug in your phone. You’re nervous you won’t be able to keep it not weird - nervous that you won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself, that the magnetic pull to touch him will be too strong.

But when Chan climbs into the other side of the bed and clicks off the light, illuminated only by his phone screen, his warmth seeping into the blankets around you, it isn’t your hands that inch towards him. It’s your words. They claw their way out, desperate to reach across the six inches of darkness.

Chan, I’m actually really into you.

What really happened that night, when we were walking from bar to bar?

I’m in love with you, probably. I think.

Are you interested in me? At all?

You fight them all back, hold them all in. You don’t relax until Chan’s clicked his phone off and placed it on the nightstand, whispered goodnight to you, until you hear his breathing deepen. Just in case. Just in case the words get out the second you unclench - you need him to be asleep first so you can be sure he won’t hear them. You fall asleep with your face buried in the crook of your elbow, one last line of defense.

You wake up with your face buried in the crook of Chan’s neck instead of your own arm. You realize it instantly, body freezing like you’re about to get caught stealing, your whole body tight with panic. Like if you don’t move, you won’t wake him, and he won’t know that you cuddled him in your sleep.

Mortifying.

He’s mostly on his back but sort of tilted towards you, and you have one arm over his ribs, your nose pressed into the juncture of his shoulder. But, you realize as you stay frozen, his arms are around you. This was a mutual cuddle. Your legs are touching, too, one of your shins between his.

You try to breathe as shallowly as possible, fight the urge to stretch or roll or scoot away. You don’t want to alert him, pop this bubble, make the moment end. Chan is holding you as the sun rises over the ocean outside. It feels like another daydream, too good to be true. You never want it to end. You wish it was more real than this.

Slowly, you relax, one limb at a time, letting your muscles unclench and inhaling deeply. His skin, warm against your cheek, smells good - still a bit salty from the ocean, even after showering. But it’s only moments later that he stirs, his arms tightening around you and then loosening again as he makes a satisfied, low noise in his throat.

Then he goes still. You freeze back up, watching him for a reaction.

His mouth moves first, quirking sideways, and then he cracks one eye and peers down at you. A laugh bubbles from him and the cuddle is disintegrating around you as he shifts himself backwards and up on his elbows, still chuckling.

“Sorry,” he’s laughing, “sorry. I didn’t - that - I did not expect to do that in my sleep.”

You can’t help your own sheepish smile in return. “Me either, but it was actually comfy,” you admit. Now disentangled, you feel kind of cold and a little sad. But he’s acting like it was a funny goof, your bodies clinging to each other the second your brains turned off, so you’ll go along with the joke.

He rolls over and rummages on his nightstand, returning with his phone in hand and pushing thin-framed glasses up his nose. You look away, heart clenching. You love him in those; combined with the bedhead and his smell in your nose and the warmth of his skin not yet evaporated from yours and the feeling of his arms around you… it’s all a lot.

“I’m gonna… get dressed,” you say, reaching for your own phone. Chan hums a response and you vanish into the bathroom, brushing your teeth and getting ready as slowly as possible. When you come out, the bedroom is blessedly empty. You close your eyes and exhale. It’s going to be a long day.

When you finally head down to the kitchen, Lara and Chan are chatting easily at the table, steaming mugs in their hands. He’s still in those damn cute glasses.

“Good morning!” Lara greets you brightly. “There’s coffee!”

“God bless you,” you tell her seriously. You open a cabinet in search of a mug, but you’re faced with only plates and glassware instead. Chan appears at the cabinet next to you, reaching up and offering you a white mug with a cartoon seagull on it.

“Thanks,” you say, feeling weirdly shy considering you just woke up pressed against him. Once you fix the coffee how you like it, you take the seat next to Lara at the table. “Everyone else still asleep?” you ask.

“Soonyoung is, but I have to go wake him up in a minute,” Lara says, clicking on her phone screen to check the time. “We have a snorkeling thing at ten.”

“Ruby and Mingyu are out already,” Chan tells you. “Sunrise yoga. She texted us.”

“God,” you say, horrified. “Mingyu’s gonna hate that.” You realize at the mention of her text that you’ve left your phone upstairs.

Chan laughs. “Right?”

Lara rises, presumably to go wake up her boyfriend. “Her text said they’d be out until around four,” she tells you as she moves back into the kitchen to rinse out her mug. “I think they’ll beat us back, but not by much. Maybe we can go grab dinner when everyone’s back?”

“Sure,” you say, shooting a look at Chan to see if he has any opinions on this plan. He shrugs - no opinions to be found. You’ve always loved the way he could just go with the flow, happy to be along for the adventure.

You and Chan are still sitting at the table, coffees dwindling, when Lara pulls a bleary-eyed Soonyoung through the front door with a shouted goodbye, the sound of the car’s engine reaching you from outside. You look at each other, left alone together.

Again.

He gives you a flat, unamused look that he definitely picked up from Seungkwan or Vernon. “Are they doing this on purpose?” he asks, and a jolt goes through you. He’s said it. It’s like a curtain being pulled, shedding sunlight on something that had been shadowbound until now.

“Doing what?” you say, even though you know. “Leaving us by ourselves? Probably. Ruby likes to fuck with me.”

Chan laughs, and you’re filled with shaky relief that the moment isn’t weird. You both knew what this was, apparently, and facing it has put you on the same team against it.

“I thought it was to fuck with me,” he admits, still smiling.

“Two birds with one stone,” you muse. “For the sake of efficiency.”

But you wonder… why would it be fucking with him if he wasn’t interested in you? Is he admitting something?

“Well,” Chan says, stretching his arms above his head, fingers linked, “by all means, you can do your own thing today. You don’t have to babysit me. But it’s supposed to storm later, so I was thinking I’d use the pool a bit this morning while we still can, and then maybe go into town for lunch.”

You consider this. “That’s very pragmatic of you,” you observe lightly.

“That’s one of the first words I’d pick to describe myself,” he tries to deadpan, but the smile is too quick, telling on himself.

You let him get changed first, and when you make your way out back to the pool he’s already in the water up to his waist. You toss a towel onto one of the chaises.

“How’s the water?” you ask him, as you move to sit on the edge, preparing to let your legs dangle.

“It’s great,” he tells you, smiling easily, like he’s happy - happy you’re here, happy to be here with you.

You wonder if that’s the case, as you slowly lower your legs in, the water coming to lap a few inches below your knees.

“Feels cold,” you tell him. It doesn’t, really - way warmer than the ocean you played in yesterday, but you want to tease him a little.

Suddenly, his hands are on your ankles, holding you firmly. His hands are on your ankles.

“You should get in quickly,” he tells you, trying - again - to pretend to be serious, despite the smile he can’t combat. “Like ripping off a band-aid.”

“Lee Chan,” you warn, but a giggle rises up in you. “Don’t you dare. I will get in when I am good and ready!”

“I’m just trying to help,” he says, pretending to be hurt. His fingers are still pressing against your skin, your brain impossibly aware of the exact spot his thumb presses, as if there’s a beacon illuminating the place.

He gives your legs a playful tug, too lightly to actually move you. You squeal anyway, reaching down to splash water towards him. “Chan!”

He releases your ankles, taking a step back to avoid the splash, laughing. “Be careful,” he warns. “If it’s war you want -” He holds his hand like a knife above the water, ready to retaliate the splash.

“Oh my God, you menace. I’m getting in!” you cry, gripping the lip of the pool and sliding in, staying on your tippy-toes as your body adjusts to the temperature.

“Come on,” he goads, backing away from you, bobbing towards the shallow end. “You have to go under or it doesn’t count.”

“You’re a menace,” you repeat firmly, and he laughs, enjoying that his teasing has worked you up.

You eye the expanse of water between you - you’re at opposite ends of the pool now. “Do you think I could make it across in one go?” you ask.

He raises an eyebrow. “Like, underwater? I don’t know - how’s your lung capacity?”

You laugh. “Maybe not good enough,” you admit wryly. “But I’ll try.”

You take a deep breath of salty sea air, only minorly marred by chlorine, and slip down below the surface. You let the bottoms of your feet find the flat cement wall of the pool, and you give a hearty push. It’s hard without being able to see how much farther you have to go, but you hate getting chlorine in your eyes, so you kick and pull blindly until your lungs start to burn. When your natural buoyancy pulls you upward, you don’t fight it.

Your hands find something warm and solid before you surface. Surprise causes you to rear your head, fucking with your balance, and your feet find the floor of the pool. You stand up unsteadily, blinking water out of your eyes.

Chan comes into focus, his expression tight, and you realize that your hands had found his stomach, centimeters above his belly button.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, pulling away.

It’s like ever since last night, you can’t stop touching, your bodies fighting to come together even as you both dig in your heels and try to stop it.

“No worries,” he says just as quickly. You try to cover the moment by wiping water out of your face, but you feel warm all over, the cool water useless against your heated skin as you try to push away how his muscled stomach had felt under your fingertips.

You spend a good hour just floating and splashing around. Sometimes you chat and sometimes you lapse into comfortable silence. At one point you hear him singing lightly under his breath, his voice surprisingly clear but frustratingly quiet.

Eventually, your stomach growls. “I’m starting to get hungry,” you tell him. “You up for lunch in town, maybe? I’d just need to shower super quick first.”

“Sounds great,” he says easily, and you both head for the single runged ladder at the deep end. Chan climbs up first, standing by the ladder, dripping onto the concrete. You grip the metal handles firmly and find the bottom rung with one foot, pushing heavily to hoist yourself up.

And Chan helps you up - his fingers finding the dip of your waist and guiding you until you’re steadily on the pool deck, something protective in the touch.

Your entire body thrums, electric, cells vibrating. You hurry to your towel and wrap yourself up, hiding your face in the material - pretending you’re just chasing droplets away from your eyes, but actually smothering the urge to scream, if you’re going to touch me then get over here and do it properly!

“Did you know there’s a hot tub under the deck? Was that mentioned in the listing?” Chan asks, and you uncover your face.

“Huh?”

He’s pointing, and then you see that he’s right - tucked beneath the deck is a decently-sized jacuzzi, the lid on and straps fastened shut.

“Oh,” you say breathlessly. “Well, I know what I’m doing after dinner.”

Chan laughs, and you head inside, careful not to drip a trail of pool water through the house.

The rest of the morning passes pleasantly and without any touching; you shower and get changed and go on foot into the small beach town. You find a cute open-air cafe and order lunch, the iced coffee absolutely divine under the warm summer sun. The company’s not bad either.

After you’ve paid and left, Chan pauses on the sidewalk and gives you a mischievous smile. “Up for a little adventure?” he asks.

You frown. “What level of adventure?” you ask cautiously. “Like, on a scale of jumping out of a plane being ten to laying on my towel in the sand being one, what are we talking here?”

He laughs. “Like a three,” he assures you. “We just have a bit of a walk - maybe twenty minutes?”

The walk is pleasant - you don’t even get too warm, as there’s a constant breeze off the ocean and clouds pass overhead, pitching you momentarily into shade between longer bouts of sunshine. When you turn a bend and see the lighthouse rise against the sky in the distance, you actually gasp.

“Can we go up?” you ask, delighted.

“That’s the plan,” he tells you, and for once you can read his face perfectly - he’s pleased that he’s surprised you, pleased to have made you happy. Something warm simmers under your skin, affection and happiness and something else.

It takes forever to reach the top. You have to stop and rest more than once, your calves burning and protesting the many stairs. A few families pass you on their way down, one mother telling you cheerfully that you’re almost to the top. This motivates you to continue, and you press on until you reach the final landing and step through the metal doorway.

The view is absolutely worth it. The beach and the ocean stretch out before you, the town in the distance behind you. Alone at the top, you feel like you’re in your own little world, surrounded by sunlight and the calls of gulls, just you and Chan.

You stand, holding the railing, watching the waves undulate far below you for a long time. “Chan,” you say, and then falter. You don’t know what you were going to say. Some part of you thinks maybe you’d been about to confess, or to finally ask him something to shed light on his feelings.

When he looks at you, expectant, you say only, “Thanks for bringing me here.”

And maybe you did confess something, because he reaches over and squeezes your hand, just once.

And then, he looks over your shoulder and utters, “Uh oh.”

You spin, following his gaze, and echo, “Uh oh.”

Dark grey clouds gather to the west. You remember him saying it was supposed to storm later; it looks like rain will be rolling in soon, ushering in the storms behind it.

“We’d better head down,” he says regretfully, and you follow him back inside.

You make it down and outside before the rain comes, but the sunshine of the morning has gone and left gloomy grey in its wake.

“You think we can make it back to the house?” you ask breathlessly.

Chan checks the time on his phone, already walking brisky back towards the direction of town and your rental. “Maybe,” he says, but he sounds doubtful. “We’ve gotta be quick, though.”

You barely even make it into town; you aren’t even back at the cafe where you’d had lunch before the sky opens. It happens exactly like that - one second it’s not raining, the next second you’re drenched, hair plastered to your face, shirt sticking to your back, spluttering breaths through your mouth like you’re being sprayed with a hose.

You let out a cry of surprise, and then Chan is grabbing your hand and tugging, pulling you off of the sidewalk and into a nearby doorway. You don’t even manage to see what the doorway belongs to - Chan is already pulling it open, his hand still in yours as he leads you inside.

It’s dark, and it takes your eyes a minute to adjust as you wipe rain away from your eyes and shake droplets off of your arms. Beside you, Chan is doing the same, running a hand through his soaked hair and huffing out a noise of disbelief.

“That,” you say, “was bonkers.”

You seem to be in a dimly-lit dive bar, the kind that only locals go to. It’s pretty empty, since it’s early afternoon on a weekday, so when Chan raises a soggy, questioning eyebrow at you, you shrug and follow him towards the bar. Why not?

You take a seat wearily, and pull out your phone.

“We’ve got almost an hour until everyone is supposed to be back,” you inform him.

“In that case,” he says, and when the bartender meanders over, he orders you a row of shots to share.

You clink shot glasses for the first one, but after that you turn it into a game.

Chan narrows his eyes at you, mock-thoughtful. “What would you do if you woke up and your hands and feet had switched places?”

After answering (use my toes to order an Uber to the hospital), you volley with, “What would you do if aliens invaded tomorrow?”

Back and forth the game goes, punctuated by shot glasses being emptied and returned to the bar. What would you do if you woke up married in Vegas? … What would you do if you woke up one day and could only speak in rhyme? … What would you do if you were suddenly allergic to your favorite food? … What would you do if you were forced to join the circus?

You’re both laughing deliriously. Chan is wiping under his eyes in mirth, and you’ve hunched over so far that you find yourself with your hands on his knees, using him to stay upright on your barstool. Your surroundings have faded into colors and muted sounds with the alcohol in your system. All you can focus on is Chan, warm and solid under your palms, his eyes on you, the sound of his laugh cutting straight through the fog.

Then his next one isn’t so funny. “What would you do if you found out you only had a day to live?” he asks, and despite the seriousness, one last chuckle rumbles through his chest, like an aftershock.

Tell you. Tell you the truth.

You swallow. You take your hands off of his knees - you’re not sure he even noticed them there - and flex your fingers. And then, filter demolished by both alcohol and the sheer amount of time it’s been keeping you in check, you break.

Instead of answering, you fire back your own. “What would you do if I came onto you right now?”

Chan blinks at you, eyes as wide as you’ve ever seen them. He blinks twice more, and then his mouth opens. Your heart pounds.

“I’d - I - I guess, I’d probably kiss you,” he says, voice suddenly hushed, as if he’s a little unsure if he’s supposed to be honest or if the game is still a string of jokes.

You stare back. The two of you are frozen, both a bit wide-eyed, like neither of you is sure how you ended up like this.

Then, you breathe, “Okay, then do it.”

He nods immediately, breath coming sharply, and shifts closer on his seat. You feel like you’re holding your breath, waiting. Tentatively, he reaches up, brushes your jaw with his thumb.

Beside you, your phone blares to life on the bar. You both jump, startled out of the moment.

“Ruby,” you tell him hollowly. His hand still hovers near your face, but he nods, pulling it away. You feel like you can barely breathe as you slide your thumb to take the call.

“Hey,” you say into the phone, your eyes on Chan.

“Hey,” Ruby says, “where are you guys? Our thing ended early because of the rain so we’re back at the house.”

“Oh,” you say, trying hard to focus on her voice in her ear and not what just almost happened. “We’re in town. At… a bar? We came in to get out of the rain.”

“Perfect,” Ruby says. Across from you, Chan is rubbing his hands down the tops of his thighs, like they’re sweaty. You wonder if he’s nervous. “We’ll get changed and come get you guys in the car, and then we can go grab dinner together.”

You agree and hang up, then repeat the plan to Chan, who nods. He looks how you feel - a bit shell-shocked, a bit uncertain.

“We need to sober up,” you say. “Or, at least, I do.”

“No, me too,” he says, shaking his head. He sighs, and he might as well have said, goddamn Ruby. You hear it all. Then he seems to give himself a shake, orders you each a water, and asks to close his tab.

“They’re just up the street,” you tell him when Ruby’s text rolls in a bit later.

He nods, uncharacteristically quiet. You wish you could peek inside his brain and see what’s going on in there.

“Hey,” you say, and his eyes snap to you, that open look you know so well on his face. Your voice softens, and you resist the urge to reach out and touch his hand when you continue. “Here’s what I don’t want to happen - I don’t want Ruby to sniff out that something’s going on and interrogate me before we can… talk, ourselves. So let’s pull it together, and get through dinner, and then we can…”

We can what? Pick up where we left off?

He nods anyway, even though you’d left the thought unfinished. “You’re right,” he says.

And, somehow, you do. You both pull it together, rush through the pouring rain from the bar to the open car door. You smile and tease and laugh through dinner, like nothing had happened at all.

You feel relieved, in the back of Ruby’s car, as you all make your way back to the house. You did it - you got through dinner unscathed. Now you can go inside, and have some privacy, and talk and maybe figure out -

“Did you guys know the rental has a hot tub?” Chan asks, and you turn to look at him, baffled.

“It has a what?” Ruby gasps.

“Yep,” he says cheerfully, like he hasn’t just shattered your dream of getting a moment to yourselves. “It’s under the deck. Which means - hey! - it’s covered! We could totally go in, we wouldn’t even be in the rain.”

“That sounds great, actually,” Lara muses.

You say nothing, but when he catches you looking sideways at him, Chan sends you a wink, quick as lightning. You feel your face go puzzled, and he smiles and looks away, giving you no answers.

You’re somehow the first one to get changed and outside; it’s still pouring rain and you cover your head with your towel as you make your way down the steps and under the deck where some drips make it through, but you’re mostly out of the rain. A quick sweep of the area with your phone’s flashlight shows that there’s a string of the same lights down here as above on the deck, and you hurry to plug them in. Now that you can see, it’s actually kind of cute under here.

You unsnap the first strap for the lid, and jump when a pair of hands reaches next to you for the second one. You hadn’t heard Chan approach, but you silently accept his help as you push the lid up and off. You watch him out of the corners of your eyes to see if he’s going to say anything, address it at all. When it seems like he’s not, you turn to climb up the little set of steps, resigned.

His hand closes around your wrist, stilling you. He gives the tiniest of tugs and you relent, turning around. He gives you another tiny tug - you could resist if you wanted to, but you don’t, you don’t, you don’t. You let the tug pull you closer and look up at him, waiting. He kisses you quickly, firmly, close-mouthed for now but sure, his hands forming loose loops around each of your wrists as if he might want to tug you into place again.

The sliding glass door above you slides open and you step away, heart racing.

“Later,” he says quietly, and then you don’t get another second alone, Mingyu and Soonyoung’s voices bouncing through the space as they clamber down the deck stairs.

You climb into the warm water and choose a spot. Chan follows and sits a few solid feet away from you. You try not to look guilty when the other guys round the corner.

“Brought you a beer,” Mingyu says, reaching the extra can towards you.

“You are a legend,” you tell him gratefully.

Chan frowns, and for a crazed second you think maybe he’s jealous that Mingyu did something nice for you, but then he whines, “You didn’t bring me one? Hyung.”

“Calm your ass down,” Mingyu says, climbing into the water and finding a seat. You’re instantly more crowded, just from the sheer amount of space his long legs take up. “Soonyoung has yours.”

You snicker a little, and Chan gives you a light kick under the water. Above you, you hear the door slide open again, and a minute later Ruby and Lara appear beneath the deck, sheltered from the rain by Ruby’s towel.

“Oh,” Ruby says, surprised. “It’s not bad under here!”

“It’s cute, right?” you agree. “Still getting a few raindrops, though.”

“Eh, we’re in water anyway,” Soonyoung says easily, reaching up a hand to help steady Lara as she climbs in.

