#it is SO interesting to me because... why? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

uncuredturkeybacon · 3 days ago

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𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you go to your first basketball game and didn't expect something more

You were exhausted. Not in the tired of life way, just the overwhelmed by glamour kind of way. The Formula 1 movie premiere had been a blur of flashbulbs, champagne flutes, and glimmering gowns. You weren’t a driver, but you may as well have been with the way the cameras hounded you and Charles from the moment you stepped onto the red carpet.

It never really stopped, that attention. Not when you were the younger sister of Charles Leclerc and one of the very few women working as a Formula One race engineer—let alone one who’d made it onto the Ferrari team by twenty-three. People were interested. People always had questions. And your face? Apparently marketable enough for every tabloid to want it next to your brother’s whenever you were in the same city.

So, yeah. You were exhausted.

Which is why the idea of going to a basketball game sounded... almost rebellious in its normalcy.

You leaned your head on Charles’s shoulder as the car rolled through Manhattan traffic, humming under your breath. “I still can’t believe you dragged me into that afterparty last night.”

Charles snorted, relaxed in his seat with Alexandra curled up against his other side. “You say that, but you were the one doing shots with Lando.”

“I did one shot with Lando,” you corrected, “because he said I was too uptight.”

Alex laughed softly. “He also said you should be in front of the camera instead of hiding behind pit walls.”

You groaned. “He says that every time. I fix your telemetry one time during qualifying and suddenly I’m Angelina Jolie.”

Charles grinned and gave your hand a squeeze. “You just hate being famous.”

“I don’t hate it,” you murmured, lips quirking. “I just hate not being able to disappear.”

And that was really it. You hadn’t told anyone outside your inner circle about your plan for today. A quiet trip to the Barclays Center. Just you, Charles, and Alex.

You’d mentioned it in passing after breakfast this morning, still sipping your iced coffee, eyes puffy with sleep.

“I’ve never seen a basketball game in person,” you said, squinting at your phone. “New York Liberty’s playing tonight.”

Charles blinked at you across the kitchen island. “You want to go?”

You shrugged. “Kind of curious. I know nothing about it, but the atmosphere seems cool when I googled it.”

“You google everything,” Alex teased you, whited you just shrugged at.

“Alright.” He pulled out his phone. “I’ll text my manager. We’ll sort it.”

And of course, being Charles, he sorted it within half an hour. Three courtside seats. No fanfare or sponsor ties. Just you three, sitting down to watch women throw a ball around and, hopefully, scream at each other with intense athleticism. It sounded oddly soothing.

Now the black SUV pulled up to the Barclays Center and the street buzzed with energy. The pre-game crowd was thicker than you expected. People in teal and sea foam green jerseys stood in clumps on the sidewalk, others in navy and silver.

You read a few of the names on the backs of shirts. Jones. Ionescu. Bueckers. That last one you pronounced in your head like “Buckers” before second-guessing yourself.

As the door opened, Charles stepped out first, always the gentleman, offering a hand to help Alex out next. You slid out after them, a little disoriented by the shift in atmosphere. Less polished than the premiere, but more alive somehow. No tuxedos or gowns—just sneakers, t-shirts, music blasting from speakers along the entryway.

You adjusted your sunglasses, even though it was nearly evening, and tugged your denim jacket tighter around you. The press hadn’t followed. No one here really cared mush about who you were. A few teenagers glanced at Charles—probably Formula 1 fans—but no cameras. No interviews. No one asking how Charles thinks of the season so far, how no one asks you about updates on the cars.

Just... peace.

“Didn’t think there’d be this many people,” you said under your breath as you approached the VIP entrance.

“Basketball’s apparently big here,” Alex replied, brushing her hair over one shoulder. “The Liberty are kind of a big deal.”

You tilted your head. “Do you know anything about it?”

“Enough to pretend,” she said with a grin.

“Perfect. I’ll follow your lead.”

Security ushered you in quickly once credentials were checked—Charles’s manager had arranged everything—and the cool of the arena swallowed you whole. Air conditioning, the sharp scent of popcorn and floor polish, and the distant thud of basketballs echoed in your ears.

You followed a staff member through the lower tunnels, emerging out into the blinding brightness of the court.

And just like that, you were courtside.

It was... closer than you expected.

You could see the lights glaring off the court. Hear the rubber of sneakers squeaking with warmup drills. Players darted up and down the court, long-limbed and agile, even just jogging. You didn’t know who was who, but one team was in blue warm-ups and the other in black.

Someone was shooting three-pointers with precision. Another sprinted from baseline to half court and back, ponytail whipping behind her like a comet trail.

“Bloody hell,” Charles muttered beside you, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket. “They’re fast.”

“Mmhm,” you said, barely hearing him.

One of the players jogged past, close enough to see the tiny bead of sweat trickling down the side of her face. She didn’t look over, too focused on her footwork. Her jersey read BUECKERS in crisp blue letters across the back.

You blinked.

Oh. That name again.

You leaned toward Alex. “Is that... Buckers? Like the jersey we saw outside?”

Alex nodded. “Yeah. She’s really famous, I think. Played for UConn. Supposed to be a big deal for the Wings this year.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “How do you know that?”

“Google is a wonderful tool, hermana.”

You studied the woman as she slowed to a jog near the bench, catching a water bottle and tipping it up with ease. Blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail, pale skin, strong arms that flexed easily with every movement. She had a kind of presence. Not in the way F1 drivers did—loud, cocky—but... quietly intense.

You tilted your head. “She looks like she could stare through someone’s soul.”

Charles chuckled. “Don’t let her stare at you like that. You’ll explode.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it.

The arena began to fill. The crowd’s energy ramped up with every minute closer to tip-off. Announcers boomed over the speakers. Lights dimmed, and spotlights painted patterns across the hardwood.

You settled into your seat, tucking one ankle over your knee and balancing a bottle of water between your palms. The back of your neck buzzed with anticipation, though you couldn’t say why. Maybe it was just the unknown—this whole world of sport you knew nothing about. Maybe it was the air conditioning. Or maybe it was the fact that Bueckers, whoever she really was, had just glanced toward your row like she knew exactly who you were.

But she didn’t. Did she?

It started with a tap.

A quiet one, like the soft thud of a butterfly wing against your skin. You were distracted by the sweep of pregame lights moving across the ceiling, the slight back and forth between Charles and Alex beside you and by the rhythmic sound of basketballs echoing like thunder on the court.

You didn’t notice the two players breaking away from warmups at first, not until you caught a shift in the atmosphere. Like energy moving in a new direction.

And then, there it was. A gentle, almost tentative voice near your shoulder.

“Hi. Um. Are you—are you Charles’s sister?”

You turned and blinked.

It was her.

Bueckers. The name you’d only just learned a few minutes ago. She was taller than you’d expected up close, but not by much. Her cheeks were flushed from warmups, blonde hair tied in a tight ponytail. Her jersey was still partially tucked in, and she was holding her water bottle in both hands like it might anchor her to the moment.

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your mouth. “Depends who’s asking.”

She let out a soft breath, something between a chuckle and a sigh of relief. “Just a fan.”

That surprised you. “You’re a fan of me?”

Paige shook her head, then immediately nodded, then looked like she regretted both. “No, I mean—yes. Not like in a weird way. Just... I’ve seen you on the screen sometimes during races. You always looked beaut—uh, I mean—focused and serious.”

You blinked again. “You follow Formula 1?”

“Arike’s girlfriend is obsessed,” Paige replied, glancing quickly over her shoulder. “She’s a huge Ferrari fan. So Arike’s always hearing about your brother. And I guess I kind of got sucked up in it once I moved to Dallas.”

You glanced past her. Sure enough, one of her teammates—the one with the wicked jumper during warmups, now confirmed as Arike—was enthusiastically talking to Charles. She looked slightly overwhelmed, and very excited, holding her phone in one hand as she grinned up at him like he’d just won her a car.

Your eyebrows lifted. “Wow. That’s not something I expected today.”

“Yeah,” Paige murmured, and when you turned back to her, she was already looking at you again. “Me neither.”

You didn’t know what it was, exactly. Maybe the nerves in her voice, maybe the way she rocked slightly on her feet like she was resisting the urge to bolt—but it made you soften.

You held out your hand. “I’m Y/N.”

Her smile grew. “Paige.”

You nodded. “Ah, Paige. It’s nice to finally know the first name.”

She laughed. “You didn’t know?”

“Nope,” you said, tipping your head. “Just kept seeing Buckers jerseys everywhere.”

Paige’s ears went a little pink, and she tucked a loose piece of hair behind one ear, fingers fidgeting with the elastic of her jersey. “Um, it’s Bueckers actually. The ‘u’ is silent.”

“Bueckers. I apologize,” you said.

“It’s okay,” she gave a shy smile. “You, um. You’re really here for a game?”

You glance back out to the court, where the rest of the Wings and Liberty were still running drills. “First one ever. Thought I’d see what all the hype is about.”

She grinned. “You picked a good one. Liberty versus Wings is never boring.”

“I wouldn’t know,” you said lightly. “I’ve never watched basketball before. Been surrounded by race cars all my life.”

Paige laughed again, lighter this time. “That’s okay. I know nothing about racing except that I can’t even go-kart without spinning out.”

You smiled. “Maybe we can teach each other.”

The words hung in the air, light but charged. Paige’s eyes flickered to your mouth before quickly darting away again. You didn’t miss it.

“So,” you said, shifting in your seat so you were angled slightly more toward her, “are you just saying hi, or are you here on official wingwoman duty for Arike?”

She groaned softly, but she was smiling. “She begged me to come over. She got too nervous and didn’t want to go alone.”

“Too nervous?” you asked, genuinely curious. “Charles is like... a walking golden retriever. He’s the least intimidating person I know.”

“I think that’s why she’s nervous,” Paige said, leaning slightly closer. “She wants to make a good impression. Her girlfriend’s always saying how cool he is. Especially his girlfriend. Plus, Arike’s not great with... subtlety.”

You snorted. “I can tell. She’s practically vibrating.”

Paige’s gaze lingered on you for a second longer before she pulled back slightly, clearing her throat. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t be bothering you before the game.”

“You’re not bothering me,” you said easily. “I feel like I’m the one that’s bothering you. But this is already more fun than I expected.”

She grinned. “What did you expect?”

You shrugged. “To sit here awkwardly while everyone screamed around me. To not understand what was happening. To check my phone halfway through the second quarter.”

“And now?”

You looked at her, really looked, and smiled softly. “Now I kind of want to stay until the very end.”

Her blush returned, stronger this time.

The crowd began to rise in volume as the clock above the court ticked closer to tip-off. Music pulsed through the speakers. A Liberty player dunked during layup lines and the crowd roared. Paige glanced toward the bench.

“I should probably get back,” she said, sounding reluctant.

You tilted your head. “Are you starting?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “But I’ll—um. I’ll try not to trip in front of you.”

You smirked. “No promises from me. I might cheer for the other team just to keep you on your toes.”

Her mouth parted like she didn’t know whether to laugh or challenge you. “You wouldn’t.”

You lifted a brow. “Wouldn’t I?”

She bit her lip. “Well... if you change your mind, I’ll be number five. Wings jersey. You know. Just in case you decide you want to cheer for the right side.”

You leaned back, eyes gleaming. “We’ll see how you play.”

She took a few steps back, still facing you, then finally turned around just as Arike finished her impromptu photo with Charles and bounded after her.

You watched her go—watched the easy way she moved, the subtle glance she cast over her shoulder before disappearing behind the bench.

Alex elbowed you gently. “So. That was a very long conversation for someone who only came over because of Arike.”

You tried for casual. “She was being polite.”

Charles snorted. “Mon dieu. She was flirting and she was terrible at it.”

“She was sweet,” you corrected, still smiling faintly.

Alex leaned in. “And you liked it.”

You didn’t say anything. Just sipped your water, eyes trailing back to where Paige now stood with her teammates, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet, gaze already scanning the court—but every now and then, flickering right back to you.

And each time it did, your heart fluttered a little faster than it had on any starting grid.

It wasn’t obvious at first.

You weren’t sure what to watch during a basketball game—when to focus on the ball, when to look at the off-ball movement or when to just follow the flow of the players gliding across the court like it was muscle memory. The speed surprised you. The precision. The sheer athleticism of it all.

But what surprised you most was how often your eyes were drawn back to her.

She moved like she didn’t need to think, like the court was just an extension of her breath. One second, she was at the top of the arc calling for the ball, the next, she was slashing into the paint, drawing a defender with her before dishing out a no-look pass that made the crowd gasp and a teammate drain a three.

You leaned forward unconsciously. “She’s really good,” you murmured.

Charles glanced sideways. “You mean Paige?”

“Mhm,” you said without looking away. “She plays like she’s solving a puzzle no one else can solve.”

“She has vision,” Alex added. “Like a driver who sees the apex before the turn.”

You nodded, eyes narrowing slightly as Paige picked off a lazy pass and darted up court in transition. She didn’t rush, didn’t force anything—just read the defender’s body language and timed her steps perfectly before finishing with a layup that rolled off her fingers like silk.

The scoreboard ticked up in the Wings’ favor.

And Paige—oh, Paige—jogged back on defense with a half-smirk tugging at her mouth. Her eyes scanned the front row, just briefly, but when they landed on yours, they didn’t move.

You didn’t either.

Her gaze lingered a second too long. She gave the smallest shrug of her shoulders—barely noticeable—but it said everything. That one was for you.

You blinked. A beat passed. And you smiled, just a little.

Timeout.

The coaches called for a break, and both teams huddled by their benches. Paige wiped her face with her towel, bouncing on her toes, sipping from her water bottle, listening with half an ear to what her coach was saying.

But her eyes found you again.

You didn’t pretend not to notice.

She raised a hand and waved—quick, subtle, a flick of fingers from low by her waist like she didn’t want anyone else to see.

You lifted your brows, amused.

She smiled again—shy, still—but different now. Confident in a way that felt like a quiet dare.

“She’s waving at you,” Charles said, practically choking on his soda.

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, thank you, Cha.”

“I’m just saying,” he replied, grinning like an idiot. “You’re distracting a professional athlete in the middle of a game. That’s impressive.”

“I’m not trying to distract her,” you muttered.

Alex smirked. “You’re not not trying.”

You crossed one leg over the other, resting your elbow on the armrest between you and Charles. Paige was back in the game now, standing on the wing waiting for the inbound pass. She glanced toward you again.

You didn’t wave, didn’t smile. You just raised one brow and tilted your head like Alright, Bueckers. Show me something.

And she did.

She moved off the ball like she was built for it—cutting, darting, changing direction so fast the Liberty defender couldn’t keep up. She caught the pass mid-motion, turned, and let it fly from just beyond the arc.

Swish.

The net barely moved.

Half the crowd screamed.

The Wings bench stood up, cheering.

And Paige? She jogged back, biting her bottom lip like she was trying to hide a grin—but didn’t try that hard. Her eyes met yours again, and this time she winked.

Winked.

You could feel Charles and Alex practically vibrating next to you.

“Ay dios mío” Alex said under her breath. “You’re in so deep already.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly. “I just met her. I didn’t even know how to say her last name.”

“You know,” Charles said, “I always imagined you’d fall for someone complicated. Mysterious. Dangerous.”

“She plays basketball,” you said flatly.

“She’s clearly dangerous to your self-control.”

You ignored him. Sort of.

Because you were watching her again. Watching the way she locked in when she played. The way her teammates looked to her instinctively. The way she trusted her first move—no hesitation, no overthinking. Paige Bueckers played basketball the way you did data analysis mid-race… fast, decisive, and like the margin for error was nonexistent.

And every time she made a big play, her eyes flicked back to you.

Like she wanted to know if you’d seen.

Like she needed you to.

By halftime, your heart was pounding harder than it had in any garage on race day.

You’d come here for something simple. A distraction. A break from being Charles Leclerc’s little sister or Ferrari’s engineering prodigy. Monaco’s Princess.

Instead, you got Paige Bueckers.

And every time she looked at you, it felt like she saw right through the noise.

The final buzzer sounded like a sigh.

The game had been close—closer than anyone had predicted from what you gathered in the crowd chatter around you. Liberty fans were loud, but by the fourth quarter, you started to hear more Wings chants pick up momentum. You didn’t understand every foul or call or play, but you understood Paige.

You understood how her team trusted her. You understood how she handled pressure like it was gravity. You understood how, after every big moment, her eyes found you.

And now, it was over. Scoreboard locked. Jerseys drenched in sweat. Fans buzzing in that familiar post-sport high.

You stayed seated as most of the arena stood to leave. Charles was scrolling through his phone, nodding occasionally at a fan who called his name but otherwise keeping low-key. Alex sipped the last of her drink, curled comfortably against his arm, while you just… watched.

The court was still alive.

Paige was surrounded—first by teammates, then reporters, then fans pressed against the rails. She was gracious with each person, smiling wide in photos, laughing at something a little girl said, holding her sharpie with care as she signed the backs of posters, jerseys, and phones.

“She’s got that same energy you do after a podium,” Alex said gently.

You glanced at her. “Huh?”

Alex nodded toward Paige. “A little exhausted, a little adrenaline high, kind of glowing but pretending not to notice.”

You looked back. Paige was crouched to take a photo with a kid in a Wings jersey two sizes too big for him. She gave the camera a thumbs up. Her pony was messy now, strands of blonde hair falling loose around her face.

She glanced toward you. Saw you still there.

And smiled like it meant something.

You felt it like a pull.

Paige whispered something to a staffer and took a final photo, then jogged toward the bench. Her teammates were heading back to the locker room, but she lingered. You stood as she approached, not sure what you were expecting.

“Hey,” she said, a little breathless. “You’re still here.”

You smiled. “I said I’d stay until the end.”

Her eyes flicked to Charles and Alex, who were now standing just behind you, watching quietly. Paige’s cheeks flushed, but she held her ground.

“I, uh—I have to do post-game interviews,” she said, almost apologetically. “Media stuff. Probably fifteen, twenty minutes. But I was wondering…” She shifted, bouncing slightly on her toes. Her voice was softer now, meant only for you. “Would you wait?”

You blinked. “Wait for you?”

She nodded. “I just— I’d really like to talk more. If you want. I don’t know if you’re going somewhere after or flying out soon or—”

“I’m here tonight,” you said, cutting gently through her nerves. “We’re in New York for another day.”

“Oh. Good. Okay.” Her smile was so honest it made your chest feel warm. “So... would you?”

You could feel Charles and Alex still watching, but they didn’t say a word. You tucked your hands in your jacket pockets and tilted your head.

“You want me to wait around in an empty arena just so you can talk to me again?”

Paige met your gaze. Didn’t back down. “Yes.”

The answer was so simple it made you grin.

“Okay,” you said. “I’ll wait.”

Relief bloomed across her face. “Cool. I won’t be long. Promise.”

She started to turn, paused, then hesitated before glancing at Charles.

“I’m a big fan of yours, by the way,” she added quickly, cheeks turning red. “Both of you. You guys looked really good in Monaco.”

Charles lit up. “Merci. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear most of that conversation earlier.”

Paige laughed nervously. “Noted.” Then she looked back at you. “Be right back.”

You watched her disappear into the tunnel, every bit of her confidence lingering behind in the way she glanced at you over her shoulder one last time.

When she was gone, Charles bumped his shoulder lightly into yours.

“Does she always look at people like that?”

You raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing.”

You shrugged. “Maybe she just appreciates a challenge.”

Alex grinned. “You’re such a liar. You’re already gone for her.”

You didn’t answer. Just sat back down and stared at the empty court where she’d just been.

And waited.

It was quiet by the time she returned.

The kind of quiet that only settles in after the world has exhaled. Most of the crowd had gone home. Security lingered by the exits, sweeping the rows. Staffers rolled carts of used towels and half-empty water bottles down the tunnel. The court was bare now. Just the hushed hum of the arena winding down.

You were still there. Sitting courtside. Jacket draped over your shoulders, fingers absently spinning the cap of your water bottle. Charles and Alex had wandered off somewhere to give you space. You hadn’t asked, but they just knew.

And then you heard footsteps again—softer now, not game shoes. Slides against the polished concrete.

You looked up.

There she was.

She was fresh from the locker room, face clean, blonde hair damp and tied loosely now. A W hoodie, oversized, sleeves pulled down over her hands. She wore simple black shorts and Nike socks pushed halfway down her ankles.

She looked like herself in a way that tugged at you—like all the edges were finally rounded off now that the lights were dim and the cameras were gone.

“You waited,” she said, quiet.

You gave her a small smile. “I said I would.”

She sat beside you, one seat in-between, giving you space but close enough for your knees to brush if you shifted.

Neither of you moved.

For a while, you just sat there like that. Silence stretching between you like a breath held, but not tense. Not awkward. Just... present.

She finally spoke. “So… be honest. What’d you think?”

You looked at her. “Of the game?”

Paige nodded.

You took your time. “It was like hearing a language I don’t speak, but still knowing exactly what everyone meant.”

She blinked at that. “That’s... really poetic.”

You shrugged. “I’m around fast cars all day. I don’t get to be poetic very often.”

Paige smiled to herself. “You said you’d never seen a basketball game before?”

“Never.” You glanced out at the now-empty court. “I came in expecting to get bored halfway through. I thought I’d be checking my notes on my phone by the second quarter.”

“And instead?”

“I forgot I even had a phone.”

She turned her head toward you, expression soft. “Because of the game, or...”

You looked back at her. “Do I need to answer that?”

She didn’t blush this time. But her eyes dropped for a second, and when they lifted again, they held something steadier. More certain.

“I’m glad you came,” she said.

You studied her. “You mean that?”

“Yeah. I—” she hesitated, exhaling through her nose. “I know it sounds stupid, but sometimes when you play so many games, they all blur together. It becomes muscle memory. You forget what it feels like to want someone in the crowd to see you. Like, actually see you.”

You didn’t speak, not right away. Because that hit somewhere you weren’t ready for.

“Does it get lonely?” you asked softly.

Paige blinked. “What?”

You looked down at your hands. “Being known. By everyone. But not really known by anyone who isn’t part of the circle.”

She was quiet. You risked a glance at her. She was already watching you.

“It does,” she said. “It really does.”

You nodded. “I get it.”

“I figured you would.” She shifted in her seat, angling toward you more. “You know what it felt like tonight?”

“What?”

She paused. “It felt like you weren’t here for the show. You weren’t waiting to be impressed. You were just... there. Watching. Like it was already enough.”

You held her gaze. “That’s because it was.”

You saw the breath catch in her chest before she tried to play it off with a quiet laugh. “You’re really dangerous, you know that?”

“Because I said something kind?”

“No. Because you meant it.”

That silenced you both for a long moment. You let it happen. Let the silence linger and swell and settle. Eventually, Paige leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, looking out at the court.

“Do you think you’ll come to another game?” she asked.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you mirrored her posture, your shoulders touching ever so slightly. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’ll be there.”

She let out a small breath of a laugh, low and fond. “God, you’re gonna wreck me.”

You smiled. “That’s not my intention.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s why it’s worse.”

The lights overhead dimmed a little more as the staff shut down sections row by row. A janitor passed with a sweeping broom. You didn’t care. You had nowhere else to be. Not in that moment.

She looked at you again. “Can I give you my number?”

You raised an eyebrow. “That was inevitable.”

“I didn’t want to assume,” she said, grinning now, eyes crinkling. “You could’ve been not interested. Or just—”

“Paige,” you cut in gently. “I waited for you.”

She smiled slowly.

You reached into your jacket and pulled out your phone, unlocking it and holding it out. She entered her number carefully, then hesitated before handing it back.

“What?” you asked.

She looked slightly sheepish. “Just thought my contact name should pay tribute to our first interaction to each other.”

You checked it.

Buckers

You laughed. “Wow. You’re not gonna let that go, huh?”

“Nope. It’s part of you now. You gonna change it?”

You didn’t. You saved it as is.

“I like it,” you said. “It’s us.”

You both stood when security finally made a quiet gesture that the arena was closing up. Paige stretched her arms above her head and gave you a look like she didn’t quite want to leave.

You didn’t either.

“Hey,” she said, more serious now. “Can I call you tomorrow? Or tonight? Or whenever it’s not weird? I just... I’d like to talk more. Without a clock running.”

You nodded, heart softening. “I’d like that.”

And then you leaned in—just slightly—and kissed her cheek. Slow. Intentional. Close enough that your lips brushed the corner of her mouth.

She froze. Exhaling softly.

When you pulled back, her face was pink, her eyes shining.

You whispered, “I’ll be waiting for that call.”

