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joelsgoldrush · 1 year ago

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“guilty pleasure” | 8.6k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: After saving Earth-10005 from impending disaster, Wade convinces Logan, the alcoholic and easily irritated mutant, to stick around for a while. He’s convinced that nothing good can come out of this experience, until he meets you: the charming bartender with a soft spot for swearing that matches his own. Suddenly, sticking around doesn’t seem so bad after all.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni - smut 18+ fluff. drinking. dirty talk. slow-burnish. grumpy!logan x sunshine!reader. reader is really kind but cracks a lot of jokes. age gap (25 vs 200 - they’re basically the same age). oral sex (f receiving). fingering. finger sucking. soft dom!logan. wade being the funniest asshole. logan calls reader "kiddo/kid”.

A/N: HI! first of all, i'd like to thank you for all the support you showed me on my recent post. let me just tell you that i’m LOVING writing for logan. but none of this would be possible without YOU, so yeah, i fucking love y’all.

** regarding this story, i was planning on making it even longer, but writing these two has been so much fun, and i didn’t want it to end just like that (i have attachment issues as you may infer from this note). therefore, i’ve made the decision to write a second part to this fic, which will contain fluff and other stuff (you already know the drill). i don’t know when i’ll be posting it, but i’m sure it won’t take me that long.

*** i’m also working on other one shots (purely fluff/domesticity because i want this man to cradle me in his arms). anyway, i don’t know if anyone’s going to read this, but still, all I have to say is THANK YOU FOR READING MY WORKS! i hope you really like this silly story i made up :)

**** english is not my first language so if you come across any mistakes don’t hesitate to tell me :)

special recognition to @zloshy who allowed me to rant about my own fic 😭 the sweetest human ever

The bar is far from packed, but then again, it never truly is.

Studying your regulars has become your favorite hobby. Soon you end up knowing their names, the drinks they like, and what time they come through the door. It’s what happens when standing on your own two feet and refilling glasses lose all their charm. A part of you thinks you also do it to make them feel safe. No matter how much you try to deny it, you truly care about their well-being.

Is this your dream job? Nope. Definitely not. You’re pretty sure that holding some stranger’s hair while they empty their insides wasn’t on your bingo card for this year. But sadly money doesn’t grow on trees, and university isn’t going to pay itself. Plus, this was the only job in which your resume was not immediately rejected. It should also be stressed that the drunks happen to love you.

Perhaps this isn’t the life you had always imagined for yourself, but you were getting closer to it. You’d often talk to Adam, a retired psychologist in his seventies. He was without a doubt one of the most loyal clients you’d ever encountered. In the past, he’d even given you free advice on some of your failed hookups. You once told him that in less than two years, you’d be just like him when you got your degree in Psychology. To your surprise, he replied: “You’ll be much better than me, doll. I’m a mess, can’t you see it? You don’t wanna be like me,” his voice was hardly above a whisper as he continued. “I should be at my daughter’s birthday right now, but I didn’t get an invitation this year. Believe me, you don’t want to end up like this old man.”

Like Adam, most of the men who frequented the bar day-to-day saw it as an opportunity to hide within the shadows. In comparison to the other pubs in the area, the one you work at doesn’t receive that much attention from the general public. A dimly lit place where only music from the 80s is allowed. You’re certain that if a health inspector ever came down here, you’d be in serious problems. But hey, you know what they say: do not worry about tomorrow; instead, live in the now.

The atmosphere of the bar shifts dramatically as the main door slams shut with a resounding thud, pulling you abruptly out of your daydreaming. You turn to see who’s arrived, but as soon as your eyes meet his, you’re compelled to look away. Nevertheless, the brief glance you catch of the stranger’s features is enough for you to unlock your phone and send a quick text to your best friend.

You:

cutie patootie alert

there’s this really handsome guy at the bar

i don’t think i’ve ever seen him before

i think i’m in love with him

my night just got a 100% better

Allison:

age

what does he look like

is he bald?

You:

he looks like he could be in his early fifties??? it’s hard to tell UGH i wish you were here

brown hair, beard, 6’2 if i’m not wrong

i didn’t stare at him for too long

otherwise that would’ve been very weird

and no he’s not fucking bald

that happened only once and i was not aware of that gentleman’s lack of hair

Allison:

so you’re dating retired now

get it grandma!