It’s crowded, and Chan’s two-feet-away doesn’t last. Instead, you’re crowded together, just inches apart. Ruby leans over the edge and turns on the jets, the top of the water creating a frothy layer.

“This is nice,” Lara says happily, closing her eyes and leaning against her boyfriend’s shoulder.

“It is,” you murmur, sipping at your beer. Under the cover of the jets’ bubbles, something touches your hand. Someone’s hand touches your hand. Chan’s hand touches your hand.

Your heart lurches. You beg your face to behave and give nothing away. And ever so slowly, you turn your hand over.

He doesn’t look at you, keeps his eyes on Soonyoung, who’s telling a story animatedly on the other side of the jacuzzi. But his fingers lace between yours, and his thumb brushes along the back of your hand, slow and tantalizing.

You’ve never been so undone by hand holding in your life.

You try to breathe. You sip casually at your beer and interject into the conversation when you can. You laugh at the jokes and look at whoever is speaking. You have no idea what the conversation is about. You hold onto Chan’s slender fingers like he’s a lifeline, like if you let go he’ll slip away, again and for good.

Later, he’d said, and his voice echoes in your head as you pray for later to be now. And finally, blessedly, Lara finally yawns, loud, and starts making moves to get out and head in. Which means so does Soonyoung. Then Mingyu lifts a hand from the water and examines his fingers, complaining, “I’m all pruny.” Chan gives your hand a squeeze and lets you go, reaching for his beer nonchalantly, watching Ruby and Mingyu carefully. You know you’re both waiting, impatiently, for them to leave you alone.

Leave, you silently beg, still trying to appear as casual as possible. Leaaaaave.

“You staying a little?” Ruby asks you, pausing halfway out of the hot tub.

“Yeah,” you say, trying to force your voice to stay casual. “I slept pretty late this morning - I’m not really tired yet.”

“Not all of us got up for sunrise yoga,” Chan says dryly, and Mingyu laughs, reaching for Ruby’s hand, clearly wanting to get inside.

“Okay, then,” Ruby says, her eyes still on you. “See you in the morning then.”

“Bye,” you tell her, and you have to fight the giggle out of your voice. You can’t help it - you feel giddy, nearly bouncing with excitement. You and Chan have been skirting the brink of something all day and you’re finally standing on the cusp of it, toes curled over the edge, ready to dive.

The second you hear the sliding door above you close, Chan’s hand is on your wrist again, pulling much more insistently than he had earlier in the day. Surprised, you let him tug you onto his lap, settling with your thighs bracketing his own, his hands wasting no time in finding your hips and pulling you more firmly against him.

His mouth is on yours, as insistent as his touch. You answer him readily, nearly sighing into his mouth as you get something you’ve wanted for years. You skate your hands up his chest and bring your arms around the back of his neck. He tips his head back a little, his hands sliding up your back, and the change in angle makes you sigh again.

“Thought they’d never leave,” he mutters against your jaw, and you let out a quick huff of a laugh before your breath leaves you entirely as his teeth nip a line down your neck, tongue and lips soothing behind each quick sting.

You chase his mouth, wanting him back, and he groans quietly when he realizes - like you wanting to continue kissing is just as good as actually kissing. But nothing is as good as the kissing, not if anyone asks you, nothing is as good as his tongue against yours, his teeth gentle on your lips, his hands clutching at your back and your arms and your hips like he can’t pick a favorite.

His hands roaming your body ignite you. You become only aware of their migration as they map the width of your shoulders, survey the dip of your waist, skate over your ass, then repeat the expedition. Your fingers have found his hair, curled up and held tight. He takes your hips in his hands and shifts you on his lap, causing you to tug slightly, and his exhale holds just the slightest hint of a whimper. You almost unravel, right there.

The shifted position also makes it absolutely unignorable that Chan is hard beneath you, and you can’t - don’t even try to - stop yourself from pressing yourself closer, your hips rolling almost involuntarily as soon as you feel him. Chan gasps at the sudden friction, his eyes squeezing shut for a second, like he’s already going under. Then his hands - frozen on your hips while his brain rebooted - come back to life, slipping up your ribs to cup both of your breasts over your bathing suit, giving one slow knead to both in tandem. You moan, low, unable to stop it, and he responds almost instantly, letting out an audibly shuddering breath.

He surges upwards to kiss you again, one thumb still rubbing circles against your hardening nipple, the other hand trailing back down your side and gripping your waist, holding you in place. You continue to move against him, his mouth hot against yours, the water bubbling around you and surrounding you in mist.

Chan’s nimble fingers leave your chest and work their way down between your bodies, pausing at the edge of your bathing suit bottoms. He looks up at you, pupils blown, panting out controlled little breaths like he’s fighting to keep himself in check.

Eyes unwavering on yours, watching your reactions closely, he slips his fingers between your legs, pressing the material against you, sliding down your slit and back deftly. His cock kicks beneath you when you whine. His gaze on you feels charged, almost like a challenge.

And then you’re blinded by a flash, followed almost instantly by an alarming crack of thunder.

“Fuck,” Chan hisses, twisting to peer out towards the ocean, his hands finding your hips again as if by instinct. “The storm.”

“Guess we have to head in,” you say, and it comes out wispy and breathless. Your legs feel like jelly and he’s barely even started.

“Yeah,” he says, the single syllable tight. He adjusts himself as you vacate the water, the rain beyond the safety of the deck seeming to redouble its efforts. You both hurry to turn the jets off and replace the cover, then stand at the edge of the dry space, looking out at the raging rain.

As hot and heavy as things were only a minute ago, you feel oddly still now, staring out at the storm. Chan places your towel over your shoulders.

“Thanks,” you say quietly, looking sideways at him.

“Ready?” he asks you, and you think he means ready to brave the storm. But your heart is answering another question - are you ready to continue, ready to move forward with him, ready to give life to something that has remained only a daydream in your mind?

“I don’t know,” you tell him honestly.

He slips his hand into yours. “I’ve got you,” he promises.

You move quickly but carefully through the rain, eyes on your feet as you take the slippery wooden stairs up the deck and towards the house. Chan doesn’t let go of your hand until you’re inside, sliding the door shut behind you. The house is dark and quiet, lit only by a single light above the kitchen sink. You both stand near the door and try to dry off, but your towels got soaked by the rain and don’t do much good.

“Come on,” Chan whispers. “There are fresh towels upstairs.”

You follow him through the house, up the stairs and down the darkened hallway. Chan pauses at the linen closet, pulling out two fluffy towels. You lead him into your shared room, closing and locking the door behind you as he clicks on one of the lamps.

Chan comes back into your space quietly, wraps you both in his towel, the spare forgotten on top of your dresser. You’re pressed tight together, warm in his arms. He presses his lips to the top of your head, leaving them resting there, just holding you. The moment is soft, heavy, a stark contrast to the lightning physicality of what happened outside. Something about the intimacy of it makes you feel hesitant.

“You okay?” he asks, pulling away a little to look at you.

“Yeah,” you breathe back. Your heart is racing. But it’s Chan. It’s Chan with his arms around you, and Chan who was kissing you and touching you, and - it all feels like something you aren’t allowed to have. “Just… maybe we shouldn’t?”

“We don’t have to,” he says immediately, shifting backwards and loosening his arms around you, giving you the option of pulling away if you want it. “We can do whatever you’re comfortable with. If you want to just go to bed… or if you want me to take the couch tonight, I can -”

“No,” you say quickly, because that’s the opposite of what you want. “No, it’s just… Chan…”

He seems to hear your uncertainty in your voice, his face softening and his arms pulling you back in. “What is it?” he asks quietly, and you slip your arms around his middle, giving in.

“I think I want this a lot more than you do,” you whisper, glad you don’t have to look at him while you say it.

He laughs, and you step back, looking at him quizzically. You’d been afraid of his reaction - of making him uncomfortable, of pushing the line too far. You hadn’t expected laughter.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” he tells you, and you just stare at him, not comprehending. He reaches up, fingers still clutching a corner of the towel wrapped loosely around his back, and brushes a thumb along your jaw. You feel your face warm, but you wait him out. He adds, “I want this… a ridiculous amount. I’ve wondered for a long time if we could… be more.”

He says it like a confession. He says it like he’s embarrassed about it.

“Well,” you say, a fire - a hope - coming back to life behind your ribcage, “maybe we should find out.”

And there it is, that smile that makes the whole world melt away.

The towel drops to the floor, forgotten, and his fingers are at the back of your neck, tugging on the knot that ties your bathing suit top in place. When the material falls away he makes a satisfied noise in his throat as he moves to kiss you again, walking you back towards the bed.

You’d both been eager, but when the mattress hits the backs of your thighs Chan lays you back slowly, almost reverently. He kisses you sweetly, tracing your jaw again, and then lets out another little laugh.

“What?” you breathe, smiling despite being clueless. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing. It’s not,” he says, but he’s still smiling, eyes tracing over your face and body. “It’s just… hard to believe this is real. That it’s you.”

Your breath leaves you. It’s exactly how you’ve felt.

“I know what you mean,” you whisper, and you kiss him again. This time he doesn’t hesitate when his hand slips between your legs, brushing right past your bathing suit and pushing the pads of his fingers into the wet mess he finds there. You shudder an exhale into his waiting mouth as he presses one finger and then a second deep into you, his eyes on you as you arch into the touch.

You let your eyes drift close as he pumps them slowly, and outside the room there’s another flash of lightning chased by the crack of thunder. For a little, there’s only the sound of rain beating against the windows as Chan works little whimpers and half moans out of you.

He switches his angle, something snagging behind your navel, everything beginning to tighten. You gasp his name, and you’re answered by his too-familiar huff of a laugh again.

“What?” you demand through your own smile.

“You say my name like that again and I’m gonna bust,” he tells you seriously. Then he brings his attention back to where his fingers disappear inside you, and his gaze sharpens. “These are in my way,” he murmurs, pulling out of you and reaching for your bathing suit, which had been pushed to the side.

“Yours too, then,” you object playfully, lifting your hips for him as he slides the damp material down your legs. He smiles at you indulgently and shuffles backwards on the back, standing long enough to tug at his swim trunks, letting them drop unceremoniously before crawling back up to you, pressing his mouth to yours and cupping your jaw with one hand, like he’d missed you in the seconds he’d been gone.

“Chan,” you whisper, because you need more of him, because this isn’t enough.

He slides lower down your body, his chest brushing against yours, his lips mapping a path down your sternum, down your belly, pausing near your navel. He looks up at you, all glinty-eyed, that million-dollar smile going slightly sideways, a little mischievous.

“Can I? Please say yes,” he says in a rush, pushing his nose into your lower belly and caressing your inner thighs with his thumbs.

You lean up on your elbows so you can look at him better. Your heart hasn’t stopped racing for a minute. He’s going to give you a cardiac event. “If you want to,” you tell him.

He laughs again, so quiet. “You have no idea,” he says, shaking his head, and then he’s attaching his mouth to you and your arms give out. You eye the ceiling, a strangled moan working up your throat as Chan’s tongue delves into your heat. You squirm, trying to push him deeper. He loops his arms under your legs and then reaches over, his hands pulling you tighter against his chin, both of you working to the same goal.

You hadn’t spent a lot of time imagining how Chan might eat pussy, but you’re surprised that he dives right into fucking you on his tongue, determined and rhythmic. You’d have pegged him for the type to go slow, draw it out, tease and taste and work you up little by little. Instead he grunts in satisfaction, pulls on you hard enough that you wonder if he’ll leave little bruises from his fingertips, and spears his tongue in and out of your hole with abandon, his nose bumping your clit every few thrusts.

You’re a whimpering mess, fighting the urge to roll your hips into his face, one hand slapped over your face to muffle the sound. He shifts, lips working their way up to your desperately pulsating clit, and you feel your whole body seize with the change of sensation, a long, low groan emanating from your chest. He suctions his lips around your clit and sucks gently, then a little less gently, and your feet scrabble against the sheets, trying to find purchase.

His fingers enter you again, his spit and your wetness giving them the perfect slide, and it’s exactly the extra stimulation you need. He only has to pump his wrist twice, that delicious suction steady around your clit, before you’re grasping desperately at him - one hand sliding into his hair and the other finding his wrist and holding tight, which doesn’t stop him at all from pistoning his fingers into that spot on your front wall that has you unraveling faster than you ever have before.

“Fuck, fuck, Chan -” you gasp. Your eyes squeeze shut and your grip on him might actually be painful, a belly-deep ahhhhh ripped from you as the onslaught of sensation sends conscious thought spinning away.

“Shhh,” he soothes, fingers slowly but continuing to work you through it. You whimper, gasp for a breath, the room coming back into view. “Not so loud, baby.”

“God, Chan,” you groan, releasing your hold on him, flexing your fingers.

He grins at you, lightning quick, then kisses the inside of your thigh. “That’s my girl.”

You peer at him, boneless. “You up for more?”

He pushes himself up on his elbows, the triumph not completely melted from his face yet. “I’m up for whatever you want,” he promises. “You’re calling the shots here.”

“Excellent,” you joke. You reach towards him, barely stop yourself from making grabby hands. “Come fuck me.”

He damn near scrambles to obey. He comes up to kiss you, deep and heady, and you hook one of your legs behind him, pulling him closer. The head of his cock slides along your slit and you tilt, trying to get him where you want him.

You look up at him, feeling like he hung the stars, and whisper his name. His answer is a bite of a kiss as he pushes himself into you, stopping only when his hips are flush with yours.

“Shit, you feel so good,” he breathes, eyes closed for a second, as he holds himself over you.

“Please move,” you beg, needing more.

“God,” he groans. “Okay. Okay. I got you.”

And he does. Chan fucks like he moves - quick and precise, each motion purposeful. His eyes have narrowed with focus, brows slightly furrowed with exertion as his hips snap. He slides one hand under you to help lift you, the angle changing just slightly.

“Yeah,” you breathe, desperation lacing your voice. “There.”

The drag of him is delicious, and so is the feeling of his body under your hands, and so is the sound of his ragged breath mixed with occasional gasps and groans. It’s the fact that it’s Chan driving you even higher.

A crack of thunder sounds directly overhead, and Chan takes the moment to roll you over, laying back and letting you straddle his lap without even slipping from inside you. You whine as the new position drives him deeper than he’d been before, your hands splayed over his pecs. He’s breathing rapidly now, struggling to keep his eyes open as he continues to fuck you from below.

“I-I’m - so -” he pants, “close. Really close, baby.”

You lean down to kiss him, his arms coming up around your shoulders to pull you chest to chest until his strokes grow sloppy and his hands tighten on you. You kiss along his jaw sweetly until he releases you with a sigh. He kisses you once more before he pulls out, and then again when he returns from the bathroom with a damp cloth.

“I might need to actually shower,” you muse.

“Yeah, okay,” he says easily, nodding. “Maybe I’ll go after you. I smell like chlorine.”

You shrug. “Might as well just join me. If you want.”

He grins. He follows you into the bathroom, waits with you while the water heats up. And then he fucks you again, against the cool tiles of the shower wall.

Later, back in bed, you face each other through the dark.

“I should have said earlier,” you whisper. “But I’ve liked you for a long time, too.”

His smile makes you feel full of sunshine, even when it’s shy, even when he’s asking what you want to do about it. Especially when he’s asking you, "What are you doing next Saturday?"

Tonight, the decision to cuddle is made while you’re awake. When you wake up in the morning, sunlight streaming through the windows, Chan wastes no time in reaching between your legs, finding you ready, and rolling over top of you, pushing between your thighs before he even has his eyes all the way open.

When you both emerge from your bedroom, stomachs growling and with the beginnings of a caffeine headache, your friends are all sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded with the evidence of a breakfast come and gone. They begin a slow clap, eventually lauding you in a mostly sarcastic but still loving round of applause.

“It’s about time,” Mingyu grouses. “You two have been circling each other forever.”

“Shh,” you tell him, as Chan slips his arm over your shoulders with a grin. “Not so loud.”

thank you for reading!!! <3

2K notes · View notes

autumnscribbles · 7 months ago

Text

truth | rc

pairing: bsf!rafe x reader, rafe x sofia

summary: y/n overhears sofia and hollis unintentionally, and as rafes friend decides to tell him

warning: swearing, that’s about it i think

wc: 1.8k

a/n: thank you to the anon who sent this in! i’m loving the rafe angst lately, i’ve been having so much fun getting back into writing!! I legit couldn’t think of a title so for now there isn’t one lmaooo

part 2

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ ⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ ⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘

The fresh night air filled your lungs as you took a deep breath. You always loved walking at night. The air always felt better, the way everything quieted and slowed down always brought you peace. You loved to sit on the dock, listening to the crash of the waves. You watched the stars, mentally pointing out your favorite constellations as you spotted them.

You were brought out of your trance by a familiar voice coming from one of the boats in your vicinity.

“How much?”

You turned your head, leaning your body to try to get a good view. You spotted Sofia, sitting on a boat with that blonde lady you saw the other day. What was her name again? Holly?

“25, dear,” she said. “No questions asked.”

You slowly rose to your feet, trying to get a better view and be more in earshot. You had to stop your jaw from dropping when you heard the conversation. Twenty five grand for Sofia to convince Rafe to take the Goat Island deal. The well put together woman tried to make it same like it was for Rafe’s benefit, but you could tell by Sofia’s reactions that it wasn’t. She just wanted the money, she didn’t care how.

“What the fuck,” you whispered to yourself.

You saw Holly…Hollis! That’s what it was! She handed something to Sofia, and you caught a glimpse of what looked like cash inside. The conversation started wrapping up and you quickly picked up your pace, walking in the opposite direction and off the dock so neither of them saw you.

The sound of your shoes on the pavement sounded too loud in your ears as you hurried back to your house. You knew you weren’t supposed to overhear the conversation, but what were you supposed to do with that information now that you had it? You had to tell Rafe, right? He was your friend. You couldn’t let him get screwed over, especially not when he thought Sofia had good intentions.

You sat on the edge of your bed, breathing shallow as you went over everything you heard. You let out a mix of a sigh and a groan as you flopped onto your back, staring at the ceiling. You’d sleep on it, and decide how to go about telling Rafe tomorrow. You were supposed to meet him at the beach, maybe you could catch him alone before that.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ ⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ ⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘

The sun was bright and unforgiving, your eyes squinting automatically as you walked down the street. You decided you’d meet Rafe at his place before going down to the beach together. You needed to catch him alone.

You already felt the sweat forming on your forehead as you approached his front door, knocking urgently. When he didn’t answer, you knocked again. Eventually, the door flung open, his eyes half closed once the sun hit his face.

“Can you chill out?” he groaned, shielding the sun with his hand.

You could tell he had just woken up. Usually you’d feel bad, but honestly, you didn’t care. You needed to talk to him, to tell him what you heard and saw last night.

“Rafe I need to tell you something,” you said. “It’s important.”

He groaned slightly before stepping aside, silently inviting you in. He disappeared for a minute or two, arriving back with two mugs of coffee in his hand. You let him take a few sips, waiting for the caffeine to be in him before you started explaining. He needed to be alert and awake when he heard it.

“I was out at the dock last night, just clearing my head,” you started. “And I overheard something I think you should know.”

He stared at you, urging you to continue. His bright blue eyes were fixated on you now, fully awake.

“I saw Sofia and…Hollis?” it came out as more of a question. “I heard Hollis telling Sofia that she would give her 25 grand to convince you to sign the deal.”

“What?” Rafe said, his eyebrows ruffling together and his head shaking as he set his mug down on the coffee table beside him. “You must have misheard.”

“I saw Sofia take the money, Rafe,” you sighed. “I’m sorry, I know you really like her and everything but I really thought you should know and-”

“Just stop, y/n!” Rafe cut you off, raising a hand as if to pause you. “Spare me the fucking dramatics. Why are you trying to fuck with me?”

His jaw clenched, twitching as if he was biting his tongue. You hit a nerve, you could tell. You sat up a bit straighter, trying to show that you were serious. He wasn’t believing you. He didn’t want to think you might be right.

“I’m not!” you protested. “I just thought you should know. I think this Goat Island thing is sketchy, and she’s in on it.”

“Are you seriously that fucking jealous?” he asked, his voice raising as he stood up, towering over you. “You seriously can’t handle the thought of me being happy with someone so much that you have to make shit up?”

“Rafe this isn’t about Sofia!” you defended, standing up to match him. “I want you to be happy, but I can’t not let you know she’s being shady behind your back!”

“No, you know what y/n?” he asked, not waiting for the answer. “I’ve waited for you forever. Just waiting for the day you finally give me the time of day. For once, my attention is on someone other than you. And you can’t fucking handle it.”