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idle-vapourings · 2 days ago

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This is so real.

for myself, I've just had to realize when I'm talking to someone who has no desire to understand me.

because yeah, ableist people be ableist, bigots be bigots, selfish people be selfish, and it will be a losing game every time trying to make them come around.

i had this happen with a friend who had hurt my feelings. I kept it very short and polite because I didn't want to be angry with her or make her feel bad. and then she interpreted that negatively and had a lot of questions for me about my feelings. so i tried to take that in good faith, and explained myself in more detail. I tried to be both empathetic but clear, but really explain and answer her questions. she kept asking me to explain my feelings and at some point I felt that I was being asked to justify having an emotion, which I explained why that hurt. She wasn't getting it, so I explained with more words in an attempt to be clear while being honest how what was happening was frustrating and hurtful to me. she took that as aggression and an unwillingness to work things out with her (the precise thing I was attempting to do). and then she blocked me.

that stung and for a while i thought, hm did i fuck up. but the thing is, no i didn't. really, what it was about is that she refused to accept that she had done something hurtful. so the issue wasn't how i was communicating. it was that she refused to accept a world where she hurt my feelings - even if I had told her it was okay and that I know she didn't mean harm and that I had moved on. Instead, she needed to dissect why I was hurt to begin with and challenge it, rather than accepting that she was a human being who made a mistake. that person wasn't interested in my feelings or my take on the situation. they were interested in being right. and when they couldn't find a path to that with me, they just bounced.

I've also had this happen when requesting disability accommodations after getting a job offer. I requested clarity. I got obtuse replies. I gave more clarity. I got more obtuse replies. That was interpreted as me not wanting to participate in a good faith process. The reality was, the process was not good faith, and it never would have been, no matter what I said.

This feeling of no matter what you say it being wrong can be crushing and frustrating. because at least for me, I feel my autistic brain is really set on there being a solution, a right way to say something to get through to someone or to bridge a connection. and a sincere desire and deep need to be understood and heard. what I've had to come around to is that... sometimes people do not want to hear me. and if they don't, yeah, no matter what I choose, it results in misunderstanding.

I give it a genuine good go once or twice but if they're still interpreting me in the worst faith way possible or choosing to not really hear me then, yanno, time to not bother talking to someone who isn't listening and go talk to someone else worthwhile. I just try to remember that the failure is not mine, here. Someone who doesn't want to listen will never hear me. And people who don't actually want to hear me are never, ever worth my energy in the long run.

The people who really want to listen are out there. I say my thing, I be myself, and I see what the other person does with it.

I LOVE being autistic and trying to communicate because every time it’s

#personal log

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carlyraejepsans · 13 hours ago

Note

Here's something I don't really understand. It's indisputable at this point that Toby Fox doesn't write flat characters. They contain layers upon layers and they--no matter how antagonistic they are--have their own wants and desires. This fandom had practically spent a few years symphathising with the EMAIL guy.

If it hasn't been proven already with every character ever made since UNDERTALE, then why exactly do some people think that Carol Holiday is going to be any different?

well misogyny first of all, people tend to treat women as irredeemable bitches even when they don't deserve it, let alone when they're shown to be cold and unpleasant people who are fucking shit up tremendously.

on some level i do think her writing (so far) has intentionally framed her actions in a way that calls to mind a stereotypical abusive parent. noelle's fawning (lol), her getting locked out of the house, the "don't talk to me or my daughter" threat, Susie bragging that she's taking noelle to the festival right in her face, telling noelle to wait for her in the kitchen. and of course, on top of that, you have... whatever the hell she's doing to leverage kris' help. very shady woman, clearly. she's meant to be terrifying and she nails it.

but the paper snowflakes just... stick to my mind so much. it's the code to translate every single one of her actions and her shortcomings. I've seen people imply she's physically abusive towards noelle, or that noelle remains locked out because she's "not important" or that carol favoured dess and it's like. man you're not even trying to pretend to be interested in what she's got going on, are you.

saying she doesn't care about noelle is ridiculous to me. i think it's all but explicit that she cares so obsessively and neurotically about even the most insignificant detail that she ends up failing the whole of her as her daughter.

she's dooming herself. at least that's what i see her as.

#answered asks #deltarune #carol holiday

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seneon · 1 day ago

Note

hi 🥺 since you wrote a saja boys fic of the kissing fic, can i request for a huntrix version?

where they like to kiss you ──── huntrix.

featuring. rumi, mira, and zoey

notes. no way, this is my first time writing for women. how interesting..... gn¡reader btw. i know these girls are ultimate lovers, you can't tell me otherwise. saja boys version.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ RUMI

rumi likes to kiss your lips and hands. as traditional as it gets, she finds comfort first in holding your hands, caressing your knuckles gently or playing with your hands. then, she moves to kiss them softly, always seeking to press her lips on yours right after it. the caressing of hands is like build-up and the secret messages of affection rumi shows before sealing it with a kiss to your lips. kissing her soft lips always feels like heaven to you. why wouldn't it when she's a sweetheart?

𖥔 ݁ ˖ MIRA

neck. oddly enough, she's not too much of a romantic. sure, she likes little touches with your fingers, hands always seeking silent comfort to with your hands and all. but when she wants to kiss you, mira finds herself buried in the crook of your neck, kissing softly and gently. it's not in the sexual way where it'll leave marks, but it's enough for your skin to memorise the way her lips feels against you and her lipgloss stains which will definitely leave marks on your neck.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ ZOEY

her favourite places to kiss are your cheeks and nose. she's always dreamt of kissing her beloved darling in those two places, because those are her favourite features of yours. your soft cheeks and your totally awesome nose. it feels affectionate and so adorable to her. and zoey loves seeing your face burned in a shade of red roses after she always pecks your cheeks and nose. she's an affectionate monster when it comes to kisses. nobody could rival her cheekiness.

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jungkoode · 2 days ago

Text

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 25

˗ˏˋ vanilla drips ˎˊ˗

"Sometimes the sweetest confessions come in the form of flour wars and vanilla extract kisses, when 3 AM vulnerability meets kitchen counter chemistry and you realize you've been lying to yourself about what you actually want."

next | index

✧ chapter details ✧

word count: 11.2k

content: 3am sourdough therapy sessions, flour warfare, vanilla extract as foreplay, kitchen counter confessions, raw intimacy (literally), tessa reconnaissance missions, jason date debriefs, smut, penetration, vanilla kink as always

✦ author's note ✦

Okay. Before anyone starts warming up their fingers to type “why is Y/N being such a hypocrite about Tessa,” let’s stop right there because actually? She’s not. Not even a little bit. What you’re witnessing here isn’t hypocrisy—it’s human behavior. It’s trauma logic. It’s psychological realism. And it’s honestly the most consistent Y/N has ever been.

Here’s the thing: what she has with Jungkook is sex. She’s said it, she’s acted on it, and more importantly—she believes it. Her brain doesn’t categorize him as a romantic option, not even subconsciously. So when she pushes Tessa toward him, it’s not because she’s lying to herself—it’s because, from her point of view, Jungkook deserves something good. After Mia? Yeah. He deserves a little sweetness. Tessa’s nice. That’s literally it. She’s responding with a moral instinct, not romantic jealousy. And that’s not hypocrisy—that’s compartmentalization paired with a genuine (if ill-defined) desire to see someone be treated well.

But here’s the question the chapter’s really asking: is “something good” always what someone needs?

Because Jungkook doesn’t recognize affection as safe. The boy has trained himself not to see it—thanks to a past that weaponized intimacy against him. So of course he doesn’t clock Tessa’s interest. It’s not him being stupid. It’s a trauma-informed blind spot. He’s too tuned into control dynamics to perceive sincerity when it’s offered without strings. (And let’s be real, how many of us have had our receptors miswired by the wrong person?)

That’s where the mutual curiosity comes in—both Y/N and Jungkook ask about each other’s dating lives in this chapter. Not because they’re pining or secretly in love or any of that fluff. They’re not. What they are, though, is interested. Maybe not in a romantic sense, but definitely in a human one. They’re trying to read each other. Understand each other. That’s what friends do. Or, in their case, that’s what trying to be friends looks like. They’re clumsy, they’re defensive, but they’re showing care in the only languages they know—flour fights and 3 AM bread commentary and checking if the other person is sleeping with someone else, just to make sense of the shape of things.

And Jungkook? For all his snark and dodging—he reads her this chapter. Like really reads her. He names her deflections. Calls out her need for control. Gives her permission to let go in ways no one else has. That kitchen scene isn’t romantic, it’s recognition. And that’s what makes it intimate. Not love. Not pining. But connection.

The vanilla extract moment—look, I know some of you are rolling your eyes at the "of course it's vanilla because that's Y/N's scent" metaphor, but hear me out. The fact that he was drinking it? That's not cute quirky behavior—that's concerning. It's self-medication disguised as harmless habit. For those of you who don’t know or haven’t caught up—vanilla extract is ethanol. Which means, it is alcohol. And Y/N recognizing it but choosing to transform it into something sensual instead of confronting it directly? That's her attempting to heal through intimacy rather than conversation, which is very much her emotional language at this point in the story.

Anyway. Enjoy the mess. Enjoy the tension. Enjoy Jungkook's dirty talk and Y/N's stubborn deflection and the way they're both falling without admitting it. It's about to get so much more complicated, and I am absolutely living for it.

✧ read on✧

ao3

wattpad

You're halfway to sleep when the knock comes.

Soft at first, almost hesitant, like whoever's on the other side isn't sure they should be there.

"What?" you mumble, voice thick with exhaustion.

No response.

Another knock, louder this time.

"Whatttt?" you snap, sitting up and glaring at the door.

Still no answer.

With an annoyed huff, you throw off the covers and march to the door, yanking it open—and nearly stumble into Jungkook.

He's leaning against the frame, one arm braced above his head like he's posing for a magazine cover. His hair is messy, his silver ring catching the faint light from the hallway.

You take a step back instinctively, narrowing your eyes. "What do you want? It's three in the morning."

He tilts his head toward the kitchenette, lips quirking into that infuriating half-smile. "I'm making sourdough."

You blink at him. "Sourdough?"

"Remember I told you about my Steam nickname? The baking pun?" He raises an eyebrow like he's daring you to remember.

"Huh," you say flatly, still trying to process why this man is standing outside your room at an ungodly hour talking about bread.

"Wanna see?" he asks, his grin widening.

"No," you reply immediately, crossing your arms. "Why would I want to see your midnight bread experiment?"

"Because it's cool," he says simply, as if that explains everything.

You stare at him for a long moment before sighing and stepping out of your room.

"Fine. But if this is stupid—"

"It's not stupid," he interrupts, already turning toward the kitchenette. "It's art."

"Oh my god," you mutter, following him reluctantly.

The counter is a mess of flour and bowls and what looks like a dough blob covered with a damp cloth. Jungkook gestures at it like it's a masterpiece.

"Behold," he says dramatically. "The future of bread."

You squint at it.

"It looks like a brain."

"Shows what you know about baking," he retorts, grabbing a wooden spoon and poking at the edges of the dough. "This is proofing."

"You're proofing my patience right now," you mutter, leaning against the counter.

He smirks but doesn't look up from his work. "You're just jealous because I have hobbies."

"Making bread at 3 AM isn't a hobby; it's a cry for help."

"Says the girl who reads Kafka for fun."

"It's called intellectual stimulation."

"It's called depressing bug stories."

You roll your eyes as he starts shaping the dough.

"So this is what you do when you can't sleep? Play housewife?"

"Better than doomscrolling Twitter," he shoots back without missing a beat.

"Shut up." You watch him for a moment longer before asking, "Why sourdough?"

His hands pause briefly before resuming their rhythm.

"My mom taught me how to make it when I was younger," he says quietly. "I loved it, so I picked it up quite easily. I guess it's just habit now."

There's something softer in his voice now, something almost reverent.

You don't press him for more details; it feels like enough that he shared this much.

"But I mean... why do it now?" you ask instead.

He shrugs but doesn't look up. "I told you, it helps me think."

You scoff, trying to keep the mood from dipping too far into serious territory. He finishes shaping the dough and places it on a tray before turning back to you.

"Wanna help?" he asks, holding out the wooden spoon.

"Nope," you say immediately.

"Oh come on." He wiggles the spoon enticingly. "Live a little."

"I'm living just fine without touching your weird blob bread."

"You're no fun."

He sets the spoon down with exaggerated disappointment and starts cleaning up the counter.

You watch him for another moment before grabbing the spoon and poking at the dough experimentally. It feels weirdly satisfying under your fingers—soft but firm, pliable but resistant.

Jungkook glances over and smirks again.

"See? Told you it was cool."

"Don't push it," you warn, but there's no real bite in your tone.

He chuckles softly and continues tidying up while you poke at his sourdough creation like it might reveal some hidden secrets about him—or maybe just about yourself.

And somehow, in this quiet kitchen at three in the morning, surrounded by flour and sarcasm and unexpected softness, it feels... okay.

You're still poking at the dough when Jungkook flicks a bit of flour in your direction. It lands on your arm, a tiny white puff against your skin.

"Oops," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

You narrow your eyes. "Don't start something you can't finish, Rogue."

His eyebrows shoot up at the nickname, a challenge sparking in his eyes.

"Is that a threat, Phoenix?"

"Yes it is."

You dip your fingers into the flour bag and flick it back at him, leaving a white streak across his black t-shirt.

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" He grins, reaching for more flour.

You back away, holding up your hands. "Don't you dare."

"What are you gonna do about it?" He advances slowly, a handful of flour cupped in his palm like a weapon.

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you warn, but you're already calculating escape routes. "I just showered."

"Should've thought about that before you started a war."

You dart around the sofa, putting it between you.

"This is childish."

"Says the girl hiding behind furniture," he counters, mirroring your movements as you circle the couch.

"I'm being smart."

"You're being a chicken."

You gasp in fake outrage. "Take that back!"

"No can do," he taunts, lunging suddenly to the left.

You shriek and bolt right, nearly slipping on the tile as you move through the narrow space between the coffee table and the couch. He's right behind you, laughing as you sprint to the other side.

"Get away from me, you monster!" you yell, but you're laughing too, the absurdity of the situation hitting you.

"Never!" he calls back, his voice pitched higher in a cartoonish villain impression. "Ueheheheh!"

You grab a throw pillow as a shield, holding it in front of you.

"I'm warning you!"

"Oh no, not the pillow," he mocks, still advancing. "Whatever shall I do?"

You swing it at him, but he dodges easily, grabbing your wrist with his flour-free hand.

Before you can react, he's smearing the flour across your cheek, touch surprisingly gentle despite the roughhousing.

"Got you," he says, voice low and triumphant.

You retaliate immediately, snatching the bag of flour from the counter and shoving your hand in.

"Fuck that, this means war!"

And so then, war begins indeed.

Flour flying everywhere, breathless laughter echoing through the apartment, furniture used as barricades and launch pads.

You leave white handprints on his shoulders when you try to push him away; he leaves them on your waist when he catches you mid-escape.

The aftermath leaves the kitchen floor looking like a disaster zone, flour coating every surface like a dusting of snow.

You're both covered in it—hair, clothes, skin—looking like ghosts in a low-budget horror movie.

"Truce?" you gasp finally, out of breath from laughing and running.

"Never surrender," he declares, lunging for you again.

You dodge, but your sock slips on the flour-covered floor, and before you fall, Jungkook grabs you, steadying you with a hand on your waist.

"Gotcha," he says again, softer this time, his face inches from yours.

You're both breathing hard, covered in flour.

His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, a question in them.

And then—

SMACK.

His hand connects with your ass in a playful swat, leaving a perfect white handprint on your black sleep shorts.

You gasp in outrage as he dances away, cackling like a maniac.

"You did NOT just—"

"I did," he confirms, looking far too pleased with himself. "And it's a work of art, if I do say so myself."

You glance over your shoulder, trying to see the handprint.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Worth it," he declares, already backing away as you advance on him. "Totally worth it."

"You're dead, Ro," you threaten, grabbing another handful of flour. "Dead!"

He just laughs, eyes bright with mischief, not looking sorry at all.

"Come and get me then, Phoenix."

And despite yourself, despite the mess and the late hour and the flour in places flour should never be, you're laughing too, chasing him around the kitchen like you're both twelve years old instead of college students with responsibilities and complicated lives.

It's ridiculous. It's childish.

It's the most fun you've had in weeks.

Flour permeates the kitchen air like falling snowflakes.

Jungkook is now leaning against the counter, still grinning like the Cheshire cat, surveying the flour-dusted disaster.

You, for your part, are trying to brush flour off your arms, which is mostly just smearing it around.

"You know," Jungkook says, his voice laced with that fake-innocent tone he uses when he's about to say something outrageous, "all this flour… it's probably not great for your pores."

You eye him suspiciously. "And?"

"And," he continues, pushing off the counter and taking a step closer, "you should probably shower again."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." You gesture vaguely at your flour-coated state.

"I could help," he offers. "You know… save water. Be environmentally conscious."

You burst out laughing, a startled, disbelieving sound.

"Are you serious right now? We just had a flour war, and your first thought is how to get laid?"

"Efficiency, Nix," he says, tapping his temple. "Always thinking efficiency."

"You're deranged," you choke out between laughs. "A completely deranged, horny bitch."

He just shrugs, unbothered.

"Maybe. But think of the planet."

You're still chuckling, shaking your head at his sheer audacity, when a thought flickers through your mind, uninvited and slightly uncomfortable.

Tessa.

If he actually starts dating her, if they become a thing… this—the easy banter, the late-night flirting, the casual hookups—it would all have to stop, right? You can't exactly keep sleeping with him if he has a girlfriend.

The thought leaves a weird, vaguely metallic taste in your mouth. Not jealousy, exactly. You don't want Jungkook in that way.

But the dynamic you have, this messy, undefined thing… it's familiar.

Weirdly comfortable in its own chaotic way.

The idea of it changing, ending… it's just… weird.

You push the thought away, shaking your head again, trying to clear it. Not your problem right now.

"Yeah, I'll pass on your noble environmental efforts," you say, trying to regain control of the conversation.

You look around at the white-dusted apartment, then back at him.

"Seriously though, when did you even get home? I didn't hear you come in at all."

He leans back against the counter again, crossing his arms over his flour-streaked chest.

"A while ago. Maybe you were too busy dreaming about me to notice."

"In your dreams, Rogue." You pick a stray piece of dough off your sleeve. "I was sleeping. Like normal people do at"—you glance at the microwave clock—"three-thirty in the morning."

"Normal is boring," he counters easily. "Besides, I'm stealthy. Like a ninja. A bread-making ninja."

"A messy ninja," you correct, gesturing at the flour coating literally everything, including him. "You look like a powdered donut."

"A sexy powdered donut," he clarifies, striking a pose.

You snort. "Keep telling yourself that."

You start trying to wipe down a section of the counter with a paper towel, which mostly just creates floury streaks.

"Seriously though, you didn't make any noise. I would've heard the door."

He shrugs, grabbing another paper towel and starting to help, surprisingly.

"Maybe I'm just light on my feet. Or maybe your ears are full of wax."

"Rude."

You throw the floury paper towel at him. He dodges it effortlessly.

"Just stating facts," he says, grinning. "Maybe you should get them checked. Could be impacting your hearing. Explains why you never listen to me."

"I listen," you argue, crumpling up another paper towel. "I just usually choose to ignore you because ninety percent of what you say is bullshit."

"That feels statistically inaccurate," he muses, wiping down the handle of the fridge. He leaves a faint white handprint behind. "I'd say it's more like… eighty-two percent bullshit. The other eighteen percent is pure genius."

"Delusional," you mutter, tackling the flour patch on the floor near the sink. "Completely delusional."

He stops wiping and just watches you for a second, a thoughtful expression replacing the usual smirk.

"You really didn't hear me come in?"

"No," you say, looking up. "Why? Should I have?"

He shakes his head, the smirk returning.

"Nah. Just means my ninja skills are improving. Or you're a really heavy sleeper." He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Do you snore, Nix? Is that your dirty little secret?"

"I do not snore," you hiss, flicking water at him. "And get out of my personal space."

He laughs, easily dodging the water droplets. "Just asking!"

He resumes wiping the counter, humming softly under his breath.

You watch him for a moment, thoughts about Tessa still churning in your mind.

It's ridiculous, standing here covered in flour at nearly four in the morning, cleaning up a mess you both made, arguing about ninja skills and snoring.

But somehow, it feels… normal. Your kind of normal, anyway.

Messy, complicated, and definitely not boring.

You're on your hands and knees, attempting to wipe up a particularly stubborn patch of flour near the leg of the kitchen island, when you decide to go for it.

Operation: Tessa Reconnaissance. For the sisterhood, obviously.

And maybe a tiny bit because you're curious how this whole mess fits together.

"So," you say, keeping your voice casual as you swipe uselessly at the floor, "your friends seem… like a lot."

Jungkook snorts from where he's attempting to de-flour the coffee maker.

"Yeah, they're idiots. But they're my idiots."

"Including Library Girl?" you ask, aiming for nonchalance. "The redhead? Tessa?"

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder.

"Tessa? Yeah, she was there. Why?"

"No reason," you say quickly, maybe too quickly, focusing intently on the flour patch. "Just noticed you two talking a lot. She seems… nice."

"She is nice," he agrees easily, turning back to the coffee maker. "Super smart, too. Knows her shit about film. Like, really knows it."

Okay, good start. He acknowledges her existence and intelligence. Phase one complete.

"Yeah?" you prompt. "She mentioned you guys talked about… Park Chan-wook?"

You pronounce the name carefully, hoping you got it right based on Tessa's text.

He brightens instantly, forgetting the coffee maker entirely and turning to face you fully.

"Dude, yes! She actually got why The Handmaiden is structured the way it is. Most people just focus on the twists, but she was talking about the shifting perspectives and visual storytelling… it was cool."

His enthusiasm is genuine, almost nerdy. It's the same way he lit up talking about John Mayer's guitar playing. He's clearly impressed by her film knowledge.

"So… you like her?" you ask, trying to sound like you're just making conversation while scrubbing the floor.

"Yeah, she's cool," he says easily. "Definitely one of the few people in that class who isn't a total poser. We had this debate about Bong Joon-ho's genre blending—it was actually interesting."

He seems focused entirely on the intellectual connection. No hint of anything else.

Time for phase two: physical attraction assessment.

"She's really pretty, too," you add, still scrubbing. "Like, model pretty."

He shrugs, grabbing a damp cloth to wipe down the counter where his dough blob still sits.

"Yeah, I guess. Didn't really notice."

You stop scrubbing and look up at him incredulously. "You didn't notice? She looks like she walked off a runway and directly into that ramen shop. How could you not notice?"

He frowns slightly, like he's genuinely trying to recall her appearance beyond 'classmate'.

"I mean, she's got… hair? And a face? I don't know, Nix, I was more focused on the conversation." He seems genuinely perplexed by your insistence. "Why are you so hung up on how she looks?"

"I'm not hung up!" you retort, feeling defensive for reasons you can't quite articulate. "I just… stating facts. She's objectively attractive."

"Okay?" He draws the word out, like he doesn't understand the relevance. "Lots of people are attractive. Doesn't mean anything."

He gestures vaguely with the damp cloth.

"Are we gonna finish cleaning this up or are we analyzing the relative hotness of my classmates now?"

You huff, returning to your floor scrubbing.

Unbelievable. Either he's genuinely oblivious or he's the world's best actor.

Given his track record, oblivious seems more likely.

"Fine," you mutter. "Just making an observation."

"Well, observe the flour patch you missed by the trash can," he retorts, pointing with the cloth.

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"Bossy."

"Best one."

You crawl over to the trash can, wiping up the offending flour.

Okay, so he acknowledges she's nice, smart, shares his interests, but is apparently blind to the fact that she's a literal goddess?

Why are men so confusing?

"So," you try again, shifting tactics. "Since she's so cool and smart and into the same weird movies as you… you gonna ask her out?"

He stops wiping again, looking genuinely surprised by the question.

"Ask her out? Why would I do that?"

"Because… you like her? You just said she was cool and smart?"

Are you losing your mind? Is he actually this dense?

"Yeah, as a friend," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We're in the same class. We talk about movies. That's… what friends do?"

"Jungkook," you say slowly, sitting back on your heels and facing him directly. "Girls like Tessa—girls who look like her and are that nice—don't usually go out of their way to talk to guys about obscure Korean directors unless they're interested."

He stares at you, blinking. Like the concept is entirely foreign.

"Wait, you think she… likes me? Like, likes likes me?"

"Is there an echo in here?" you ask dryly. "Yes, you absolute walnut. That's generally how that works."

He runs a hand through his flour-dusted hair, looking completely bewildered.

"No way. She's just… friendly. People are friendly sometimes, Nix."

"Not that friendly," you insist. "Trust me. There's friendly, and then there's 'laughing at all your jokes and touching your arm every five minutes' friendly. That's different."