You:

oh fuck you allison

Allison:

it’s okay girl we all have our flaws

just make sure it’s nobody’s father

wait it’s not mine right?

You:

nah your dad’s way hotter don’t you worry about it

Allison:

bitch

Even with the music blasting through the speakers that are attached to the ceiling, you can still hear the low murmur and the whispers. The mysterious stranger seems to have attracted the attention of the other patrons, some of whom have even raised their phones to take photos. Your eyebrows draw together. Why would they do something like this, approaching the man as if he were a celebrity? Since curiosity never fails to kill the cat, you decide to get involved.

“Do I have somethin’ on my face?” you hear him ask the crowd, his raspy voice making your knees wobbly. He sounds enraged. You step on your tiptoes, trying to see what all the fuss is about, albeit it’s pretty hard considering how these men are caging him with their bodies.

The glow of a phone’s flashlight catches your attention, and suddenly, a chair is dragged without much elegance. “Enough of that, y’hear me?”

Enter you now. “Okay, gentlemen, I’m sorry. I’m gonna need you to make some space for me, alright?” you mumble as you gently push them aside. “Thank you, thank you. Y’all can be real sweethearts when you put your minds to it.”

Then you spot him, and it becomes clear why everyone is making such a fuss.

Gary, your worst client ever, steps forward. His nasty breath clouds your senses as he rests one of his sweaty hands on your shoulder. “Doll, it’s the fucking Wolverine. Don’t ask him for a picture, though. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood for that.”

The last thing you needed to see today was a fight (despite your knowledge of who would be the winner). You locate yourself amidst them, shaking your head like a disappointed mother, so as to add a tiny bit of drama to the situation.

“Guys, what you’re doing here is completely inappropriate. I thought I’d taught you better. Imagine if I were to pull this crap on you. You wouldn’t have it.”

Adam presses his lips together, flushing a bit. “She does have a point.”

“Thank you, peanut. You’re still my favorite,” you flash him an honest smile. Scrutinizing the rest of the men, you continue with your speech. “You can still make up for it and fill my tip jar all the way to the top. Deal?” they all scoff, barking their disagreement. “Oh, you don’t like the sound of that? Then leave him alone, okay? Class dismissed! Back to your places,” you clap your hands repeatedly, signaling them to go away. “Chop chop. All this alcohol won’t be drinking itself.”

Just like that, everything goes back to normal in the blink of an eye. Wolverine sits back down in his chair, leaning closer to the table and resting both elbows on it. He examines you, lifting his chin while his brown eyes take in every inch of you.

“Thank you,” he utters, his eyes still trained on your features.

“No need to. It’s what I’m here for,” you point to your work clothes, which consist of an antiqued apron and a silly sticker that has your name written on it. “Can I get you anything to drink? It’s also Burger Night. You can get one for half the usual price.”

(No. It’s not fucking Burger Night. You just happen to find yourself deeply attracted to him.)

He doesn’t seem too eager to hear you talk. “Not hungry at the moment. But I could use some whiskey.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, kid. Very sure.” Well, now he does look annoyed.

“Great. I’ll be back in a minute,” you move as if you were in a race, returning to him after a hot minute. Setting his glass down on the table, you fill it with some old whiskey you don’t even know the name of. Still, he omits that detail, gulping down two-fingers of whiskey as if it were water. “I see you’re thirsty.”

“Could you leave the bottle here?” those brown puppy eyes are begging you to do as he says, and although you’d be happy to oblige, rules are rules.

“Actually, I can’t. The bottle stays on the counter. But you can always join me at the front,” your proposal doesn’t appear to have the desired effect on him. “I won’t talk to you if that’s what you want.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he rubs his neck, drawing a long breath as he stands up.

You can feel many pairs of eyes searing into your soul. The others ask you for more drinks and you pour them, pricking up your ears when you hear them talking about him.

“What a weirdo. Didn’t you see it on TV? He’s not even from this universe,” Gary explains, looking for accomplices to hate on Wolverine. “Let me tell y’all something: he shouldn’t even be here. He’s fucking dead on this earth.”