You took a step back, your mouth opening slightly. You were at a loss for words. He really thought this was a jealousy issue? That you made up a whole complex story just because you don’t like Sofia? Sure, you were a little hurt when they got together. She was beautiful, and kind, and there were moments you wished he looked at you the way he looked at her. But this wasn’t about hurting her, or getting your way.

“You just loooooved pulling me around behind me like your puppy,” he continued, matching your step back with one forward. His voice lowered and his eyes narrowed, meeting your gaze. “You loved holding me close. You know how I feel for you, and you love it, y/n. You love the attention and you love how you can use it to your advantage.”

“Are you hearing yourself?” you screamed. “You’re fucking delusional Rafe. I’m trying to tell you something serious and you think this is just a love triangle? A lovers quarrel?”

“Stop messing with my head!” he shouted, tapping his temples with his index fingers. “That’s all you do, is fuck with my head! All the time!”

Your mind was reeling. Is that how he felt? Like you were just stringing him along. You never knew Rafe saw you as anything other than a friend. If you weren’t so focused on trying to tell him the truth, you would have held on longer to what he said about waiting for you. Did he mean he had feelings for you all this time? You always buried your feelings for Rafe, pretending they didn’t exist. It was easier that way. Easier to accept you’d never be together.

Rafe had always made your heart flutter, but the baggage that came with him often kept you at a distance when it came to getting closer. He was your friend, you cared for him. You never told him about how you truly felt, because you knew it would likely be a bad idea to be romantically involved. You assumed he’d never feel that way about you anyway, so you buried the hatchet.

“Fine,” you exhaled. “Don’t come to me when you find out your little girlfriend screwed you over. It’s your 400k, not mine.”

Trying to keep up an air of strength, you clenched your jaw. You wouldn’t cry, you wouldn’t react emotionally. He’ll find out the truth eventually, the truth always comes out. He’d admit you were right if you gave it time.

Until then, you walked out his door, leaving it open behind you. His earlier words still coursed through your mind. The mean ones, and the ones about his feelings for you, but as always, you swept them under the rug. You couldn’t face the truth yourself.

You felt something tug at your wrist, turning around to meet Rafe’s blue eyes once again. You thought they looked glossier, a sheen over them. Was he tearing up? No way, Rafe Cameron never cries. Not over this.

“Y/n,” he said lowly, a stark contrast from his previous shouting. “Tell me the fucking truth. Are you just saying this to fuck with me and make me question my relationship with Sofia?”

“No, Rafe,” you said honestly. “I know what I saw. This isn’t some ploy to get you to break up with her or be with me instead. I’m just trying to protect you.”

It was the truth. Despite how you felt about Rafe, you wanted the best for him. If Sofia was what was best, you’d support it. You almost wished you hadn’t seen what you saw at the dock. That way, you wouldn’t have to insert yourself in their relationship at all. You could continue to stand on the sidelines, watching his life pass with you becoming less and less present.

“Protect me,” he scoffed, mocking your words.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked harshly.

“Protect me from what, huh? My little poor heart being hurt?” he asked sarcastically. “It’s too late for that, y/n. You can’t protect me from anything when you’re part of the problem.”

You shook your head at him, at a loss for words. He clearly wasn’t done speaking, but you ran out of snarky retorts. You felt like you had whiplash from all the directions this conversation was going. He stared at you for a moment, his mouth slightly open, his hands running over his newly buzzed hair. You heard him release a quiet sigh, his head hanging down.

“No one will ever be good enough in your eyes,” he said, looking back up at you. “Not Sofia, and not me. I was never good enough for you, and Sofia isn’t good enough for me. So you can’t protect me from ‘heartbreak’, y/n. Because you are the problem.”

He pointed a finger at you, his teeth clenched together as the words left his lips. He turned around swiftly and walked back into his house, slamming the door behind him. Unable to process what just happened, you stared blankly in his direction, met with nothing but the front of his house. By trying to help, you somehow managed to make things so much worse, and so complicated.

“Now what?” you said to yourself under your breath.

#rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron imagine #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #rafe x reader #rafe obx #obx #obx imagine #outer banks #rafe fanfiction #outerbanks rafe #rafe imagine #rafe x y/n

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always-a-slut-4-ghouls · 2 years ago

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I went five days without my adhd medication (I was waking up waaaay too late to take something that could maybe negatively impact my sleep. I already struggle with insomnia. I’m not giving my sleep meds any disadvantage) but today I woke up earlier (by comparison) and I’m vibrating. It will be normal again tomorrow, but I hate when I first take it after missing at least a day. My body decides that I need to speed run my day before it gets normal about it

Me, once again, having missed a few doses before this one, experiencing this:

#emma posts #adhd meds at it again #I promise I’m usually normal about it #this just happens when I miss a(few) doses #I hate how stimulants can either make my brain work while being chilled out. or I’m thinking better but everything is going at Mach five #or whatever #my heart is going so fast and I’m vibrating #this is why i don’t drink caffeinated beverages #I at least get normal on my meds after a day #anything stronger than tea though and the caffeine makes my body go so fast #even sitting down #I let myself stim again now and it’s like most of this left my body #starts moving a limb and suddenly goes limp #what is wrong with me?#it’s my first day back on medication for adhd and I’m being soooo normal about it #I hate when people use that as an example of why my meditation is bad. give it 24 hours and I’ll be normal #more normal than when I didn’t have my medicine even!#I tried taking something that wasn’t a stimulant but it barely did anything #so my doctor put me back on a stimulant (just a different one than before) and I can focus now when it’s not like this #so day two onwards I actually will be so normal about this #it just takes one day of suffering to get relief from my usual struggling #not a cure all but oh my god do I love being able to do tasks

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randompiecesofwriting · 1 month ago

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Coffee Snob (pt 4)

Summary: The reader ends up in the Pitt threatening to break as she goes through the aftermath of a mugging leaving Robby to pick up the pieces

Pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: Reader gets mugged but she’s 1000% physically fine, hurt/comfort, lots of fluff, this is the angstyist one so far!

Author’s note: Back again because I cannot be stopped! Again I do not have the words to convey just how much all of the feedback I have gotten on this series thus far it is absolutely what drives me each and every time to write another part I cherish every one of them!

Also tagging @li22ie2017 because they asked! Thank you so much!!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

There was a woman in his spot.

A very familiar woman. A very familiar woman in a very familiar spot at a rather unfamiliar time.

It was early, too early for even the sun to have risen yet, so early he had expected the spot to be empty, for even the city below to posses an unnatural stillness.

He couldn’t say he was upset to see you there though, legs dangling over the edge, familiar coffee cup in hand.

“Caffeine and heights?” You whipped around at the sound of his voice breaking the silence of the city suddenly, eyes just wide enough to show that he had caught you off guard, thankfully not bad enough that you were in any real danger that close to the edge.

Still you adjusted quickly, a warm smile growing on your face at the sight of him, the scene sending warmth through his chest “thought I’d mix it up”

He came up to sit beside you, the scene so similar to how everything had started and yet still so vastly different, a coffee instead of two beers, a familiarity in the air instead of a cautious approach, a much smaller distance between the two bodies than before. “And the verdict is?”

You hummed as you thought about it, wordlessly handing your mug over to him without any real thought behind the gesture, as always sharing your creations with him. He took an eager sip before handing it back “It’s too quiet”

He nodded at that, looking out over the city around him “too empty”

You took a sip of your coffee and hummed in agreement, setting the mug down between the two of you. A silent invitation, one he took up happily “What are you doing up this early?”

“My chef de patisserie is out for the week so I’m doing their prep” you shrugged.

“Their prep starts at four in the morning?” You smiled at that and he couldn’t help but appreciate the ease he always felt with you, the ease at which you gave out smiles, the ease with which he returned them.

“Pastries take time. You have to let dough rise, let creams cool, bake. It’s a labor of love”

He hummed appreciatvily at that, stealing another sip of coffee, looking out over the city, a sense of peace washing over him despite the weight of the world he had felt crushed under just an hour ago.

“What about you; why are you up this early?”

“Couldn’t sleep” and he decided to leave it at that, hoping you wouldn’t pry further, not quite ready to scare you off with his full answer.

But as you always did you seemed to know when to not push it, to not ask quite yet. He could feel your eyes on him, looking him over for a brief second, assessing him before nodding slowly, making a dramatic showing of checking a watch he knew you weren’t wearing “well since you don’t have to be at the hospital for a few hours. Want to come to work with me?”

He furrowed his brow at the invitation, asking the obvious question silently.

You shrugged in response, grabbing your mug and cradling it against your chest as you stood “It’s four in the morning, restaurant will be empty, come keep me company” you stated it like it was obvious, as if there was no better answer to his lack of sleep than hanging out in an empty restaurant kitchen “I’ll even make you breakfast” personally Robby couldn’t think of anything he’d rather be doing.

And that was how he found himself wide awake at nearly 5 in the morning, sitting at a stool in a restaurant he has never been in, looking out over an open kitchen as you carefully weighed out ingredients into a giant bowl, eating what was undoubtedly the best omelet he has ever had in his life.

There was a small array of soft lights that illuminated the kitchen before him, all other lights in the restaurant remained off creating a soft ambiance in the space, an almost intimate look that highlighted how it was just you and him here, your laugh echoing slightly off the walls as you recounted a story.

“You should’ve seen his face when he realized he’d been chopping cucumbers for the last hour instead of zucchini”

He tried to listen to your story, he really genuinely wanted to. But his sleep deprived brain refused to focus on one thing for too long. Jumping from how good the food was, to how warm the coffee felt, to how beautiful you looked as you worked, ot how at peace he felt in the space.

It contrasted so greatly with his world he almost felt on edge within it, waiting for that other shoe to drop, for something to ruin it.

Then you’d look at him from over your shoulder and smile softly, naturally, and everything for a second would be okay.

“And you said this kid went to culinary school?”

You snorted at that and he felt almost proud, of being able to make you laugh, of saying the right thing, of deserving in that moment to be here.

“He’s just nervous. So eager to prove himself. Reminds me of myself when I first started”

And god could he relate to that. To starting out after school and desperately trying to prove that he deserved to be there, to solve a patient’s every issue, to be good.

“What’d you do with all the cucumber?”

You hefted the bowl with a small huff and poured it into a giant mixer, flicking the thing on and coming back to stand on the other side of the bar from him, leaning casually on the countertop on your elbows “let him come up with a way to use them for dinner service. He came up with-“ you suddenly cut yourself off, standing up straight and looking at the fridge along the back wall “actually…”

Trailing off you started across the room before he could say anything, opening the fridge and grabbing a deli-container. As you made your way back to him, you grabbed a fork from a cup on the counter and scooped up a bite from within “try this”

Without question he took the fork from you, taking a bite and looking back up at you with wide eyes “wait that’s delicious”

“Right” you laughed at him, grabbing a second fork and taking your own bite from the container “basically a spicy quick pickle, went perfectly with the braised beef I’d already had going. We turned it into sliders and served it with this. Shit I wish I still had some to give to you it was so good” And Robby, to be honest, didn’t mind at all that you didn’t, listening to you talk about it, seeing the way you practically melted onto the counter as you recounted it, that was more than enough.

You packed back up the container and put it back into the fridge, stopping on your way to grab the dough from the mixer and a container of flour, grinning at him rather maliciously as you made your way back over to the space in front of him. “Now how’s your kneading Robinavitch”

He chocked slightly on a laugh at the question, watching you spread flour out on the counter and place the dough on top of that, giving it a small slap as you smiled back at him.

It was five in the morning, he had to be at work in two hours, you had him doing manual labor in the kitchen where you worked, and there was nowhere else Robby would rather be.

You’d been holding yourself together rather well all things considered.

You weren’t sure if it just hadn’t hit yet, if you were bound to break later, if you were unhealthily shoving every feeling too far below the surface, but to be honest right now you didn’t care. You were tucked into an empty room in the Pitt and you would be damned if you were going to cry at Robby’s place of work.

Then he walked in.

No matter how many times you had been in this hospital without it being an emergency he came with the same expression every time. Brows furrowed in concentration, eyes soft with concern, hands reaching out to softly prod, desperate to figure out what was wrong before you could tell him, desperate to solve your every issue. It was strangely comforting as he did it this time.

He was asking you questions, bent down slightly to stare directly into your eyes, looking for any sign that would tell him what was wrong, why you were here.

And you cracked.

A single tear slipped out and you couldn’t stop it. Your breathing picked up and stuttered as you fought against the lump in your throat, fought to keep everything under control, fought to swallow it all back down.

But Robby noticed it, of course Robby noticed it. There was a brief look of panic that flashed across his face before the mask was yanked back into place, a hand coming up before you could pull back to wipe away the tear with his thumb, leaning even closer, dominating your field of vision “Honey please, tell me what’s wrong”

You were worrying him. That’s what made you get it under control, what sparked you to tamp everything back down, to take a deep breath. You were worrying him and you didn’t like that expression it put on his face.

“Nothing it’s-” you pushed his hand away from your face, tilting it up to look at the ceiling as you blinked back the tears, taking a deep breath before speaking “nothing it’s stupid”

His hand dropped without issue from your face down to your hip, his thumb rubbing slow, soft circles into the area “It’s not stupid” and he said it so simply, so conclusively that you couldn’t help but start to believe it “now tell me what’s going on”

You watched him for a moment, the furrow in his brow, the way his eyes never once strayed from you, before you cast your gaze across the room, finding yourself unable to look at him as you said it “On my way back from the restaurant I-“ another pause, a slight break in your voice, a deep breath “I got mugged”

And because you weren’t watching him, weren’t totally paying attention to all that was around you, you didn’t notice the way he went still at your words, the way his entire body tensed, the way his expression went completely blank, before you were talking again.

“He took by bag it’s got, fuck, it’s got everything: my wallet, my phone, my keys” you could feel yourself starting to spiral again, could feel the grief and the panic start to swell before you looked back at him to see the almost blank stare, the way he seemed to look through you rather than at you “I’m sorry I didn’t know where else to go”

That seemed to snap him out of it. His entire expression softening as his hands came up to capture your face in them, cradling your head between them as he shook his slightly “no no no you did the right thing, you come here. You always come here okay?”

You nodded numbly, barely processing the words as he spoke.

“Good okay now I really need to know are you hurt anywhere”

You sniffed quietly, shaking your head before you could properly think about the question “I don’t think so he pushed me down and kicked me in the side but it doesn’t-“

He was reaching down for your shirt before you could finish your sentence, stopping himself forcibly as soon as he grabbed it, eyes flicking back up to yours for permission “please can I-“ he didn’t finish the question, didn’t need to as you were already nodding.

You looked away as he lifted your shirt, didn’t want to see the damage that had been done, didn’t need to based on the sharp inhale that Robby let out at the sight of it, the way his jaw clenched visibly, his hands tightening their hold on your shirt as he looked it over.

Swallowing, you watched him as he lowered a hand to probe softly at the area, eyes flicking up to meet yours at the hiss that left you as soon as he touched it. His voice gruff but soft “I know I’m sorry”

You felt like a child the way you sat on the bed, your lip wobbling as the confession escaped you “Robby I want to go home”

His expression fell at your words, the professional mask fully dropping as he nodded and let go of your shirt “It looks like your ribs are just bruised but I’d really like you to get a chest x-ray”

And to be frank you were too tired to fight him on it in that moment, no matter how badly you wanted to. A thought that must have shown on your face as Robby sighed, crumpling slightly on the spot as an anxious hand came up to run through the hairs on the base of his neck. “You shouldn’t stay at your place until we can change the locks” he finally conceded “let me talk to Dana about getting Jack here to cover for me and I’ll take you back to mine”

You smiled softly at that, looking up at him gratefully and only upon seeing the corners of your mouth tick up did Robby start to relax, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly at the sight as he moved back just enough to give you space to step down, placing a comforting hand at your back as he led you back to the nurses’ station.

Dana was nothing but a force of pure sympathy the second she connected eyes with you. Up and out of her chair before you were fully at the desk, engulfing you in a warm hug before you could get a word out, a “Oh sweetheart I’m so sorry” whispered softly into your hair.

A slightly warmer than hollow chuckle left you at that as you melted into her arms, rocking her back and forth slightly before letting her go, giving her arm an appreciative squeeze as she let it fall back “thank you Dana”

The corner of her mouth ticked up at that as she put her hand over yours to give it a soft reassuring squeeze before nodding back at Robby who immediately stepped in to take her place, standing practically at your hip as a large hand ran comfortingly up and down your back “Dana can you give Jack a call see if he can cover for me”

“Called him the minute she walked in” she answered easily, making her way back around the desk “he’s leaving as soon as he can, should be here within the hour”

He frowned slightly at the news but still nodded appreciatively, head snapping across the floor with a huff as someone called out his name asking for him in one of the rooms. He sent Dana a look, silently asking her a question she answered without having to think about it “go I got her”

Still he turned to you with a frown, another question sent silently you were already nodding at, taking a step back from him and wrapping your arms around yourself “go I’m good”

Still he stayed rooted on the spot, an internal debate playing out on his face making the corners of your mouth tick up again, nodding back towards the room that had asked for him in response “really I’ll be okay here”

With a sharp exhale he conceded, finally seeming to make up his mind. Taking a second, he shed his stethoscope followed by his hoodie, slipping it around your shoulders without asking, helping you shove your arms into the holes and zipping it up for you, hand resting on the zipper for just a bit too long as he looked you over once more “you need anything-”

“Dana will know where to find you” you answered for him with a small smile, watching one grow on his face in response as he nodded, giving your shoulder a soft squeeze before shooting Dana a silent look and heading off across the floor.

“Come on kid I’ve got a chair back here for you” Dana called you back from watching Robby disappear through the doors, directing you to a roller chair behind the desk with a pat on the seat.

“Am I allowed to be back here?” You asked hesitantly, perching yourself on the seat next to her.

She shrugged in response, eyes glued on to the screen before her as she typed something rapidly “Sure just if Gloria asks you’re a nursing student”

A laugh huffed out of you at that as you nodded, relaxing further into the seat burying yourself deeper into Robby’s sweatshirt in response “Nursing student got it”

The hour came and went slowly, you feeling more and more useless and in the way with each new emergency that came through the doors.

Robby visited whenever he could, never able to stop by the desk for longer than a second or two but always carrying a new snack each time he did. The pile of sandwiches, protein bars, apples, and cups of water was growing to a nearly hazardous size on the table before you as you took each from him without complaint when you realized how relieved he seemed to get each time you did.

Rounding the counter this time you were a little relieved to see his hands empty for once, forearms resting on the countertop before you as he leaned on it casually, giving you one quick check before turning his attention to Dana. “Any word on Abbot?”

The woman shook her head with a frown “Not in the last few minutes” She confirmed what you already knew “though there’s supposed to be an accident blocking the interstate he’s likely caught in that” and you tried not to deflate further at the news, tried not to make everyone pity you even more.

Robby, however, seemed to notice, he always did.

Seeming to debate something with himself for a second Robby hesitated as his eyes scanned you, taking a moment before speaking “if I give you the key to my place are you okay getting there on your own?”

You perked up at the question, straightening in your chair “are you sure?”

He nodded easily “I’ll be right behind you”

And you tried to tamp down your excitement, but truthfully you were more than ready to get out of the ER by this point “I’d really like that”

He chuckled softly at your answer, seeming to note just how happy the proposition made you as he motioned wordlessly for you to follow him back to a row of lockers, opening up one of them and rooting into his familiar backpack for his keys.

“Go back, take a shower, help yourself to whatever you need, just be careful yeah?” He asked you purposefully, dipping his head slightly to properly catch your line of sight “And call me if you feel anything off with your ribs I’m not joking”

You nodded gladly at that, grabbing the keys from him carefully, giving them a quick inspection.

“My cars parked in the third row, left side” he instructed with a soft smile making you furrow your brows.

“I’m not taking your car”

And for once his smile didn’t drop at all when you argued with him, instead his face stayed exactly the same, the corners perhaps ticking up even further, as if he had been expecting it “yes you are”

“What about-“

“I’ll walk” he interrupted you before you could even ask with a small chuckle, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning one shoulder against the locker next to his, settling in.

“Robby I can walk”

“You’re insane if you think I’m going to be okay with letting you walk back alone after what just happened”

“I’m fine” the protest sounded weak even to yourself.