He actually seems to consider this, replaying interactions in his head.

His brow furrows.

"She does laugh a lot… And she did touch my arm…" He looks back at you, still skeptical. "But maybe she's just, like, a touchy person?"

"Or maybe she wants to touch your dick," you deadpan.

He chokes on air, eyes widening.

"Dude! What the fuck?"

"Just saying! It's a possibility you seem to have completely overlooked."

He shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him.

"Nah. No way. You're messing with me."

"I'm really not," you say, suddenly feeling bad for Tessa—because this poor beautiful girl is putting in the effort, and he's completely clueless. "She basically told me she likes you."

"She told you?" Finally, he looks like oxygen is reaching his brain. "When?"

"At the party. We talked for a bit."

"And she just… announced her romantic interest in me? To my roommate? That seems weird."

"It wasn't like that! She was asking for advice! Because she was nervous!" You're practically defending her now. "She's really sweet, Rogue. And clearly into you."

He leans back against the counter again, processing this information.

He doesn't look smug or pleased, just… thoughtful.

And maybe a little overwhelmed.

"Huh," he says softly. "Never would've guessed."

He's quiet for a moment, staring down at the floury cloth in his hand.

"I mean, she is… really nice."

"So?" you prompt. "Now that you know the feeling might be mutual…?"

He sighs, dropping the cloth into the sink.

"I don't know, Nix."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

He avoids your eyes, turning on the faucet and starting to rinse the cloth with unnecessary focus.

"Dating's… complicated, you know?"

"Everything's complicated with you," you mutter.

He glances back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it's gone.

"Yeah, well. Maybe that's just how it is." He turns off the water, wringing out the cloth. "Besides, I'm not really… looking for anything right now."

"You're never looking for anything," you point out. "Except maybe your keys. Or a clean mug."

"Exactly," he says, attempting a grin, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Too busy looking for my keys."

There it is again. That deflection. That hint of something heavier beneath that he refuses to acknowledge.

You think about what Yoongi said, about Mia, about Jungkook needing to be careful.

Maybe he's right to be hesitant.

"Okay," you say quietly, deciding not to push it further.

You've done your recon. You have information for Tessa, even if it's not the straightforward green light she might be hoping for.

"Just… don't be a dick to her, alright? If you're not interested, fine. But she's nice. She doesn't deserve games."

He looks surprised by your defense of her.

"I wasn't planning on playing games." He hesitates, then adds, almost reluctantly, "She does seem… different. From…"

He trails off, but you know who he means.

Mia.

An awkward silence hangs between you for a moment.

Unspoken history and potential futures.

Jungkook breaks it first, clapping his hands together with forced brightness.

"Okay, enough about my potential love life," he says, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Let's talk yours. How was the date with Jason?"

You freeze, paper towel in hand, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

"What?"

He's halfway through sweeping a particularly stubborn pile of flour when he pauses, leaning on the broom handle.

"You know, Jason? Tall guy, glasses, probably owns more vests than actual personality traits?" He waves the broom vaguely. "The one you were all dressed up for earlier?"

"I wasn't dressed up," you protest automatically, even though you know it's a lie.

You definitely put effort into your appearance for that coffee date.

Jungkook snorts.

"Please. You were wearing makeup on a Sunday. And that green top thing that makes your—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Spill. How'd it go with Professor Boring?"

You narrow your eyes at him.

"His name is Jason, and he's not boring. He's... mature."

"Mature," Jungkook repeats, drawing out the word like it's a foreign concept. "Right. Because that's what every college student dreams of. Maturity."

"Some of us actually want to date functioning adults," you retort.

"Functioning is overrated," he says with a grin. "But seriously, how was it? Did he dazzle you with his extensive knowledge of... what does he study again? 18th-century doorknobs?"

"Modern literature," you correct, rolling your eyes. "And it was nice."

Jungkook raises an eyebrow.

"Nice? That's it? Wow, don't oversell it or anything."

You sigh, grabbing the dustpan to help him with the flour pile.

"It was really nice, okay? He's smart, and he actually listens when I talk. We had a great conversation about female agency in Gothic novels."

"Riveting," Jungkook deadpans. "I'm sure the sexual tension was off the charts. Did you hold hands while discussing the patriarchal oppression of women in corsets?"

"You're such an ass," you mutter, but there's no real heat behind it. "Not everything has to be about sexual tension, you know."

"Doesn't have to be," he agrees, sweeping the last of the flour into the dustpan you're holding. "But it sure makes things more interesting."

And yeah, you catch him looking.

That look.

The one that says he's already decided how this ends.

One hand still loosely gripping the broom handle, the other braced against the table as he leans into it like he's posing for a fucking cologne ad.

You don't acknowledge it at first. Too proud. Too fucking annoyed by how easily he can flip the switch. One second you're arguing about Gothic literature and vests, the next—he's practically leaking testosterone across the countertop.

"I know that face," you mutter, not even looking up. "That's your 'I need to nut or I'll die' face."

He grins, unbothered. "Not wrong."

"Go jerk off in your sad little windowless cave like a normal person."

He shrugs, grabbing the bag of flour again, sifting some through his fingers with mock concentration.

"Mmm. Say it again. That mouth of yours, Pix… always so fuckin' mouthy."

You roll your eyes, but your stomach dips. "Maybe if you had more than two brain cells to rub together, I wouldn't have to talk so much."

"Yeah?" he says, ignoring the flour and stepping forward.

One stride. Two. And then he's right in front of you, eyes glinting.

"Keep runnin' that smart pretty mouth. See what happens."

You're about to fire something back—something snarky, something biting—but he grabs you.

Just yanks you forward by the waistband like it's nothing. Like you're nothing but a ragdoll he gets to toss around.

Your body stumbles into his chest and suddenly both his hands are on your ass, gripping it with filthy enthusiasm—greedy, solid handfuls of flesh through thin cotton, palms still dusty with flour. His fingers press, squeeze, spread, claim.

You gasp—too startled to bite it back.

And he fucking grins.

"See what you do to me when you act like that?"

His cock's hard against your stomach. Rock solid. Obvious. Shameless. He doesn't even try to hide it.

"God, Nix," he mutters, voice thick now. "C'mon. It's been too long."

You snort. "I sucked your winny yesterday."

He breaks—a bark of laughter, genuine and scandalized.

"Winny?" he repeats, like he can't believe you said it. "You calling my dick a preschool toy now?"

You shrug, deadpan. "Fits. Loud, annoying, kind of a drama queen."

He leans in again, dragging his mouth close, too close.

"Uh-uh, and I ate you out the day before that," he says, scornful little smile tugging at his lips like he's winning something. "So technically… still overdue."

"So?" you snap, but your voice is breathier than it should be. "That's not overdue."

"It is," he says, like it's math. "I mean actually being inside you. Kinda been craving it for a while now."

You swallow. Loud.

"Should I bend you over the kitchen table?" he murmurs. "Fuck you from behind? Bet you'd like that, huh?"

"Please," you scoff. "You'd probably knock over your sacred sourdough."

He grins, cocky and low and unbearable.

"So protective of the dough. But not my Winny?"

You slap his chest, trying not to laugh.

"Don't say it like that."

"Me? You gave it a name, so… C'mon, give my Winny some love, Pix."

You snort, and it comes out halfway between a laugh and a groan because your thighs are starting to ache with how badly you want pressure. Relief. Something.

"Counter or table?" he asks, already walking you backwards.

You hesitate. Just a second.

"…Counter."

He doesn't wait. Doesn't ask. Just grabs you and lifts like it's easy, like you weigh nothing. Drops your ass right onto the cool marble and steps between your legs—close enough your knees bracket his hips.

And his voice? His voice is low and filthy and unforgiving.

"Atta girl."

His mouth is on you before you can roll your eyes.

Hot, hungry kisses trailing up your neck—messy, unhurried, lips dragging like he wants to brand you. He bites at your jaw, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. You tilt your head without thinking, baring your throat like a fucking offering.

And he groans—low and wrecked—like that does something to him. Like you're giving him more than skin.

His hands stay on your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft crease near your hips, holding you open while he devours.

You blink, and something catches the light near the sink.

Tiny. Brown. Familiar.

Your arm reaches past him, still off-balance on the counter. Fingers curl around it—vanilla extract.

You hold it up between two fingers, smirking.

"Why the fuck is this out?"

His head lifts just enough to glance at what you mean.

"Oh," he says, then immediately dives back in, mouthing at your collarbone like he didn't just answer you. "Nothing. Was sipping a lil bit earlier."

Your body stiffens. Barely. But he feels it.

You don't say anything for a second. You just… look at the bottle.

That rooftop moment. Yesterday. Him alone up there while the party buzzed under your feet. You didn't press then, just made a joke, let him deflect.

But it doesn't take a genius to figure out why someone drinks baking extract ethanol like it's bourbon.

You lick your lips. Keep your voice easy. Teasing.

"That why you smell like a cookie?"

He huffs a laugh against your throat. "You love it. Bet it's makin' you wet just thinking about biting into me."

He's joking. He's back to kissing.

But the bottle is still in your hand, glass warm from your skin, rolling between your fingers like it's got a heartbeat.

And okay. Fine. Maybe you're a little unhinged too.

"Wanna try something?" you ask, voice quiet, a little hoarse.

His head lifts slow. Eyes lazy. Lips wet.

He tilts his head, cock twitching against you like it heard the shift in your voice before he did.

"Yeah?" he says, grinning like he already knows he's gonna say yes no matter what it is. "What're we trying, Phoenix?"

Because you know—you know this man would let you pour hot sauce on his dick if you told him it'd turn you on.

His gaze flicks to the bottle still resting against your palm. Back to your mouth.

"Fuck, yeah," he says, voice already going gravel. "Show me."

You dab two fingers against the lip of the bottle, tilting it just enough to coat your skin in that sticky-sweet scent. Not much—just enough to cling. Your pulse, your collarbone, the hinge of your neck.

His eyes track everything. Like he's under hypnosis.

Slow drag up your wrist, down your throat. Pupils blown wide. Tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip like it's instinct.

And then you offer it to him.

Your throat—tilted, bare. Vanilla blooming warm across your skin, seeping into heat, mixing with your scent.

You watch his jaw tick, tension wrapped in restraint.

He hesitates. Just for a breath. Not because he's unsure. But because he knows what'll happen if he starts.

His eyes drop to your hand. Then back up to your face. And then—

He grabs your wrist, rough but reverent, and slides your fingers straight into his mouth.

His tongue curls around them, sucks them clean like he's starving and this is the only sweet thing he's allowed to have.

His eyes don't leave yours for a second.

Heavy. Dark. Quietly fucking feral.

You feel it in your cunt.

That twitch—sharp and sudden—when he lets your fingers fall from his mouth with a wet pop and immediately dives back into your neck.

No warning. No mercy.

Just mouth on skin, lips dragging open over the vanilla, tongue flattening against your throat like he's licking you clean. Like you're the bottle. Like he's drunk and this is the relapse.

"Mmmfph—fuck," he groans against your neck, hot breath flooding over your skin. "You're—fuck—you're dessert, Phoenix."

He's biting now. Mouthing. Bruising.

Your head falls back against the cabinets with a dull thud and you don't care. Not even a little.

His hands are under your thighs again, yanking you closer to the edge of the counter like he's going to eat you here and now and be proud of the mess.

He doesn't stop licking your neck—just shifts slightly, mouth dragging lower, wetter, hungrier—until he can grab the flask again without even looking. He uncaps it one-handed, like he's done it a hundred times in the dark.

Because he probably has.

And then he's holding it over your chest.

"Hold still, Phoenix."

Voice low. Thick with something needy.

You barely nod before the cool drip hits your skin—fuck—a slow, deliberate trail spilling from the center of your collarbone and down, sliding between your tits, disappearing under the fabric of your tank top.

He watches it move. Doesn't blink. Bites his bottom lip like he's trying to restrain himself and failing spectacularly.

"Fuckkk," he mutters under his breath, and the way he stares?

You'd think he just watched God part the Red Sea between your tits.

But he can't see where it goes. Not really. Because of the shirt.

And that?

That's unacceptable.

So he doesn't ask. Doesn't even warn.

He just grabs the hem of your tank and yanks it up, fast and messy, until it's bunched under your armpits. The cool air hits your bare skin, but his gaze is scorching—dragging down to your breasts, then lower, following the trail of sticky syrup that's now sliding beneath.

He drops the flask without care.

Leans in.

And presses his mouth to the spot just under your breasts, where the drip ends. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. Tongue darting out to chase the taste.

He groans against your skin, like you're something forbidden and fuck, he's eating it anyway.

Then he starts licking up.

Slow. Thorough. Filthy.

Tongue dragging up the underside of your tits, between them, following the line of vanilla all the way back to your cleavage. His breath is hot and shaky, hands holding your thighs tight like he needs to anchor himself before he devours you.

"You taste like fucking heaven," he growls against your skin.

And you can barely breathe.

You lean back on your palms, spine arching subtly, thighs spreading wider across the counter—silent invitation.

His mouth twitches. Just slightly. Like he's trying to play it cool, like he's not already mentally wrecked.

Your fingers close around the vanilla bottle again.

And you tip it over your stomach.

A thin stream spills, slow and syrupy, tracing a path from just under your ribs down to your navel.

Sticky gold pooling in that soft dip, then slipping lower—toward your waistband, beneath it.

He stops.

Mid-breath.

Eyes drop.

Then drag back up to your face, slow as fucking sin.

And those eyes… those fucking eyes.

Dark like blackout curtains. Hungry. But quiet, too. Restrained. Like he's hanging onto the last thread of control and it's fraying fast.

He bites his lip again, teeth dragging over it, jaw flexing.

You raise a brow.

"Aren't you licking the vanilla off my skin, Rogue?" you say, voice steady, teasing, like your pulse isn't sprinting. "Go ahead."

He snorts through his nose—horny.

It's not even a laugh, not really. More like disbelief.

"Jesus, you're such a fucking menace."

Then he moves.

Hands at your waistband, yanking your shorts down like they've personally offended him.

There's no grace. No finesse. Just desperate, fumbling urgency, like if he doesn't get them off now he might lose it.

They hit the floor. So do your panties.

And then he drops to his knees.

Hooks your thighs over his elbows and pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, eyes level with your pussy. Eye to eye with his fucking meal, and the smirk that twitches at the edge of his mouth is so cocky it should be illegal.

But then he pauses.

Eyes catch on the fact that you're smooth. Bare.

His gaze flicks up, that same damn smirk sharpening.

"So you did plan on wishing me a happy birthday, huh?"

You groan, head thunking back against the cabinets.

"Shut up before I change my mind."

He just laughs, grabbing your thigh and yanking you closer, like that's his response.

It is.

"Thanks for the gift," he says with mock sincerity, "but like… full runway smooth? Nix. Just so you know, I like a little design."

You gape at him.

Is he serious right now?

Does he ever stop speaking?

Or think before he speaks? Like 'oh this might sound embarrassing coming from my mouth, I probably should keep it to myself.'

No. Definitely no.

"Design?"

He nods, dead serious now.

"I'm just saying. Little lightning bolt? Maybe a star? I could help you trim it next time. Get real artsy with it."

"I hate you," you mutter, scandalized and laughing, because of course this is what he's focusing on.

"I'm just saying…" he defends, grinning like a madman. "Bare's too creepy. I like texture, Phoenix. But not, like, a forest. I'm not tryna floss with it."

"God, you're disgusting," you shoot back, heat simmering low in your gut despite the absurdity.

"Disgustingly honest," he counters. "I want a little… edge. Like an angled fade. A pussy taper."

You laugh so hard your core clenches and he notices. Eyes drop. His smirk vanishes.

And just like that, he's focused again. Hands tightening around your thighs. Mouth opening. Ready to dive in.

But not before he whispers:

"Now be good and let me taste my birthday cake."

His mouth hovers. That maddening space—right there, close enough to feel his breath but not close enough to feel him.

It's hot. Each exhale fanning over your cunt like a fucking tease. You twitch, involuntary, hips tilting forward on reflex, thighs tensing around his shoulders.

"Rogue," you murmur, half-warn, half-beg.

He smirks. That slow, cocky pull of his lips that tells you he's going to drag this out just to see how long it takes before you snap.

He leans in, tongue barely peeking out like he's going to lick—

And then doesn't.

"I will actually punch you in the face," you hiss.

But he's already grabbing the bottle again.

His other hand steadies you, fingers splayed on your thigh, as he lifts the vanilla flask to eye level. Tips it slightly.

"Wait—" You grab a fistful of his hair. "Wait. Is that even safe?"

He pauses. Looks up at you, eyes wide, surprised—but not annoyed. Just… calm.

"Yeah," he says, voice casual but sincere. "This one's alcohol-based, not oil. No sugar. Won't mess with your PH or anything, I like your pussy way too much to risk it."

You roll your eyes, but okay. Fine. He's got a point.

And he's never put you in danger—annoyed, yes. Insane with frustration, absolutely.

But never unsafe.

"Okay," you mutter. "Proceed with your perversion."

"Oh, I plan to."

He uncaps it.

And the way he does it—so casually, like this is just some Wednesday night extracurricular?—makes your whole body lock up in anticipation.

He tips the bottle, lets a slow stream of vanilla drizzle from just above your navel, down the curve of your belly, heading lower.

It tickles. Warm and sticky, trailing through your folds, and your whole fucking body tenses with it.

His tongue flicks out, but this time, it's not teasing—it's the real deal.

His tongue drags up.

One long, slow stroke—base to tip—starting where your thighs twitch and ending where the vanilla's pooled.

He groans into it. Groans. Like it's crème fucking brûlée and he's been starving for a week. Like your cunt is the main course and dessert and a Michelin star.

You blink down at him, suddenly weirdly self-conscious.

Because—why the fuck is he acting like it's the best thing he's ever tasted?

It's vanilla extract and you, not caviar. Chill.

Your instinct is to kick him. Or flick his stupid forehead. Something.

But your cunt's already clenching around nothing, wetter than you want to admit.

Because—goddammit—his enthusiasm is doing something to you.

Like deeply. Shamefully. Physically.

You glance down, ready to call him dramatic. Maybe smack the back of his head.

But his eyes are closed.

And not in a performative way. Not for show.

They're hidden—lashes soaked, hair falling in messy dark strands over his brows. His whole face is fucking soft—relaxed, like he's at peace. Like this is meditation. Like your pussy is his church.

You reach down, tug his hair back just enough to uncover his face—need to see him.

Need to look.

And then—fuck. He looks up.

And he smirks. Caught you in 4K. Knew exactly what you were doing.

You want to smack him. Or yank his head down harder. Or kiss him. Or maybe scream.

It's all too much. He's too much.

But he just shifts again, mouth zeroing in now—on your clit this time. Tongue flat. Warm. Pressure steady and—fuck, fuck—

Your head slams back against the cabinet. You don't even feel it.

Because he's staring straight at you while he licks.

Intense. Sure. Smug. Like he knows. And the worst part?

He does.

You don't like eye contact. You hate eye contact.

Or—you did. Before he made it his fucking thing.

Now it's some kind of sex death ray. You're melting under it. You can't breathe under it.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his voice hoarse, lips slick with you.

"So mouthy up there…" he breathes, thumb dragging over your inner thigh. "But fuck, you're weepin' for me down here."

You choke on your own spit.

"Shut the fuck up with your cringy little sex monologue."

He snorts. Has the audacity to laugh into your cunt like it's funny.

"Uhhh? I thought we were past that whole thing where you pretend you don't like my dirty talk."

"I don't—"

He cuts you off with a slow circle of his tongue around your clit. Just once. Cruel.

"Right. That's why you got all hot when you said, 'Do you want me to ride you?'" he mimics, low and teasing. "Looked me in the eye when you said it, too. Said it just like that. Fuckin' purring, Pix."

You groan. "God, I hate you."

He grins. "No, you don't. You just hate that you like this."

Another lick.

Another smug look.

Another twitch deep in your gut.

And all you can do is glare at him—until his mouth is back on you, and then you can't even do that.

Because fuck, he picks up the pace.

Your right leg bends, heel dragging up his arm, foot planting itself on his shoulder like it belongs there. Toes curling the second his tongue swirls just right—just there. Over and over. Unrelenting.

Your whole torso arches back, spine stretched out like a bow. Head thunked against the cupboard above, hands gripping the edge of the counter so tight your knuckles go white.

And he doesn't stop.

Both his hands keep you steady, locked around your thighs, until the right one slides up—palm dragging over your skin, hot and too much. It settles right in that spot between your hip and waist. Thumb pressing into your side like an anchor.

Like he's keeping you from falling.

Like you're breakable.

You want to scream. Or sob. Or maybe just bite him for being so fucking considerate while simultaneously licking your pussy like he's trying to win a Michelin star.

You whimper. Actually whimper.

Because it's too much.

Because how the fuck does he even do that with his tongue?

It's obscene. Criminal. Feels like he's mapping you from memory now—like he's figured out every angle, every twitch, every exact combination that gets you to the edge in five minutes or less.

And—fuck—there it is.

That low hum in your belly, spiraling sharp and fast, heat pulsing outward. Nerve endings tightening. Your thighs start to close but he forces them open with a flex of his arms, tongue flattening again.

You gasp. Loud. Desperate.

Your hand flies down to his head and you yank his hair—hard.

He growls against you, frustrated, head jerking up, lips glossy and chin slick and brows scrunched like he's ready to fight.

"What," he snaps, breathless, panting. "What—what the fuck—"

You just whisper, shaky:

"Inside."

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Mouth parts. Eyes still a little wild.

"Huh?"

You meet his gaze, still breathless.

"I wanna cum with you inside me."

It short-circuits him. For real.

He pushes to stand so fast he almost stumbles. Feet trip a little. Palms slap the counter behind you as he catches himself and mutters, "Yeah—okay—fuck—gimme a second—"

But you reach out. Grab his arm. Stop him cold.

You lick your lips.

Probably look stupid. Glossy-eyed and dazed, like someone just rewired your brain through your pussy.

Whatever. You don't care.

You don't care because you can feel it now.

That ache. The need. The desperate, pulsing want for him to just get inside already. Your whole body's still twitching from his mouth and now it's fucking empty.

No thank you.

So you yank him. Hard.

Fingers curling in the loose fabric of his tee, tugging him back toward you like gravity's rewired itself around your cunt.

He lets himself be pulled. Doesn't even fight it. Just stumbles forward until he's between your legs again and then—then you're crashing his mouth to yours.

No hesitation. No buildup. No thoughts.

Just heat. Tongue. Need.

It's messy. Teeth clash. Vanilla and sweat and slick.

His hands slam to the counter beside your thighs for balance, knuckles brushing your waist as your tongue slides against his and you swallow the groan he lets out.

And yeah. You don't kiss men after they eat you out. Ever.

You've always thought it was gross, honestly. You live in your pussy. You don't need the flavor profile introduced.

But with him? Right now?

You don't even care.

You just want to taste what he tastes like. Want his spit in your mouth. Want to feel him.

So you kiss him like you mean it. Like you're not overthinking it. Like this doesn't break five of your own personal rules.

When you finally pull back, lips slick and breathing uneven, you keep your hands fisted in his shirt.

And say—quiet. Calm. "No need for condoms."

His eyes snap open.

You watch them go wide like you just told him the world's ending tomorrow and there's a free-for-all orgy scheduled at noon.

He coughs. Legit coughs. Like your spit went down the wrong pipe.

"Wait—what?"

You shrug. "I have a copper IUD. Works from minute one. I'm good."

His mouth opens, then closes again. Brain buffering.

"I mean…" he blinks. "I—I just—I didn't think you'd…"

You arch a brow.

He shakes his head a little, eyes dropping to your lips.

"No—like—I'm not complaining, I just—" His mouth staggers like he can't quite get the words out fast enough. "Are you sure?"

"I mean, you've been fucking with condoms, right?"

"Yeah. Always. Jesus. Yeah."

"And you've been getting tested?"

He gives you a look. "You think I'd be rawdogging around Brooklyn without paperwork?"

"Kind of," you mutter, just to mess with him.

"Okay, rude," he says, palm flattening on your thigh like it's involuntary. "I'm not feral. I'm—I'm… a respectful slut."

You almost laugh. Almost.

Then you say, quieter, "I haven't fucked anybody else since I fucked you."

And that? That actually makes him pause.

He blinks again. "Wait. For real?"

"Yeah. Nothing so far."

And he doesn't make it a thing. Doesn't get all soft and stupid about it.

He just takes a beat, stares at you, lips slightly parted like he's replaying it. Like the logistics are finally syncing in.

"Okay," he says. Rough. Breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, that's… okay."