Yeah… that you knew.

It had been all over the news for weeks. Some would even swear that he was back from the dead, but that was until the representatives from the TVA spoke their truth. If someone would’ve told you a month ago that multiple universes were a thing, you would’ve laughed in their face.

As if that weren’t already difficult to process, your mind does the job of reminding you that there’s a man with metal claws sitting a few meters away from you. Despite that, you can’t seem to be scared of him. There’s something magnetic about his personality and that don’t-come-near-me-or-there-will-be-consequences expression that he has. Why had you promised not to speak to him? Dammit.

“I can hear your thoughts,” a muscle in his jaw twitches after knocking back another glass of whiskey. He squeezes his eyes shut before tapping the table with two fingers, silently asking for a refill.

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk,” you raise one of your eyebrows, and you behold how the corners of his mouth turn up for an instant. “I can assure you your liver hates you.”

“Alcohol won’t kill me, so don’t be afraid. Keep ‘em coming.”

For nearly twenty minutes, he does nothing but drink. He attempts to light a cigar at some point, and you stop him. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“No special treatment?” he inquires, placing the cigar between his parted lips and tilting his head back. He’s so… dreamy. He has to know it.

“I saved your ass today. The least you can do is not cause me any trouble.”

His eyes widen at your words, blinking owlishly. “You saved my what?”

“Your goddamn ass. You were about to start a fight.”

“Blame the idiots you have for clients,” he says, jerking his thumb toward your direction. “I was just mindin’ my own business. They came for me, not the other way around.”

“Look, Wolvie. I–”

“Wolvie?” giving a bitter laugh, he rams a hand through his hair. “That’s the worst nickname I’ve heard in a long time,” he looks at you through his lashes, getting rid of his leather jacket. “It’s Logan.”

“Wow. Your name is very boybandish.”

You succeed in making him laugh once again. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to observe his face without feeling like you were just about to get caught. He has deep creases and worry lines etched between his eyebrows, a brown beard that perfectly frames his jaw, and a few white hairs scattered in his sideburns. Pearly teeth that go hand in hand with one of the most impeccable smiles you’ve ever seen, and a pair of brown eyes that make you feel weak in the knees. You know for a fact that he’s a lot older than you; his exact age remains a mystery, but his appearance is enough for you to start fantasizing.

Shit, you want him. You should feel sickened by the mere thought of being with him. He was born God knows when, has lived hundreds of years. Still, the idea of tracing his cheekbones with your fingers while lying on his chest doesn’t leave you. This is fucked up. You are fucked up. A fucked up Psychology student. The joke is pretty much self-explanatory.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, you preening slut. Can’t even bother to answer my calls now?”

The tension between you shatters like a glass dropped onto the floor. He doesn’t dare to look in the direction of the owner of that voice, not even as the seat next to him gets taken. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Wade, what the hell are you doin’ here?”

“It hasn’t been exactly easy, raising our kid on my own. I don’t even have money to hire a babysitter, Lo. I spent nine months carrying your child, and for what? You end up going after a bartender,” the masked man turns to you, giving a sly wink. “No offense, baby. You must be a real sweetheart. In fact, do you want my number? The name’s Wade, but you can call me whatever you like.”

“You dumb fuck. Are you flirtin’ with her?”

“No shit, smartass. You’re the future of this country.”

A soft giggle escapes you despite your attempt to hold it back. You take a step back, admiring the two men. “Well, aren’t you two a beautiful couple?”

“You should see our little munchkin. He’s got my eyes and Logan’s hair. His first word was gubernatorial.”

“Would you like to have a drink while you’re here?”

“A beer would be great. Thank you, sugarbear. You’re the cutest,” Wade sinks back into his chair, resting his chin on his palm. He jerks his head in Logan’s direction, bumping his shoulder. “She’s the cutest. Are you two together?”

Logan rubs his forehead, speaking through gritted teeth. “How did you find me?”

“It's the power of love, baby. I had It’s All Coming Back To Me Now on repeat for hours. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Handing Wade a cold beer, your eyes scan Logan’s face. “I didn’t know patience was your strongest suit.”