He only raised a brow at that, silently daring you to double down on that, before he released his posture with a sigh, taking a step closer to you, dipping his head slightly to better meet your eye “please, can you just for once let me take care of you”

You couldn’t help but snort at that, shaking your head softly “I’m not great at that”

“Really I hadn’t noticed”

You smiled at the sarcasm, at the familiarity of the tease, at the man who seemed beyond willing to greatly inconvenience himself for your sake “Fine I’ll take your car”

A smug grin grew on his face at that, nodding appreciatively as he straightened and took a step back “good text me when you get back” You nodded at that, watching as he began to take small steps away, dragging his feet as he returned to the ER, throwing back one more comment before he disappeared “and if I find out you filled up my tank on your way back there will be hell to pay”

You snorted at that threat, biting down your smile as you watched him disappear without comment, shaking your head as you looked down at the keys in your hand.

You had a least a few days before he would notice that anyways.

It was a sight he wasn’t even aware he had been missing, coming home to the lights already being on. There was a new warmth permeating the space he wasn’t used to greeting him as he opened his door. In that moment he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to do without it from now on.

Standing in the doorway the smell hit him first. Citrus and fat cooking, fresh herbs and spices mingling in the air. Soft music playing from the Bluetooth speakers he barely remembered owning.

He shut the door behind him as he entered and you spun around at the sound of it, sending him a smile over your shoulder he found himself already returning.

His mind was completely fixated on the fact that you were here, in his apartment, cooking at his stove, wearing his clothes.

Your wet hair told him you’d done as he suggested and took a shower, the familiar looking sweatpants and shirt telling him you had raided his dresser too. He couldn’t help but wonder if he refused to let you return them was there a chance he’d get to see you in them again?

“What’s going on here?”

“Recipe developing” you answered eagerly, Robby spotting the dozens of pages of hastily scribbled notes he had long since learned to associate with your development process. “We have pan seared duck over a citrus kale salad”

He couldn’t help but frown slightly down at the dish, furrowing his brows as he asked “where’d you find all this?”

“Over at mine” You answered simply, avoiding his gaze as you started to assemble a plate “stole the spare I gave you and popped over to raid the fridge”

And god did he not want to let that go, to tell you how unnecessary, how dumb it was to risk something like running into the guy who has your keys for some ingredients. To tell you that if you wanted food he would have gladly sent you back with his credit card.

But for the first time since his shift had started you seemed lighter. There was more ease in each of your smiles, a soft sway in your hips to the music, a happiness in your expression as you carefully arranged the food on the plate. He realized that he couldn’t ruin it.

Instead, he just watched as you assembled a bite for him. A ritual he was more than used to every time he was recipe testing for you. You always took the time to gather a bit of each component meant to go together in what you declared to be the perfect bite on a fork for him to try, always wordlessly passing the utensil over and looking up at him eagerly.

And every time he delayed taking that bite just a little. Taking the time to appreciate the way you looked up at him, eyes blown wide in anticipation, a small proud smile on your face as you waited patiently for him.

Taking the fork from you he brought it to his mouth. Biting down on your so-called perfect bite and finding himself completely unable to stop his entire expression from souring immediately.

Your face fell instantly, sending Robby into a tailspin as he desperately tried to quickly do damage control, speaking around the food still held in his mouth as he tried to force it down.

“no no it’s good” He chocked through the words, each coming out through a coughing fit as the food stuck to his throat.

He heard you snort loudly at that as you reached for a glass from the cabinet beside him and moved to fill it up with water “are you seriously trying to lie to me right now”

He gladly took the water from you, draining the glass quicker than he thought he was capable of, taking a deep breath once he finished, trying to force the memory of the dish from his palate as he forced a smile “I swear it’s not that bad”

You shook your head at him, lips still tilted up in amusement he was counting as a win “You are a dirty liar Michael Robinavitch”

He opened his mouth to respond, getting just a little too hung up on the way his name sounded in your voice, how soft, sweet, organic is sounded even as you teased him.

But you beat him to it, taking the fork and assembling a bite for yourself

“No I wouldn’t-“ he tried to interject but the utensil was in your mouth before he could stop you.

Immediately your face was puckering just as his did, wasting no time in bending over the sink and spitting the food out as he wordlessly filled a glass of water for you.

“Oh god what was that” you gasped out as you took the glass from him, downing the water in seconds and grimacing.

He couldn’t help but laugh at your expression, taking the now empty glass from you and putting it back on the counter.

“Oh my god and you swallowed that are you okay?” You were reaching for him before he could react, hands coming up to his forehead to check his temperature only making him laugh harder as his hands came up to encircle your wrists, holding them there rather than pull them away.

“I think I’ll pull through”

You pulled your arms from his grasp with a snort, turning back to your pages of notes. “I just don’t understand why it was so acidic. What the fuck kind of lemons do you keep here?”

“Here?” He asked “you found a lemon here?”

You furrowed your brow up at him, pausing your search as you answered “yeah. Lemon in your fridge”

He simply shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest, “I don’t think I’ve ever bought a lemon before”

You didn’t seem to know how to answer that for a second, your mouth opening and closing as you processed his words “you and I are going to talk about your lack of citrus appreciation at some point, but better question right now is if you didn’t buy the lemon how’d it get there”

He thought back briefly, the only logical answer coming to him and making him regret having to admit it “I think I bought a lime once”

“Michael”

The way you sighed his name like that almost made it worth it. The subtle uptick in the corners of his mouth spurring you on.

“Michael how long ago”

He chuckled at that, running a sheepish hand through his hair as he grimaced.

“Michael no”

“I mean it couldn’t have been that long ago”

“It was yellow!”

“I feel the bigger issue here is you can’t tell the difference between a moldy lime and a lemon”

“I thought it was just an old lemon!” and you were laughing again, Robby happily drinking up the sound as the two of you turned to glare down at the admittedly beautiful duck that was now ruined. “Are we going to die?”

“No” he scoffed, taking the plate off the counter and making his way over to the garbage “probably not”

“Oh that’s reassuring”

He could only shrug in response, sending you a cheeky wink before dramatically tossing the whole dish into the trash.

You glared at him at that, crossing your arms over your chest even as a twinge of amusement danced over your expression “This is why Gloria is on you about your patient satisfaction scores just so you know”

He groaned at that, returning the plate to the sink to be washed “I knew putting you next to Dana this afternoon would be a mistake”

“Eh you’ll get over it fruitcake”

The pizza Robby ordered instead of your carefully prepared duck was delicious but you couldn’t help but note the theme of the day seemed to be you screwing things up and Robby swooping in to fix it. Always without question, always without judgement, always without any expectation of anything in return.

A petty part of you wanted to be annoyed about it, to keep score in your head of all the things he did for you so you could do something of equal value in return. A part of you wondered if that was why you felt the need do those small things for him today, fill up his car with gas, make him dinner, you already had a mental list of all the things he was starting to run low on in his cabinets for the next time you went grocery shopping.

But another part of you relished being taken care of like that. Relished being able to let go of the reins for just a little bit and trust someone else to steer you in the right direction. Another part of you knew that you liked being that person for him in return, liked making him smile as you did little things to make his life a little easier, liked knowing you knew him well enough to have that kind of impact.

You were glad now more than ever that Robby had never returned the book you left at his place from back when he was sick. Being able to curl up on his couch with a blanket and a cup of tea he had made you without even asking first was an exceptionally comfortable place to be.

There was no awkward tension between the two of you as he sat on the other side and read his book as well, no need on his part to try and host you and no need on yours to provide any sort of conversation. There was no expectation in the air, simply two people existing comfortably tangentially to one another.

You honestly weren’t sure how you were supposed to go back to your empty apartment after all this.

Robby hummed softly from the other side of the couch before closing his book, setting it on the coffee table, running a tired hand over his face as he sat up a little straighter.

“Bedtime?” You asked with a small smirk, watching him over the brim of your cup as you took a sip.

“Bedtime” he nodded affirmatively, pushing himself to his feet and giving his back a big stretch.

“Goodnight Robby” you hummed at him as you went back to your book, hearing a small huff of a chuckle escape him as he slipped past the couch back towards his room.

“I’ll let you have the room after I change” You paid no real attention to the words as he disappeared, letting your eyes skim over the words with no real thought before you heard the sound of his door open again a few minutes later, looking over your shoulder too see him standing in the doorway clutching a pillow and blanket he didn’t seem like he was giving up anytime soon.

His expression alone told you exactly what you needed to know “Absolutely not”

He chuckled at that, softly shaking his head as he made his way over to the couch “I knew getting you to agree blindly to it was too good to be true”

“Go sleep in your bed you psycho I’m fine on the couch”

He seemed to ignore the statement entirely as he set his pillow on the side of the couch he had been sitting earlier, “I’m turning off the lights in five minutes so I can sleep, it’ll be much easier to read if you’d just go in my room”

“It’d be much easier to sleep if you’d just go in your room” you countered, watching as Robby arranged the blanket over the part of the couch you weren’t sitting on with a small sigh, still refusing to acknowledge your words.

And a part of you felt a little guilty for fighting back, for always fighting back. He’d just gotten off a shift, a rather busy shift you interrupted by going to the Pitt without really needing to, the poor man needed sleep and though you weren’t willing to throw him out of his bed he clearly was just as unwilling to let you take the couch. This was a stalemate plain and simple.

“We could share?” You nearly cringed on the question as it came out, face starting to run hot as Robby froze on the spot as he processed the words, gaze snapping up suddenly to meet yours.

And maybe he could read just how stubborn you were going to be about this as well, maybe he came to the same conclusion as you did, because instead of pushing back like you almost expected him to he spoke “are you sure?”

“Yeah” you willed yourself to be normal about it, to be chill, to ignore the eagerness that edged your tone as the word spilled out of you “I’ve always wondered if I snore, be nice to have a witness”

He snorted at that with a fond shake of his head, taking a moment before bending down and picking back up his pillow and nodding back towards his bedroom “If the answers yes then I’m coming right back out here”

You smiled back at him as you set down your book, moving in front of him to his bedroom “oh that’s much nicer than what I’d do”

Chuckling as he placed his pillow back on one side of the bed, the two of you moved in a strange tandem, the ritual of pulling back the covers and getting ready beside one another feeling strangely familiar “and what does that mean?”

You sent him a cheeky wink as you got into bed and settled down on the pillows, watching as he made his way across the room to the light switch “don’t snore and you won’t need to find out”

With a shake of his head he took a second by the light switch, giving you a onceover from across the room with a soft smile before turning off the light and making his way back, the mattress dipping slightly as you felt him settle in beneath the covers.

And you couldn’t help but acknowledge how awkward the situation was starting to become even with how smoothly it had started. The two of you sharing a bed that easily fit you, a good amount of empty space between your two bodies, both of you terrified of breaching the others personal bubble.

You became cognizant of your very breath, sure that even performing that necessary bodily function could be felt by him.

“We should start at the DMV tomorrow”

The statement pierced through the silence suddenly, taking you so much by surprise all you could do was hum in response.

“To replace your license” his answer came simply, as if it were obvious “bank should probably be next. We can stop by your place in the morning to grab all your documents before we go”

And you couldn’t fully process his words in this moment. Couldn’t get past the one pronoun he had opened with “we?”

“Yeah I mean” You could feel him shrug more than see it in the dark “I’ve got the day off tomorrow”

“You’ve got the day off tomorrow?” You asked in genuine surprise “Since when?”

“Jeeze you have my whole schedule memorized?” Yes. The answer was yes. “Abbot owes me one, it’s no big deal”

You were pushing back before you could even think the words through “you don’t have to-“

“I want to”

A tense silence permeated the air. An unnatural stillness the words settled into. “They’re basic errands, it’ll be boring”

“Not if you’re there” and again the answer was so simple, so natural, so obvious.

You were moving before you could talk yourself out of it, acting purely on instinct rather than logic, on want rather than restriction.

Robby reacted on instinct as well, arm coming up and out of your way as you pushed yourself into his side, tucking under your neck as you slotted your head on his shoulder, placing one arm over his stomach and entangling your legs with his, giving the man a small squeeze in appreciation.

He froze as soon as you came into contact, muscles tensing beneath your touch as you settled into him, remaining like that just long enough to make you worry.

“I’m sorry is this-“ You started to pull away as you spoke, worried you had crossed some sort of line, worried you had ruined everything for yourself.

“No” the word left him quickly and maybe a bit to loud for the otherwise silent room, the arm under your head snapping into action to curl around you and pull you back into him, pressing your face softly into his chest “no it’s okay-it’s good”

Accepting that you tightened your hold on him and buried yourself a little further into the comfort, whispering into the dark room “Thank you Robby. For everything”

“It’s nothing” you could feel his voice rumble within him beneath your head, could feel yourself rise and fall with his chest with each breath.

“It’s not nothing” you protested softly, rubbing soft patterns into his side with your fingers “not to me”

There was nothing but silence in the air for the next few seconds, a weird feeling of vulnerability around you that you didn’t feel the need to shy away from, before you felt a soft kiss being placed onto the crown of your head, the arm wrapped around you tightening its hold.

“Anytime honey”

Final

#dr robby imagine #dr. robby x reader #dr robby x reader #fanfic #reader insert #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #x reader #doctor robby x reader #doctor robby x you #dr. michael “robby” robinavitch x reader #dr. robby #dr. michael robinavitch #dr. robby imagine #michael robinavitch x reader

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baepsays · 2 days ago

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Musician Geto Suguru and his never-ending beef with his bandmates over your attention.

The thing is, as their main producer and just a very sought-after producer in the industry, he's barely able to leave his studio. Things were different before the scandal, before he was reintroduced to you, and before you two went official. His schedule was simple then—studio, recordings, shows, parties and clubs he was a regular at, getting high out of his mind on coke and weed, and going back to his studio. He barely saw any light, and his apartment felt foreign; hotel rooms were more homely than his apartment. Now it's lived in, with traces of you and the life he is building with you. Your—and now also his—scoundrel cat's claw marks are everywhere; there are stains on the couch, and all the smooth and shiny furniture is now matted. He also prefers his home studio, which he never came around to using, much better than the one at the company.

To simply say, things are mundane in the best way possible. Having lunches and dinners with his bandmates and just talking about things other than work or how he's losing himself was much more fun, he has to say. Especially when no one is throwing punches at him backstage, ahem—Sukuna—ahem. Of course it took more effort to carve out this new usual than how he used to just live off of drugs, caffeine, burning through cigarettes, and barely any food. He much prefers the boring days where he just goes from work to home to see you only at the end of the day, of course, not more than when you come to their shows. But he'll take anything, just to have you around for more than the mornings before and nights after work; it's a privilege. Even having you for more than just 3 shows for a tour is a blessing, due to the vast difference in your schedules.

Which is why he truly looks forward to days when you drop by to have lunch with him. Those weekdays are always a highlight of his week. So when he has to compete with his own bandmates for your attention or the home-cooked lunch you make for him to eat with him in the privacy of his studio, preferably sitting on his lap.

He wants to fight his own bandmates as violently as he used to. Choso, he gets; after all, Choso is the sweetest of them all; it sometimes does not make any sense to him how he ended up in this edgy rock band. But then again, where was Suguru going to find a vocalist and guitarist of Choso’s caliber? Yet still, Suguru does not appreciate it when he takes up your time when you two exchange recipes. Then there is Toji, always barging in to steal the precious food you made for Suguru, eating up most of the food while always making excuses about just one small bite. Suguru would have made Shiu (their CEO) kick Toji out of the company itself, just because of this petty reason, if there was anyone else better on the drums than him.

Then there is Sukuna. Probably the one who pisses him off the most. Because why is the broody, scary, and one of the quietest men that Suguru knows like a social butterfly around you? Sure, you legally represent their band, but why is he so chatty around you about everything and anything? Is it not enough that he has to deal with one social butterfly, aka the nation's most desirable man and industry's favorite actor, Gojo Satoru, snitching out Suguru to you? There's now also Sukuna, snitching to you about how Suguru skipped meals to hole himself up in his studio for days or smoked more than two cigarettes a day. The worst part is when you drop by, you text in the group chat you are in with them to see if they would be at work that day. And you bring extra food for them or invite them sometimes to eat out with you two (and yet Toji still manages to steal off of Suguru's plate), and if it's just a you and Suguru kind of day, you still see them before or after your boyfriend locks you up in his studio with him.

Just like today, when you dropped by with a packed lunchbox for him and got roped up, yet again, with his bandmates. He got your text at exactly 13:34 PM that you entered the building, and sure, his studio was on the 19th floor, but it took only 5 minutes or so to get there. Unfortunately for him, he had to wait more than 30 minutes for you because you texted him you were just a floor below, in their practice room with his bandmates. And when 40 minutes were about to pass, Suguru had to essentially go down and abduct you by carrying you on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and making a run for it with your bag in his other hand. He could hear Sukuna yelling his name from behind, but he made it just in time to the elevator to get away with you.

“The only reason why I will ever go fully solo is because of your little fan club.” He walked into his studio while grumbling and with you still dangling on his shoulder.

“Issok, I will replace you.” He threw you on the black leather couch and lay on top of you, like he just fought an army of hungry coyotes and ran a marathon at the same time. “Hmm, I see you guys are scheming behind my back now.” He looked up at you from where he buried his face in your chest.

“I say it's very up front.” You giggled and pushed away the loose strands of his hair covering his face, and he didn't reply. Instead, he lifted himself off of you to hover and then moved up to kiss you. It was sweet, smiling, warm faces basically pressed together. Everything still feels surreal, how mundane life is right now for him considering even just two years ago the kind of mess he got himself into. That how his life looked doomed after that moment, and yet here he was.

“I have this new track in the works.” He broke off the kiss and hovered over you with his hooded eyes and a smirk so sleazy, it always made you wonder about your life choices. “Oh, am I hearing it?” You raised your brows at him, and his smirk only widened into a half smile.

“Nope. You're getting on it.” Which basically translates to, ‘I am about to make you moan, and the recording is going into the track.’ You threw your head back into the couch as you tried to push him away and groaned in annoyance. Which was not much avail to you when, despite your efforts, he nuzzled his face in your neck and started leaving a trail of kisses from the base of your neck to your jaw, then up to your lips. And when his lips met yours, a small moan just absentmindedly left your lips as his lips slotted with yours. Suguru’s lips stretched into a big smile while his eyes remained closed, and he continued kissing you until he stopped to murmur into your mouth.

“Ooh. Save all of that for the track.”

FIND MORE OF MY WORKS HERE II FIND MORE ABOUT MUSICIAN GETO

a/n: dividers by @/hyuneskkami

you can think about this as the epilogue to the musician geto au :3c which will take time. I have not graduated yet lol fuck lab exams and i am brainrotted by prince geto soooooo. you can assume what the scandal may beeeee you will be finding that and more band dynamics in the fic!

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satrs · 17 days ago

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A/N; working on alll of ur requests rn sweeties!!! It's gonna take me a good while tho, so here is a lil sum sum I wrote abt the guys sum time ago ^^ Hope u enjoy my late night yapping and plzzzz be patient with meeee, I didn't forget ur requests my lovelys!!!

Random/unpopular headcanons of Weird stuff they do! (MDNI! SFW ans NSFW)

ZAYNE

SFW

Drink his coffee HORENDOUSLY. It looks like a brew straight out of hell. Honestly, it’s closer to motor oil than anything drinkable.

Eats like a pregnant woman with the wildest cravings. I’m convinced he mixes sweets with damn near everything, pickles with ice cream, shit like that.

Uhhh, I also think he’s messy??? Like, his house looks tidy at first glance— floors clean, dishes done, nothing crazy. But if you actually live with him, you realize he doesn’t have time to handle allat!!! There’s always clothes flying around, jackets tossed over chairs, hoodies crumpled on the couch, random socks disappearing into the void. Not necessarily dirty clothes, just... clothes littered across the house. It's like he tries to stay organized, but life moves too fast and the laundry pile moves faster.

NSFW

Tries to optimize things. It's kinda weird but also hot??? "What if we adjust the angle by 12 degrees—oh. Oh, that's better."

One time, he came with one hand on the wall like a man in mourning and didn't say a word, just stood there. (Post-nut trauma pose lmaooo)

Looses track of time when he's with u. You've been at it for 3 hours with barely any break before he realized that he has 2 hours of sleep left before he has to get up for work. But he'll worry about that in the morning.

He's giving you a clinical review when you ride him. "Your pelvic tilt just now was exceptional. Ten out of ten."

SYLUS

Bro im ngl… i feel like he's a hoarder. Antique stuff probs like old pennies from 1500s or sum shi.

Props a history nerd on the low. Knows every event ever happening around the word from the stone age to modern times. (Rants to you about them sometimes)

Caffeine Dependency, But in odddd forms.He refuses to drink normal coffee so, instead, he's obsessed with fancy stuff like matcha lattes, cold brew espresso, or even herbal teas that are supposed to enhance mental focus. If you catch him on a "bad caffeine day," you'll see him get irritated if he had to settle for a drink that doesn't meet his exacting standards (He's gonna pull out the glock ain't he).