You tap his chest. "Just cum outside, alright? Just in case."

He groans. Low and pained.

"Pix."

"I'm serious."

"You're killing me."

"Don't care."

"I'll pull out," he promises, fingers tightening on your skin. "But I swear to god, if you keep saying shit like that—inside, raw, no condom—I'm gonna lose it before I even get my pants off."

You grin back. "Sounds like a you problem."

And he breathes out, frustrated and horny and fucking wrecked, and mutters—

"You're my fucking problem."

He licks his lips.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he's already tasting you again.

Then he leans in and murmurs against your cheek—

"Okay. Turn around."

You blink. "Huh?"

The corners of his mouth tug up. "Turn. Around."

"Of course you wanna change positions."

"What can I say," he shrugs, cock already visibly straining through his sweatpants. "Artist's curiosity."

Still. You do it.

He helps you down—steadying hands at your waist, guiding you like you're breakable, which, let's be honest, rude. And once your feet hit the floor, you shift, pivoting slowly to face the counter.

Elbows down. Back arched.

You stick your ass out just to be a bitch about it.

He groans. Actually fucking groans. Like it hurts him.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, hands immediately cupping your ass like it's reflex. "You're such a bitch."

You smirk into the counter. "Complaining?"

"No complaints." He huffs out a laugh. "Hands on the counter."

You glance over your shoulder. Raise a brow.

"Trust me," he says, already dragging one palm up the curve of your back.

You hum. But you do it. Flatten your hands, palms flush with the counter's edge.

Behind you, there's a shuffle.

Then that sound—the sound.

Elastic snapping as he yanks his waistband down.

You hear him shift his stance, toes lifting slightly as he lines himself up behind you. And then—

The press.

Just his tip, nudging against your entrance, and your whole body seizes, lips parting around a silent gasp as your thighs instinctively press together.

"You better not let go of that counter," he mutters low.

You don't answer.

Not out of defiance—just because your brain's gone static.

So he spanks you. Sharp and hot and immediate.

"I said something to you," he growls, palm landing hard enough to echo. "Did you hear?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Okay."

"That's what I thought."

Then his hand drops from your ass, slides between your thighs, fingers spreading you open as he lines himself up again. Still doesn't push in.

Just rubs.

His cock slides up and down your slit, slow, deliberate strokes. Slick everywhere. Your breath stutters every time he nudges your clit on the way up.

"God, you're so fucking slippery," he mutters, almost in disbelief. "Dripping for it. I haven't even put it in yet."

You close your eyes, grip tightening on the edge of the counter.

"Your pussy's acting like it missed me," he adds, rocking his hips again, cockhead dragging lazily across your folds. "She's not even pretending."

"Maybe she has bad taste," you snap, voice shaky.

He laughs. Loud.

Then does it again—another glide, another tease, tip pausing right at your entrance just long enough for your breath to catch, then slipping away again before you can adjust.

"You're gonna lose it, huh," he murmurs. "All that smart mouth. All that sass. Gonna forget how to speak when I give you what you want?"

You grit your teeth.

He slides his tip back again, holds it there—barely inside. Just pressure.

Still not pushing in.

Still not giving it to you.

You whimper, shoulders tensing.

"Gripping the counter, Phoenix?" he asks sweetly. "Like I told you to?"

Your fingers curl tighter.

He grins.

And stays right fucking there. Not moving.

Just waiting.

Just standing there behind you like a smug little shit, cockhead resting at your entrance, hot and heavy and perfectly fucking poised—and somehow not going any further.

You shift your hips back slightly, trying to bait him.

He clicks his tongue. "Uh-uh."

"Rogue."

"Pix."

You groan. "You're so fucking annoying."

"Don't tempt me. I could stay like this all night," he says, cock dragging up through your folds again just to prove his point. "Just rub it against you until you're crying."

You scoff. "You act like that's a threat."

He leans forward, chest brushing your back, voice right at your ear.

"You'd cry so pretty."

You twist your head just enough to glare at him.

"You're actually insane."

"Says the girl bent over the counter like a porn scene," he grins, straightening back up. "All 'no condoms, fuck me raw, Rogue' like it's nothing."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, sorry. Do you not want it?"

He hums thoughtfully. "Kinda liking the view, not gonna lie."

"Oh my god."

"Seriously. You ever seen your ass from this angle? Top-tier."

"Shut the fuck up," you mutter, squeezing the counter harder. "You gonna give a Google Maps review next?"

"Might," he shrugs. "Five stars. Would fuck again."

You start to reply—some scathing, lethal retort—but you don't even get the first word out.

Because suddenly—he pushes.

All the way in.

One smooth, brutal thrust.

And you moan.

Loud. Unfiltered. Embarrassing.

Your hands slam flat on the counter like your body can't fucking handle it. The stretch, the shock of it.

You feel full. Too full.

He doesn't ease in. Doesn't give you time to adjust. Just buries himself in one go like it's his fucking right.

Then—smack.

His palm lands on your ass again, sharp and fast.

"That's more like it," he pants behind you, hand lingering after the slap. "There's my girl."

He pulls out slow.

Real slow.

Too slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch leaving you, feel how empty you get without him. Like he's making a point.

Then—slam.

Hard. Deep. Ruthless.

You jolt forward, hands scrambling for grip as the counter rattles under your hips. A broken sound slips out of you—more instinct than choice—and behind you, he laughs.

Actually laughs.

A horny little chuckle, cock still buried deep like he didn't just rearrange your goddamn organs.

If you could twist around and kick him in the ribs, you would.

"What the fuck are you laughing at," you bite out.

He hums, smug as ever. "Sounded cute."

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"I'll show you cute—"

But you don't finish it. Because he pulls out again, and then slams back in with the same brutal force that leaves your legs trembling and your lungs gone.

What the fuck is he so cocky about?

He's the one getting it raw.

You're the one granting the privilege here. He should be grateful. You could revoke his rights real quick.

Even though… you won't.

Because there's something about it. About this.

No condom. Just skin. Just him.

It's different.

You don't know why it's hotter. Why it feels so much more intimate. You didn't think it would be. It's just cock. Just fucking. But now you feel everything—every twitch, every drag, every time he shifts his angle and catches that spot that has you choking on air.

And then he murmurs behind you, voice low—

"Does it hurt?"

You swallow. "No."

"Good," he says. Calm. Like it's logistics. "If it does, just arch your back more. Fixes the angle."

Fucking hell.

There it is, again.

How is he being considerate and a little shit at the same time?

You're not even flustered because of the sex anymore—you're flustered because he's flipping toggles like he doesn't even notice he's doing it.

You don't respond.

You can't. Because he grabs your hips and—

Slams into you again.

Not fast. Not rushed. Just one clean, devastatingly hard thrust that knocks the breath straight out of you. His grip holds you there, cock pressed deep, dragging that edge of pain into something white-hot and filthy.

"God," he mutters, breath catching. "The way you're gripping me—fuck—you like that, Nix?"

You don't answer.

Too proud. Too dazed. Too stubborn.

So he spanks you. Again.

Sharp and immediate.

"Answer me when I talk to you."

You flinch. Then growl, "Keep spanking and being demanding and I'll revoke raw rights so fucking fast—"

But he just snickers.

"Oh, will you?"

You can hear the smirk.

Then he leans over, chest brushing your back, breath hot on your ear.

"You like it when I slap my hand on your ass, Nix," he says, low and satisfied. "That's why I keep doing it."

You scoff. "You're making shit up."

He grinds into you once, slow and cruel.

"Am I?"

"Yup."

"Naaah. I've been testing."

You blink. "Testing."

"Mhm," he confirms. Another slap to your ass, gentler this time. Palming over the skin after. "And now I know."

You suck in a breath. "How would you know what turns me on?"

He huffs a laugh—mean, hot, unbothered.

"Because you always mouth off about the shit that gets you going."

Your heart stutters. He keeps going.

"Too embarrassed to just let yourself enjoy it, so you talk shit. Every single time."

"Fuck off," you hiss.

He smirks again, hands dragging your hips back slightly. "Nah. You're not fooling anyone, Pix."

"Eat shit," you bite out, but your voice betrays you—tight, breathy. Fucked.

He groans, head tilting back for a second like he can't believe how good he has it.

"You're so full of it."

You scowl over your shoulder.

He slaps your ass again. Just to punctuate it.

"This," he says, palm dragging slow over the sting he just left, "is textbook Phoenix behavior."

"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"What I just said. You always talk shit about what you like." He thrusts again, not deep—just enough to feel like a warning. "First it was the dirty talk. Remember?"

You roll your eyes. "Barely."

"Oh, you remember." His voice drops. "Because you called it cringey, and five minutes later you were soaking my jeans."

You grit your teeth.

"And then you rode me," he continues, like he's delivering an airtight closing argument. "Said 'do you want me to ride you?' all breathy. Like you hadn't spent days pretending you were above it."

You don't reply.

He leans in, hips pressing closer, cock buried deep and still not moving.

"And yesterday?"

You clench without meaning to.

"Yeah," he laughs softly. "Yesterday. You wouldn't even look at me when you were sucking me off. Acted all bratty and 'ugh I hate eye contact,' and now tonight you were pulling my hair back just to see my face."

You did do that.

"And now it's the spanking," he says, rocking his hips slow. "Bitching about it."

Another smack, firm and deliberate.

"But you just clenched around me. Again."

You groan into your arm. "You're fucking exhausting."

He grins against your shoulder. "You're fucking lying."

You shake your head. "You're not right."

He pulls back a little, just enough to move again. One clean stroke, all the way out and back in with a grunt.

Then—

"You're wet as fuck."

And you are. You feel it. Feel him glide. Feel the mess. Feel how your body wants him deep, no matter what your mouth says.

"You keep acting like you're not into it," he murmurs, breath hot. "Like you don't love being talked to like this. Touched like this."

"Shut up," you whimper, because you don't want to admit it. You don't want him to be right.

But he already is.

"You act like it's for me," he mutters. "Like I'm the one getting off on it."

And he is. Of course he is.

But so are you.

"You keep lying like it's gonna protect you," he says. "But your body gives you away every time."

He's still going.

Deep now.

Fast.

No hesitation, no mercy—just relentless drive, hips snapping into yours, angle brutal and right. Every time he hits bottom it knocks a broken little moan out of you. Loud. Unfiltered. Fucking real.

And still—still—he doesn't shut up.

"You've convinced yourself it's all for me. That you don't enjoy it. Can't. Won't."

Your jaw clenches.

"You can't let yourself," he continues, thrusting hard enough to slap skin. "Because you need to stay in control. Need to be good. Do it right."

His hand grips your hip tighter, pulling you back to meet every thrust. Your ass bounces off him with every slam, lewd and hot and loud.

"You need to know I like it," he says, "so you can file it under 'doing well,' and that's how you let yourself feel good."

You want to argue. You really do.

But you can't.

You're moaning too loud.

"You don't even stop to ask what you like," he growls, eyes locked on where you're joined. "But I'll tell you."

Smack.

"You like this position."

Smack.

"You like it raw. Hard. Deep."

You whimper.

"You like when I spank you," he murmurs, biting his lip, thrusts picking up even more.

"Shut up," you hiss. "Shut up, shut up—"

But it's useless.

You're already flushed down to your chest. Already arching into every thrust. Already leaking down your thighs.

Your hands grip the counter like a fucking lifeline—knuckles white, arms shaking.

He groans, hands adjusting—one on your waist, the other wrapping low across your belly to pull you into every stroke.

"It's okay, Nix," he says, voice rough but coaxing. "You don't have to say it."

He slams in harder, burying himself to the hilt, making your knees buckle on instinct.

"Just keep gripping the counter."

Your breath stutters.

"Don't let go if you like it."

You bite your lip.

"Don't say anything. Don't explain. Just grip."

You hesitate. One second. Maybe two.

And then—you do.

Fingers curl tighter around the countertop edge. You lock in. Anchor yourself.

Give it to him.

You don't say a word. But that grip? That's your answer. That's your yes.

He groans, hand dragging up your spine, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he wants to feel how it wrecked you.

"There she is," he whispers. "There's my good fucking girl."

That last comment—

There's my good fucking girl.

It does something. Snaps something in your spine. Or maybe your brain.

Because your cunt flutters around him hard, slick tightens, thighs tremble, and yeah, yeah you're closer. Closer than you should be. You were already there when he first slid in—already so worked up you could've finished in sixty seconds if he just shut the fuck up and focused.

But of course he didn't.

Of course he ran his mouth. Called you out. Read you like a book.

And now?

Now you're clenching around his cock like you're about to shatter, and he feels it.

You know he does.

Because he leans in, breath gone wrecked. Lip caught between his teeth.

"Hmm?" he pants. Thrusts harder, deeper. "What's that? You like when I call you that?"

Your jaw clenches. You want to scoff. Or deny it.

But your cunt clenches instead.

He feels it.

"Ohh fuck," he groans, like it hits his brainstem. "You do."

You turn your face into your arm, humiliated by your own goddamn response. But it's too late. He's already there—already winding it tighter.

"Let's see if you like it even more when I do this."

You blink. "What are you—"

He grabs your thigh.

Hooks it up onto the counter. Bends your leg at the knee beside your elbow, spreading you wider without warning. Opening you up. Letting him deepen.

And he does.

Slams into you again with the new angle, and fuck—it hits different. Hits deep. Your whole body pitches forward with the force, mouth open on a sharp moan you can't swallow.

Then—his hand.

His fingers find your clit. Circle it once, slow and effective.

And you whimper.

It's high-pitched. Unintended. Undignified.

You want to vanish.

But then he's right behind your ear again, voice slurred and drunk on it.

"Gonna cum for me, angel?"

Your body jolts.

Because yeah. Yeah, you are, especially now that he's got your leg hooked, your pussy stuffed, your clit being worked with just enough pressure to make you lose it.

He feels your thighs twitch.

"Do it," he breathes, cock dragging thick inside you, fingers pressing just right. "Come on, let me feel it. I'm close too. Gimme it, Pix."

And your body obeys.

It rolls over you in one hard pulse—core tightening, vision blanking, thighs squeezing in and failing to stay strong.

Your moan punches out of your chest, loud and cracked, hips grinding back into his like you need more even as you're falling apart.

"Ohhhh my god, fuck yes—fuck, yes, Nix, fuckkkk."

He keeps fucking through it. Doesn't stop. Lets your pussy spasm around him, wet and squeezing and pulling him deeper as you ride it out. You whimper, already too sensitive, hips twitching, but he's not done.

Because he's laughing now.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just that fucked-out little giggle he always gets when he's high on it. Like your orgasm lit him up from the inside.

"Jesus—oh my god—holy shit," he's muttering, still fucking you, little messy stutters in his rhythm now. "You feel so fucking good when you cum, I swear—fuck."

He moans again—short and desperate and real—and you feel it in the way his thrusts go uneven.

"Where—where do you want it?" he gasps. "Fuck—I'm gonna—I'm so close, where do I—"

"Ass," you croak, head low, voice barely there.

That's all he needs.

He pulls out instantly, like he's yanking a ripcord.

You whimper at the loss but then you feel his hand—fast and rough—working himself over the curve of your ass.

"Oh fuck—oh god, yeah, look at this gorgeous ass—fuckfuckfuck—"

And then he's cumming.

Thick, hot ropes spilling over your skin as he pants and jerks through it, one hand steadying himself on your back, the other stroking through every twitch of his cock like he's trying to squeeze out every drop just to paint you.

"Shit," he gasps, hips still flexing forward. "Fucking hell, Phoenix."

You don't move.

You just breathe. Still shaking. Still clenched. Still wrecked.

There's cum on your skin, sweat between your shoulder blades, and your thighs feel like they've forgotten how to exist—and somehow, you still feel good.

Too good.

And a little fucked up about how good.

But you'll deal with that later.

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arviyya · 1 day ago

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I'm going to echo this. Everyone always says "write for yourself, write for yourself" and yeah, at the core of it you should write because you enjoy it (that's how I internalize the meaning of that). But you can't sit there and tell me you aren't writing only for yourself and then posting it. We write and post to share a piece of ourselves with the world. We write and share to build community and engage with people when we both write and read fic. The amount of conversations I've had with people who have been wondering why they even post anymore is astounding. Its hard when you dont get any comments because you want to chat with people and share and exchange ideas etc. so when the comment section feels like a dead zone, its like sitting in the corner of a party where you dont know a single person and no one seems interested in talking to you. So at that point, why not just leave the party?

The amount of times I've thought of leaving the party is wild, and everytime i post a fic im just a bit closer. Just the other day I almost removed all my fics. Sometimes it just sounds better to have a party of one.

Comment on fics you like. Every chapter. Comment on wips. Chat with writers and readers. Engage with them. Cultivate community. Its dying.

idk how to word this properly but wrt the fanfic thing you reblogged earlier. Why do fanfic writers have such different expectations than any other content hosting platform?

Like lets take youtube as a point of comparison, Engagement like comments and likes largely exists to boost the works place in algorithm, thats why youtubers put in calls to action and other engament bait. Few with decent reach even read the comments and the audience shouldnt try to develop any weird parasocial relationship with the youtuber. Fanfic authors ask for likes (kudos, because the websites gotta use nonstandard language for some reason) and comments despite them not having any impact on an algorithm, and seem to want the audience to try and develop a relationship with the author based on tumblr posts like that one.

Why the radical difference in behaviour away from the norm? And honestly with all the (usually) metaphorical blood spilled online about parasociality why are authors really surprised that the audience tries to keep their distance as is best practice with any other content producer?

okay I am going to answer this as kindly and as calmly as I can and try to assume that you are asking this in good faith. because my friend, the fact that you feel the need to ask is, to me, The Problem.

[this is, for the record, in response to this post]

fanfiction writers are not *posting content.* (I also have reservations about engaging with the term "content producer" or "content creator" but let's put that aside for now, I'll circle back to it.) you say "they seem to want the audience to try and develop a relationship with the author" as though it is strange, off-putting, and incomprehensible to you, when in fact that is the point of writing fanfiction. it is a way of participating in fandom. it is a way of building community and exchanging ideas and becoming closer with people.

if authors wanted to solely ~generate content~ that would get them attention (?? to what end, the dynamic you have described seems to equate algorithmic supremacy as winning for winning's sake, as though all anyone wants to do is BUILD an audience without ENGAGING with them, which I cannot fathom but let's pretend for a moment that is, in fact, true) then like. if that were the case why on earth would they choose a medium in which they categorically cannot succeed and profit, because it isn't their IP?

you are equating two things that are not at all the same thing. to the degree that parasocial relationships are to be avoided, and "that person is not trying to be your friend they are trying to entertain you, please respect their boundaries" is a real dynamic -- which it is!! -- like. you have to understand that the reason that is true for the people of whom it is true is because it is their JOB. they are storytellers by profession, and they are either through direct payment, or sponsorship, or advertising, or through some other means, profiting off of your attention. i don't say this to be dismissive, many wonderful artists and actors and comedians and any number of a thousand things that i enjoy very much go this route but they do so as a *career choice.* and so when you violate the public/private boundary with them, you are presuming to know a Person rather than their Worksona. the people who work at Dropout or who stream their actual play tabletop games or who broadcast on TikTok or YouTube are inviting me to feel like i know them to the degree to which that helps them succeed in their medium and at their craft, but there MUST be a mutual understanding that that's a feeling, not a fact.

however.

a fanfiction writer is not an influencer, not a professional, and is not looking to garner "success." there is no share of audience we are trying to gain for gain's sake, because we are not competition with one another, because there is nothing to win other than the pleasure of each other's company. we are doing this for no other reason than the love of the game; because we have things we want desperately to say about these worlds, these characters, these dynamics, and because we *want more than anything to know we are not alone in our thoughts and feelings.* fanfiction is a bid for interaction, engagement, attention, and consideration. it is not meant to be consumed and then moved on from because we are NOT paid for our work, nor do we want to be. the reward we seek is "attention," but attention as in CONVERSATION, not attention as in clicks. we are not IN this for profit, or for number-go-up. there is no such thing: legally there cannot be. we are in this because we want to be seen and known.

like. please understand. i am now married to someone i met because of mutual comments on fanfiction. our close friend and roommate, with whom i have cohabitated for over a decade now, is someone I met because of mutual comments on fanfiction and livejournal posts. that is my household. beyond my household, the vast majority of my closest personal friends are people with whom I built relationships in this way.

you ask why fanfiction writers want THIS and not "the norm," but the idea of everything being built to cater to an algorithm to continue to build clout, as though the only method of reaching people is Distant Overlord Creator and Passive Receptive Audience being "the norm" is EXTREMELY NEW. this is not how it has always been!! please think of the writers of zines in a pre-internet fandom, using paper and glue and xerox to try and meet like-minded people in a world that was designed for you to only ever meet people in person, by happenstance, in your own hometown. imagine the writers of the early internet, building webrings from scratch to CREATE a community to find each other, despite distance. imagine livejournal groups, forums, and -- yes, indeed, of course -- comment threads IN STORIES -- as places where people go to *converse.* in the past, we had an entire Type Of Guy that everyone knew about, the BNF ("Big Name Fan") whose existence had to be described via meme because it was SO DIFFERENT THAN THE NORM. treating fellow fans like celebrities or people too cool for the regular kids to know was an OUTLIER, and one commonly understood to lead to toxicity.

in the past, I have likened writing fanfiction to echolocation. i am not screaming because I like hearing the sound of my own voice, though i can and do find my voice beautiful. i am screaming so that the vibrations can bounce back to me and show me the world. the purpose is in the feedback. otherwise it is just noise.

does this make any sense? can you see, when i describe it that way, why an ask like yours makes me feel despair, because it makes us all sound so horribly separate from one another?

perhaps I will try another metaphor:

a professional chef who runs a restaurant will not have her feelings hurt if you never fight your way into the kitchen to personally tell her how much you enjoyed the meal. that would, indeed, violate a boundary. professional kitchens are a place of work, and you have already showed her you enjoyed the meal by paying for it, or by perhaps spreading your enjoyment by word of mouth to your friends so they, too, can have good meals. you show your appreciation by continuing to come back. if a bunch of people sitting around randomly happen to have a conversation about how much they love the food, it wouldn't hurt that chef's feelings to not be included in the conversation. however: EVEN IN THIS INSTANCE, it is ADVISABLE AND APPROPRIATE to leave a good review! you might post about how much you like this restaurant on Yelp, and it would probably make the chef feel great to see those positive comments. but the chef doesn't NEED them, because the chef is, again, *also being paid to cook.* that's why she started the restaurant, to be paid to cook!

i am not being paid to cook.

i am at home in my own kitchen, making things for a community potluck where i hope everyone will bring something we can all enjoy together. some people at the potluck are better bakers, some better cooks; some can't cook at all but are great at logistics and make sure there's enough napkins for everyone; some people come just to enjoy the food, because that's what the party is for. and if I, as this enthusiast chef who made something from my heart for this reason alone, learned after the fact that a bunch of people got together in the parking lot to rave about my dish but no one of them had ever bothered to tell me while I sat alone at my table all night, occasionally seeing people come by to pick up a plate but never saying anything to me -- of course that would bother me, because I am not otherwise profiting off the labor I put in. this is not a bid to be paid, because if someone WERE to say "hey, great cake!! here's five bucks for a slice" i would say no, friend, that is not the point and give them the money back. i'm not trying to Get Mine. I am in it to see the look on your face. I'm in it so you can tell me what about it moved you, so that I can say back what moved me to make it in the first place. so we can TALK about it.

because what happened in the first place is this: one time I had a cake whose sweetness, richness, flavor, intensity, and composition moved me so much that I *taught myself to bake.* so I could see how much vanilla and sugar was too much, so I could learn how to make things rise instead of fall flat, so I could even better appreciate the original cake by seeing for myself the effort and talent and inspiration that goes into making one even half as good.

learning to do so is a satisfying accomplishment in and of itself, yes.

but I also did it because at the end of the day we should EAT the cake. and it's a lonely thing, to eat alone when a meal was always designed and intended to be shared.

so, to answer your last question: i'm not surprised, i'm just sad. because somehow two things that were never meant to be seen as the same have been labeled "content," and thus identical. and it diminishes both the things that ARE intended to be paid for AND the things that are not, because it removes any sense of intimacy or meaning from the work.

i hope you know i'm not mad at you for asking. but i'm frustrated we've come to live in a world where the question needs to be asked, because the answers are no longer intuitively obvious because we're so siloed.