“Me neither.”

“Enough of that! I can’t stand not being included in a conversation,” Wade throws his hands in the air, and you look at him. “There you are. So, what about you? Are you even allowed to be here? Did bars change their policies?”

You can’t help but snort. “I’m 25.”

Wade looms closer, lowering his voice. “Now that I think about it, you could totally be Logan’s caretaker. He’s been having some issues recently, given his age. Do you… know anything about adult diapers?”

But then Logan’s face contorts, turning crimson. He rises from his seat, grabbing Wade’s arm. “That’s it. We’re leavin’,” his eyes lock on you for a moment. “How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”

The things you’re willing to do for a man, right? You should be ashamed of yourself.

(But you aren’t.)

His mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Kiddo, are you–”

“Completely sure,” you finish his sentence for him, bowing your head and clasping your arms behind your body. A tight-lipped smile takes over you. “Just don’t tell my boss.”

Wade shifts his gaze back and forth between Logan and you. “I usually don’t mind third-wheeling, but I sort of feel left out.”

“I’m gonna sew your mouth shut, Wade.”

“Oh, come on! I was just making small talk,” the masked man tries to excuse himself while Logan pushes him towards the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sunshine. I’m free on Thursdays. Hit me up if his whiskey dick fails to impress you! Mine’s way more agile and young!”

As you watch them leave the bar, you remain frozen in your place amidst the clamor of ongoing chatter and clinking glasses.

What the fuck had just happened?

“Patrick’s normally the first one to get wasted during weekends,” you explain to the blonde woman sitting in front of you, and she writes that information down in her notebook. “He can usually handle himself, but at some point, he’ll try to call his ex-wife, and that’s when you know you need to stop serving him.”

She clicks her tongue, the color draining out of her face. “This is… definitely a lot to remember. I think I already forgot half of what you said.”

You shake your head, shoving your hands in your pockets. “You’ll get used to it, believe me. I’ll be with you at all times, so if you have any doubts, just ask me.”

After a whole year of working solo at the bar, you finally get to have a coworker: Gwen, a mother of two teenagers in her forties. You had met her at the grocery store, and in the process of helping her find a specific brand of cookies, you found out that she had recently lost her job. One thing led to another, and now she’s your trainee.

Your savior complex strikes again!

It has been four days since your first encounter with Logan. The thought that he could show up at any moment makes your heart race and your hands sweat. Allison had received countless voice messages where you narrated the entire experience in full detail.

Touching your arm softly, Gwen’s face lights up. “Another man came in. Is he a regular? I don’t think you told me about him.”

Fuck, it’s him. Manifesting does work wonders. He locks eyes with you and raises a hand in greeting.

“Leave this one to me,” you tell her as your feet take you to where Logan’s sitting, contemplating the way in which his leather jacket hugs his wide frame. “Long time no see.”

“Hey, kid,” he grins. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Nobody has puked yet, so that’s a good thing,” you crinkle your nose, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Whiskey?”

“You know me so well,” a smirk takes place in his lips, and he smiles cockily. “Though this time, I won’t be leavin’ without payin’.”

“We’ll see about that,” you go back to your usual spot behind the counter, looking for a glass. Your cheeks kind of hurt from smiling so hard. Next to you, Gwen studies your reaction to seeing Logan. “Is that your boyfriend?”

You almost drop the whiskey bottle. “God, no. He’s not my boyfriend. Barely know the guy.”

“It’s funny,” she says, raising her eyebrows with a knowing look, as if she knows something you don’t. “He hasn’t stopped looking at you since he arrived.”

“It’s probably because of this,” you reply, lifting the bottle in her direction before pouring a small amount into a glass. Just as you’re about to walk over to him, a girl slides into the sit beside him, her long blonde hair swept up in a ponytail. She’s wearing a stunning red dress and black heels. You wonder if she’s a model, because she certainly looks like one.

Her hand creeps up his arm, fingernails scraping against the worn leather. Although Logan’s expression is hard to read, he doesn’t even flinch.

“You know what? Here’s his drink– You take care of it. I’ll stay here,” you don’t give Gwen a chance to talk back, instead staying behind the bar, engaging in small talk with other clients.