NSFW

Discovered his wax kink one time when candle wax happend to drip on him turing sexy time, and he moaned so loud it scared you. That's when you both began to involve wax as a main actor during the act more often.

Oh he's soooo horny when you patch him up after a deal gone wrong. Grows soooo hard when you're shocked self runs up to his all bloodied form:(( Just such big baby and a suckerrr for your nursing skills!!!

Guns are everywhere. Like, casually. Sometimes there's one just sitting on the nightstand, loaded, of course— the barrel practically staring at you while he's fucking you. It's kinda terrifying if you think about it too hard.

Okay, hear me out!!!! When he's really exhausted, like dead-on-his-feet exhausted, he comes home, takes a quick, half-awake shower, then just slumps onto the bed, still wet, still half-dressed, a lit cigar hanging from his lips as you ride him. He's barely doing anything, just lying there with this lazy, heavy-lidded look, letting you use him however you want. Smoke curling up toward the ceiling, his body all warm and loose under your hands. It’s messy, raw, and honestly addicting if you admit.

CALEB

SFW

Constantly challenges himself to do backflips in inappropriate places. "Bet I can flip off this railing" No, Caleb. You can't. But he does it anyway(urghhh). It's even grown to a point that he makes a quick backflip when you two meet up as agreeting mane. It's sooo embarrassing when the bystanders eye him but he thinks it's soooo cold LMAOOO

Caleb still doesn't know how to use a lot of things properly. He'll try to fix things around the house and end up breaking them worse than they were. You'll catch him watching YouTube tutorials, struggling with the basics of cooking, or just trying to figure out how something works.

NSFW

Tries to make you laugh mid-stroke. Literally says stuff like "What would you do if I'd start moonwalking right now?" You're crying laughing while he's still inside you.

He high fives you after sex. Every damn time. Yep. Its canon bc i said so!

Treats you on top as if he's ur personal trainer. "Yeahhh, get those megan-kness working. One, two, three— heyheyhey you gotta put your legs into it!“

XAVIER

SFW

Despite him sleeping so damn much, I feel like hes a light sleeper. If you move away slightly his eyes shoot open bruh. (They also glow in the dark and scare the shit out of you when ypu come back to the room after taking a piss)

Incredible memory for faces, but not names. He can remember every single detail about a person's face—the way they looked when they smiled, the exact way they tilted their head during conversation—but when it comes to their names? Not a clue. He js couldn't give less of a fuck.

Always late for your dates. At least half an hour. Not bc he's been sleeping but because he's so slowww man! You're so mad bc you can't teleport like a certain someone cough cough, but still manage to show up on time!!! And when he shows up he acts so innocent and clueless as if you didn't wait for him for half an hour.

NSFW

Thinks it's soooo sexy when you scold him. Say his full name with force and he's rock solidddd 'm tellin youuuu!!!

Always insists on so much foreplay it's frustrating. Don't get me wrong it's sexy! ....until it's been 45 minutes and you’re still begging for him to finally put it in.

Has a thing for u playing with his hair, especially if you pull it when he's eatin you out. But even if you just genuinely move it out of his face after a heated make-out shesh, he whines as if you got his dick in a headlock (you do).

RAFAYEL

Props has a journal and draws little doodles of you next to his entry of the day!! When he's feeling espacially romantic, he'll begin with a small doodle but get lost in it end end up drawing the most breathtaking portrait of you. He hides the journal too, a bit too embarrassed to show you his rambles of how much in love he is with you. Yeahhh for his eyes only!

Rafayel is full of bizarre superstitions. He's the type to refuse to walk under a ladder, always carries a lucky charm, and insists that everything happens for a reason. If you spill salt, you're definitely going to have to throw it over your left shoulder. Was a literal sea god but bad luck are the most of his worries ig...

His desk is a mess, but somehow everything is in its right place. Papers are scattered everywhere, but you can not touch them. He has his own chaotic filing system, and God help you if you try to reorganize anything.

NSFW

Sucker for you when ur in heels. I dare you to step on his foot by accident in heels!!(he almost came in his pants). Loves to fuck you in heels from that point onwards.

Ok so this is ridiculous but I have this headcanon that you both made out in the ocean once and got so into it that you didn't notice rafayel turned into a merman until his fishtail grazed your legs and you fucking screamed for your life. He had to make it up with some sloppy toppy head underwater ofc!!!

Will literally stop mid stroke to get his sketchbook and sketch you when he has the urge to capture your beautiful form splawed out for him. Like, this is for him, like.... oh my godddd yu're so perfect???

#lec talk ✧˖°#love and deepspace #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #l&ds smut #caleb smut #sylus smut #rafayel smut #xavier smut #zayne smut #♡˳ᴸ&ᴰˢ #◛⑅·˚ ᵂᴼᴿᴷ

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bloomzone · 20 days ago

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good habits vs bad habits

So I've been thinking a lot lately about habits and some of the habits we think are helping us are actually making our lives harder. So let's talk about the habits that actually matter, the ones that are obviously terrible (but we do them anyway) and those sneaky habits that look good on paper but are quietly sabotaging your life !

The actually good habits (that don't require a PhD in self-discipline)

Morning Water Before Coffee: ur body just went 8 hours without water it's basically a human raisin. One glass of water before you caffeinate yourself into productivity mode helps everything work better. ur brain, ur skin, ur mood, ur ability to not feel like garbage at 2 PM.

The 10-Minute tidy: set a timer for 10 minutes and just put stuff back where it belongs. Not deep cleaning just returning things to their homes. This prevents the avalanche effect where your space gets so messy that cleaning feels like something impossible clothes back to the closet , that messy book shelf those simple stuff ..

Phone goes to sleep before u do: Put your phone in another room 30 minutes before bed or far from ur bed . ur brain needs time to shift gears from "consuming information" mode to "actually resting" mode. That last scroll through TikTok isn't relaxing you girlie it's like feeding your brain another cup of coffee and wondering why you can't sleep.

The sunday brain dump: spend 15 minutes every sunday writing down everything you need to do that week. brain-to-paper transfer , this stops your Monday brain from spending energy trying to remember what it forgot while also trying to function like a human.

The obviously bad habits ( and we keep doing them anyw)

The snooze button addiction: u are literally training your brain to ignore your own decisions. Every time you hit snooze, you're telling yourself "my word means nothing." Plus that extra 9 minutes of sleep is garbage sleep that makes you feel worse not better .

Stress eating ur feelings: food becomes the solution to boredom, anxiety, celebration, sadness ... . You're not actually hungry you're using food like a drug to change how you feel. The problem is it works for about 10 minutes, then you feel worse AND like sh!t

The comparison scroll: opening Instagram when you're already feeling bad about yourself is like pouring salt on a wound and expecting it to heal faster. You're voluntarily looking at everyone else's highlight reel while sitting in your own behind-the-scenes chaos and u start acting like a victim for the next days cuz u think u are not pretty as x

Saying yes when u mean no: this isn't being nice it's being dishonest y'know you're lying to other people about your capacity and to yourself about your priorities. Every yes to something you don't want is a no to something you do want.

The "good" habits that are actually destroying you

The productivity porn addiction: u spend more time organizing your to-do lists, finding the perfect app, and watching productivity YouTube videos than actually doing things. You've turned productivity into procrastination with extra steps. Your 47 different planning systems aren't making you more efficient they're making you feel busy while accomplishing nothing.

The morning routine obsession: You've created a 2-hour morning routine that requires waking up at 4 AM, journaling, meditating, working out, reading, making a green smoothie. One day you sleep in and the whole thing crumbles. Now you feel like a failure because you didn't do your 39 -step morning ritual (bruh 💀). A good morning routine should make your life easier, not turn you into a slave to your own schedule.

The Information overload trap: You're subscribed to 47 newsletters, follow 23 self-improvement podcasts, and have 12 books about habits on your nightstand. You think consuming information about improvement IS improvement no it's not. You're using learning as a way to avoid doing. Knowledge without action is just expensive entertainment .

The perfectionist planning: u spend three hours planning a workout routine that's so detailed and perfect that you never actually start it. You research the optimal time, the best exercises, the perfect playlist, the ideal pre-workout snack. Meanwhile you could have just gone for a walk. The perfect plan you never follow is worse than the imperfect plan you actually do.

The self-care performance: You've turned self-care into another item on your to-do list. Face masks on Sunday, meditation app every morning, gratitude journal every night. But you're doing it because you think you should, not because it actually makes you feel better. Real self-care might be saying no to plans, sleeping in, or eating pizza without guilt. But that doesn't look as good on Instagram so have ur OWN self-care ritual u are not forced to do a face mask on Sunday maybe it's a packed day, u can do it even on a Wednesday ?

The busy badge of honor: u wear exhaustion like a medal. "I'm so busy" becomes your identity. You pack your schedule so full that you don't have time to think about whether you actually like your life. Being busy feels productive yes yes but often it's just a way to avoid dealing with the fact that you're not doing what you actually want to do.

🧾 - last note !

You don't need a perfect system but u need a few things that actually work for your actual life, not the life you think you should have , start small, be consistent !

helpful blog - how to build a habit

@bloomzone

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hhaechansmoless · 3 months ago

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Six Strings, Zero Clues

pairing: mark lee x reader

trope: strangers to lovers, uni au

description: Mark Lee thinks he’s the next big indie artist. You think he’s the reason you have eye bags. After weeks of listening to his 2 AM guitar sessions through your ceiling, you finally snap and put up a very direct complaint on the bulletin board. He, of course, does not take the hint. Now you have to march up there and personally make him stop—except it turns out Mark might actually be kind of… cute? Annoying, but cute.

Part of the Notice Me (literally) series!

warnings: food mentioned, language, second hand embarassment? slander too I suppose

w/c: 7.1k

a/n: phew its here and um this was supposed to be some silly little thing for all the dreamies djsdk (by the time this is up the masterlist for the series will also be out but try to guess who's who!! i've left a few hints hehe) also i dont play the guitar but if a mark swoops in offering to teach me i will not say no.

taglist

The printer whirs, spitting out the paper, and you snatch it up before it even lands in the tray.

“Okay, but have you considered not escalating this?” Giselle asks, sprawled across the common room couch, half-watching you and half-scrolling through her phone.

You don’t bother with a response. Instead, you dig through the mess of random supplies on the bookshelf, hunting for tape.

“Like,” she continues, “what if he’s going through something? What if this is his only coping mechanism? Are you really gonna be the villain in some dude’s healing arc?”

You pause just long enough to glare at her. “Bold of you to assume I’m not the one going through something.”

Giselle hums, tilting her head in consideration. “I mean. Fair.”

You find the tape—buried under a pack of sketch pens—and tear off a piece with your teeth. Giselle doesn’t even blink. You’ve clearly been driven past the point of rational behavior.

The common room is nearly empty at this hour. The vending machine hums in the corner, a lone microwave beeps from the communal kitchen, and some guy is asleep at one of the tables, his face smushed into an open textbook. Outside, the campus is quiet, bathed in the dull orange glow of streetlights.

And above all that—above you—the same godforsaken sound drifts through the ceiling. A soft, melancholic strumming, like the soundtrack of a coming-of-age movie that just won’t end.

Newsflash: we’re not. This is a dorm, not some group therapy tent at a shitty music festival, and I promise you, no one is having a life-changing moment listening to your sad indie ballads through these paper-thin walls. I don’t know what heartbreak you’re working through, but please—either take it somewhere else, invest in some headphones, or play at a reasonable hour like a normal human being.

You slap the notice onto the bulletin board and smooth the tape with your palm. Giselle huffs as she gets up from the couch to read the piece of paper you’ve put up.

NOTICE: TO INDIE GUITAR GUY

Some of us just crawled out of finals week held together by caffeine and regret, and the only thing we want to hear at 2 AM is nothing. But instead, every night without fail, you’re out here strumming away like we’re all living in some coming-of-age movie where you’re the main character.

If not, I will personally start hunting you down to cut your guitar strings. Try me, asshole.

“You do realize you could just go up there and knock, right?”

You cross your arms. “And then what? Have a conversation?”

“That is generally how human interaction works, yes.”

You shake your head. “No. If I knock, I have to be nice. And if I’m nice, I can’t say everything I want to say. This is a better solution.”

Giselle gestures toward the board. “Your better solution is an unhinged public rant?”

“Yes.”

She squints at the paper, then snorts. “You threatened to cut his guitar strings.”

“Because if I get my hands on them, I will.” You shove a thumbtack through the top of the page for extra measure, pinning it onto the board with a little more force than necessary. The other notices tremble in protest—flyers for dorm cleaning (which you think would definitely be a scam), someone looking for a new roommate, and a very questionable ad for adopting a cat together.

You furrow your eyebrows at the last one. Whoever put that up actually lacks brain power because pets aren’t allowed in the building and the RA can easily see what’s on this board.

You turn away from the bulletin board, brushing your hands together like you’ve just solved a great moral dilemma. “Okay,” you say, “I’m going to bed.”

Giselle barely glances up from her phone. “Good luck with that.”

You ignore her and make your way toward the hallway, already fantasizing about the blissful, uninterrupted sleep that will hopefully be in your future. Maybe you were a little dramatic, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

And if Indie Guitar Guy has even an ounce of common sense, he’ll take the hint.

And right now, you’re pretty sure you’re experiencing it firsthand.

The placebo effect is when your brain tricks your body into thinking something is working, even when it isn’t. Like when people take sugar pills in medical trials and somehow start feeling better just because they believe they got real medicine. It’s mind over matter, proof that sometimes, the illusion of change is just as powerful as change itself.

For the next two days, you sleep like a rock.

The thought of guitar guy reading your notice, and finally stopping his antics makes all your post-exam exhausted brain latch onto the idea like it’s a lifeline. It doesn’t matter how it worked—whether it was shame, guilt, or a sudden revelation that 2 AM concerts aren’t a personality trait. What matters is that it’s quiet. No more strumming drifting through the walls, no more tossing and turning while waiting for him to get tired.

You wake up feeling victorious.

For the first time in weeks, you don’t have to drag yourself out of bed like an extra in a zombie movie. Your coffee tastes better, the air smells cleaner, and even your 8 AM lecture seems bearable. Giselle eyes you over her cereal as you practically float around the dorm, humming to yourself.

“Wow,” she says, shoveling another spoonful into her mouth. “I almost forgot what you’re like when you’re not being slowly driven to insanity.”

“You see?” You gesture at yourself. “This is what happens when people respect community living.”

By the third night, you almost forget he ever existed.

But of course, you were being delusional. Stupid, even. Because this dorm not only houses you and your friends, but also stupid boys who would probably not give a flying fuck about notices like the one you put up.

You rub your eyes vigorously, trying to scrub away the sleepiness. It’s past midnight and you should be cruising through your REM cycles right now. Instead, you listen to the strumming of a guitar somewhere above you.

And because the universe is cruel like that, you actually recognize the damn song.

Why would anyone sane play Mariposa by the Peach Tree Rascals at fucking 1 in the morning? You curse internally before groaning, rolling onto your stomach and shoving your face into your pillow, as if that’s going to block out the sound. It doesn’t. If anything, the acoustics of the dorm—cursed, absolutely cursed—only amplify the soft, lazy strumming. He’s not even playing the full song, just absentmindedly plucking out the chords, like some guy in a movie sitting by a campfire, contemplating life or whatever.

For a brief second, you think, Okay, fine. It sounds kind of nice.

And then you remember that it’s past midnight.

Sitting up abruptly, you push your covers off, jumping off your bed with a newfound motivation. What kind of asshole sees that big notice that you put up and still doesn’t have the decency to stop?

When Giselle hears you shuffling around, she looks up from her econ textbook, shaking her head with a sigh. “You’re going to feel bad when this guy turns out to be, like, the sweetest person ever.”

You scoff, yanking a hoodie over your head. “I’ll take my chances.”

Giselle closes her book and watches you with something between amusement and resignation. “What are you even gonna say?”

You shove your feet into a pair of slides. “I don’t know. Something about common courtesy and how not everyone wants to listen to his fuckass music?”

She snorts. “You’ve already committed to the villain role, huh?”

You jab a finger in her direction. “No. I’m the protagonist. He’s the inconsiderate side character messing up my storyline.”

Giselle slumps into her desk, her voice coming out muffled. “Again, you’re going to feel so bad when this dude is actually, like, a golden retriever in human form.”

You ignore her, grabbing your phone and stomping toward the door. “I highly doubt that.”

And with that, you march out of your room, slamming the door behind and scaring the scrawny but tall kid who lives in the dorm next to yours. His clothes and the corridor smell vaguely of something burnt, but you don’t think too much of it, fully prepared to give Indie Guitar Guy a piece of your mind.

The walk to his room isn’t long, but it gives you just enough time to fully work yourself up. Your footsteps are firm, your hoodie sleeves bunched around your fists like you’re ready to throw hands if necessary. Every tired, miserable night flashes before your eyes.

You knock once. The chords still continue to be played. You knock again. No reaction.

Your eye twitches as you knock again—hard, promising that this is the last and you’ll break his door the next time if you have to.

The strumming stops. There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of soft shuffling. You hear the doorknob turn and then the door swings open and the entire speech you’d prepared dies in your throat.

He’s cute.

And not in the way you were expecting (not that you were, but still). He stands there, slightly disheveled, hair messy like he’s been running his hands through it, an old hoodie hanging loose on his frame. His guitar pick is still caught between his fingers, and his eyes—dark, warm, blinking at you in confusion—look way too soft for someone who’s been torturing you for weeks.

You forget, briefly, what you came here to do.

Then he scratches the back of his neck, looking at you in confusion. “Hey… Can I help you?”

To your absolute horror, instead of going off on him, the only thing that escapes your mouth is, “Um.”

UM?

What happened to excuse me, asshole, do you have no shame? Where the hell did that go?

He looks at you expectantly, still waiting for you to continue.

You swallow hard, mentally scrambling to put yourself back together. “So… I don’t know if you saw, but I put up a notice on the bulletin board?”

He blinks. “What notice?”

You hate how your stomach flips at the way his brows pinch slightly, confused but genuinely curious, like he actually wants to know.

You clear your throat. “Just—about the, uh. The guitar.” You gesture vaguely, as if that explains anything. “At night.”

“Oh.” It comes out almost sheepishly as he looks down at the pick he was flipping in between his fingers, like he’s only now realizing.

You should push. Tell him off right now, stand your ground and speak your mind. But all you manage is to say—

“It’s just, um… really late, y’know?”

Oh my God.

What is this? A customer service complaint? Where is the wrath, and the all-caps shouting you promised yourself on the way up here?

He blinks at you again. Then, slowly, his lips part in realization.

“…Wait,” he says, eyes widening. “Am I the asshole from the notice?”

You stand there, every inch of your body fighting to scream YES. YES, YOU DUMB, SILLY, PRETTY BOY.

“...I mean—I wouldn’t say asshole?” You grimace.

You did. In fact, you didn’t just say it—you typed it out, printed it AND posted it in the common room’s bulletin board. Why didn’t you just scream it out of the windows while you were at it?

“Oh, shit.” He scratches his forehead, “That was you?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “I—uh.”

He watches you for a second before exhaling. “Oh, man. I’m really sorry about that,” he says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “I swear, I didn’t see the notice until earlier tonight.”

You should still be annoyed. Should. But the way he says it—so earnestly, with his brows slightly furrowed—makes you forget.

“I thought it was just some general complaint,” he continues, glancing down before hesitantly meeting your eyes again. “Didn’t realize I was the ‘asshole.’”

You feel heat creep up your neck. “Okay, but, like, not seriously—”

His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smile. “Right. Totally.”

Your face burns.

Guitar guy must sense your embarrassment because he quickly clears his throat, straightening up. “Anyway,” he says, voice a little softer, “I really didn’t mean to keep you up. I just—I play when I can’t sleep.” He scratches his forehead, looking almost bashful. “Didn’t think it was carrying through the walls that much.”

Before you can mumble out something incoherent or non-sensible again, he continues.

“No, yeah. You’re right. I’ll stop.” Then, almost shyly, he glances back at you. “I, uh… I don’t think we’ve met before?”

You blink, caught off guard.

“I’m Mark,” he says, smiling a little. “Since, y’know. You technically already know way too much about my sleep schedule.”

You let out a breathy laugh, more surprised than anything. You hadn’t expected him to be this nice. Or this—

Well. This.

“I guess that’s fair,” you mumble, suddenly feeling a little stupid standing here in your sleep shorts and oversized hoodie.

Mark’s smile lingers. Then, with a little hesitation, he nods toward you. “So, uh. Do I get to know your name, or?”

You hesitate for half a second—because this is not how this was supposed to go, and he is not supposed to be this sweet—but eventually, you sigh, giving him your name.