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rhaenicette · 2 days ago

Text

۶ৎ EREN hasn’t said a word since you both got in the car.

it was painfully quiet—you both would agree. no one dared to speak, and to make things even worse; the aux wasn’t even on.

it all started when he took you on one of his rides—to go deliver weed to one of his new clients.

eren had a black tracksuit on, with your favourite cuban link hung around his neck. his hair was tied into a man-bun with loose pieces framing his face.

and you? you were beautiful as ever. your hair was laid and so were your edges, your skin was shiny and the one piece you had on showed all the thickness you carried.

the client was nice, for sure.

handsome? of course. his own hair was buzzed and his eyes were half-lidded—the type of look that gets you weak in the knees.

but was he—in any way—eren’s competition? hell no.

but the client did speak to you. and as did you. you both exchanged in good yet short conversation (mainly because eren ended the meeting quickly) and you found him to be interesting.

again, was he eren’s competition?

HELL no.

so why was eren mad, do you ask?

it was because of the way you smiled at the client. how you cocked your head to the side—the way he liked.

it was how you threw your head back and told the client “you too funny!” as you laughed.

eren should be the only funny man in your life.

it was how you laughed shyly every-time the man said something. (you only laughed once)

it was because you looked too fucking good. too good for his liking.

the ride home felt like years. you didn’t know how audible your sigh was when you finally saw you and eren’s home from the driveway.

eren parked outside your home so fast the brakes nearly squealed.

he got out the car swiftly, slamming his car door shut hard. he walked over to your side, opening your door without saying a word, closing it after you hopped out.

you trailed behind slow, trying to keep your expression cute.

but you loved the way he looked and acted when he was angry. how his jaw clenched and his eyes half-lidded and red. you loved poking at him, testing the waters.

you couldn’t help but clench your thighs together when you both entered your shared room.

still, eren hasn’t said a word.

he didn’t take his clothes off—he didn’t need to, they were already clean—and neither did you.

you sat on your large bed, waiting—anticipating on how this would go.

on how fucked you’d be.

and lord, did you underestimate it.

now, you’re on your stomach. your face is in your pink satin pillows and your thick and plump ass is in the air. your eyes were rolling. ass recoiling and body jerking after every nasty and rough snap of eren’s hips behind you.

that one piece you wore? eren damn near ripped it off of you (with the angry promise of him buying you 5 more)

eren’s thrusts are mean, enough to make you feel like he’s in your lungs.

he’s nasty, messy—girthy ‘n so full—you can’t even articulate proper sentences without breaking out into a pathetic whimper or moan.

his fingers dig into your plush hips and his brows are furrowed. the noises he’s making is almost pitiful.

“thought that shit was funny? smiling all in dude face like i ain’t t-there?” he’s breathless, his moans begin to come out high-pitched.

you cry out, try to shake your head, but your body jolts with every hard stroke.

“use ya words, mami.”

a broken moan slips from your lips as you attempt to speak. “i—i w-wasn’t tryna—mmph!”

“nah,” eren shook his head, nipping his bottom lip slightly. “you really hurt me, ma. thought i was the one f’you,”

you’re babbling like a bunny, “y-you are—oooh fffuck—the o-one f’me!”

eren laughs. sick and low. “yeaaahh, i know.”

you were wrecked. your pussy was wrecked. soaked, creamy, stretched wide around his thick, curved dick—he was so big, so full, he had your sappy walls hugging him like they didn’t wanna let go.

and you were taking it so good.

that heavy weight slapping your cheeks, dragging along your walls, stretching your sweet pussy so wide it left you looking pathetic.

“uhhhhnn f-fuck, ‘ren—eren wait—!” you tried to crawl forward.

but it was no use—eren grabbed your hips and slammed you back down.

“fuck you think you goin?”

now, he was deep. his mean ‘n angry head was pressing against your cervix.

“i said i was done, ma?”

you shook your head like a dumb bunny as you cried out. and you were dripping and sooo sweet eren had to control himself from nutting so quickly.

so warm. so sweet. creamy strings connected your thighs and his dick every time he pulled back.

and your tummy was bulging with every stroke. that soft brown stomach, plush and sensitive, jumped each time his hips hit home.

“o-oohh ffuckkk,” eren groaned high behind you.

his head fell back. his loosely-tied manbun growing weaker each stroke. a few long strands of hair stuck to his sweaty cheek.

“s-shit—this—hah!—fuckin’ pussy…” he moaned. “you tryna make me nut already, baby? that’s how you feel?”

you couldn’t answer. you were damn near going dumb on him. brain foggy. words were gone.

all that left your mouth were slurred moans and glistening gasps.

“uhhnn—mmf—feels sooo good, fffuck i c-can’t—i’m—”

your thick thighs were quivering. your ass was bouncing wildly with every thrust, soft and jiggly and covered in that beautiful cellulite he couldn’t get enough of. your titties were bouncing underneath you. every time he bottomed out, they pounced like they were gonna slap your own chest.

eren caught sight of that when he cocked his head—and the sight broke him.

“fffuckin’ g-gorgeous, mama—and s’aaalll f’me.” he gritted.

he pulled your hair tighter. bent over your back. “sound sooo pretty, too. y’hear yourself, ma?”

you were wailing now. back arching. arms weak. eyes glassy behind your glasses.

you were so right and so beautiful—eren already forgot what he was angry about.

“‘rennn—‘ren m’gonna—ffuck—cum again, please—c-can’t hold it, m’nutting!—”

“uh huhhh?” he moaned pathetically, snapping his hops even harder.

“do it f’me, ma—” he hissed, lips at your neck. “cum aaalll over me, baby. want this—mmh—pussy to milk me.”

and you did. white-hot pleasure took over your body. your moans grew louder as your sweet walls clenched around him.

“o-oooh shitt, ‘ren—m’nutttttingggg!”

a creamy ring formed around his shaft after many rounds. but he still wanted more. he wanted you.

eren pulled you up by your hair and bent you back against his chest.

“yeahhh,” he groaned low, mouth against your ear,

“there go my fuckin’ girl.”

ooohhh hellcat eren come play in these sheets <33

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everythingisamazing · 2 days ago

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Here’s a "fun" analysis of why Jayce’s first speech in the astral plane doesn’t work — and why so many Jayces before him have failed to convince their partner: Viktor doesn’t care about being saved for his own sake. And as painful as it is to admit: he doesn’t care about being loved for his imperfections.

Why do I believe this? Because the show repeatedly emphasizes what Viktor does care about — across both seasons. And it all begins with one of the very first lines we ever hear from him, as a child in the flashback:

"Can I help?"

Later, when Viktor speaks to Heimerdinger about his impending death, what is his main concern? Not that he’s dying — but that he hasn’t done enough. That he’s only achieved figments.

When he and Jayce experiment with the Hexcore and the plants, it's Jayce who focuses on finding a cure for Viktor. Viktor, once again, talks about saving others.

I don’t even think his decision to experiment on himself with the Hexcore was ever truly about saving his own life — but rather about buying more time. Time to achieve what he hoped Hextech could accomplish for the world.

And while Viktor’s “death” technically happens in Season 1, it’s really his arc in Season 2 that made me read it this way: Because despite everything that changes — from who he is at the beginning of the series to the moment he creates the commune — one thing doesn’t change: His utter disregard for his own well-being in the pursuit of helping others.

From the very first moment we see him use his powers, the show makes it clear: it comes at a cost. His attempt to heal ending with his legs shaking and him falling to his knees.

Singed, when he visits the commune, even talks to Viktor about his "decline," as he calls it — how his power is diminishing with every use. (Viktor answering this by asking whether he believes in fate is... interesting, but that’ll be an analysis for another time.) And what does Viktor do? He pretty much ignores him and keeps trying — which is no different from what S1 Viktor would have done. So, to summarize: I feel like Viktor sees his own survival as a means to an end — as if he is merely a vessel for saving others, not a person worth saving himself. His body, not as something imperfect yet beautiful (as Jayce calls it), but as an inconvenience — something that gets in the way of achieving meaningful change.

Now, I can’t tell you why Viktor sees himself that way — the show doesn’t explain it, because, as mentioned above, he already holds this mindset when we first meet him as a child. To play armchair psychologist, I’d assume it has something to do with his loneliness, and how helping others through his mind feels like the one meaningful way he can connect with them.

And how does his relationship with Jayce play into all this? Jayce, as stated by the writers, connects Viktor to his humanity. In this reading, I’d say: Jayce is the one thing Viktor can’t help but be selfish about. Because when Mage Viktor saves Jayce as a child, he likely does more harm than good in many timelines. And yet — he does it anyway.

There’s no time in the show for Viktor to fully work through this issue. At best, he might have started to realize, by the end, how this approach caused more harm than good. But I don’t think he’s anywhere near caring for himself. That’s why Jayce’s "You always wanted to cure what you thought were weaknesses" speech “fails” — while "Because I promised you" works. I hope I’m not getting too psychological here, but I feel like for someone who’s so committed to helping others, honoring a promise is far easier for Viktor to understand than the concept of self-love.

It might even be a bit of a callback to when Sky warns him about trying to save Vander — and Viktor replies, "He is worth the risk." I think that’s a sentiment Viktor understands deeply. And he sees it reflected back at him through Jayce in that final moment. He can empathize with Jayce’s need to do right by him, even if he can’t yet empathize with himself. (That part — well, that’s for all the angst-with-a-happy-ending fics to figure out).

#jayvik #viktor arcane #jayce x viktor #arcane #jayvik meta #jayce arcane #arcane meta #arcane spoilers #arcane analysis #jayce talis #vander #singed #warwick

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sorin-sunchild · 2 days ago

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She's so Autism coded to me. The obvious jealousy at how others make friends faster and more sincerely than she does and she doesn't know why because isn't she nice?? Isn't she there for them?? Encouraging?? Putting them and their feelings first?? What is she doing wrong?? It must be her, she just have to try harder to make them feel good.

She doesn't know she's coming off as insincere as if she's actually trying to keep them at a polite distance. Her model for social interaction was terrible growing up and she probably never got out from under her mothers thumb until she ended up in the digital circus.

So it cycles back to her punishing herself in private for every moment she was a bit mean or distant or said what she really felt and it wasn't nice (she flinches when Pomni comes to talk to her after she blew up and then apologised to Jax). Ragatha is so alone and since everyone thinks she's just being fake (except, possibly, Kinger who treated her very well in the recent episode) and therefore has some kind of ulterior motive or is just kinda... boring. Not interesting. Just a nice person who says nice things. Not a 'friend' friend. They're all too traumatised themselves to see she's trying so hard and struggling.

I worry for her.

Look, I like Ragatha as much as the next guy but to me, she’s a work friend. You talk to her at work but forget about her on the way home. She’s nice. Kind and caring but it’s obviously a coping mechanism, she’s trying way too hard to pretend everything’s alright. When Pomni said that she can think for herself it made me realize how much Ragatha was basically projecting her feelings through Pomni and I think that’s why she’s visibly bothered by seeing Jax and Pomni getting along. She’s been trying so hard to connect to Pomni only to see Jax do it effortlessly. Her having a controlling mother explains SOOO much about her behavior. She’s so nuanced I love it.

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patricia-taxxon · 3 days ago

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the type of "cozy game" I'm most familiar with is the soothing ambient abstract puzzle game, abstraction is another ideology-distancing tactic. and again, in that absence of explicit textual representation you're made to focus on the act itself and what the game is presenting to us as etherially satisfying

I played hexcells recently because im on a big minesweeper kick, it's so nonrepresentational that it eschews the language of mines and flags altogether. but that absence draws attention to it, it's a choice that makes me wonder why minefield imagery was the norm for this set of mechanics in the first place, and the fact that the game is lowkey way less compelling for just being about "marking cells" is super interesting to me, what are the mistakes to me, then? what happens when I click wrong? the game's active denial of urgency or peril in its text and overwhelming monolithic ambient aesthetic makes it feel hollow, and the fact that it punishes your mistakes at all feels arbitrary. maybe it's still mines and I'm just a worker in some distant office building controlling a surveying probe with an interface that disguises my purpose

#cilantromixture

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yukkiji · 3 days ago

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angel

when the boy who always calls you "angel" refuses to admit his feelings, you're left with no choice but to say yes to someone else—forcing him to realize too late that losing you was never part of the game.

blue lock masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. nagi seishiro x fem!reader ft. mikage reo

genre: fluff, romance, mild angst, cupid!reo, reo is stressed, nagi's so dense

wc: 10.3k

author's note: this was actually supposed to be written in full on angst but i decided to change the plot and might still post the full on nagi angst hehe

you first met nagi seishiro through your best friend, mikage reo — hakuho high school’s golden boy.

if there was anyone who could juggle soccer captaincy, straight a’s, an overflowing social life, and still find time to tease you before homeroom, it was reo. he had the kind of smile that made people trust him too easily and the kind of confidence that made teachers both adore and resent him.

everyone adored him.

but you never did — not like that.

you and reo had known each other since you were five, since he’d tried to share his pudding at daycare and got it smeared across his designer uniform when you slapped it away. from then on, it was chaos and camaraderie, late-night calls for math homework, popcorn fights during cram sessions, and long car rides in the mikage family limo with your knees knocking under shared blankets.

you were like siblings — something even reo’s fangirls at school refused to believe.

“why would i date reo?” you’d asked once, horrified. “that’s like dating my cousin.”

reo, overhearing it from across the hall, only shrugged. “that’s her way of saying i’m the more attractive one.”

it was all harmless teasing — always had been.

but then came him.

the day reo introduced you to nagi, you had no expectations. you were just tagging along to another of his after-practice hangouts, this time near the gym’s side benches, where he said a “new recruit” was waiting.

you weren’t prepared for the tall, white-haired boy who barely spared you a glance when you arrived.

“this is nagi seishiro,” reo had said with a proud grin, clapping a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “monster on the field. zero social skills. doesn’t care about anything except games.”

nagi looked up from his phone — not because he wanted to, but because reo had nudged him. his eyes were dull, like nothing around him sparked much interest. the only life in him came from the game lighting up his screen.

reo gestured to you. “this is angel.”

you blinked. “excuse me—”

“it’s what i call her. don’t question it.”

nagi’s gaze lingered for a second. “angel, huh.”

his voice was flat, disinterested. but oddly enough… he repeated the name like it mattered.

that was all he said before looking back down at his phone.

you’d never met someone so unimpressed with the world.

and yet—somehow—you found yourself drawn to him anyway.

maybe it was the way he moved like everything was too much trouble, yet still found his way next to you. or maybe it was the quiet comfort of his presence, how even in silence, he never made you feel alone. there was something hypnotic about his stillness. as if chaos couldn’t touch him—and when you were around him, it couldn’t touch you either.

it started subtly.

nagi never called you by your name. just angel.

not once had he asked if it was okay. he just picked it up the way someone picks up a new favorite song—without effort, without question. it was like a default setting in his brain. automatic. natural. like he couldn’t imagine calling you anything else.

it didn’t help, though. not when he kept giving you mixed signals.

nagi might’ve looked distracted all the time, his gaze often glued to his phone or drifting to the clouds during class—but he always paid attention to you. he remembered the details you told him: your favorite snack during exam season, the exact way you liked your tea, the movie you wanted to watch next. once, you’d casually mentioned how your feet always got cold in the library, and the next time you studied together, he brought an extra pair of fuzzy socks like it was no big deal.

he didn’t say much. never did. but he showed up in ways that made your heart ache.

like the way he’d always wander over to you after hours of football practice, the sky fading pink above hakuho high’s rooftop or the sun casting long shadows on the back field. sweaty and slow-moving, he’d drop his duffle bag beside you with a grunt, flopping onto the grass like gravity had finally won.

sometimes he’d tug at your sleeve in that lazy, silent way of asking for attention—head resting on your thigh as if it were the most obvious pillow in the world. no warning. no asking. just trust.

and you always let him.

you’d card your fingers through his soft white hair, and he’d hum, quiet and content, almost like a cat purring. the world seemed to dull when he was like that—when his breathing evened out and his body melted into yours like he belonged there.

sometimes, he’d shift closer, burying his face into the crook of your neck, voice barely a whisper.

“sleepy, angel.”

just two words. but you’d feel them for hours after.

you’d sit there frozen, breath caught in your throat, heart thundering like it was trying to break out of your ribs. and he—unbothered, eyes half-lidded and heavy—would fall asleep to the sound of your racing pulse.

he didn’t realize what he was doing to you. or maybe he did. you could never really tell.

because when the sun dipped low enough, and the rest of the team started filing out, nagi would lift his head, yawn, and walk off like nothing happened. like he hadn’t just cracked your heart open with one word, one look, one casual lean into your shoulder.

it wasn’t fair—how someone so unattached could still have that kind of power over you.

it wasn’t fair that you started hoping he’d do it again.

because every time he touched you like that—every time he called you angel in that soft, half-asleep tone—it felt like a dream you weren’t allowed to wake up from.

and yet, you never stopped waiting for the next time.

oh, but it didn’t stop with lazy afternoons and fleeting moments of closeness. not even close.

there were other moments—quieter ones, tucked between school and soccer practice, when it was just you, reo, and nagi heading off-campus for food. reo would always act like he was treating royalty, leading you both with swagger and flair, his platinum card practically flashing in the sunlight.

he’d announce, “my treat, obviously,” before you even stepped into the restaurant. mikage reo: hakuho high’s golden boy, heir to the building you were sitting in, and yet still the same loud, dramatic idiot you grew up with.

but your focus was never on him.

because nagi, without fail, would always slide into the seat beside you. even if reo sat next to you first, nagi would stand there, towering, blinking once before saying, “move.” and reo—used to his antics—would just sigh and scoot without complaint.

he didn’t even try to hide it anymore.

and every time nagi settled beside you, your heart did that stupid thing again—tripped over itself, stumbled into your ribs, and reminded you that you were already too far gone.

it always happened the same way.

you’d be mid-bite or mid-conversation when suddenly, his fingers would find yours beneath the table. not a brush. not an accidental touch. a full-on interlock. as if your hand was made to fit into his.

sometimes, his grip was light, absent-minded—his thumb rubbing lazy circles against your palm while he focused on his rice bowl. sometimes, it was firmer, grounding. like he needed to hold on to something, and for some reason, that something was always you.

one time, he caught your hand before you could even sit down, pulling it into his lap casually.

“your hand’s warm,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded with that usual drowsy calm. “and soft.”

like it was the most obvious observation in the world. like it meant nothing.

but it didn’t mean nothing to you.

it never did.

because every time he said something like that—quiet and thoughtless, like a dream slipping through your fingers—it burrowed deeper into your heart. and left you wondering: does he even know what he’s doing to me?

across the table, reo would catch your eye with a smirk.

he’d rest his chin in his hand, grinning like a fox. “you two should just date already,” he’d say one afternoon, loud enough for nagi to hear.

you choked on your drink.

nagi didn’t even flinch. “too much work,” he replied without missing a beat—but his grip on your hand didn’t loosen.

your stomach twisted. and reo? he looked at you knowingly, as if he could see the spiral in your mind before you even admitted it to yourself.

you wanted to believe there was something there. that the touches meant something. that the nickname wasn’t just a habit. that the way he leaned into your shoulder and closed his eyes wasn’t just comfort—it was you.

but nagi never said anything.

and you were too scared to ask.

because what if it really was just who he was? what if the closeness you treasured so deeply… wasn’t special to him at all?

you hated how much the uncertainty hurt. hated how you still looked for his name on your phone screen. hated how your heart reacted to every small thing he did—like it hadn’t learned how to protect itself.

because no matter how casual he made it seem… holding nagi’s hand always felt like the closest thing to home.

and maybe that was the most dangerous part.

because when something starts to feel like home, you forget it was never promised to you. you start expecting it—counting on it—imagining things that were never said out loud. you start building a future in the quiet spaces between words he never meant for you to read into.

you told yourself you were fine with the silence. that you could live in the in-between. but your heart knew better. it ached louder every time nagi pulled you a little closer… and said nothing at all.

so now—suffocating in feelings you never meant to have—you were sprawled like a corpse on the oversized couch in reo’s ridiculous penthouse living room.

hakuho high’s golden boy, born with a silver spoon and a rooftop garden, was currently snacking on something that cost more than your weekly lunch allowance and watching you fall apart with the patience of someone used to your drama.

“fuck it!” you screamed into one of his designer pillows, muffled but heartfelt. “i hate him. i hate his stupid hair, and his lazy slouch, and the way he breathes like the world is boring and calls me angel like he didn’t just short-circuit my entire central nervous system.”

reo didn’t even flinch. “so,” he said casually, tossing another popcorn kernel into his mouth, “you’re saying you’re fine.”

you let out a long, wounded groan into the cushions. “you ruined my life, mikage.”

“oh, is that what i did?” he said, utterly unfazed. “you were so normal before nagi, huh? always emotionally stable, never crying over how ‘his voice sounds like fresh snow falling on a winter night.’”

your head snapped up. “i never said that.”

he smirked. “you did. last week. when he called you at midnight to ask what time practice was and you replayed the voicemail six times.”

your cheeks burned. “that’s… not the point!”

“no, you’re right. the point is, i introduced you two. i should get matchmaking royalties.”

you sat up, dramatically throwing off his fancy blanket. “you should’ve never introduced him to me, reo!”

reo gave you a shit-eating grin. “why? because he’s hot, mysterious, emotionally unavailable, and clearly soft for you? yeah, sorry. that’s on me.”

you groaned and flopped back onto the couch. “he’s not soft for me.”

“oh, right. my bad,” he said, mock-serious. “he just randomly holds your hand during lunch, naps with his head in your lap, and only calls you angel. totally meaningless.”

“it feels meaningless when he never says anything about it!”

reo got up, made his way to the mini fridge, and tossed you a can of something carbonated and unnecessarily expensive. “sei’s weird,” he said, plopping back into his seat. “he doesn’t talk much, but he doesn’t exactly do all that with everyone.”

you cracked open the drink and took a long sip, sighing. “i feel like i’m going insane.”

“no, this is just karma for every time you made fun of me in middle school when i had a crush.”

you threw a cushion at him.

he caught it easily. “look. you and nagi? it’s a slow burn. like, glacial. like, two rocks eroding in a riverbed over several centuries.”

you gave him a look. “you’re not helping.”

“i am helping,” he said smugly. “i’m listening to your crisis, offering top-tier beverages, and reminding you that he called you angel during conditioning drills, which means even when he’s sweating to death, you’re still on his mind.”

you paused. “you think?”

reo leaned back, his expression softer now. “i know.”

you stared at the ceiling. “then why hasn’t he said anything? why hasn’t he… done anything?”

reo hesitated for a beat, then shrugged. “he probably doesn’t know what he’s feeling yet.”

you blinked. “how do you not know you like someone?”

reo looked at you knowingly. “have you met nagi?”

“…fair.”

the two of you sat in silence for a bit, the city lights from the floor-to-ceiling windows spilling across the marble floors. the penthouse was too fancy, too big—but in this moment, it felt oddly safe.

then, quietly, you said, “i think i like him.”

reo didn’t tease you that night. he just smiled—crooked and quiet—and let the weight of your words settle in the silence between you.

“yeah,” he said. “i know.”

and for one brief moment, you felt lighter. like something in your chest had finally been named, and now you could breathe around it.

but that peace didn’t last.

because after that night at his penthouse, reo didn’t just return to being your best friend.

he became your personal tormentor.

not in the mean-spirited way—not really. but in that classic mikage reo fashion, he took your emotional meltdown, filed it under “important best friend information,” and proceeded to use it for sport.

subtle at first.

a comment here. a smirk there.

“your boyfriend’s under the tree again,” he’d say casually during soccer practice, flinging his towel over his shoulder and pointing across the field with his chin. “probably waiting for you to come fan him or something.”

you didn’t even bother responding the first few times. but reo? he thrived on reactions. so the quieter you were, the more relentless he became.

“he’s literally using your hoodie as a pillow right now,” he snorted during one break. “what is he, a stray cat? did you feed him once and now he won’t leave?”

you tried to ignore him, really, you did.

but it was hard to play it cool when nagi seishiro—cool, aloof, half-asleep nagi—kept gravitating toward you like you were the only person on the planet worth orbiting.

when he’d wander over during water breaks, barely say anything, and drop to the grass beside you with a heavy sigh.

when he’d tug at the hem of your sleeve like a child, muttering, “move a little, angel,” so he could comfortably lay his head on your lap.

the first time he did it, you froze.

you had no idea what to do with your hands, with your face, with the ridiculous tempo your heart had launched into.

and when he nuzzled into the crook of your neck and whispered, “warm. ‘m comfy here,” you were sure you’d ascended into another dimension.

reo, from several feet away, didn’t miss a beat.

“are you serious right now?” he called out, deadpan. “you’re using her as a human mattress? sei, we’re in the middle of practice.”

nagi, eyes still closed, responded with a half-lidded shrug. “we’re on break.”

reo turned to you, hands on hips like a disappointed parent. “why do you let him do that?”

you glared at him. “do i look like i can stop him?”

reo opened his mouth, then paused, expression flickering to something amused and oddly fond. “you don’t, actually. which is kinda impressive.”

from then on, he only got worse.

during lunch, he made a habit of sliding nagi’s bento closer to you before anyone sat down.