“Doll, are you okay?” Adam asks you after noticing you struggling to open a beer bottle. He takes it from your hands and opens it with ease. “There you go.”

“Thank you, Adam. I’m fine, never been better. Why you ask?

“You sure?”

“Affirmative.”

“You mixed up our drinks,” he explains in his most psychologist-like voice. “This never happens to you. Michael has my wine, and I’ve got his martini.”

“Fuck! I’m so sorry. I just— I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you chew on your bottom lip, rubbing your temples. “I feel stupid.”

“Oh, please. Don’t say that. You’re far from being stupid,” he sits up straight, reaching for your fingers and giving them an apologetic squeeze. “If you ask me, I think you’ve got your mind on someone else,” he must notice how you visibly get tense because he adds: “Remember: I know when you’re lying. You didn’t charge him the other day, which means that you must really like him,” taking a tentative sip of the martini he didn’t even ordered, Adam shrugs. “I’m a great observer. That’s all.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the blonde girl from before returning to where her friends are chatting. Logan is left alone, and you watch him grab his glass and head towards the counter.

“As I said, your mind’s somewhere else,” Adam sighs, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips. “Go get your man. I’ll survive.”

“Not my man. But thanks, older-and-wiser-version-of-cupid.”

Pretending not to have seen Logan, you continue with your work. He remains silent for some minutes before finally saying: “Hi.”

Hi? It sounds so out of character for him.

“Hey, claws,” you force a smile, still avoiding to meet his gaze. “Do you need anything?”

Logan points to his empty glass, like a toddler asking for more cereal. “I also wanted to talk to you.”

“I thought you were busy over there,” you say, surprisingly managing to sound nonchalant, despite the jealousy bubbling underneath your friendly tone. “Did you get her number?”

“What? No.”

“Why not? She’s cute.”

Yeah, maybe you don’t sound as collected as you think.

Whether Logan notices it or not, he chooses not to mention it. He folds his arms over his chest, fixing his brown eyes on you. “I’m not interested.”

“And what is it that interests you, champ?” your question elicits a low chuckle from him. Just as he opens his mouth to seemingly reply, Gwen appears out of nowhere to ask you about the price of a certain drink. Your gaze shifts between her and Logan, who remains focused on you while sipping his drink.

After that, Gwen leaves. The man in front of you goes poker-faced, pursing his lips, and his abrupt change in demeanor alarms you. “Wade wants to have dinner tomorrow at his apartment– well, our apartment. I live with him now. It’s complicated,” he adds with a dismissive wave of his hand, and you laugh. “Anyway, he asked me to tell you that you’re invited. I know we don’t know each other that much, but… he said you seem like someone worth havin’ around,” he mumbles awkwardly, eyes downcast. “I think the same as well.”

You could die at peace.

“You’re a lucky fucker because I don’t work on Sundays,” you quip, smiling. “I’d be more than happy to attend your feast.”

“Great. I thought you would turn down the invitation.”

“Now why would you think that?”

“‘Cause you barely know me– us,” he corrects himself rapidly. “Plus, Wade’s annoying as hell when he puts his mind to it. You’ll see.”

“Marital problems?” he actually in response. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Oh, I’ll bring the dessert.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I do want to,” you tilt your head in an effort to hide your longing for him.

“Just want to get under my skin, huh? I can see why Wade likes you,” Logan beams, reaching out to tuck a $100 bill into the pocket of your apron. “The tip’s included.”

“I don’t know how things work in your universe, but you’re giving me way more money than you’re supposed to. I can't accept this.”

“Oh, but you will,” his gravelly voice fucks your system up, and you’re glad he can’t see how you squeeze your legs together behind the bar.

He writes down Wade’s address on a random napkin, holding his breath as he stands up. “I should get goin’. See you tomorrow then.”

Before he walks out the door, you stop him. “Logan? You didn’t answer my other question.”

His back shakes momentarily with laughter. Turning around to face you, his stare leaves you even more confused. “Good night, doll.”

This is becoming a habit: every time he goes away, you feel as though you’ve just run a marathon with no water available. Your mouth is completely dry, your fingers are numb and there’s a knot in your stomach that’s becoming all too familiar.