Mark nods, a small grin on his lips, “Cool, well. I’m really sorry. I’ll stop now, so you can go sleep!”

Maybe it’s because he said he couldn’t sleep, or maybe it’s because you think that in your notice it may have seemed like he’d a bad player (he’s not), or maybe it’s just because your sleepy brain finds him cute that you pipe up, just before you leave.

“I’m sorry if I came off as really rude. It’d just been a hard week.” You sigh, a little hesitant, “And you don’t have to stop playing… I mean—at this time, please don’t. But I wouldn’t mind listening to you some other time.”

Mark blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Oh—uh—really?”

You nod, suddenly feeling shy under his gaze. “Yeah. You’re… not bad.”

His ears turn a little pink. “Oh. Thanks.” He scratches his neck, smiling softly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

There’s a pause.

Then, before you can process it, Mark lifts a hand, pointing his fingers toward you like a finger gun. “Sleep well, neighbor.”

Oh my God.

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Goodnight, Mark.”

And with that, you turn away, fully aware that you’ve just lost the battle. God, Giselle is never going to let you live this down once you tell her.

The next morning, you groan as you shuffle out of bed, running on autopilot as you grab your mug and head to the common room, your only goal in life being to reach the sad, overworked coffee machine.

The moment you step in, the sharp smell of burnt coffee greets you—bitter, slightly tragic, but necessary. You yawn, rubbing your eyes as you press the button on the machine, waiting for it to sputter out something drinkable.

“You actually slept last night, right?”

The voice makes you blink. You turn, and standing next to you, looking way too put together for this hour, is Mark Lee.

Oh.

You fight every urge to react. He’s in a hoodie, hair slightly mussed like he just rolled out of bed, his hands shoved into his pockets. He’s looking at you, head tilted slightly, waiting for an answer.

“Uh.” You blink again, processing. “Yeah?”

Mark lets out a tiny breath of relief. “Good,” he says, nodding. “I, uh… I stopped playing. Like I said I would.”

Oh, he’s shy.

Somehow, this is worse. You were prepared for maybe an awkward nod or a "what’s up?". Not this gentle, earnest follow-up on whether you got enough sleep.

“Yeah.” You swallow. “I noticed. Thanks”

Mark nods again, rocking back on his heels. He’s quiet for a second, then gestures toward the coffee machine. “You, uh… do this every morning?”

You shrug. “Unfortunately.”

He lets out a small laugh, and for some reason, you feel stupidly warm.

“There you are.”

You both turn as Giselle enters the room, hair still a little messy from sleep, her own mug in hand. She barely glances at you before heading straight for the coffee machine, too preoccupied to notice the tension in the air.

When she’s finally done shoving your mug out of the way and filling her’s first, she looks up at the two of you.

“Who’s this?” Giselle asks you, voice loud enough for Mark to hear.

You’re about to reply when Mark steps forward instead, holding his hand out for her to shake. She stares at it for a second.

“I’m Mark. Um… the annoying guitar guy.”

“Oh!” Giselle exclaims, a smile making way onto her lips as she shakes his hand. “Good to meet you. Damn, did she yell your ears off yesterday? I tried to stop her, I swear.”

Mark laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, it was fair. I didn’t even realize how loud I was.”

Giselle smirks, nudging you with her elbow. “See? Not everyone’s out to get you.”

You roll your eyes, choosing to ignore her as you finally bring your coffee to your lips. The second the burnt liquid hits your tongue, you wince. “God, this is awful.”

Mark watches, slightly amused. “Yeah, it smells kinda brutal.”

You sigh. “It’s usually bearable. Can’t function without it.”

“You ever try the café across campus?” Mark asks. “Way better than whatever this is.”

You shake your head. “Too much effort. This is closer.”

Giselle hums, sipping her own coffee. “She’s lazy,” she supplies helpfully.

You glare at her, but Mark just chuckles, rocking back on his heels. “Well, if you ever decide to make the trek, let me know. I’ll come with.”

You nod absently, still focused on your coffee. “Mm, noted.”

Mark hesitates for half a second, like he’s waiting for something, but when you don’t react, he clears his throat. “Alright, I’ll catch you later.”

“Later,” you mumble into your mug, already preparing for the day ahead.

As soon as he’s gone, Giselle turns to you, staring.

You blink. “What?”

Her lips curl into a slow smirk. “Oh my God.”

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

She snorts. “Nothing. You’re just an idiot.”

You scowl. “Great. Love to hear that first thing in the morning.”

Giselle just shakes her head, looking far too entertained as she takes another sip of coffee. “No, no. This is fun. Let’s see how long it takes.”

“See how long what takes?”

But she just grins. “Nothing. I’m going to shower first.”

The library is quiet, save for the occasional sound of pages flipping and hushed whispers between students. You’re not here by choice. You’d have preferred to sit in the common room, a little more comfortably, but the heated discussion over banning glitter for the upcoming door deco competition isn’t something that you’d sit through either.

So now, you’re here, settled at a table near the corner, your laptop open, coffee beside you. You don’t even realize someone is sitting a few seats away until you stretch, glance up—

And Mark Lee is looking right at you.

Oh.

Your brain stalls for half a second before you lift a hand in a casual wave.

Mark grins, like he was waiting for you to notice, and—without hesitation—grabs his stuff and moves over.

"Hey," he says, plopping down across from you.

You blink at him. "Hey?"

He gestures vaguely. "Thought I’d say hi."

You squint. "Didn’t look like you were studying."

Mark laughs, rubbing his jaw. "Yeah, well… he’s having roommate trouble right now, and I’m a great listener."

It takes you a second to register that he’s talking about the guy still sitting at his old table. When you glance over, you realize—oh. Renjun.

You nod as you glance back at your laptop. You vaguely remember seeing the notice that he needed a roommate, but it’d probably been taken down a few days ago.

“Has he not found one yet?”

“Worse. He forgot to mention that he’d only room with guys,” Mark sighs, glancing at him before shaking his head, “And now he’s living with a girl that he’s definitely starting to like.”

You almost laugh out of disbelief. “Is co-ed rooming even allowed?”

“Nope,” Mark pops the p. “But he’s a fucking goody-two-shoes and the RAs love him, so honestly, even if they find out, they’ll give him a good notice period for either to move out.”

“I can hear you two.” Renjun hisses, before shrinking a little as he looks around, hoping no one was bothered.

You clear your throat. “So, what, are you just here for moral support?”

Mark grins. “Kind of. I keep them sane.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Right. Naturally.”

He leans in slightly, chin resting on his palm. “But, you know, the library’s not so bad.”

You shoot him a skeptical look. “Didn’t take you for the type to hang out here for fun.”

Mark shrugs, the corners of his lips quirking up. “Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf. Becoming a dedicated academic weapon.”

You exhale. “Right. And I’m the dean of the university.”

He gasps. “Wow. No faith in me at all? For all you know, I could be topping my classes.”

You hum, unconvinced.

Mark watches you for a second, then leans in just a fraction closer, voice lowering slightly. “Guess I’ll have to prove you wrong then.”

You blink at him, caught off guard, but before you can say anything, Renjun finally looks up from his laptop, fixing Mark with a withering stare.

“Can you prove it somewhere else?” he mutters. “Some of us are actually trying to study.”

Mark grins, completely unbothered. “See? Told you he’s suffering.”

You’re halfway through filling your water bottle when you hear a loud clatter followed by an equally loud “Shit!”

You whip around just in time to see Mark Lee standing in the dorm kitchen, staring at the floor like it personally betrayed him. A broken instant ramen cup lays at his feet, noodles spilled across the tiles in a sad, soupy mess.

“…Do I even want to know?” you ask.

Mark looks up, startled. He must not have noticed you walk in. His hood is halfway up his head, and his sweatpants are hanging loose at his hips, like he just rolled out of bed to grab food.

“I—” He rubs the back of his neck. “I thought I could grab it before it hit the counter.”

You raise an eyebrow, stepping closer to assess the damage. “And?”

He sighs. “And I could not.”

You try to hold back your laugh, but it slips out anyway. Mark groans, crouching down to clean up the mess, and you, feeling slightly bad for him, grab some napkins to help.

“Appreciate it,” he mutters as you both start wiping up the broth.

“No problem. Midnight disasters seem to be a running theme in this dorm,” you joke.

Mark huffs a small laugh. “Tell me about it. Last week, Jisung nearly set the toaster on fire.”

You pause, still crouched down. “Is that the kid that lives next door to me? I swear that the night I came and complained—” You shoot a slightly guilty look at him. “—to you, he smelled like burnt stuff.”

“Probably,” Mark shakes his head, “I mean, I’m not the best person to teach him how to cook, but he’s got a few friends. The kid’s just too stubborn and a little bit of an airhead to ask for help.”

The two of you continue cleaning in comfortable silence for a moment before you stand to toss the napkins in the trash. When you turn back, Mark is still crouched on the floor, gathering the last of the noodles into a pile. His hood has slipped back slightly, revealing the messy strands of his hair, and his sleeves are pushed up just enough to show his forearms.

Not that you’re looking.

Mark groans as he tosses the ruined noodles into the trash. “Man, this sucks. I was really looking forward to eating that.”

“You could just make another one?”

He hesitates, then sighs. “That was my last cup.”

You frown. “That was your only food?”

Mark scratches the back of his head, avoiding your gaze. “…Maybe.”

You stare at him. “Mark.”

“I meant to get groceries,” he mutters. “I just forgot.”

“For how long?”

“…A while.”

You let out a long sigh before turning toward the fridge. “Alright, come on.”

Mark blinks. “Huh?”

“You’re not starving on my watch,” you say, pulling out a container. “I made extra earlier.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Wait—really?”

“Don’t make it weird.” You shove the container into his hands before you can think twice.

Mark stares at it for a second before looking back up at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re kind of nice, huh?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Don’t spread that around.”

He hums as he pops open the lid. “Guess I owe you one now.”

“Damn right you do.”

Mark laughs, leaning against the counter. “You know, if you ever wanna cash that in, we could go grab real food sometime.”

You snort. “Yeah, sure. In exchange for a half-eaten bowl of ramen.”

He grins, scooping up a bite. “Deal.”

You shake your head, grabbing your water bottle before heading back to your room.

You twist the cap back onto your water bottle just as Giselle walks in, kicking off her shoes with a sigh. She doesn’t even look at you before flopping face-first onto her bed.

“I give up,” she mumbles into her pillow.

You glance at the clock. “On what? Life?”

“Basically.” She groans, turning her head just enough so her voice is no longer muffled. “I ran into my ex on the way back. He saw me trip on the dorm steps. I don’t think I can recover from this.”

You snort. “You literally dumped him. Why are you embarrassed?”

She lifts a hand in the air, shoving her middle finger at you. “I have my reasons.”

Shaking your head, you take another sip of water. “You could always poison his meal plan or something.”

“Maybe.” She turns onto her side, finally looking at you. “What about you? You were out late.”

You shrug. “Just went to get water.”

She narrows her eyes slightly. “And?”

“…And Mark was there.”

That gets her attention. She sits up properly now, leaning forward. “Oh?”

You frown. “What?”

She tilts her head at you. “Nothing. Just…interesting.”

You roll your eyes. “He spilled his ramen. I helped clean it up.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s it.”

“Uh-huh.”

You sigh, climbing into bed. “What?”

“Nothing.” She flops back, pulling her blanket over her legs. “You just seem to run into him a lot.”

You pause for a second. “He lives upstairs.”

“Mhm.”

You throw your pillow at her before slumping into your bed as well, switching your lamp off with a sigh.

It’s not weird.

Mark lives upstairs. You’ve only run into him a couple of times. Completely normal, considering the dorm isn’t that big. Still, as you stare at the faint outline of your ceiling in the dark, you think back to the way he laughed, how he leaned against the counter, how his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

He’s cute. That’s just a fact. In an endearingly clueless way, with his messy hair and his habit of rubbing the back of his neck when he talks. Objectively cute. Universally acknowledged cute. Annoyingly cute, even.

But it’s not like that. Obviously.

You roll onto your side, pulling your blanket tighter around you.

Just a coincidence.

You close your eyes, willing yourself to sleep, but for some reason, you can still hear his voice in your head. The soft laugh, the way he said we could grab real food sometime. The casualness of it.

Not an invitation. Not really. Right?

You huff, pressing your face into your pillow.

Whatever. You’ll probably forget about it by morning.

You hear the music before you see him.

The common room isn’t empty, but it’s quieter than usual—just the occasional shuffle of someone flipping through a textbook, the distant hum of the vending machine. And then there’s him.

Mark is curled up on the couch, one leg tucked under him, guitar resting easily against his chest. He’s not playing anything loud—just soft, absentminded strumming, like he’s working through a song in his head.

And you should keep walking. You really, really should.

But instead, you hesitate, shifting from one foot to the other just enough that the floor creaks under you. Mark glances up at the sound, fingers faltering slightly over the strings.

“Oh,” he says, blinking like he wasn’t expecting company. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you say back, already regretting this.

His lips twitch, like he’s holding back a smile. “You look like you were about to turn around.”

You scoff, stepping fully into the room. “I was just—” You pause. What were you doing?

Mark tilts his head, waiting.

“I needed a break,” you sigh.

He nods, adjusting the guitar in his lap. “Good timing.”

He doesn’t elaborate, just keeps playing, and maybe that’s your cue to leave—but your feet carry you toward the couch anyway. You sit down—not next to him, but close enough to see the way his fingers move over the strings.

You watch for a second, then glance at his face. “You play in the daytime now?”

Mark exhales a quiet laugh. “Only because I’ve been feeling considerate towards a certain someone.”

You’re sure that there’s colour rising to your cheeks now, but you try to mask it off by laughing. “Wow. Growth.”

He shakes his head, letting out a soft hum under his breath, but he doesn’t deny it.

For a while, there’s no talking—just the sound of the guitar, the occasional scrape of his pick against the strings. You don’t realize how much time has passed until you catch yourself fully zoning out, elbows resting on your knees, watching his hands like an idiot.

Mark notices.

He doesn’t call you out for it, but his fingers slow slightly, like he’s suddenly aware of the attention.

You snap out of it immediately, shifting your gaze. Nope. Absolutely not.

Mark clears his throat, tapping his thumb against the body of the guitar. “You play?”

“What?”

“The guitar,” he says, nodding toward it. “You don’t play, do you?”

“Oh.” You shake your head. “No.”

Mark hums, considering. “Do you want to?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, adjusting his grip. “I could teach you something. If you want.”

You hesitate. You could say no. You should say no.

But Mark is already tilting the guitar toward you, his brows raised in a quiet ‘well?’

You fumble with it, your fingers slipping against the strings as you try to mimic the way Mark holds it. It feels unnatural, like trying to write with your non-dominant hand.

And against all logic and reason, you reach for it.

The guitar is heavier than you expected.

“Here,” Mark says, shifting closer on the couch. His knee brushes against yours, and you stiffen slightly, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care. He reaches over, adjusting your grip. “You’re holding it like it’s gonna bite you.”

“Maybe it will,” you mutter.

Mark laughs, low and warm, and you try not to focus on how close he is. His fingers guide yours to the fretboard, pressing down on the strings. “This one’s the B,” he says, plucking it. A soft, clear note rings out.

You frown. “Sounds like every other string.”

“Wow.” He feigns offense, clutching his chest. “And here I thought you had an ear for music.”

“I have an ear for silence at 2 in the morning,” you deadpan.

Mark grins, “Fair.” He leans back slightly, but his knee stays pressed against yours. “Okay, try pressing here.” He taps a spot on the neck.

You attempt it, but the string vibrates pathetically under your finger.

“You’ve gotta press harder,” he says.

“I am pressing hard.”

Mark hums, skeptical. Then, before you can react, he reaches over and presses his finger on top of yours, adding pressure. “Like this.”

Your brain short-circuits.

His hand is warm. His fingers are calloused from playing. And he’s so close you can smell his stupid laundry detergent—the one that everyone else in this dorm uses.

You swallow. “...Right.”

Mark doesn’t move his hand. “You got it?”

"Yep." Your voice cracks slightly.

"Sure?" His thumb brushes against yours as he adjusts your positioning - just for a second, but it's enough to make your pulse jump.

"Positive." You stare very hard at the guitar's soundhole.

Mark finally pulls back, rubbing the back of his neck. The tips of his ears are pink. "So, uh. That's... the basics."

You strum all the strings at once. It sounds like a trash can falling down stairs. "I'm a prodigy."

"I wouldn't say no to, like. Coffee instead." He says it too fast, then backtracks. "I mean—not like—just caffeine helps with—"

Mark snorts. "Yeah. Next Ed Sheeran right here." He fiddles with his pick. "We could... keep practicing sometime. If you want.”

You shrug. "I mean, I guess I owe you for not murdering me over that notice."

"Mark."

"Yeah?"

"You're rambling."

His shoulders hunch. "Right. Sorry."

You hand the guitar back. "But yeah, coffee's fine. The dining hall swill is killing me anyway."

Mark brightens instantly. "Remember that place across campus? Their cold brew is actually decent and they've got these chocolate croissants that—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "I mean. If you're into that."

"But I'd commit crimes for a good chocolate croissant," you add.

"Cold brew gives me heart palpitations."

"Oh." His face falls. "We could find somewhere else—”

Mark's smile returns, slow and warm. "Tomorrow? I'm free after two."

"Sure." You stand up, completely missing the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against the guitar body. "Don't be late."

"I won't!" It comes out too eager. He cringes at himself. "I mean. Yeah. Cool."

As you walk away, you don't see him slump back against the couch, dragging a hand down his face. You definitely don't hear the quiet, frustrated whisper of: "Smooth, Lee. Real smooth."

You're lacing up your sneakers when Giselle walks out of the bathroom, rubbing her damp hair with a towel. She pauses mid-step when she sees you.

"Where are you going?"

"Getting coffee with Mark." You tighten the knot on your shoe.

She stares. Then, very deliberately, looks you up and down.

You're in a hoodie (a slightly wrinkled one), sweatpants, and the same sneakers you've been wearing for three years.

"...Dressed like that?"

You frown. "What?"

She gestures vaguely at your entire existence. "You're just going out like that?"

You scoff. "Dude. We’re just hanging out."

Giselle presses her lips together like she’s trying very, very hard not to lose her mind.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

You glance up. She's watching you in the mirror, towel slung over one shoulder, eyes sharp.

You narrow your eyes. "What."

She exhales sharply. "Okay, tell me this: how many times has Mark asked you to ‘hang out’?"

You shrug. "I dunno. A few times? Haven’t really been able to go."

"And these ‘hangouts’—" she makes little air quotes, "—were they things like, ‘Hey, wanna grab food?’ or ‘Hey, wanna get coffee?’ Or, oh, I don’t know, ‘Hey, wanna come sit really close to me while I teach you how to play guitar?’"

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Because, yeah. That is... exactly how it’s been.

Giselle sees the realization hit. "Oh my God," she says, dragging a hand down her face. "He’s been asking you out this entire time!"

You blink. "What? No. He hasn’t—he’s just been nice."

Giselle shoots you a deadpan look. "Nice?"

"Yeah!" You wave a hand. "Some people just—invite other people to do stuff! It’s normal!"

Giselle rubs her temples. "Okay. Let’s say, for a second, that I believe you. Do you think Mark has asked anyone else to ‘just hang out’ like this?"

You open your mouth. Pause.

Giselle’s smile is way too smug. "Mhm. Exactly."

You shift uncomfortably. "Okay, but—but what if you're wrong? What if this is just his personality?"

Giselle flops dramatically onto her bed. "Then I will personally apologize to you for enabling your delusions." She waves you off. "Now go. And if he confesses, don't let your dumbass panic and run into traffic."

You scowl. "That happened one time."

Giselle is already onto her dressing table, raking through her makeup brushes.

You check the time. Mark’s already waiting.

Your stomach flips.

You swallow. "I'm gonna go."

"Yeah," Giselle sighs, rolling onto her side. "Go figure your shit out."

—

You’re definitely overthinking this as the two of you walk around campus.

Mark walks beside you, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed. He kicks a stray pebble down the sidewalk, eyes mostly on the ground. Meanwhile, you are internally spiraling.

Because Giselle’s words won’t leave you alone.

"He’s been asking you out this whole time."

And the more you think about it, the more obvious it feels.

The coffee. The late-night talks. The stupid guitar lesson where his hand had covered yours, warm and steady.

You sneak a glance at him. He looks normal. Maybe a little cold, but not like someone who’s been trying to ask you out for weeks.

You fidget with your sleeves. Just ask. It’s Mark. It’s not like he’s gonna laugh in your face. Right?

“…Hey.”

Mark glances over. “Hm?”