“feed him,” reo would say, like a waiter taking your order. “or he won’t eat. apparently your hands make everything taste better.”

nagi, seated beside you like it was law, didn’t even look up from his game.

“true,” he said flatly, holding out his chopsticks expectantly. “angel feeds me better.”

your face combusted.

reo nearly fell off his seat from laughing.

and somehow—somehow—this became routine.

if nagi didn’t get to sit next to you, he’d just drag his chair over. if you were holding your phone, he’d take it and lean against your shoulder while scrolling aimlessly. if you were quiet, he’d lean into you, cheek against your hair, and murmur, “tell me something. i like hearing your voice.”

every small thing turned sacred. every tiny touch set you on fire.

and reo? he stoked the flames.

it was like living in a dream you weren’t allowed to name. a day-by-day slow-burn that left you suspended in something warm and fragile. you didn’t know if nagi meant any of it the way you hoped he did. he never said anything. never changed his expression. just kept calling you angel and reaching for you like you belonged to him.

and the worst part?

you kept letting him.

you wanted to believe it meant something.

you needed to believe it did.

but the not-knowing—it festered. the what-ifs, the maybe-he-does, maybe-he-doesn’t… they turned every smile into a battlefield, every silence into a storm.

you didn’t realize how exhausted you were from hoping until it all came to a head on a regular, sleepy afternoon at hakuho high.

the sky was bluer than usual. the breeze was soft. you had a bottle of your favorite drink in hand after a long lecture, your thoughts drifting—mostly about how quiet nagi had been lately. distant, even.

you were behind the gym, just starting to unscrew the cap of your drink, when someone approached you.

“hey.”

you blinked up, surprised. he was a third-year—tall, broad-shouldered, sharp features softened by the slight smile he wore. you recognized him vaguely. vice-captain of the basketball team. the type girls whispered about in the corridors.

“i know this is sudden,” he started, scratching the back of his neck, “but… are you dating nagi seishiro?”

your grip tightened around your drink. the question hit harder than it should have.

you blinked. “huh?”

“you guys are always together,” he said, shrugging. “it kinda looks like it. i didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes, so i figured i’d ask first.”

you didn’t know how to answer.

because no—he never asked you out. but yes—he held your hand like it meant something. he napped on your lap. called you angel. looked for you in crowds.

but that wasn’t love, was it? at least… not the kind that gets voiced.

so you shook your head.

“no,” you said softly. “we’re not.”

the word sat heavy on your tongue, like something bitter you were finally forced to swallow. even saying it aloud—confirming that there was nothing between you and nagi—hurt more than you thought it would.

the boy blinked, surprised. “oh. then… reo?”

you blinked back, caught off guard. “what?”

he laughed nervously, raising both hands in surrender. “sorry—just, the way you and mikage always bicker. i figured maybe you two were, you know… childhood friends-to-lovers or whatever.”

you stared at him like he’d just grown a second head.

then came the deadpan: “heck no.”

it was more disgust than denial, and it left your mouth before you could filter it.

the guy laughed again—this time, genuinely. “alright, alright. just checking.”

you rolled your eyes, cheeks flushing. “reo’s like… my brother. that would be disgusting.”

“that clears things up.” he smiled, easing a little. “then… maybe we could go for coffee this weekend?”

there was a pause.

and then, before you could give yourself a reason not to, you nodded.

“sure,” you said. “why not?”

it wasn’t a confession.

it wasn’t a first kiss.

but it was the first time you admitted—if only to yourself—that maybe you couldn’t wait around for nagi forever.

what you didn’t know, standing there in the soft shadow of the school gym, was that someone had seen the entire thing. from the moment the boy asked if you were dating nagi, down to the way you wrinkled your nose at the mention of reo.

and that someone’s stomach dropped like a stone.

because while you were saying no…

nagi was across the path—hearing every word like it was a slap to the face.

he didn’t stick around to hear your answer to the guy’s next question. he didn’t want to. couldn’t. something in him recoiled the moment he saw you standing there—with him—smiling the way you usually smiled at him.

he walked away, fast and quiet.

the weight of his limbs was heavier than usual. his hoodie felt too warm against his skin, and his hands stayed shoved deep into the pockets like he was trying to bury the strange, twisting ache crawling up his chest.

he went back to the soccer field, eyes blank, lips pressed into a line.

he didn’t speak.

didn’t even look at reo when the other boy offered him a water bottle.

he just stood in the grass, shoulders stiff, waiting for the whistle to blow.

why would he feel like this?

you can date who you want. you’re your own person. you always were.

and besides—you were right.

you two weren’t together.

you weren’t his girlfriend.

you were just… his angel.

his nap partner. his hand to hold. his favorite seat under the sakura tree after a long day of classes. the one who laughed at his flat jokes. the one who listened even when he didn’t respond. the one he could always find in the stands, no matter how far away.

his… friend.

that’s all it was, right?

just a friend.

so why did the idea of someone else having your attention—the thought of you laughing at someone else’s bad jokes, someone else’s hand holding yours—make his throat tighten like this?

why did he feel like his chest was full of static?

why did practice suddenly feel impossible to focus on?

why did everything burn?

he was nagi seishiro—apathetic, unbothered, uninterested in everything except convenience and quiet. he didn’t do emotions. didn’t care about people.

and yet…

why?

why did it feel like he was about to lose something he didn’t even realize he was holding?

the thought wouldn’t leave him alone.

it echoed in his head, over and over, louder than the screech of cleats against the turf, louder than the whistle, louder than reo yelling plays from the opposite end of the field.

you’d said it so clearly. so easily.

“no, we’re not.”

you weren’t lying. but something in your voice—he couldn't forget it. it didn’t sound like relief. it sounded like… surrender.

why did that hurt so damn much?

he pressed forward in the scrimmage, a pass skimming just past his foot because he moved a second too late. his reflexes were off. his instincts dulled. the field felt too narrow. his jersey clung to his back. the usual lightness in his body was gone, replaced by a heavy, dragging weight he couldn’t shake.

he missed another pass.

and another.

he shoved his hands into his hair in frustration, growling quietly, “tch.”

a few teammates stared. they didn’t say anything, but the tension rippled.

nagi didn’t care.

no, that was a lie.

he did care.

that was the worst part.

for the first time in a long time, he cared too much and didn’t know how to handle it.

across the field, reo watched carefully.

he had known nagi since first year. knew the way his best friend moved, the tempo of his rhythm on the field, the lazy but calculated precision of his mind. he’d watched nagi play sick, play exhausted, even play pissed off—and still look good doing it.

but this?

this wasn’t the usual indifference.

this wasn’t fatigue.

this was nagi unraveling.

quietly. subtly. but painfully.

he could see it in the way nagi’s shoulders stiffened with every misstep. the way his hands balled into fists whenever the ball rolled too far. the way he didn’t even look toward the bleachers—where you usually sat watching, sometimes waving, always smiling.

you weren’t there today.

and reo had a feeling nagi knew exactly why.

but the worst part? he didn’t do anything about it.

not the next day.

not the day after that.

not even when your eyes lingered on him longer than necessary—waiting, hoping, hurting.

instead, nagi distanced himself.

no explanation. no text. no lazy “angel” in the hallway, no sudden weight of his head on your shoulder like he used to do after class. he didn’t take the seat next to you during lunch anymore, even when reo subtly saved it. he didn’t offer you sips of his convenience store soda, or absentmindedly thread your fingers with his under the cafeteria table.

it was as if someone had pressed pause on everything that felt safe and familiar.

and you noticed. of course you noticed.

how could you not?

the boy who once made you feel like the center of his world was now acting like you barely existed in it.

you tried to brush it off at first—told yourself he was just tired from soccer, or spacing out like he always did, or maybe he just needed time. you knew nagi could be… detached. aloof. he was never the type to chase or cling. that was just how he was.

but this? this was different.

he wasn’t just distracted.

he was avoiding you.

the realization settled in your chest like a weight you couldn’t shake off, especially when reo—your oldest friend, your partner in chaos since grade school—confirmed the one thing you dreaded to hear.

it was late in the afternoon when it happened. you were at the mikage penthouse again, your designated post-school escape on days that felt too heavy. you were lying on your back, legs tossed over the armrest of reo’s imported italian couch, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

reo was scrolling through his phone beside you, one socked foot pressed against your shin lazily. the room was quiet except for the faint hum of the central air and the occasional clink of ice in your untouched drinks.

“he knows the vice captain asked you out.”

your stomach dropped.

you turned your head slowly toward reo, your voice barely above a whisper. “nagi?”

reo nodded, still scrolling. “he was nearby when it happened. didn’t say anything, but i saw his face after. he walked back to the field like he was ready to murder someone.”

you sat up fully now, heart pounding. “is that why he’s been avoiding me?”

reo sighed like it physically pained him to deal with the emotional incompetence of his best friend. “most likely. i mean, it’s either that or he suddenly forgot how to function around people—which, okay, is also a possibility with him.”

you swallowed, the pieces falling into place too fast for comfort. “but… why would he avoid me?”

reo finally looked at you, his expression unreadable for once.

the teasing had fallen from his features like snow off a rooftop—quiet, unexpected. his voice, when he finally spoke, came soft but firm.

“because he’s a dumbass.”

you blinked. “i—what?”

he raised an eyebrow at you, like he couldn’t believe he had to spell it out.

“he likes you, idiot.”

the words hit you harder than they should have.

they knocked the air out of your lungs and left you staring at reo like he’d just casually told you gravity stopped working.

“i—” your mouth opened, then shut again. you shook your head. “no. no, he doesn’t.”

reo let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “yes, he does. he just doesn’t realize it the way you want him to yet. that doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

you frowned, your voice quieter now. “then why is he avoiding me?”

reo studied you carefully. “because he’s never felt this kind of thing before. he’s confused. freaked out, probably. and when sei gets overwhelmed, he doesn’t push forward—he hides. retreats.”

you looked away, your fingers curling into the hem of your sweater. “it hurts.”

reo’s gaze softened. “i know. and it’s killing me watching both of you act like this when it’s so obvious you mean the world to each other.”

you sighed, slumping back against the couch cushions. your heart felt heavy, bruised in a way that wasn’t physical. like something was wilting inside your chest—soft and unseen, but so achingly present. “what do i do, reo?”

he didn’t answer right away. for once, he wasn’t being theatrical or smug. no exaggerated hand gestures or sarcastic comments. just silence, and a look in his eyes that said he was weighing his words carefully.

finally, reo spoke. his voice was gentler than you expected.

“i’m not playing favorites here, but… you already did your part.”

you blinked. “what?”

“i mean, come on,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “you like him. you know it. i know it. hell, half of hakuho probably knows it. you’ve shown him in every way that counts. it’s not your responsibility to make him see that he likes you back.”

your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

reo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on yours. “sei’s not good with emotions. he feels things, yeah—but he doesn’t always know what he’s feeling. he zones out, pulls away, avoids it like it’s a hard level in a game he doesn’t want to clear.”

your heart stung. “then what if he never clears it?”

“then that’s on him,” reo said, and there was no hesitation in his voice this time. “not you. you’ve been patient. you’ve been honest, even if you haven’t said the exact words. if he lets you walk away without realizing what you mean to him… that’s his loss.”

the words echoed in your chest, louder than you wanted them to.

because deep down, you didn’t want to walk away. not even a little. not even when he made you feel invisible. but reo was right—loving someone didn’t mean setting yourself on fire to light their path. and maybe… maybe it was time nagi realized that.

you closed your eyes, trying to blink away the sting behind your lashes. “i hate this.”

reo offered a soft laugh and nudged your knee with his. “i know. love sucks sometimes. especially when it comes with a six-foot-tall emotional brick wall.”

you cracked a smile, just barely. “thanks for the reminder.”

he grinned. “anytime, angel.”

and despite the ache still lodged somewhere in your ribs, his words settled into your heart like a gentle promise.

that no matter how messy this all became, you weren’t completely alone in it.

reo was there—annoying, overconfident, occasionally too invested—but always in your corner. he never let you spiral too far without yanking you back with a half-serious joke or a reality check disguised as sarcasm. and knowing that… made breathing a little easier.

you stayed in his penthouse longer than you meant to that night. he made you tea without asking, switched the mood lighting to a calmer tone, and played some playlist he called “healing for the emotionally exhausted.” you didn’t even have the energy to roll your eyes.

you stared out the window while the city lights blinked back at you like stars—distant and quiet. your thoughts drifted again to nagi. to the way his hair fell into his eyes when he leaned over his phone. the weight of his head when he laid it in your lap after practice. the warmth in his voice when he murmured, “sleepy, angel.”

you clutched a pillow to your chest and sank deeper into reo’s velvet couch.

had it always been this one-sided?

or was nagi really just scared?

you didn’t know.

but tomorrow… you were going to try. even if it wasn’t with him.

then the day of the date came.

you didn’t wear anything flashy—just your usual clothes with a touch more care. hair brushed out, light gloss on your lips, perfume you knew reo teased you about for being too sweet. you stared at yourself in the mirror longer than usual before heading out, trying to convince yourself this was fine. normal. just a simple afternoon. just… something new.

the vice captain was already waiting near the front gates of hakuho, dressed neatly in the school’s after-hours uniform with a pleasant, easy smile. he wasn’t nagi. his energy was steadier, more grounded. not sleepy or unpredictable—but warm in his own right.

he greeted you with a polite, “you look nice,” and offered to carry your bag.

you smiled. tried to mean it.

but something in your chest tugged.

you walked to the nearby café together, talked about classes, mutual friends, upcoming tournaments. he was kind. charming, even. you knew girls at school talked about him a lot—and it wasn’t hard to see why. he was attentive without being overbearing, curious about your thoughts, laughing easily at your jokes.

but it wasn’t nagi’s laugh. it wasn’t nagi’s quiet stare. it wasn’t nagi at all.

and the vice captain could see it.

maybe not immediately—but somewhere between you pushing food around your plate and your gaze flickering toward the glass windows every time a white-haired figure passed, he figured it out.

he set his drink down gently and leaned back.

“you still like him, don’t you?”

you froze. the words landed softly, not like a confrontation, but like an observation. a truth laid bare.

you looked at your half-eaten dessert, then slowly nodded. “yeah,” you whispered. “i think i always have.”

he chuckled—low and not bitter. just amused in a tired sort of way.

“well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “i kinda figured when you spent the first ten minutes watching the sidewalk instead of me.”

your cheeks flushed. “i’m sorry—”

“don’t be.” he held up a hand, waving it off with a smile. “seriously. i knew what i was walking into. guess i hoped maybe you’d give me a chance to make you forget him.”

you looked at him—really looked at him—and saw no resentment in his expression. just understanding.

“i really appreciate that you still came,” he added. “even knowing your heart’s kind of… already somewhere else.”

you swallowed around the lump in your throat and nodded. “thank you. for being kind.”

he smiled. “he better realize what he has before someone else does.”

and somewhere across the city, under the molten streaks of the setting sun, nagi seishiro was pacing the length of hakuho high’s empty soccer field. the sky above him glowed in soft orange and deep violet, but he didn’t look up once. his feet dragged across the turf like his body was moving on its own—slow, heavy, as if weighed down by something he couldn’t shake off.

reo’s voice still echoed in his mind, sharp and impossible to ignore.

"you feel something, don’t you?"

nagi hadn’t answered. he didn’t know how. because how do you name a feeling you’ve never bothered to understand?

he wasn’t built for messy emotions. he preferred ease—predictable gameplay, soft pillows, long naps. but you? you weren’t easy. you were the one variable he hadn’t figured out. the one thing that made his chest ache when you smiled and made his head go silent when you laughed. he didn’t understand it. didn’t try to.

not until he saw it.

that day.

you were standing behind the gym, light bouncing off your hair as you spoke to the vice captain. nagi hadn’t meant to linger. he was just walking by—heading to grab a juice box or waste a few more minutes before practice.

but then the vice captain asked you something. and nagi stopped.

“are you dating nagi seishiro?”

it was a simple question, harmless to anyone else. but to nagi, it sounded like a pin being pulled from a grenade. his steps faltered. he didn’t turn around, didn’t breathe too loudly, just stood half-hidden behind the wall’s edge, frozen like a bug caught in amber.

you hesitated. just for a beat.

then your answer came, soft and unsteady. “no. we’re not.”

and nagi couldn’t explain why that answer—the very truth he’d never had the guts to change—felt like a sucker punch to the chest.

he left before he could hear what came next. because in his chest, a feeling he’d spent months ignoring had finally started screaming. and it didn’t sound like indifference. it sounded like jealousy. like regret.

and maybe—just maybe—like heartbreak.

he never knew your answer.

not from you.

but by the time lunch ended and the hallways quieted, he didn’t have to.

whispers chased him like ghosts—fragments of your name laced with quiet gasps and knowing smirks.

“she said yes.” “to the vice captain, right?” “she finally gave up on nagi, huh?”

each word chipped at something inside him. something he'd never named, never dared to look at too closely.

and now it was bleeding through the cracks.

practice came like muscle memory. but there was no rhythm. no focus. his passes were too hard. his touches too sharp. a snap in his movements that wasn’t like him. he missed a shot he’d normally sink with his eyes closed.

reo said his name—twice, maybe three times—but nagi didn’t answer.

eventually, they left him there. even reo.

the sun dipped lower, dragging shadows across the field, and still, nagi didn’t move. his limbs sprawled carelessly across the grass, as if exhaustion had pinned him down and frustration had tied the knot. he stared at the sky, expression unreadable, fingers tangled in blades of green.

everything felt wrong. off.

his chest was tight again, like it had been all day. like he’d swallowed something too big, and now it wouldn’t leave.

she said yes. to someone else.

the thought circled like a vulture.

you found him alone on the soccer field, long after the others had packed up and left.

the lights from the school building flickered faintly in the distance, casting long shadows across the grass where nagi lay stretched out like a boy made of bone-deep exhaustion. his jersey clung to his skin, a streak of sweat running down his temple. his eyes, however, were still wide open—staring up at the sky like it could answer the ache twisting in his chest.

he didn’t look at you when you approached. but you saw the way his hand twitched in the grass. like he knew you were coming.

“nagi.”

your voice didn’t tremble, but it came out quieter than you’d expected. you stood above him for a moment, waiting, hoping—but he didn’t respond.

you slowly sat beside him, knees drawn up to your chest, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

“i said yes,” you said after a long silence, eyes on the horizon. “to someone else.”

he didn’t move. but his jaw shifted, the tiniest tick beneath his cheekbone.

“i said yes to a date because i was tired of wondering what this was,” you continued, voice starting to shake despite your best efforts. “tired of waiting for you to say something. anything.”

still nothing. only the sound of distant cicadas and the dull thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

“do you even remember what you said the day we met?” you asked quietly. “you didn’t say my name once. just called me angel. like it was automatic. like it didn’t matter who i was, just that i was there.”

you laughed bitterly under your breath, your fingers clenching. “i tried not to let it mean anything. i tried not to hope. but then you’d rest your head on my shoulder and whisper like i was your safe place. you’d hold my hand and tell me it was soft, warm. you made me feel like i was… something.”

your breath hitched. you turned to face him fully, and finally—finally—nagi turned his head to look at you.

his expression was unreadable. but you could see it—the fear just beneath the surface. the conflict. the guilt.

your voice cracked when you spoke again. “do you like me, nagi?”

the question hung between you like smoke.

he blinked. once. then again. and slowly, he sat up, arms bracing behind him.

“i don’t know,” he said.

your chest caved in.

it wasn’t anger that flared in you. it was heartbreak. the slow, sinking realization that the boy you wanted so badly didn’t even know if he wanted you back.

“you don’t know,” you repeated, breathless, eyes burning.

he looked away, fingers digging into the grass. “it’s not that simple.”

“it is,” you said, voice shaking harder now. “it is that simple. you either feel something for me or you don’t. and if you don’t, that’s okay—” your voice broke. “—but you can’t keep treating me like i’m your world if you can’t even figure out your own heart.”

nagi’s head snapped back toward you, eyes wide, as if your words had physically struck him.

“you can’t nuzzle into my neck and fall asleep on my lap and whisper ‘angel’ like i’m the only one who matters—and then say you don’t know. that’s not fair.”

he opened his mouth, but no words came out.

you took a shaky step back. “i let myself believe you did. i let myself fall for you—slowly, painfully. every time you remembered the little things i said, every time you showed up even in your quiet way, i thought maybe…”

you trailed off, swallowing hard. “but you never said it. you never gave me anything real to hold on to. and now i’m the idiot who said yes to someone else, but all i can think about is you.”

he was silent. still. his silver hair caught in the breeze, eyes locked on yours like he wanted to say something—needed to—but couldn’t bring himself to cross that threshold.

you shook your head, blinking fast. “i can’t do this anymore. i can’t keep waiting for someone who doesn’t even know if he wants me.”

you turned.

and this time, nagi didn’t stop you.

but as your figure disappeared across the field—shoulders trembling, arms wrapped tightly around yourself—something inside him cracked like ice splitting under too much weight.

and for the first time, nagi seishiro wasn’t sure if he was tired… or if this was the first time he was finally awake.

because something in your voice had snapped him out of the haze he’d been living in—the gentle fog of comfort he’d built around himself like a second skin. you were gone now, walking away from him, and yet your words still echoed in his ears louder than any stadium ever had.

you can’t treat me like i’m your world if you don’t even know your own heart.

it rang like a siren in his skull.

the soccer field felt too open after that. too wide. too cold. his limbs buzzed with restless energy he didn’t know what to do with. so he moved on instinct, feet dragging him away from the grass and the guilt and the silence you left behind.

the next time he blinked, he was standing in front of reo’s building.

the mikage tower—an architectural flex of polished glass and inherited legacy—loomed above him like a monolith. nagi hadn’t even realized where he was heading until the security at the front recognized him and let him through wordlessly, like he belonged there. maybe he did. he came here often enough. but today, the elevator ride felt different. the music sounded too sharp. the walls too reflective. he could see himself in them—eyes unfocused, jaw clenched tight.

by the time he reached the penthouse, the door was already swinging open.

reo looked like he’d been expecting him.

“figured you’d show up eventually,” reo said, arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes sweeping over nagi with a familiar, no-bullshit expression. “you looked like you were about to combust during practice.”

nagi walked past him in silence, dropping onto the nearest couch like a sack of limbs. he stared at the ceiling as if the answers might be etched into the marble tiles.

reo shut the door and followed, sitting across from him. “so… you wanna talk?”

“no,” nagi muttered.

reo leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “alright. you wanna sulk here until you rot into the cushions, then?”

“maybe.”

silence stretched between them, thick and electric.

then nagi spoke again, voice low, like he hated even admitting it. “she went on the date.”

reo blinked. “you mean you let her go on the date.”

nagi’s eyes narrowed. “i didn’t let her do anything. she can do what she wants.”

“she wanted you, dumbass,” reo snapped, sitting forward now, arms braced on his knees. “she waited—waited—for you to pull your head out of your ass. you were the one who kept acting like she mattered and then saying nothing.”

nagi ran a hand down his face, dragging his palm over his eyes like he could rub the thoughts away. “i didn’t know i liked her.”

reo scoffed. “you knew. you just didn’t realize that’s what it was. you’ve never cared about anyone like that before, so you didn’t recognize it.”

“i felt…” nagi trailed off, words catching in his throat. “like something was ripping out of me when i saw him ask her. i wanted to hit something. or sleep forever. i didn’t like it.”

“that’s what jealousy feels like, sei,” reo said quietly. “that’s what heartbreak feels like when you’re too late.”

nagi let his head fall back, a low groan rumbling from his chest. “she said she liked me. and i told her… i told her i don’t know.”

reo stared at him like he’d just confessed to committing a felony.

“the fuck?” he hissed, dragging a hand through his already-mussed hair. “why did you say i don’t know, idiot?”

“i panicked,” nagi muttered, his voice flat and low, like he hated himself for it. “she was standing there, looking at me like—like i meant something, and i just… froze.”

reo scoffed, launching himself off the couch to pace across the penthouse. “unbelievable. you—you lay in her lap. you call her angel. you hold her hand like it’s the only thing grounding you to this planet and then when she finally tells you she likes you, you give her i don’t know?”

“i didn’t mean to,” nagi said, scrubbing a palm over his face again. “i didn’t think she liked me like that. i didn’t know i felt that way—until she walked away.”