“Would you mind telling me where you got him?” Gwen’s voice makes you almost jump out of your skin.

“He’s not from around here. I think he’s Canadian.”

You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve got this.

Knocking softly on Wade’s door, you step back, the container holding the tiramisu cold to your touch. It’s your first time trying out this recipe, so you’re expecting it to at least not taste like shit.

Wade answers the apartment door, acting surprised when you remain silent. “Well, look what the wind blew in: if it isn’t my husband’s lover. How dare you? We’re still going to couples therapy.”

You show him the container, and he squints at it. “Tiramisu. You want it or not?”

“I hate twenty-somethings,” he says with a defeated sigh, stepping aside to let you into the apartment.

Leaving your purse on the nearest surface, you scan the living room, wondering where Logan might be. There’s a small mirror beneath the couch, and you check yourself for the hundredth time tonight. “Don’t get too excited. He’s still showering,” Wade’s voice rings in your ears, and you turn to look at him, your eyebrows knitted. “Yeah. I noticed. You’re already drooling over that big piece of metal between his legs.”

“Keep quiet!” you cover his mouth with your palm, noticing the scarred state of his skin up close. “Wade, you fucking dog. Are you licking my hand?”

“Couldn’t help it. You taste like mascarpone cheese and espresso.”

Then Logan emerges from the bathroom, with only a white towel draped around his waist. Droplets of water fall from his wet hair, tracing the muscle of his abs, ending somewhere beneath his happy trail. Your eyes keep flickering between him and his torso until he clears his throat. “I thought you were comin’ later.”

“Me too, but I…,” you trail off, your brain struggling to catch up, “I didn’t know what else to do at my place.”

“It’s fine. Just– let me put on some clothes.”

“Please don’t,” Wade murmurs next to you, but Logan only scoffs. “I was just being honest. Communication is key.”

When Wade and you are alone again, he lets out a harsh breath. “That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. My pants are really tight right now.”

“Thin walls, buddy!” Logan shouts from his bedroom, earning a laugh from you.

Like A Prayer starts playing. Wade moves his hips to the beat, getting lost in the melody. “Is that your phone?”

“Yeah, but I always take a few seconds to dance to it. Such a banger!” he says, then picks up his phone, accepting the call. “Hey, Ness! What´s up?” Wade covers the speaker before telling you: “It’s Vanessa. My ex-girlfriend. We fuck once a week, sometimes even twice.”

From behind, Logan nudges your arm with his, looking at you. ”Hey, kid.”

“No, I’m not busy at all,” Wade exclaims, grabbing his crotch and thrusting into the air. “I’ll be there in ten, cupcake. See you,” he spreads his arms wide and whistles. “Someone’s getting laid tonight!”

“You made me come all the way here… and now you’re leaving?”

“What? My friend Wolverine wanted to invite you over. I just had to provide the apartment,” in one quick movement, he presses a kiss to your cheek, then does the same to Logan. “Shave yourself, will you?”

“Go fuck yourself, will you?”

“Love you too, honey. Hope you two lovebirds have a good night, because I know I will!”

Wade throws a wink over his shoulder before heading out, the apartment going dead silent. Logan and you stand frozen, staring at each other, although he quickly drops his gaze, unable to maintain eye contact. A giggle threatens to escape you: he wanted to see you. Could he possibly enjoy your company as much as you enjoy his?

Logan watches the spot where Wave had just been. The absence of his chaotic energy makes the room feel strangely empty now. He coughs lightly, the sound awkwardly loud in the quiet room.

“So... I, uh, bought pizza,” he says, his voice a little too casual, as if trying to cover up his nervousness. Averting his eyes, he focuses on the pizza boxes on the table.

You catch the hesitation in his tone, your curiosity piqued by his discomfort. Tilting your head, a teasing smile forms on your lips. “Pizza, huh? You sure know how to impress a girl.”

Logan chuckles, the sound strained, as he scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I figured it was a safe choice. Didn’t want to ruin it, y’know?”