You swallow. “So. This whole, uh. Hanging out thing.”

His brows lift slightly, like he’s waiting for you to continue.

You take a deep breath. “You—you weren’t, like. Asking me out, were you?”

Mark stumbles.

Not dramatically, but just enough that his shoe drags weirdly on the pavement.

You immediately regret everything. “Never mind! Stupid question, forget I—”

“What?” Mark fully stops walking.

You stop too, face burning.

Mark turns to you, brows slightly furrowed, like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle. “…Why would you ask that?”

You die internally. “Giselle said something,” you mumble.

Mark blinks. Then he shifts from one foot to another. “What… exactly did she say?”

You stare very hard at the sidewalk. “Just. That you might’ve been, um. Subtly. Asking me out this whole time.”

Silence.

You dare to look at him.

His ears are so red.

“Oh,” he says, voice sounding a bit strung, higher than usual.

You panic. “You don’t have to say anything! I just—”

“I mean,” Mark rubs the back of his neck, looking very interested in a nearby streetlamp. “I… kinda was?”

Your stomach flips.

Oh.

Mark winces. “Not in, like, a weird way! Just—” He exhales, rubbing his temple. “I thought you were cool. That night when you came up, i thought you were like…really pretty. And I figured, if you weren’t interested, we could just keep hanging out and it wouldn’t be—” He gestures vaguely. “A thing.”

You nod. Maybe too much. “Right. Yeah. Totally.”

Mark watches you carefully. “So, uh. Is it weird now?”

You pretend to think, but you already know your answer. You can see Mark’s shoulders shrinking with every waiting second.

“No.”

Mark’s shoulders relax. “Oh. Cool.”

You fidget with your sleeve. Your breath stutters.

“I think I like you too,” you admit, voice way too soft.

Mark stares for a few seconds, like he almost didn’t hear you, before his whole face lights up.

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Uh. That’s—that’s cool.”

You laugh, nervous. “Yeah?”

He nods, a little too fast. “Yeah.”

When he looks at you again, he’s still flushed, still blinking like he’s trying to process this in real time.

“So, uh,” he starts, “what now?”

You don’t really know how to answer that.

You rock back on your heels. “I mean… we’re still getting coffee?”

Mark lets out a soft laugh, like he hadn’t even considered otherwise. “Right. Yeah. Obviously.”

The two of you start walking again, a little slower this time. The air between you is different now—not awkward, but buzzing, like a chord just on the verge of ringing out.

You steal a glance at him. His hands are jammed in his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched, but there’s something almost relieved in the way he carries himself now. Like he wasn’t expecting this to go well.

You bite your lip, hesitating.

“You know,” You begin, “I thought you were cute too.”

“What?” Mark lets out, a little too loudly.

It almost makes you giggle. “That night when I came up to complain. I was supposed to go all out on you and make sure you’d never play your stupid guitar again. I was quite serious about cutting your strings off.”

Mark shakes his head sheepishly with a small laugh.

“But when you opened the door, I kind of forgot all of that.”

He stares at you, lips parted slightly like you just short-circuited his entire brain.

You shrug, suddenly feeling way too exposed. “I dunno. You just—looked cute.”

Mark drags a hand over his face, groaning. “What the hell.”

You blink. “What?”

“That’s so unfair,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “You showed up looking all pissed off and intimidating, and I was standing there in, like, the ugliest shirt I own.”

You snort. “It wasn’t that ugly.”

Mark groans again, looking up at the sky, almost too embarrassed to meet your eyes. “This is crazy.”

“What is?” you ask, still laughing.

“That you thought I was cute!” He gestures wildly. “Like. That doesn’t happen!”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach is doing so many flips. “Shut up.”

Mark looks at you for a second, then exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. The tips of his ears are still bright red. “I was really nervous that night, you know,” he admits.

Your brows lift. “Really?”

He nods. “You were just—you had this whole, like, ‘I will end you’ vibe, and I was trying so hard not to make it worse. But then you kinda—” He stops, mouth twitching. “You hesitated. Just for a second. And I thought, ‘Oh. She’s not actually as scary as she looks.’”

You gasp, shoving his shoulder. “Wow. Rude.”

Mark laughs, bumping into you slightly. “Sorry, sorry. But I was right, wasn’t I?”

You purse your lips. “Debatable.”

Mark hums, tilting his head. “Guess I’ll have to spend more time with you to figure it out.”

Your heart does a weird little jump.

You don’t let yourself overthink it.

Instead, you nudge him back, eyes flicking forward to the coffee shop just ahead. “You better buy me the best chocolate croissant they have.”

Mark grins. “Deal.”

And when his fingers brush yours, just briefly, you don’t pull away.

688 notes · View notes

carlislefiles · 26 days ago

Text

first fight | gojo satoru ╰►you and your boyfriend, gojo, never fight. it's like your whole schtick. you love each other sooooo much that nothing is ever important enough to argue over. sure, you get annoyed with each other, but you're both adults who love each other very, very much. nothing is worth jeopardizing your relationship over, and you're both perfectly capable of having mature conversations with one another. it drives his students crazy, how gojo pulled such a 10/10 and how you never fight, your relationship is just perfect. until it isn't. until you tell gojo the one thing he never thought you'd say, the last thing he ever wanted to hear from you. 3.8k words

a/n: I love disgustingly, sickeningly, disturbingly in love couples, because what do you mean people actually experience true joy and unconditional love??? anyways, this deals with some self-esteem issues, insecurities, etc. from both parties, some are more physical, others are more mental. just want y'all to know that I love you, even though I don't know you, because you all deserve that :)

you arrive at jujutsu high in the same car every morning, the same soundtrack playing, the same thermos passed between your hands. gojo insists that coffee tastes better when it’s made by you, even though he’s the one who set the timer on the machine at 6:00 a.m. sharp. you just roll your eyes and let him say it, because he looks at you like you’ve just invented the concept of caffeine.

everything about the two of you is too much.

you walk through the school like you were born holding hands. you teach separate classes, sure, but somehow you still manage to be in the same rooms at the same times, overlapping missions and sparring demos and paperwork like you planned it. which—okay—you did. kind of.

lunch is shared. not in the “sitting across from each other like normal people” way, but in the “you’re eating from his bento and he’s picking the mushrooms out of yours” kind of way. shoko once joked that if she took one of your lunches and swapped it with the other, you’d both starve out of muscle memory.

gojo didn’t even deny it. he just said, “honestly? probably true.”

and somehow, you make it work. him with his chaotic, oversized presence, and you with your quiet steel. it’s like watching a thunderstorm fall in love with a garden. beautiful. slightly horrifying. weirdly functional.

the students, of course, are suffering.

“do they ever fight?” nobara asks one afternoon, watching you flick a piece of eraser at gojo’s head during a grading session.

“they don’t even disagree,” megumi mutters. “it’s like they’re possessed.”

“they’re just in love,” yuuji says with a dumb little smile, arms behind his head. “it’s sweet.”

“it’s unnatural,” nobara grumbles. "I saw them high-five after a kill last week. who does that?”

“they make up little handshakes,” megumi adds darkly, like he’s sharing a war crime. “one for every type of curse. I've seen it.”

you two are oblivious, or maybe just immune. gojo’s got one leg thrown over your chair, bent over your shoulder as you work through lesson plans, humming some off-key pop song into your ear. you tap his nose with a pen when he gets too loud. he steals your glasses and wears them dramatically until you threaten to break his fingers. everyone assumes it’s a joke. (it’s not.)

even utahime has given up. "I hate him slightly less when you’re around,” she admitted once, after a mission. “don’t quote me. I'll deny it.”

“quoting it,” gojo chirped, already grinning like a child who’s won the spelling bee. “printing it. framing it.”

she almost cursed him on the spot.

and nanami—well. nanami sighs a lot these days. "I assume you’ve figured out how to file joint mission reports by now,” he says without looking up, already anticipating gojo’s attempt to dump his paperwork on him.

“oh, we file jointly,” gojo replies with a smug little smirk. “she writes, I supervise.”

“she works,” nanami corrects. “you annoy.” but nanami doesn’t say much else, and he doesn’t really have to. you know he doesn’t hate it as much as he pretends to. the two of you get the job done. your students are thriving. you and gojo—well. you don’t fight. you just don’t.

there’s never been a reason to. you annoy each other, sure, and he leaves his socks on the floor and you use his fancy hair stuff without asking, and sometimes you both forget that not every disagreement has to become a twenty-minute philosophical debate—but none of it matters. none of it’s important. nothing is ever more important than each other.

and everyone knows it. you’re the couple. not just a couple. the couple. the blueprint. the “they’re so gross it’s kind of beautiful” pair that makes everyone feel like maybe love is possible, if you just find the right balance of infuriating and perfect.

the first time you attend one of the sorcerer galas together, it feels like a fairytale.

gojo’s tux is crisp and sleek, his blindfold replaced with thin designer sunglasses that let his smirk gleam underneath. you wear black satin with a slit that teeters on the edge of scandalous, and he damn near short-circuits trying to pick his jaw off the floor. you aren’t fond of crowds, not fond of being seen, but you do it for him. for your boyfriend. for the strongest.

“damn, baby,” he breathes into your neck that night, one hand on your waist, the other around a champagne flute. “do you want me to get assassinated? ‘cause you’re killing me.” you laugh. your heart glows. you stay close to his side all night, tucked under his arm like his favorite secret.

the second gala is a little harder.

the hair takes longer. the heels are higher. the dress clings tighter. it’s blue this time, and gojo whistles when you walk out of the bathroom. but he doesn't notice how long you took to put on your eyeliner. how many times you changed the part in your hair. how much of your dinner you didn’t eat. you stay quiet. smiling. you know how to play the part.

he keeps you close again, proudly introducing you to a blur of other sorcerers and cursed clan heirs and political figures whose names all sound the same. you hold your glass delicately and shake their hands and say all the right things. you don’t notice when you start holding your breath.

by the tenth event, it’s a routine. you wake up with your stomach in knots. you force yourself to eat something light. you do your makeup, wash it off, and do it again. you think about skipping it. you think about canceling. you know he'd say yes, bend to your every whim, probably even comfort you if you asked to stay him. you think about asking him to go alone. but he’s so happy when he talks about you. when he holds your hand and introduces you as his person. when he leans over during a speech to whisper, “if you weren’t here, i’d be asleep under the dessert table.”

you’re his anchor in a room full of masks and monsters. and god, you try. you try so hard.

you wear the tight red dress, even though it makes you feel like you’re stuffed into someone else’s skin. you suck in your stomach. you smile at the compliments that don’t feel real. you nod along to conversations you don’t understand. you rest your hand on satoru’s chest like it belongs there, even when you want to disappear into the floorboards. you do your job. you perform. but the thing about performance is that it’s exhausting. and eventually, even the strongest burn out.

it happens on the way home. you’re riding in the passenger seat, skin prickling, heart thudding like it’s run five miles without you. your hair is pinned perfectly. your lipstick hasn’t smudged. your hands are shaking in your lap, the ocular headache you have right now is blurring your vision, and satoru doesn’t see it because he’s humming under his breath to the radio, one hand on the wheel, the other already reaching for yours like always.

you pull into the lot. the engine cuts. he gets out first, stretches dramatically, then opens your door with that lazy, dazzling grin. “c’mon, sweetheart,” he says, extending a hand. “let’s get you out of those murder weapons and into something cozy.” right, heels. torture devices.

but you don’t move. not right away. your eyes don’t meet his. and then you climb out of the car, slowly, shakily, the sound of your heels against the pavement almost too loud in the night.

he notices it then—the way your fingers fumble with your clutch, how your shoulders curl inward like you’re bracing for impact. your lip trembles. your eyes are bloodshot, glassy and wet. you're crying.

his heart skips so violently he thinks for a second it might’ve stopped altogether. “hey—hey, baby,” he murmurs, voice shifting into panic-soft, the way it only gets when you're sick or hurt. “what’s wrong? what happened? did someone—did I—?”

he takes a step toward you, and your breath catches.

your arms wrap around yourself. your chin drops to your chest. "I can’t do this,” you whisper, and it’s not dramatic, not a plea—it’s just...honest. defeated. tired.

gojo's entire world narrows to the space between you. the space that, for once, isn’t shrinking.

he doesn’t understand it yet—not fully—but the panic starts to rise. because his girl, his perfect girl, his one-in-a-billion miracle who never asks for anything, who has stood beside him through missions and injuries and political bullshit and nightmares—you’re crying. right here. dressed like a goddess and shaking like a leaf. and for the first time in a long time, he has no idea how to fix it.

……

you make it up the stairs in silence. gojo unlocks the door like muscle memory, eyes on you the whole time, one hand still ready to catch your elbow, your waist, anything. just in case. just in case you fall. just in case you run.

you don’t do either. you step inside, and the door clicks closed behind you. the red dress is suffocating now. your shoes pinch like punishment. the golden light of your apartment feels wrong—too bright, too cozy. like you’re tainting it just by existing here, dressed like this, breaking like this.

“I'm sorry,” you say suddenly, too fast, too quiet. satoru blinks. you won’t look at him. "I know I'm being dramatic. I just—I just can’t do it anymore. I'm so tired.”

he’s next to you in a second, hands gentle but firm as he guides you to sit on the edge of the bed. kneels in front of you, big hands on your knees, eyes frantic behind his sunglasses. “talk to me,” he says softly. “please. tell me what’s wrong, baby. tell me what I can do.”

you shake your head. “it’s not you,” you whisper. “it’s me. I mean—god, that sounds stupid. I just—I can’t keep doing these things. the events. the meetings. the fake smiling and fake laughing. I know they’re important to you. I know I'm supposed to be...whatever I am to you. a partner. a face. something pretty on your arm.”

he flinches at that. you don’t notice.

"I keep trying to be enough. I keep thinking, maybe if I wear the right dress, or say the right thing, or pretend I'm not awkward and shy and fucking uncomfortable in my own skin—maybe I'll feel like I deserve to be there. next to you. with you.”

his voice is soft, low, trembling. “you do deserve—”

"I don’t.” you don’t raise your voice. you don’t need to. the words come out like a knife’s edge. like a breath you’ve been holding for months. "I don’t,” you repeat, quieter now. “I'm not pretty enough. I'm not confident. I'm not exciting or charming or strong. I'm not anything.” not anything compared to you, but you aren’t quite brave enough for that yet. or maybe you are and you’re worried he’s the one that’s not brave enough.

satoru’s hands tighten on your knees. “that’s—baby, that’s ridiculous. you’re—” he laughs, like it’s absurd, like it’s a joke. “you’re gorgeous. you’re funny and smart and—”

“I'm not, satoru.” the sound of his name stops him cold. you only ever call him that when something’s wrong. "I know you love me,” you say. “and I love you so, so much. but I feel like I'm waiting for the moment when you wake up one day and realize what everyone else already knows. that I'm not good enough for you. that I never was. that you deserve someone...better. someone funnier, someone prettier. someone who can actually handle this world you live in. someone more like you.”

and that’s it. that’s the line. the one thing you never should’ve said. the thing he’s been waiting—terrified—to hear. because he’s always known you’d leave him. not because you’d stop loving him. no. because you’d stop loving yourself. because you’d look in the mirror and only see the ways you think you fall short, and you’d believe them. because he’s spent every damn day of your relationship thanking the stars you even looked at him twice—and now you’re here, thinking he’s the one who’s out of your league.

like your love isn’t the first real thing he’s ever had. like he doesn’t spend every waking moment terrified he’ll mess it up.

the silence is heavy. you don’t look up. you can’t. because if you do, if you see the look on his face—the hurt, the disbelief, the heartbreak—you’ll crumble.

and you can’t fall apart now. you’re already too far gone.

satoru says nothing. for once, he says nothing.

you don't know what to do with that. you brace yourself for an argument, a denial, a joke—something. but the silence wraps around you like a blanket just a little too heavy. it's not punishing. it’s not cold. it's aching. and when he moves—when he stands and reaches for your wrists—it’s slow and reverent.

you flinch, just slightly. you think he’s going to hug you. you brace for it. and you think—don’t. please don’t. because if he hugs you now, you’ll crumble. you’ll drown in it. in how good it feels. how wrong it feels. how unearned.

but he doesn't pull you in. he turns you around. guides you across the room with hands light on your back. and before you know it, you’re in the bathroom, sitting on the counter, legs swinging slightly, your red dress riding above your knees.

he’s still taller than you. even like this. and then—you freeze. because he starts taking out the pins in your hair. one by one. slow. delicate. like you’re made of spun glass. like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he pulls too hard.

it’s the most careful he’s ever been. you usually just claw them out with a groan, drag a comb through, and fall into bed. but satoru’s fingers are sure, gentle. reverent.

you don’t say anything. neither does he.

then come the makeup wipes—cool against your cheeks, your lips, your lashes. he doesn’t scrub. he doesn’t rush. he just erases—soft and patient and tender. the face you wore tonight, the mask you built so carefully, peeled away in layers. one wipe. then another. then another.

and still, he says nothing. but there's a tiny smile growing on his lips. not amused. not teasing. content. because the woman on this counter—bare-faced, heavy-limbed, emotionally wrecked—is his. and that alone is enough to undo him. he finishes the last swipe, tosses the wipe into the trash, and sets both hands on either side of your thighs on the counter. close. steadying himself. like if he doesn't hold onto something, he might spin off the earth.

"I don’t know how deep this thing runs,” he says finally. quiet. low. barely above a whisper. “and I won’t pretend I can fix it in a night.” you blink. swallow. nod. “but I need you to hear this. really hear me.” his voice is steady. soft, but unshaking. “maybe there is someone out there who looks better on paper. someone more suited to the job. someone who would’ve made sense in a perfect little sorcerer marriage. someone the higher-ups would’ve picked for me. but the second I met you—” he breathes out through his nose, like it still stuns him, “—the second I met you, that version of me—the one who ends up with someone else—died.”

you blink hard. he presses on.

“you’re not my arm candy. you’re not my accessory. you’re not here to make me look good or fit into some mold. if that’s what I was meant to have…god, I never would’ve subjected you to that, to the whole performance of it. I'm so sorry that you’ve been feeling like that this whole time.” you exhale. shaky. but the tears slow.

“and yeah, I'm loud. I'm obnoxious. I'm exhausting. I was told my whole life that I was too much, and I believed it—until I met you. you never once made me feel like I was too much. you just...let me be. let me love you.” you nod. tiny. barely.

“and now you’re the one who thinks you’re not enough, and I swear to you—on my life, on everything I am—you are. you are. maybe we’re both a mess, but if that’s true, then we’re the only kind of mess I want to be. you and me. no masks. no roles. just us.”

and finally, finally, your tears stop. you breathe in, and it lands. it sinks in like rain into dry soil. like something alive. something healing. you slide off the counter. unzip your dress, slow. you grab an oversized shirt from the drawer. toss it on. you pull out a pair of sweatpants and hand them to him without a word.

he changes, quietly, mirroring you. and then you both sit. on the bed. cross-legged. until you climb into his lap like it’s instinct. like your body knows where it belongs. your fingers trace the line of his jaw, his cheekbones, his lips. and you look at him like he is holy. like you’re not worthy—but you want to be. and gojo—satoru—melts.

he’s not the strongest sorcerer in the world. he’s not special. not here. not in this room. not with you looking at him like that. he’s just yours. yours. yours.

you breathe, trembling. “I'm sorry.” he opens his mouth. you keep going. “I'm so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know that’s the thing you hate hearing. I know it’s what they’ve always told you. that you’re too much, too strong, too untouchable, and I used it against you, even if I didn’t mean to. I just—i didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear I didn’t. I love you so much I—”

“hey,” he whispers, hand sliding up your back. “hey.” you stop.

"I get it. I do.” his hand moves in slow circles. "I know what it’s like. to feel like you’re not enough. I know exactly what that voice in your head sounds like. I hear it every time I look in the mirror.” you press your forehead against his. he kisses the corner of your mouth. “maybe we’re not perfect,” he says. “but I know we’re enough. enough for ourselves, and enough for each other. and I've never asked you to be enough, I just want you to be with me. that is enough.”

you nod. you don’t trust your voice. you curl into him. let the rhythm of his breath soothe you. let his fingers write love letters into your spine. and then—through the snot and salt and stifled giggle—you whisper: “is this our first fight?”

satoru groans dramatically. "I hope not. if it is, we’re already terrible at it.” you snort. he grins. “but,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple, “it damn well better be our last.”

satoru is not stupid enough to think that this is solved, that he's perfectly put you back together and that you'll never feel another insecurity ever again. if you were at a point this low, in which you thought he was something to deserve, and even worse that you somehow didn't...that's not something that will be magically changed by a couple of compliments in one evening.

but that doesn't change the fact that he's trying, and that he'll continue to try. to make you see yourself in the way that you see him, in the way that he sees you. perfect, beautiful, everything all at once.