“bullshit,” reo snapped, rounding back to face him. “you knew. you’ve always known. you just didn’t want to know because then you’d actually have to do something about it.”

nagi flinched at that.

reo’s voice softened just a little. “you think i didn’t notice? the way you’d act around her? you’re not subtle, man. you’d go quiet when she laughed with someone else. you’d light up when she brought you those caramel milk drinks from the vending machine. you’d look at her like she was the only goddamn person in a world full of people you couldn’t be bothered to care about.”

nagi’s throat worked around something thick. he stared down at his hands like they were foreign to him. “i didn’t know i could feel like that,” he murmured. “i didn’t think i was built for it.”

reo sighed again, slower this time, and sat back down beside him. “no one is. not really. but when it’s her… when it’s someone like her… you figure it out. or you lose her.”

and that—that—was what scared nagi the most.

he could sleep through classes. he could ignore most people. he could drift through life half-awake.

but the idea of you walking away for good? that terrified him more than he knew how to admit.

because it wasn’t indifference he felt.

it wasn’t confusion.

it was love.

and now—he might’ve already been too late.

you hadn’t spoken to him since the last time he left you with nothing but silence. three days had passed, and the distance between you and nagi had grown so vast, it may as well have been oceans. not a glance. not a breath shared. not even the subtle magnetic pull that used to hum beneath your skin whenever he was near.

it was like he had vanished.

or worse—you had learned how to exist without him.

you didn’t yell. you didn’t pout. you didn’t cry. but you also didn’t smile when he passed by. you didn’t look up when he walked into the room. and if you were forced to stand within arm’s reach, like during practice or at lunch, you kept yourself composed with a sort of numb grace that cut him deeper than any outburst ever could.

he had never known how much he craved your attention until it was gone.

and now, here he was—locked inside the clubroom with you because reo, fed up with watching you both suffer in silence, decided to take matters into his own hands.

the door slammed shut behind you. a soft metallic click confirmed it was locked.

“reo?” you said sharply, turning back.

“i’m not opening it,” came reo’s smug reply from the other side. “not until you idiots talk. or make out. either one.”

“reo!” you growled, rushing to the handle. it didn’t budge. “this isn’t funny!”

“not meant to be,” he said. “consider this an intervention. figure it out. i’ll be back… eventually.”

and then his footsteps faded.

you stood frozen for a moment, facing the door, before you slowly turned to face the boy across the room.

nagi stood by the windows, bathed in fading sunlight, his white hair catching every bit of golden glow like a halo. but he didn’t look like an angel. not now. he looked exhausted. haunted. like someone still trying to understand why the hell his chest wouldn’t stop aching.

he didn’t look at you.

so you stayed by the door, arms crossed. a wall of silence stretched between you, heavy and brittle, ready to snap.

“say something,” you finally muttered, your voice tired, your throat sore from swallowing your feelings for days.

he flinched. you didn’t miss it.

“i didn’t ask him to do this,” he said quietly.

“but you’re not stopping it either.”

another silence.

you took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “then let’s get it over with.”

he finally turned. his eyes met yours.

“i didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said.

you laughed—but it wasn’t amused. it was hollow. “but you did.”

he stepped forward, cautious. “when i said i didn’t know… it wasn’t because i don’t feel anything.”

you narrowed your eyes, but said nothing.

“it was because i felt too much,” he admitted, voice quieter now, almost like he was afraid it would break if he raised it any higher. “i didn’t know what to do with it.”

“and what, you thought silence would make it better?”

“no,” he whispered. “i thought if i said it out loud, it’d ruin everything. i was scared.”

you blinked at him, your heart aching all over again. “scared of what? that i’d say it back?”

he opened his mouth, then closed it. his jaw clenched.

“i liked it,” you said, voice cracking. “the attention. the nicknames. you holding my hand. laying on my lap. acting like i was the only person who mattered. i liked it—because i liked you. but you don’t get to do all that and then tell me you don’t know.”

you weren’t yelling. you weren’t crying. but your pain filled every word.

“you don’t get to act like i’m your whole world, nagi, if you don’t even know what i am to you.”

that landed like a punch to the gut.

he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. his voice was low, almost hoarse. “i do know now.”

you didn’t move.

he took another step. “i know i’m stupid. that i missed the moment i should’ve told you. that i let you walk away.”

still, you didn’t say a word.

“i thought i was okay with being your friend,” he whispered, gaze dropping to the floor. “until i saw someone else try to be more.”

he looked up then, and his eyes held the kind of desperation that only comes when you realize something too late.

“i heard people talking. saying you said yes. that you were going out with him. and i swear—my chest hurt so bad i couldn’t even breathe.”

you finally moved. just barely. your fingers curled into the hem of your shirt, grounding yourself.

“i don’t want to be just your almost,” you said.

he froze.

“i don’t want to keep waiting for maybes. i confessed, and you froze. and that told me everything i needed to know.”

“i was wrong,” he said. “i was scared. but i’m not anymore.”

you looked at him, eyes searching. “then prove it.”

the silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

it was thick—full of history, full of missed chances, full of every time he called you angel like it meant everything and nothing all at once. nagi stood there like he’d been thrown into the eye of a storm he created, a thousand unsaid words flashing behind those pale lashes and sleepy eyes.

but there was nothing sleepy about the way he looked at you now.

slowly, like the weight of your words had finally dragged him back to earth, he took a step toward you. his gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes, checking—once, twice, maybe even a third time—for hesitation.

there was none.

so when he reached out, his fingers brushing the side of your face, it felt like the world tilted. his touch was tentative at first, like you were made of something he wasn’t sure he deserved to hold. and then—he kissed you.

it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t perfect either. his lips were warm, unsure at first, like he was still learning what it meant to feel everything he’d avoided. but the moment you leaned into him, he melted.

his other hand found your waist, sliding around to hold you steady as if he needed the anchor. your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself in the heat of him.

“i’m sorry,” he breathed against your mouth. “i should’ve said something sooner.”

you kissed him back, just as soft. just as broken.

“you didn’t,” you whispered. “you never do.”

nagi pulled back just enough to look at you. his eyes were clearer than you’d ever seen them—open, raw, like the wall between you was finally cracking. “i didn’t know how,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “it was easier to pretend. that if i didn’t say anything, i couldn’t lose you.”

you blinked at him, chest tightening. “but you did.”

that broke something in him.

he kissed you again, harder this time—but not in a way that hurt. it was desperation, barely concealed by the tremble in his hands as they held you close. his lips moved with a kind of apology his voice couldn’t carry.

“i’ll make it up to you,” he muttered between kisses. “i swear, angel… i’ll make it up to you.”

his forehead fell against yours, breaths mingling as his arms slid around your waist tighter, like you might disappear again if he loosened his grip.

“i didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispered. “i just—every time i saw you with someone else, i felt like i was choking on my own heartbeat.”

your eyes watered. “then why didn’t you say anything?”

“because i thought i could live with just being your friend,” he confessed, voice cracking. “but i can’t. not anymore. not after hearing you say yes to someone else. not after realizing that someone else might get to hold your hand. kiss you. call you theirs.”

you closed your eyes, tears clinging to your lashes.

“do you still want me?” he asked, his voice suddenly small. uncertain. like a boy rather than the prodigy the school worshipped. like someone afraid he’d ruined the one thing he wanted most.

you nodded.

and he kissed you again.

this time it was slower. not desperate—but deliberate. tender. like he was tracing every inch of what he could’ve lost. his hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer, his lips moving with careful reverence.

“you feel like home,” he whispered against your skin, voice breaking. “i didn’t realize it until i walked away from the one place i ever felt safe.”

you held him back just as tightly.

then—

click.

the door creaked open behind you, light spilling into the dimly lit clubroom. you both turned your heads slightly—breathless, lips pink, tangled in each other—only to find reo leaning against the doorframe with a smug smirk plastered across his face.

“well, shit,” he drawled, arms crossed. “i was joking when i said you two better kiss.”

your face burned, and you turned toward the wall, hiding your expression in nagi’s shoulder. nagi didn’t even flinch. he simply pulled you closer, wrapping both arms around your waist and resting his chin on your head like he’d claimed you completely now—and didn’t care who saw.

reo raised an eyebrow and backed out of the room with both hands lifted. “you’re welcome, by the way. that’s the last time i play matchmaker for emotionally repressed athletes.”

the door shut behind him with a soft click.

silence settled again—but this time it was warm. safe.

nagi didn’t let go.

he just held you like he’d waited his whole life to.

and in the quiet that followed, with your heartbeat finally slowing, you whispered into the space between his collarbone and jaw, “then don’t let me go again.”

his answer came in the form of another kiss—slow, aching, sure.

this time, it didn’t feel like the end of anything.

it felt like the very beginning.

bonus scene.

reo sauntered out of the kitchen with a plate of fruit and two croissants balanced in one hand, his expression so smug it bordered on criminal.

“wow,” he said dramatically, flopping onto the couch like it was a throne. “so you finally confessed. in my club room. after months of the most agonizing, tension-filled friendship i’ve ever had the misfortune to witness. honestly? about damn time.”

you sat curled up on the other end of the plush couch, mug of cocoa nestled in your hands, half-tucked into a throw blanket that definitely wasn’t yours. your face flushed at the memory, and you ducked your head, hiding behind the steam. nagi was sprawled across the floor with his head resting in your lap, white hair messy, fingers lazily interlaced with yours as if he refused to let you go even in sleep.

“reo…” you muttered. “you’re never going to let us live it down, are you?”

he grinned over the rim of his juice glass. “absolutely not. this is what i live for. i carried this friends-to-lovers campaign on my back like atlas holding up the sky.”

nagi grunted softly, shifting closer to your stomach and nuzzling in. “too loud…”

reo rolled his eyes, but fondness softened the motion. “still a baby,” he said under his breath, before turning back to you. “anyway. you’re welcome.”

“for what?” you asked warily.

reo gestured with both hands like he was presenting fine art. “for being the only reason you two aren’t still stuck in the ‘will-they-won’t-they’ stage while making everyone else around you suffer.”

your cheeks burned hotter.

nagi, still barely awake, mumbled against the hem of your hoodie, “didn’t wanna suffer anymore.”

reo raised a brow. “oh, so now you talk about your feelings?”

another grunt. nagi tugged on your hand and pulled it close to his chest. “told her everything last night.”

reo looked at you with mock horror. “everything-everything?”

you laughed into your mug. “reo.”

“i mean, i did say make out as a joke,” he continued, dramatically reclining back into the couch, “but you two took it as a challenge.”

nagi tugged the blanket you were using, covering part of himself with it like a turtle burrowing deeper. “didn’t hear you complaining when you left.”

“oh, i was mentally high-fiving myself all the way to the vending machine,” reo said smugly. “finally. emotional constipation, cured. you’re welcome.”

you gave him a dry look. “should i get you a medal or something?”

he beamed. “please do. make it engraved. cupid mikage, or something with sparkles.”

despite your embarrassment, you smiled. it was easy now. so much lighter than yesterday. your shoulders didn’t feel weighed down by the ‘what-ifs’ anymore. just quiet, humming contentment.

nagi stirred again, his hand slowly brushing circles against your palm. “don’t leave today.”

reo snorted from the other end. “bro. she’s wearing my hoodie and holding your soul. she’s not going anywhere.”

you playfully kicked reo’s foot. “you’re such a menace.”

“hey,” he said, mock-wounded. “i locked you two in a room so you’d stop emotionally blue-balling yourselves. that’s love.”

nagi pulled your hand to his chest again and mumbled, barely audible, “you’re mine.”

you blinked, glancing down at him.

“hmm?” you murmured, brushing his bangs out of his face.

“mine,” he said again, slower. “you’re… mine.”

reo gagged from across the room. “i’m right here, guys. show some mercy to the lonely rich kid who third-wheeled your entire relationship into existence.”

you laughed—fully this time. a soft, real, bright sound that filled the room and made nagi shift to look up at you like it was his favorite melody. he pressed his face against your thigh and closed his eyes again, satisfied.

and for once, with reo’s chaos and nagi’s sleepy weight grounding you, everything just… clicked.

the tension was gone.

the fear, the doubt, the silence—it had all broken the night before.

now, there was only this: morning light, your favorite people, a stupidly expensive penthouse, and a love that had finally found its way home.

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keferon · 13 hours ago

Note

Just want to say that English is not my first language

According to the stories, the reason fairies cannot touch metal is that it is claimed that metal is unnatural and because fairies are a creature older than the human race and that their origin is from nature.

Which is something that is the opposite in the world of Transformers Which is made of metal and the creatures themselves are also made of metal

So maybe we can make it so that instead of metal, it's glass that's toxic to them. Because, like with metal things that need to be processed for use, glass also undergoes processing. And unlike with metal, glass completely changes in its final form and does not resemble its original form at all, which makes it more unnatural.

So that's my explanation for why blurr in fairy au should be allergic to glass. I'm sorry, but he is made out of metal. So it doesn't make sense that he wouldn't be able to touch the metal. Sorry if this part sounded rude

YOU KNOW WHAT :0 That is really interesting to think about. If all those robots aren't transforming into vehicles then they don't have windows built in them. Which means that glass can only occur as a hand made material for things. House windows and jewelry and..maybe food containers...what are those energon cubes made of? It looks like some kind of glass to me.

Which still means that windows are very much Blurr-proofed. And doors aren't unless they have some kind of fancy doorknobs. Hmmmm

.....also the classical image of "a fairy being caught in a jar" gets....uh... a whole new layer

#shockblurr fairy au #fairy th #imma be honest it's my first time doing something with the concept of fairies #usually I somewhat know the lore of the thing I convert into an au. Like I did my homework about pirates and zombies and mecha and orcas yk #but I don't know much about fairies besides the veery surface level of “being tiny and magical and stealing people replacing them with en #enchanted illusion of their “deformed doppelganger”#oh hey you know that whole doppelganger thing actually converts really good into empurata thing #but that's the material for tomorrow me #anyway as I was saying #I don't know the deeper lore of fairies #so thank you anon that was really interesting to learn

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lvl109 · 2 days ago

Text

“i’m really fucking nervous about this date and you're not helping at all, you bitch!”

your cries fall on deaf ears as his impartial gaze settles in outfit number sixteen, letting out a petulant huff as cerulean hues drag themselves over the newest combination of the same sweaters and shoes. the only difference? this skirt settled right at your mid thigh.

his brows furrow. a quick glance to your face makes your arms crossed, but he doesn't miss the embarrassment settling over your face. his eyes narrow immediately.

“you're wearin' the fuck me skirt?!”

“satoru gojo, so help me g—what?”

he's not listening. he hadn't even been a fan of the absolute douche you'd suddenly became infatuated with, rolling his eyes at your incessant fawning over lending him pens (that he never returned, the audacity of that utensil-poaching fucker) and doing his ultimate best friend duty of trying his best to keep you tethered to earth.

but his chest twists when he watches you smooth over the short fabric, lips pressed into a thin line as he watches you twist and turn in front of your full length mirror. you look good. and he's told you such after each outfit change. that's not even the issue.

but not that skirt. anything but that skirt.

“i've only ever seen you wear that skirt once! and it was when you were trying to get laid when we went to that frat party!” he points a finger at you accusingly when you scoff. “don't think i forgot. you cried when you saw that ponytail wearin' freak had his tongue down another girl’s throat and then proceeded to throw up all over my shoes!”

“that was two years ago! cho and i are friends now. stop calling him a freak, freak.” you smooth down your hair and check your lips for any smudges, batting off any of his (reasonable) complaints much to his outward dismay. “'fuck me skirt'. why do i even spend time with you? you read too much porn.”

he chooses to ignore that in favor of glaring at your back. “all i'm sayin’ is that i don't trust him. you know, the guy who made you cry so hard you nearly missed your last final? why the hell is he setting you up with someone else? and why are you letting him??”

“because unlike you, i don't have people tripping over their feet trying to get a date with you, alright?” your tube of lipgloss slams down against your dresser with more force than expected. your tone shocks him quiet instantly. “god forbid i go after someone that shows interest in me.”

satoru stares at your expression reflected in the mirror. slight annoyance, exasperation, and a bit of anger he wasn't expecting. but the one that makes him sit up a bit straighter from where he was lounging on your bed was uncertainty. you're nervous. your hands fidget with the hem of your skirt even as you huff in frustration.

“so just… stop, okay? i'm going to see him whether you like it or not. i just want to have a good time tonight.”

satoru stares.

the familiar feeling of something rotten stirs in his chest again. it laughs at him as you flit around your room, leering and pointing at his demise. this time when you ask him for his opinion, he tells you what you want to hear. your thankful smile at his cooperation does nothing to tame the growing pit of disdain.

jealousy festers within him once again. who cares if he got confessions daily? who cares if his locker was constantly stuffed to the brim with love letters and candies? who the fuck cared if his phone (silenced, always silenced with you) pinged with countless others clamoring for his attention?

none of it mattered as much as you did to him. none of it did. so why couldn't you see that despite the fame and the notoriety, all he'd ever wanted was you?

he watches as you toe on your shoes, the unspoken offer of using his shoulder to help you balance on each leg going unsaid as you gratefully lean on him. the warmth of your hand is near intoxicating. but he can't help but think about—

if she bent any lower, his inner voice supplies helpfully, anyone could see underneath her skirt.

he exhales heavily as it laughs at him again, offering an easygoing smile when you raise a brow at him. “i'm sorry, angel,” he offers sweetly, taking your hands in his and drawing you closer. you step in between his legs and narrow your eyes. “i really am, okay? you can't blame me for being protective. i promised your mom, remember?”

“yeah, when we were like five.” you roll your eyes, but you're not as mad at him anymore and his heart does a funny little dance at the sight of a smile peeking through. “idiot. why do you even remember that? we're not kids anymore. i can take care of myself.”

“i literally just told you about how you threw up on my shoes over a stupid guy.”

it earns him a smack to his head, but he chooses to ignore the faint pain in favor of basking in the light of your laugh. “as long as you don't forget about me if you get a boyfriend,” he snarks lightly, pulling out the pout he knows will get a reaction from you. “you promised we'd never be apart. linked pinkies ‘n all. clearly someone doesn't respect the sanctity of pinkie promises.”

he expects another cuff to his head. maybe a smartass response, maybe a shut up, toru. he's used to orbiting around you much to your other friends' shared exasperation and incurable betting habits. (he's sure shoko has made at least a small fortune on him.)

you link your pinkies instead, leaning down to press your lips to your thumb. he goes still for a bit, having to be nudged to do the same. slowly, your thumbs press against each other in a quiet promise.

“don't be stupid.” you ruffle his hair with your other hand, stepping away to look for your bag. he misses your warmth immediately. “you're my best friend. we’ll be together forever.”

just not in the way he wants.

#file.fics #this might get a pt 2 idk #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk fic #jjk #jjk gojo #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo x reader #gojo fic

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kumasakka · 2 days ago

Text

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ❝ 𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋’𝐒 ! ❞

　living a life of luxury, walking the path of a model. what’s wrong with a few posts on your instagram or blue lock boys stalking that one model on their social’s !

ft. various characters , all girl friendly of course <3 , crack , slightly ooc , have fun reading lol !

❤️ 997.3k. 💬 41.5k. ⌲ 152.7k.

mrs.worldwide I had so much fun with my date and don’t worry, I wasn’t drinking — just dying because I was laughing so hard ☺️

ryuassei.only imagine making THE queen laugh haha (plsnoticemeiloveyousomuch) XOXO ur biggest fan ❤️❤️

　⤷ itoshisae.official so that’s what you’re doing in your free time?

　　⤷ ryuassei.only WAIT BBG IM NOT CHEATING ON YOU I LOBE YOU WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE

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bunnythebunny it was my pleasure making you giggle and have fun 🫶

　⤷ itoshisae.official get the fuck out of here.

　　⤷ cawcawssassin LMFAO TWO ADULTS BEEFING?

　　⤷ rizzninja0010 dude I thought u said u were not interested in [lastname] [name]??? fake nonchalant ahh

　　⤷ cawcawssassin syfm manwhore 🥀🥀

　　⤷ ultrasadist_hio get his ass back into ur room or I’ll push him outta my bed

　　⤷ cawcawssassin what u waiting for? hurry up and kick his ass off ur bed

michahhel.kaiser why is that goofy ahh named bunny guy lying? lwk embarrassing cause i was there 🥱

　⤷ nessfetchthis you’re so right! he’s super embarrassing!

　　⤷ hide.its.slursagi is this contagious?

　　⤷ nessfetchthis what?

　　⤷ hide.its.slursagi the gayness

　　⤷ ultrasadist_hio BYE NOT ISAGI GETTING FLOODED WITH VIDS OF HIM SCORING AND THEN HUGGING THE OTHERS?

　⤷ hide.its.slursagi no wonder why ur parents didn’t want you, lying fuck

lovelyanri it was my pleasure to meet you! I still feel a little dizzy after getting blinded by your beauty, miss [lastname]!

　⤷ mrs.worldwide you’re such a sweetheart ❤️ please feel free to use my first name!

　　⤷ ryuassei.only NO FUCKING WAY? THIS WAS IN JAPAN??? WAIT COME BACK HONEY PIE AND GIVE PAPA A BIG FAT SMOOCH?

　　⤷ cawcawssassin bffr no one wants to touch ur freaky and nasty ahh

　　⤷ hide.its.slursagi doesn’t this count as harassment? let’s report that guy…

　　⤷ ryuassei.only why tf are lowlifes suddenly talking to me? don’t y’all have better things to do?? like begging ppl for money 😂😂

　　⤷ BUZZchirahehe2 count your days.

　　⤷ rizzninja0010 since when is bachira able to write properly?

　⤷ official.worldnews so it is true that you and mrs. [name] were sighted last night!

　　⤷ rinnie_poo can’t someone already get this stalker banned?

　　⤷ hide.its.slursagi already did o7

　　⤷ cawcawssassin no need to tell me twice

　　⤷ rizzninja0010 the first account already get banned tho 🥀💔🪫

view all 41.5k comments.

❤️ 1.2mio. 💬 68.8k. ⌲ 251.6k.

mrs.worldwide should I buy the painting?

ryuassei.only mrs. worldwide? more like mrs. worldwife 😂😂 come home to daddy, the kids miss you 💞💞

　⤷ rinnie_poo this is considered as harassment by the way. get him banned.

　　⤷ ryuassei.only that’s why u r single n brotherless ✌️😂

　　⤷ rinnie_poo pride didn’t die out yet, i’m still better and taller than you

　　⤷ ryuassei.only horizontally? yes def 💔🥀

　⤷ BUZZchirahehe2 hopp ogg thr plattform

　　⤷ ryuassei.only blud didn’t even got “the” right and thinks he owns the world 🥀

　　⤷ hide.its.slursagi good idea bachira 🫶 jump and livestream it shitdou

　　⤷ ryuassei.only oh gosh i’m so scared!! the gays are here 😣😣

userrando2048 aside from out goddess, can we talk about the dude called ryuassei and how he makes the whole world his sworn enemy???

　⤷ rinnie_poo report him.

　　⤷ userrando2947 YES WHATEVER U SAY ZADDY 😝😝😝

　　⤷ userrando4681 ALREADY DID PAPI

　　⤷ cawcawssasin reminder that he’s a minor u gooners 🙏🙏

　⤷ hide.its.slursagi always yapping and not doing shit, useless fucks

　　⤷ userrando2048 what’s his prob? (OMFG FAMOUS PPL ANSWERING MEEEE???? PLZ NOTICE ME UGHWUDUD)

chokichoki1234 :x

　⤷ ryuassei.only oh god go get a fucking shower, you stink so hard 😭

　　⤷ theonlymikageheir get a job 🙏 oh wait nvm no one want ur ass /literally

　　⤷ ryuassei.only “wahh wahh daddy me want more money 🧌”

　⤷ theonlymikageheir nice to see you here :)

　　⤷ hide.its.slursagi great. the gays again.

theonlymikageheir should I buy it for you?

　⤷ userrando9238 dafak our queen is already independent enough 💀💀

　　⤷ theonlymikageheir I can buy your whole house so respectfully shut up 😸

　　⤷ userrando9238 😶😶😶

　　⤷ cawcawssassin LMFAO GOT THEIR ASS CLOCKED AND SILENCED

　⤷ hide.its.slursagi the gays talking again

u20oliverawr may I ask you out? ❤️💐

　⤷ hide.its.slursagi gtfo

　⤷ rinnie_poo stfu

　⤷ ultrasadist_hio oh god him again

　⤷ ryuassei.only bruh y’all said I’m worse than him btw get him banned AGAIN

　　⤷ rinnie_poo you ARE worse.

　　⤷ ryuassei_poo cry about it 🥶🥶

　⤷ rizzninja0010 🔑 🙏🙏

　⤷ cawcawssassin mf is 19, acts like 6, looks like a 50 y/o cheating father w/ gorgeous wife and literally thinks he can bag another baddie

　　⤷ rizzninja0010 you ATE 😝😝

　　⤷ userrando7728 WHAT COME AFTER 7

　⤷ theredpanther u(nder)-20 but then there’s oliver fucking aiku

view all 68.8k comments.

❤️ 1.1mio. 💬 70.1k. ⌲ 223.9k.

mrs.worldwide does someone have an recommendation? 😙😙

ryuassei.only of course, the book’s called shidou ryusei, 18 exclusive pages + few pictures, available in japan tokyo

　⤷ mrs.worldwide might take you up for the offer! 🤭

　　⤷ ryuassei.only NO FUCKING WAY.

　　⤷ ryuassei.only NO FCKINF WAY SHE ANWERED OMFGSHHSJDJJER OMG SHEBANSWREED

　　⤷ hide.its.slursagi bro wtf fanboy is SHOWING

　　⤷ rinnie_poo no fucking way.

　　⤷ theonlymikageheir is this real?

ultrasadist_hio everyone BUT shidou

　⤷ ryuassei.only WHY AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO ISN’T ALLOWED TO BE HAPPY

　　⤷ BUZZchirahehe2 yoh dontt deserve to bee happy duhh??

　　⤷ hide.its.slursagi I second this

　　⤷ cawcawssassin me three

　　⤷ sharkdududu me four four

　　⤷ rizzninja0010 me five tf

　　⤷ theonlymikageheir six

　　⤷ nikoniko_nii 7

　　⤷ bunnythebunny 8

　　⤷ ryuassei.only MF I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU BACK OFF

　　⤷ ichigostwin 9

　　⤷ ryuassei.only only because I beat ur mf ass ugh haters 🙄🙄

　　⤷ chokichoki1234 ^

ryuassei.only y’all are JEALOUS because I got THE [lastname] [name] to notice ME

　⤷ userrando1038 no one mad or jealous, everyone just hates you

　⤷ hide.its.slursagi just realise that you’re the fucking problem 💔

nikoniko_nii I can give you manga recs

　⤷ ryuassei.only lad hopes for the queen to answer 😂😂

　　⤷ rinnie_poo you’re just as desperate.

　　⤷ ryuassei.only get out you emo bitch

　⤷ hide.its.slursagi +18 recs?

　⤷ mrs.worldwide dm’s are open 🫶

　　⤷ BUZZchirahehe2 BYEEEE SHITDOU GETTINF HUEMBLES

　　⤷ nessfetchthis look twice at what you wrote

michahhel.kaiser you look beautiful today

　⤷ michahhel.kaiser fuck no wait you’ll always be beautiful

　　⤷ michahhel.kaiser YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL EVERY DAY.

　　⤷ hide.its.slursagi you’re so embarrassing, it hurts my eyes.

　　 ⤷ BUZZchirahehe2 I second thiz

　　⤷ hide.its.slursagi u almost had it right bachira…

view all 70.1k comments.

#❨🎐❩ 𝐀𝐃𝐌𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐀 :: shitpost.#blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #various x reader #socialau #smau #isagi yoichi x reader #bachira meguru x reader #shidou ryusei x reader #michael kaiser x reader #bunny iglesias x reader #itoshi rin x reader #isagi yoichi #bachira meguru #shidou ryusei #michael kaiser #bunny iglesias

178 notes · View notes

icarusignite · 6 hours ago

Text

he leaves you out like a penny in the rain

Pairing: Zayne Li x Non MC Reader

Summary: You spent years orbiting Dr. Zayne Li, but when a careless comment shatters the fragile bond you thought you’d built, you walk away. Only then does Zayne realize what he's lost.

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angst. slowburn. Zayne being emotionally constipated rip

Word Count: 4.3k

A/N: This is my first time writing for LADS, and Zayne is my bbygirl, so I wanted to give this a try, hopefully it came out alright. I love me a good non-mc angst, so that's why this is the way it is. Part 2 will include Zayne's POV, but it's up to y'all if you want a comforting/grovelling chapter or more HURT lol. Would love to hear yalls thoughts <3

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

Dr. Zayne was an enigma of the most maddening, magnetic kind, and unfortunately for you, curiosity had always been your gravest sin. Nonetheless, it was a flaw you wore with something resembling pride. After all, not everyone could claim they'd managed to peel back even the faintest layers of the glacial fortress that was Zayne Li. But you had. Over the years, through careful observation and an embarrassing amount of persistence, you had glimpsed—just barely—the man who hid behind that frigid exterior. Not all of him, of course. He had never let you in entirely. But you liked to think you'd grown on him, just a little, like stubborn lichen.

Your fascination had begun back in medical school, the place where sleep went to die and energy drinks reigned supreme. Zayne was the kind of brilliant that made you question whether he was entirely human. The kind who could skim a textbook once and retain it with eerie precision, like his mind had never known the concept of forgetting. Meanwhile, you were a walking collage of colour-coded sticky notes, caffeine-induced tremors, and desperate all-nighters. A parody of a student, barely holding yourself together with mismatched socks and sheer willpower.

It wasn't fair, the way he always looked so composed. You'd catch sight of him walking into the exam hall, spine straight, slacks pressed to perfection, sweater vest unwrinkled and somehow smug in its neutrality. Meanwhile, you, in your hoodie that hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine in days, would feel something curdle inside you. Was it irritation? Admiration? You hadn't known back then.

At first, you'd approached him under the guise of academic interest. You told yourself you were merely studying the competition. A reconnaissance mission, nothing more. You wanted to see how he prepared, how he dissected practicals and diagrams with such mechanical ease. But somewhere along the line, observation turned into participation. You started joining him. Not officially, because Zayne didn't do invitations, but he didn't tell you to leave, and that was an invitation enough.

Were you friends?

You weren't sure. Not once in all those long years of shared library tables and late-night coffee runs had he properly smiled at you, but at least he let you stay. That had to count for something.

You suspected he only tolerated you because you came bearing offerings, carefully chosen pastries from the bakery three blocks away. Lemon tarts. Matcha cake. Anything delicate and within your meagre student budget. You'd Pavloved your way into his company.

Zayne's presence had a gravity to it, even in the silence, his attention never once straying from his notes. Watching him work made you want to do better as well. He didn't need to speak for you to learn from him. He just needed to exist beside you, head bowed over anatomy flashcards, long fingers ghosting over textbook pages like he was reading by touch alone.

It was enough for you. You'd learned long ago not to ask for too much. Life had a way of punishing the greedy.

It was a stroke of serendipity that after years of drifting through separate orbits, you and Zayne found yourselves working beneath the same roof again.

You hadn't expected it. The world was large. The medical world, larger still. Yet here he was, striding through the sterile white halls of Akso Hospital like a ghost from your past, just as distant and devastating.

You didn't expect your paths to cross often. As one of the hospital's new pediatricians, your hands were full with small patients and even smaller attention spans. Your pockets jingled with sticker sheets and crinkled candy wrappers, and your days were painted in primary colours. It was fulfilling, exhausting, and utterly chaotic work.

But somehow, you kept seeing him.

At first, you chalked it up to mere chance. But then a pattern began to emerge, and Zayne became a frequent fixture of the pediatric wing. Too frequent for someone whose field wasn't pediatrics. Too present to dismiss as a ghost.

Maybe you noticed because you were looking, or maybe the universe simply had a cruel sense of humour.

However, most surprising of all was his demeanour. Gone was the man who kept his emotions triple-locked beneath ice and iron. Or rather, he was still there, but softened in the presence of his smallest patients. You watched him kneel beside a whimpering five-year-old with a broken arm and distract her with the clinical grace of a magician. You saw him take time out of his rounds to bring puzzles and books to a chronically ill boy who refused to eat. And one morning, peeking around the curtain of Room 415, you caught him braiding a little girl's hair because she was weeping about not being able to do it herself post-surgery.

Your heart stuttered.

Admiration. That's what it was. That ache in your chest every time you watched him from across the room had to be admiration and nothing more. A professional curiosity and a desire to learn. You'd flourished under his shadow in med school, so it wasn't so strange that you wanted to do so again.

You told yourself that often, rehearsing it like a prayer.

Your own patients adored you, though your methods were far more chaotic than Zayne's methodical care. You bribed your way into affection with cartoon Band-Aids and fruit-scented stickers, offering jellybeans and lollipops like sacred talismans. The younger kids squealed when they saw you coming down the hall; the teenagers pretended not to smile while secretly pocketing the candy. You had always been this way—eager, perhaps too eager, feeding on approval like a deprived animal.

But there was one person whose approval you could never quite gauge.

After all these years, Zayne was still an unreadable cipher. You didn't know what he thought of you. Whether he remembered your shared study sessions or noticed your offerings. You carried forth the rituals from med school into the real world like a superstition you couldn't let die.

During late-night shifts, you'd sometimes find yourself hovering outside his office. You didn't knock to chat. You'd long lost the reckless bravado of your student days. No, you simply rapped twice on the door, cracked it open just enough to slip inside when he told you to enter, and placed a steaming cup of tea on his desk. Sometimes it came accompanied by a carefully wrapped dessert.

He never looked up right away, and his gratitude was an awkward mumble, but he never asked you to stop, either.

And foolishly, it was enough.

You never lingered long enough to chat, retreating with a bright, rehearsed smile and your usual farewell. "Make sure to take breaks, Dr. Li!"

You never got a response, but every now and then, you'd see expression soften the tiniest amount, which was akin to receiving a full-blown grin from a man like him. It made your heart hiccup.

You couldn't say how long this odd back and forth of yours continued like, but you began to catalogue your moments with Dr. Zayne like treasure.

There was, of course, that one time it was raining at the end of your shift, the vindictive kind that came down in sheets.

You stood under the hospital's awning, trying to muster the courage to open your umbrella and brave the trudge to the train station. But then you saw him, and all hesitation vanished.

Across the small stretch of concrete outside the side exit, beneath a narrow overhang, stood Dr. Zayne. His posture was immaculate as always, one hand clutching his phone, the other tucked neatly into his coat pocket. Water dripped in thin lines down the sleeves of his blazer, and you noticed—almost indignantly—that even in the middle of a storm, his expression was as unreadable as ever. His collar was damp, and his hair, though still neatly combed, was slowly giving up the fight.

You didn't think. You just acted.

You jogged across the short distance, the icy rain lashing against your legs. You flipped open your umbrella mid-step and thrust it up over both your heads, standing a little too close beneath its narrow span.

He looked up and blinked at you in surprise.

"Dr. Li," you greeted breathlessly. "You planning on standing there until the rain evolves into hail?"

"No."

You squinted at him, then angled the umbrella slightly more in his direction. "Lucky I found you before you melted."

His eyes flicked toward you, then back out at the storm. "I'm not made of sugar," he stated simply.

"Well," you replied, grinning, "you're certainly not as sweet."

Something in his expression shifted, like he wasn't entirely immune to the jab, and he stepped further into the umbrella's shade. Closer to you.

You adjusted your grip as the two of you fell into step. His legs were longer, and his pace brisk, so you had to hold the umbrella awkwardly high, your left shoulder slowly soaking through with rain.

Zayne noticed, but didn't say anything until you were halfway to the station.

"You're holding it too far left."

You glanced up. "I'm trying to keep you dry."

"You're getting wet."

You gave a half-shrug. "So? I'm replaceable. You're Akso's golden prodigy. Can't let you get drenched and catch a cold."

"That's a ridiculous hierarchy."

"Says the guy with the patent leather shoes."

"...They're waterproof."

You snorted. "Of course they are."

The silence that followed was companionable in a strange, off-kilter sort of way. Rain hissed around you, cars splashed by in the distance, but for a brief moment, the storm felt far away.

At the station entrance, you pressed the umbrella into his hands. "You need it more than I do," you insisted. "Your hair might actually un-gel out there."

In response, Zayne's brow creased like the suggestion had short-circuited a pattern in his brain.

"I'll return it," he said finally.

"I know."

He didn't reply, disappearing back into the crowd without a word, but the next morning, when you opened your locker at work, the umbrella was waiting for you. There was a thin elastic band wrapped around the handle, anchoring a packet of candy to its handle, and you felt a tentative smile tug at your lips.

You'd mentioned it once in passing during a night shift to one of the nurses—something about craving a very specific, obscure brand of citrus-flavoured hard candy your grandmother used to send you during your med school days. You had lamented about not being able to find in stores anymore.

Yet here it was, that familiar crinkled package winking at you.

You didn't stop grinning for the rest of the week.

Then there had been the incident with the wrist brace.

It had been a long week, an endless carousel of back-to-back surgeries, sleep-deprived consults, and aching hands from scribbling charts long past the point your fingers had gone numb. Everyone was tired, and even the invulnerable Dr. Zayne looked frayed around the edges.

You noticed his injury, almost instantly, a falter in movement as he flexed his right wrist after signing off on a file. It was expertly hidden, but you had spent years watching him, cataloguing every subtle shift in his expression like rare meteor showers. So, of course, you caught that wince.

"Overworked?" you asked mildly, leaning against the nurses' station as he passed by.

"Repetitive strain," he responded without inflection.

You hummed. "Do you want—?"

"No."

Of course not.

Still, when he left, you disappeared into the on-call lounge, rummaging through the staff med-kit you were fairly sure only you ever used properly. Thankfully, you found what you were looking for before he returned to his office. A soft, fabric wrist support brace in neutral grey. Nothing flashy, just something to ease the tension. You placed it on his desk without expectation.

He didn't bring it up the next day, or the one after that. There was no thank-you or acknowledgement, and you assumed that he'd thrown it out.

Until three days later.

You returned from rounds to find your usual patient folders neatly stacked on your desk, and beside them—perched so innocently it took you a moment to realize it hadn't been there before—was a box of your favourite pens. The ones you hoarded like treasure and had recently, much to your dismay, run out of.

There was a Post-it stuck to the lid.

"I assumed you'd prefer the 0.38mm ones. You always complain about ink bleed."

You stared at the note, and then at the hallway beyond the glass window of your office door, where Zayne was coincidentally passing by.

You stepped out into the hall and caught up with him. "Dr. Li!"

He turned and looked at you with an arched brow.

You held up the box. "You're not subtle, you know."

His gaze shifted to the pens. "I wasn't trying to be."

"Returning the favour, were you?"

"I don't believe in unbalanced exchanges."

You laughed. "I gave you a wrist brace, not a kidney."

He didn't smile, but his voice softened just slightly. "It helped."

Your breath hitched, but you tried not to show it. "I see...well, thanks for the pens."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Zayne calmly continued. "You should pace your charting. Your handwriting deteriorates after the fourth file."

You gaped at him. "Are you analyzing my handwriting now?"

"It's just always been that way."

"Wait. Always?"

Zayne's gaze remained fixed somewhere beyond your head. "Finals, third year. You wrote so fast during the pharmacology mock that your 'f's started looking like sevens. I wasn't sure if you were prescribing medication or unlocking a bank vault."

"You..." You squinted. "You remember that?"

"It was difficult to read your notes when we shared a study table."

"You remember us sharing a table?"

Zayne tilted his head minutely. "It was the only one near the east windows. You always took the seat closest to the outlet and claimed the light helped you concentrate."

"I didn't think you paid attention to any of that."

"You assumed I was unaware of the person sitting across from me for three years?"

"I assumed you were... indifferent."

Zayne's lips twitched in an imperceptible frown. "You used to rewrite your notes three times. All in pencil, because you said pencil was less threatening when you had to re-memorize everything from scratch. You also always sat cross-legged in library chairs and collected pens from every club's fair booth."

You let out an incredulous laugh.

"And," he added, still with that maddening calmness of his, "you muttered anatomy terms in your sleep during overnight study sessions."

"You—you heard that?" you exclaimed, horrified.

"You once said 'ischiocavernosus' so many times, I thought you were casting a spell."

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. "I want to dissolve into the floor."

"You seemed very dedicated."

You peeked at him through your fingers. "That's a nice way of saying I was completely unhinged."

"Also accurate."

You shook your head, but under the mortification was something else. He had remembered, and not just a few throwaway details, but every odd little habit you thought no one ever noticed.

"Why didn't you say anything back then?"

Zayne shrugged, as if he had no response.

You had been making progress. You were almost certain of it. Not in any obvious, sweeping way—Zayne wasn't a man of dramatic gestures or sudden declarations—but in the quiet consistencies, and the way he'd started waiting a beat longer in the hallway when he saw you approaching.

You were still careful not to be greedy. You never dared ask for more. What you had was already more than you expected: acknowledgement. A place in the periphery of his otherwise closed-off world. You orbited him the way the Earth orbits the sun—at a safe, unchanging distance. Warm enough not to freeze, far enough not to burn.

That was until she appeared.

No, not appeared. That implied novelty. You doubted she was new in his life. No, she seemed important, someone who had long ago carved out a space that had never been yours to want.

The Hunter. Dazzling and alive in the way people like you rarely allowed themselves to be. She was a presence that demanded space and then owned it unapologetically. You understood immediately why he who lived so carefully might have made room for her.

You hadn't meant to see them together. You were only there to return his charger—the one he'd left at your station after overhearing you grumbling to the nurses about your broken one. You hadn't even realized he'd been listening.

When you knocked on his door and he called for you to come in, you had smiled hopefully.

Only to find her perched on the edge of his desk like she belonged there. She was laughing casually, legs crossed, one hand braced behind her as she leaned toward him. She was telling a story, something fast-paced and colourful, her hands moving animatedly. And he was...

Smiling.

Not the faint, fleeting lift of his mouth he sometimes gave you on your most persistent days. Not the polite nod of acknowledgment.

No, this was a whole half-smile. Unmistakably soft and real.

You'd never seen him look like that. Not in all the years of having known him. Not even when you had once tried to make him laugh with horrible anatomy puns.

You'd barely stepped into the room when Miss Hunter spotted you.

"Oh!" she cried delightedly. "Look at this, what a coincidence!"

You blinked, caught off guard.

She beamed. "You work here? I had no idea you were at Akso too!"

You nodded numbly. "Pediatrics."

"Right, of course, silly me. All our conversations, and I didn't think to ask you where you worked," she apologized.

"It's alright."

"She's my neighbour, you know," Miss Hunter added, turning back to Zayne like sharing a favourite secret. "I haven't seen her come home in days! I hope you're not overworking her, dearest Zayne."

You felt something inside you crack at her term of endearment. And then you felt guilty. You hadn't done anything wrong technically, but the feeling took root anyway.

Had you been pining after a taken man?

Oh god.

The thought alone made your skin prickle with shame.

You'd never so much as look at him again if that were the case. You'd pull away completely and pretend you hadn't spent the past however-many months—years, even—watching his every glance like a starving thing. You would bury your humiliation deep, fold it into some quiet compartment inside yourself, and walk away with your dignity intact.

But was Miss Hunter really with him?

You remembered her laughter echoing in your kitchen last weekend when you had finally managed to crawl home after a particularly long shift. She'd come over with refreshments, and after one too many drinks, she had begun to ramble. Her cheeks had been flushed with wine, feet up on your coffee table as she slurred names and nonsense.

"He's so frustrating," she'd said, in that melodramatic tone she took when tipsy. "Like, emotionally constipated. But god, when he lets his guard down, it's like... ugh. It ruins you. He lives on the floor right above ours—you've probably seen him around. Tall. Blue eyes. Smells amazing."

"I don't go around sniffing my neighbours," you'd deadpanned.

"Well, you're going to have to trust me on this one, then," she'd insisted. "He's from the Association. I've worked a few cases with him."

You dragged yourself out of your reverie.

Surely if she were dating Zayne, she would have said something. You were friends. Not best friends, maybe, but close enough. She told you when she hated her lipstick. When she found a new favourite song. When someone from the Hunters' Association made a pass at her.

She told you everything.

Whatever had begun to splinter inside of you deteriorated even further when Zayne finally reacted to her words.

"I hope you're not overworking her," she repeated, "or yourself, for that matter."

"I'm not her boss," he replied curtly. "She makes her own hours. Maintaining a work-life balance is one's own responsibility."

"I—well, yeah," you tried to laugh. "That's rich coming from you, Dr. Li. Pretty sure you haven't slept in three weeks."

You looked to him, searching for the usual twitch of amusement and the barely-there softness he sometimes allowed when you teased him. But he didn't look up, and his jaw tightened like he was holding back a scowl.

"I have paperwork," he declared flatly.

Your hand, still holding the charger, hovered in the space between you. You hesitated before setting it on the edge of his desk. "Right... of course, I just wanted to return this."

You didn't let yourself feel the sting until the door clicked shut behind you, and you were alone again in the hallway, blinking at the linoleum floor as if it might give you answers.

You thought you were making progress, but maybe all you had ever been was a convenience. A background hum in the routine of his life. And now, suddenly, you weren't even that.

Over the next few weeks, a new pattern emerged, one that kept chipping away at pieces of your fragile heart. Perhaps it was your fault, too. You kept returning to the scene of the damage, stupidly hoping this time it would be different, but it never was.

You kept stopping by Zayne's office, in the hopes of regaining his favour. You'd even started doing the routine errands that should have been passed off to interns or residents. You told yourself it was more efficient to do it all yourself, but really, you just wanted to catch a glimpse of those elusive hazel green eyes, even if they now looked at you with disdain.

And every time you passed by, Miss Hunter was there too. She seemed to be always in his office, no matter the time of day, even at odd hours of the night. Sometimes you'd catch sight of her perched on the window ledge with her legs tucked beneath her, and other times she was just by his desk, leaning into his space. And most miraculous of all, Zayne allowed it.

He only allowed it for her, though. While in med school, he might have allowed you to share a library table with him, these days, he seemed adamant to distance himself from you as much as possible.

You wondered if Miss Hunter was working on a project with him. You couldn't really tell the true nature of their relationship, but that had to be the only explanation as to why she was always around. On your rare days off, she still came over to your apartment to keep you company and gush about her charming coworker, so you were still under the delusion that she wasn't dating Zayne.

It was the sort of delusion that was going to hurt you one day. And that day was today.

Tonight, when you stopped by the man's office, you fully intended to pass by without lingering. That is, until you heard your name.

Miss Hunter’s amused voice floated clearly through the door. “…I swear, she’s the only person I've ever met who doesn’t hate double shifts,” she was saying, chuckling fondly. “That girl is sweet. Like dangerously sweet. Even to you, and I know you don’t exactly roll out the red carpet.”

Zayne’s response was as dry as ever. “I didn’t ask for her kindness. She’s not helping anyone by wasting time with personal errands. If she spent as much energy on her department as she does playing nursemaid, maybe the pediatrics wing would run on schedule.”

"Don't you think that's a little—"

You didn’t stay to hear the rest of Miss Hunter’s reply. You didn't care to see if she would try to defend you or join him in his condemnation. The damage was already done.

Humiliation was the only word for how you felt. Humiliation and utter defeat.

You had done nothing but your best.

Day in and day out, you poured everything you had into your work—your time, your focus, your very soul. You had held the hands of anxious parents, wiped away the tears of frightened children before anesthesia dragged them under, and taken on shifts no one else wanted. You stayed late, came early, and went without sleep. You had practically bled for this job.

And now here he was, the man you admired so diligently, cutting through you with a few harsh words spoken in private. Words that struck you like open-handed slaps across the face.

You felt sick. Like something had lodged in your throat and was refusing to budge.

So that was what he thought of you.

When he wasn’t pretending to be nice. When he wasn’t lending you his charger or leaving pens in your drawer, this is what he believed. That you were incompetent and unprofessional. That your kindness was a distraction.

Zayne hadn’t just criticized your habits. He had questioned your calibre and your right to be here.

Suddenly, you were ten years old again, sitting in the back of a classroom while a teacher shook her head at your test score. You were fifteen, being told by your guidance counsellor that maybe medicine wasn’t for someone “with your academic record.” You were seventeen, crying in the school library after your chemistry teacher told you some people just weren’t “wired for science.” You were eighteen, slumped at your mother’s kitchen table, listening to your parents whisper that maybe it was time to pick something “more realistic.”

You were every failure, every disappointment, every bruise to your spirit, and now Zayne had joined their chorus.

His anger might have been easier to swallow than his indifferent dismissal of your abilities.

And the worst part?

You didn’t think your patients were suffering. In fact, you knew they weren’t. You were a good doctor. You had earned every stitch of your white coat. The day you took your Hippocratic Oath, you had vowed to devote your entire life to it.

So why did you feel like a fraud now? Why did one man’s brutal judgment make you want to pack up and disappear?

You weren't sure how you made it back to your office without breaking down into tears, but when you finally closed the door, you sank into your chair with a sharp inhale and buried your face in your hands. You could not find it in yourself to cry, so all you could do was exist in that suffocating space where shame and grief and rage all sat too closely together.

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