……

the next morning is…normal. which is to say, it’s perfect.

you wake up tangled in limbs, mouth dry, vision blurry, and feet sore. gojo’s hair is a catastrophe. your shirt is on backwards. neither of you cares. he kisses your nose and groans, “babe, I love you, but if you don’t get off my arm in the next ten seconds I will have to gnaw it off like a wild animal.”

you snort. “aren’t you into the wild animal thing?”

he grins like it’s the cleverest thing he’s ever heard, even though it’s so, so stupid and probably the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever said. “down, girl.”

it’s the same routine. brush teeth together, jostling elbows. you steal his shirt. he steals your breakfast. he fake-gasps like it’s a betrayal. you threaten his life. he says, “as long as it’s in your arms, baby.”

there's a little weight there, that wasn't yesterday morning. you both carry it on your shoulders, but at least you're not carrying it on your own anymore, satoru thinks. he's more than happy to carry it with you.

you drive together. park crookedly. link pinkies the whole walk into the school. take your usual spot on the bench by the vending machine. except now—it’s not just routine. it’s not autopilot. every moment feels intentional. you do everything together, but now you feel it.

every sip of shared coffee. every brush of fingers. every sideways glance in a too-long meeting. every dumb joke from yuuji that makes you laugh just a little too loud.

and speaking of which—yuuji stares at the two of you from across the courtyard as you sit on a bench, sharing a smoothie like that’s a completely normal thing for two fully grown adults to do. yuta, nobara, and megumi watch too, with something more akin to disgust.

yuta squints. tilts his head. “hey, do they ever fight?”

megumi sighs like he’s aged thirty years. “don’t ask.”

"I mean, they must fight. but they’re like, weirdly in sync about it. maybe they fight in their minds. like telepathically. like—maybe they’re fighting right now,” yuuji says animatedly.

nobara socks him in the ribs. “shut up, rom-com boy. some of us are trying to enjoy the one healthy relationship in this entire war-torn hellscape.”

yuuji wheezes. “oof. I'm just saying—they make fighting look like flirting.”

"that's because they probably are flirting, you dumbass. gojo finally got a girl and he's never gonna stop talking her up," megumi says, because he knows way too much about your relationship. gojo tells him much more than he'd ever like to hear.

gojo, across the yard, sticks his tongue out and flashes a peace sign without even turning around. you don’t even notice. just sip the smoothie again. business as usual.

gojo doesn’t show up to any major events with you for a while. he goes alone sometimes—just enough to keep the higher-ups off his back—but even then, he’s ghost-like. there. visible. but untouchable.

the public misses his usual flare. the loud suits. the outrageous jokes. the smug charm.

he saves all that for you, now. and then—one day—he brings you. you don’t dress up. you don’t pile on the makeup or style your hair into something that takes three rounds of heat damage and an exorcism to hold. you just throw on the linen sundress he always stares at a little too long. (it’s the one he once called “a religious experience.” you told him to shut up. he told you it was too late, he’d already ascended.)

your hair is down. soft. natural. windswept from the drive. you slapped on some makeup at 6:00 a.m. that morning and didn’t bother touching it up. and to him—you look like a dream. not the kind that fades when you wake up. the kind that follows you. that clings. that changes you.

you don’t talk to any of the council members. you don’t need to. you talk to him. you talk to the students. you let ino talk your ear off about his promotion, and you smile like you mean it—because you do. you’re proud of him. you’re present. you’re glowing.

and the council members do look your way. they glance, whisper, measure. but gojo doesn’t even let it start. one look from him—one icy flash of his eyes, a fraction of his power slipping out like a cold wind—and the room resets. no one says a word. you are not a weakness. you are not a mistake. you are not a prop on his arm. you are the axis his world spins around. you laugh at something he says—head tilted back, unguarded, radiant—and he thinks: I could give her the world. every inch of it. and still want to give her more. because you’re happy. you’re not grinning for the crowd, not posing for a photo. you’re happy. and that is more than enough.

682 notes · View notes

prettydaisygirl · 1 month ago

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Heyy~I have a james potter x reader request.

They have a love hate relation,and they keeps on fight but its really only frome one side cause james secretly is in love with reader and loves seeing her mad as its the only way he'll have her full attention.

But james let it's out by accident and reader have fun with this new info and seduces and flirts with james. James becomes all dazed & flustered by reader batting her eyelashes at him.

You can take your own take on this and maybe reader dominates james in bed.....👀

P.s(this is my third request for you and you have nailed the previous requests nd the first time requesting something 18+) please feel free to ignore it💗

Hello nonnie!! OMG thank you so much for your request! I'm literally so honored that you keep making requests because you've enjoyed the other ones I've done for you 😭🩷 I saw the plot of this in my head like a movie when I read your request and I wrote down the basics and had to wait until I had a good time I could sit down and write it all haha, it's been on my mind all week. Hope you enjoy this one, my love!!

academic rival!James Potter x fem!reader who seduces James to get ahead ✿ 3.6k words

cw: NSFW 18+, university au, James is the top student, reader is second, academic rivals, reader has complicated feelings, reader has kinda iffy intentions, reader is manipulative (?) but then falls in love, dry humping, choking, unprotected p in v, mentions of alcohol

james potter masterlist

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You tap your pen against the edge of the table, bouncing your leg under the desk. Your eyes dart back and forth around the classroom, looking at everyone else waiting too.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Your eyes lock with his, and you pause. Your eyelids narrow, his brown orbs matching yours and narrowing too. You roll your eyes and look away. Fucking James Potter.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Sirius, James’ best friend, roommate, and favorite nuisance, groans loudly where he is sprawled in his chair next to James, feet up on the desk. Remus, the one person in their group who you can stand, elbows Sirius and shoots him a quick glare. James’ eyes are still on you, smirk on his lips, and you send him a dirty look. He’s so fucking cocky.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

The door to the lecture hall finally opens, and everyone sits up a bit. Well, everyone except Sirius.

The professor stomps in, ten minutes late but with clearly no cares in the world, the stack of papers in his hand catching your attention. The exam from last class, one that might finally allow you to pull ahead of James. Or, he did better than you again, and you’ll have to suffer his cruel teasing for another few weeks so you can cram until the next exam. You need that test back.

Your professor places everything down at his desk with a light groan, running a hand through his hair. He looks around the room, scanning all of his students’ faces, before clearing his throat.

“I’ll be passing back exams at the end of the hour.” There’s a collective groan but he doesn’t care, continuing on with the lesson. You force yourself to pay attention and take notes, to not think about the potential outcomes of your exam results, to not look in James’ direction even though you know if you did that he would be looking at you.

This thing between you and James has been going on since freshman year. You stepped onto campus, bright-eyed and valedictorian of your high school, and you vowed to yourself that you were going to repeat the success of the last four years. And, for the most part, you have.

Except for James Potter. He’s a constant thorn in your side, and he relishes in it. The two of you are in a constant battle for who will be the top student at the University. James somehow always ends up on top. And so for you, it really is a war. You fight tooth and nail. You stay up way too late studying every night, living off of caffeine and short naps between classes. You involve yourself in different activities, you complete every extra credit opportunity, and you attend every office hour, every study session, every single thing you can do. And yet, you always find yourself lagging behind James Potter, who seems to score perfectly on every exam despite not opening his textbook once. It’s infuriating, and you hate him.

He knows that he gets on your nerves. He loves it, he purposely antagonizes you. Like he’s doing right now.

Your eyes meet his, unconsciously seeking him out as he takes over your thoughts. His eyes are there, on you, just as you knew they would be. He sends you a cheeky wink. Prick.

Your handwriting is shaky today, a result of your bouncing leg as your stomach churns with anxiety, waiting for the exam results. You chew on your nail, crossing off a word and shaking your head when you spell it wrong. When you aren’t writing, it’s back to tapping.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

You don’t feel like you take a full breath until the test is physically in your hand. You practically tear it away from the professor, eyes darting all over until you spot the score. 100%. Your heart soars, but then you falter just a bit when you realize you missed the extra credit question. You pray that James did too, or that he didn’t score as high.

But you know better.

And so does James, evidently. Because the second you look up, that signature smirk is on his lips and he holds up the test so you can see, a long finger pointing at his score in the top right.

102%. Fuck.

You really don’t want to be here. The music is too loud, everyone is drunk, and there’s a cloud of smoke so thick you find it a little hard to breathe.

You had been wallowing in self-pity in your dorm, pouring over your textbook on a Friday night instead of doing anything fun. Because of James fucking Potter and his stupid 102%. He’s been teasing you all week, laughing and whispering with his friends when you walk by.

“Need me to tutor you, darling?” He’d called out with a bright voice, only chuckling when you flipped him off. You hate him and his beautiful face.

And tonight, your study/self-pity session was interrupted by your phone ringing several times.

Your roommate asked you to come pick her up from a party, but you’ve searched the frat house twice now with no sign of her. You’ve tried calling, and she won’t answer your texts either. It’s frustrating, and you’re about to go home without her when a familiar voice catches your attention.

“I mean it!” You know it’s James before you see him, peeking around the corner to spot him, Sirius, Remus, and Peter pouring drinks in the kitchen. “She looked at me eleven times today. I counted!”

“You’re hopeless.” Sirius announces, head shaking before pouring some of the alcohol directly into his mouth from the bottle. Peter gives him a disgusted look and you almost snort. “She hates you.” “I know,” James seems defeated at Sirius’ words and your curiosity is fully peaked at this point. “Why do you think I have to count how many times she looks at me?”

“Have you ever tried, I don’t know, talking to the poor girl?” Remus asks, taking a sip from his cup before taking the bottle away from Sirius when he drinks straight from it again.

“She always thinks I’m teasing her, even when I really mean it.” James shakes his head, “If pissing her off and getting better scores than her is what keeps her eyes on me, then that’s what I’ll do.”

Oh. Oh.

Is he talking about you?

You hold your breath, pressing closer to the wall as though you’ll be able to hear any better, peeking around the corner to watch the four men talk. James takes a large sip of his drink and you find your eyes lingering over his figure.

“I still think you should just tell her.” Peter speaks up and James knocks into him with his shoulder.

“You know I can’t just do that, Pete.” James shakes his head, and you watch as his chocolate curls flutter against his forehead. “What do I say? ‘Hi, I know you’ve hated me for the last two and a half years and I’ve been pretending to hate you too. Can we go on a date?’”

Sirius snorts, and it’s in perfect timing to cover the slight gasp that comes out of your mouth. He really is talking about you.

James Potter has feelings for you. You thought he hated your guts.

“What are you doing?” The voice of your roommate from behind you has you practically jumping out of your skin. You whip around to find her watching you with a judgmental look on her face.

“Nothing!” You say quickly, clearing your throat. “I’ve been looking for you. Are you ready? Let’s go.” You don’t really give her a chance to argue, tugging at her arm as you pull her out of the frat house and back to your car.

You try to pay attention to the conversation your roommate is having with you on the way home, but it’s difficult. Your mind is racing, focus on the conversation you overheard back at the party.

Does James really have feelings for you? He said he only continues to rile you up because you won’t look at him any other way. You don’t trust him if he acts serious. Is that true?

The only time you can remember that James Potter tried to act sincere with you was the one time you had to miss an exam due to needing a trip to the hospital. He pleaded with the professor on your behalf, convincing him to let you take it a different day. When he told you what he did, you assumed it was because he didn’t want to win an unfair fight. You didn’t think he’d advocate for you because he cares or anything.

Oh. Maybe James is right. Maybe you don’t take him seriously.

You toss and turn in your bed that night for hours, mind racing as you rethink almost every interaction you’ve had with the bespectacled boy since the two of you met freshman year. James, for all his annoying flaws, seems to be a good friend. He’s thoughtful, he’s funny, and he’s so handsome it makes you sick sometimes. And he’s so, so smart.

You hate the feelings churning in your stomach. On one hand, you hate him. Even if he has feelings for you, that doesn’t make it okay for him to tease you, and you still want to be better than him. You need to win. But on the other hand… you could really like him, you think. If you let yourself fall for him. If he really does have feelings for you and it wasn’t all a cruel joke.

But how could it be a joke? James didn’t even know you’d been at the party, and none of his friends had spotted you either. They’d been talking casually, not like they were making fun of you.

You sigh, flopping into a different position again as you try to get comfortable. You spring up suddenly when you get an idea.

“I’m going to seduce James Potter.” You say, a happy laugh falling from your lips. “And then I’ll sit by him during the next exam and he’ll be so distracted that I’ll score higher than him!”

You grunt suddenly as a pillow comes in contact with the side of your head, flung by your roommate.

“Go to sleep!”

You’re tapping your pen on your desk again. But this time, there’s no exam to take or score to wait for. You’re waiting for the end of class, eyes darting between the clock and the boy who you’re hoping to catch on the way out. James.

He seems to notice that you’re looking at him more often. You knew he stared at you a lot, but you didn’t know it was actually the entire lecture. You find yourself glancing at him repeatedly, his eyes waiting for yours every time you do.

This is making you more nervous than you thought it would. You’ve thrown insults and curse words at James like it’s second nature, but the idea of asking him to come back to your dorm with you is making you feel a bit sick. What if you misunderstood everything you overheard? What if they’d been talking about someone else and now you’re going to make a fool of yourself, providing a lifetime of bullying fuel for the one person who really can get under your skin?

You shake your head as the professor dismisses the class, swallowing nervously and quickly packing up your things. You shove down your anxiety, replaying your plan in your head.

Get him in your dorm. Get him naked. Get close enough to keep him distracted from his classes.

You head toward the lecture hall’s doors, and find James and Sirius walking out right in front of you.

“James?” You call out to him. Both James and Sirius turn around, James with eyes as wide as saucers, and Sirius with a bit of a gleam in his eye.

“Hey,” James says, running a hand through his hair as he tries to seem casual. Now that you see it, it’s so obvious. You’d thought he was so cocky before, now you realize he’s been trying to get your attention..

“Could we… talk?” You ask, shuffling a bit on your feet as your heart races. You try to seem solid, but you don’t know what you’ll do if he laughs in your face and calls you a loser.

He doesn’t. He wouldn’t. Instead he says, “Of course,” though you can tell by the look on his face that he is incredibly confused about why you want to speak to him.

James waves Sirius off and you take a breath. “Can we… go to my dorm?” You ask him.

You can see the suspicion in his eyes, the way the muscles in his jaw tighten and his lips purse. He crosses his arms and then speaks, voice a bit short and clipped. “Your dorm?”

“Yes.” You say with a nod, keeping your voice steady even though you feel like your heart might explode, “I just… I need to talk to you.”

Your words and tone seem to have the desired effect and his hardness softens just a bit. He nods, and walks back with you to your dorm. Your roommate is gone tonight, at her boyfriend’s house, so you know no one will interrupt your plans.

You sit on the bed, gesturing for James to do the same. He looks out of place here, and it doesn’t help that his body is fully tense and he seems extremely uncomfortable.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” James asks, and you understand why he is so suspicious of you. He should be, considering your plan. But you have to score higher than him on the next test. And if that means distracting him with his feelings for you, then you’ll do it.

“I’ve just been… doing some thinking.” You say slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You move a bit closer to him, sitting on your knees beside him. “I feel like I owe you an apology.”

That gets his attention. His head whips in your direction, his guard falling for a moment from the shock of your words. “You’re apologizing to me?” You nod, playing with a strand of your hair. “I haven’t been very nice, and I… I don’t want you to think I’m a bad person. I like you, James.”

He stares at you, lips slightly parted, and it’s like you can see his brain short-circuit. His eyes, as big and beautiful as always underneath his glasses, blink several times as he tries to process what you’ve said. You wait, and after a long moment you decide to speak again.

“Aren’t you going to say you like me back?”

“What?” James shakes his head, and it seems like his hand reaches for your waist instinctively, but stops short of actually touching you. “I mean, yes. I like you, but I don’t understand. I thought…”

“That I hated you?” You say, tilting your head and batting your eyelashes at him. You see his pupils dilate, his Adam’s apple bob. You shake your head. “I don’t hate you, James. Actually, I…” You lean forward to reach and brush some curls off his forehead, then whisper to him, “I really, really want you.”

“Is this really happening?” James asks, like he’s torn between his mind and his heart. You don’t give him a second to question you, leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips. He responds immediately grabbing for you and deepening the kiss. His grip is tight, and he lets out little whines and moans in your mouth. You ignore the way the sounds make your thighs clench and your stomach warm.

He pulls you forward into his lap, your legs on either side of his hips. You roll forward, pressing down against him. He’s already hard, and you can tell he’s big. Your heart flutters but you ignore it, continuing to focus on James as you find him bucking his hips up into yours. He really must have been pent up, waiting for this.

“Holy fuck. Holy fuck.” He whispers between kisses, hands grasping at you like a man touch-starved.

When he pulls his lips away from yours to breathe, he quickly leans forward to attach them to your neck. You find your eyes fluttering closed as his tongue darts out against your skin and leaves saliva and warmth in its wake. Despite trying to push down your own feelings, you find yourself wanting more of him. Not just to seduce him, but also because it feels good.

You reach down, freeing James from his pants. He lifts his hips a bit to help you. He’s even bigger than you thought and he finds the audacity to smirk a bit at you, making you roll your eyes.

You stroke him a few times, hearing him whimper your name. You hate the way your throat tightens when he does. Your own pants are tossed aside quickly, along with your underwear.

James’ hands grasp at your hips, and his eyes are dark and hazy as you look down at him from your place on his lap. His Adam’s apple bobs again as he swallows thickly, his chest a bit shaky as he breathes.

It’s time to lock in, you think, and lean forward to press a kiss to his jaw. You literally watch his dick twitch and you lick up his neck to his ear.

“Are you going to let me fuck you, James?” You whisper into his ear, seeing his body shiver. A thought crosses your mind that being above him like this feels a million times better than being above him in GPA, but you force that idea away as soon as it appears.

He whines, and you pull back, sliding a hand up to rest against the front of his throat. You tilt your head and see James’ entire face flush, his cock bright red and already leaking. “Well?”

“Yes, please, yeah…” He whines and you pretend not to absolutely relish in the way it sounds.

You squeeze his throat a bit as you slide down onto him, and he practically cums right then. You smirk a bit, giving the both of you a moment to adjust. He feels really fucking good, too good. You find yourself enjoying every roll of your hips, every buck of his. You squeeze a bit tighter every time he tries to speak, and it always has his eyes rolling back and his hands gripping you harder. His body trembles, and pieces of strangled whimpers escape his mouth as you grind down onto him.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” You moan out, the sound escaping you before you can stop yourself. One of James’ hands moves to your wrist, holding it but not pulling it away from his neck. In fact, at the next roll of your hips, he pushes your wrist closer, encouraging you to tighten your grip, and you do.

The sight of his writhing beneath you is everything you could ever have hoped for. James is completely at your mercy, and it makes you feel invincible. You cum harder than you ever have in your life, and James follows not long after.

You make the mistake of falling asleep next to him afterward, telling yourself that it’s to make him really think you like him. Not because you wanted to sleep with your ear pressed to his chest, listening to his heart beat. It’s just soothing. You tell yourself it won’t happen again, even though deep down, you know you’re lying. This has changed things for you, even if you won’t admit it to yourself.

The day of the next exam finally comes, and for once, you find that you aren’t nervous. You studied your ass off the entire past week, and with your plan to distract James going well so far, you don’t feel like you have much to worry about.

You take a seat next to James for this one, and he smiles lovingly at you. His friends snort, and you wonder what he told them. The talking stops instantly as tests are passed around. You spend the entire time brushing your foot against James’ calf, at one point bending over to pick up your pencil and purposely showing him your cleavage. It works to distract him, and you’ve convinced yourself that you have this in the bag.

You leave feeling confident, James following you like a puppy. He’s been by your side almost the entire time since you hooked up with him. You find you like having him around.

As his hand slides into yours and his smile makes your heart skip, you aren’t sure if you're still lying to yourself about how you feel. The more time you spend with him, the more you find yourself liking him. It happens slowly, until one day you realize that the things that used to be frustrating about him now make him endearing. Your walls crumble like old castle walls, until you’ve accepted that maybe these feelings have been there since the beginning.

It’s these realizations alone that keep you from breaking down when you finally see the test scores.

“How?” You ask, eyes darting between your test and James’. You got a 98%. James got 100%.. “I was trying to give you a boner the entire time!”

“Joke's on you,” James says with a smirk, grabbing your test from you and pressing a kiss to your cheekbone. “That happens every time I watch you during an exam. I’m used to it.”

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