You move closer to the table, the warmth from the pizza boxes radiating against your hands as you open one of them. The rich smell of melted cheese and pepperoni fills the air, a comforting scent that makes your stomach growl softly. “Thank you. I’m a big fan of pizza.”

He sits in the chair across from you, taking a bite of his slice. You watch him quietly, your own thoughts churning. The truth of his origins had been a shock at first, but now, it just made you want to know more about the man. What was his life like in the other universe? Did he miss it? Was he happier here, or was he longing to return?

“Logan…,” you begin, your tone gentle but probing, “Can I ask you something?”

He glances up at you, eyes widening. There’s something in your eyes –an understanding, maybe– that makes him feel like you could see right through him.

“Sure,” he replies, trying to sound more at ease than he really feels. “Ask away.”

You hesitate for a moment, not wanting to push too hard. “I was wondering... would it be okay if I asked you some questions? About, you know, your life. Where you're from.”

The bite of pizza suddenly feels heavy in his mouth. He hadn’t talked much about his world, not even with Wade. Partly because it was too painful, and partly because he wasn’t sure how to explain how things turned out for him. He nods slowly, setting his slice down. “Yeah, it's okay. I’ll answer what I can.”

“I just... I want to understand you better.”

“Well, first and foremost, I’m no hero. You should know that by now.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Kid, I’m the worst Logan. A complete failure. Of all the variants out there, Wade just had to pick the one despised by every living soul on his earth,” Logan looks away, his voice low and heavy. You’re wondering if doing this was a good idea. “I need a drink.”

He gets up and you follow him into the kitchen. He rummages through the fridge, in search of a cold beer. Meanwhile, you attempt to find the right words. “I don’t think–”

With a sharp flick of his wrist, three metal claws sprout from between his knuckles. A gasp catches in your throat as he uses his claws to pierce the beer can, drinking from the punctured holes. Once he’s done, he goes back to staring at you. Your gaze, on the other hand, is still glued to the now-empty beer can. “What?” he asks, exhaling slowly.

“That was completely unnecessary,” you mutter, and he lets out a bitter chuckle, tossing the can into the trash. “But, back to what you said before– I don’t think you’re the worst Logan.”

“You didn’t know me back then, darlin’. I fucked it up,” he leans against the counter, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Like the Logan from this universe, I once belonged to the X-Men too. I remember that Scott used to beg me to wear my suit. So did Jean, Storm, Beast– All of them,” his gaze grows more distant, and you can tell that memories are flooding his mind. “Wanted me to be part of the team, but I wouldn’t do it. Told them they looked fucking ridiculous.”

The pizza’s long forgotten. You take the risk and get a bit closer to him, your eyes never leaving his.

Logan’s silence stretches for a moment before he speaks again. “One day, while I was off on my own, the humans came. They went mutant hunting.”

Your heart clenches at the pain in his voice. He still remembers everything as if it had happened yesterday. “I can guess the rest. You don’t have to–”

But he cuts you off. “No, let me say it. I need to say it,” he takes a deep breath, lowering his head. “By the time I stumbled home, shit-faced from the bar, it was too late. They were dead. They called after me and I walked away.”

Reaching out, your hand gently brushes against his. He doesn’t pull away, but instead searches for your eyes. “My suit's all I've got to remind me of who they were. What I did. I found them and they were… dead. I started killing, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I turned the whole world against the X-Men.”

You tighten your grip on his hand, knowing there’s nothing you can do to change how he feels. “You’re not a bad person, Logan,” he shakes his head, mumbling something you can’t quite catch. “I mean it. What happened back then doesn’t define you. You took the blame for their deaths upon yourself. I can tell you loved them deeply, and I’ll never fully understand the pain you feel. I wish I could. I wish I could take it away, make you forget somehow, but I can’t. That’s not how life works. But you got your second chance: you saved this world. My world,” gently cupping his face in your hands, you allow your fingers to caress his cheeks. He leans into your touch, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “You’re my hero. I’m your biggest fan– after Wade, obviously, which is a lot to say.”

He grins, letting out a laugh. “Easy there, bub.”

“Should I give you some space?”

That’s the last thing he wants from you right now. You already know that as he looks you up and down, placing his hands on the small of your back, his thumbs drawing small circles on your skin. There’s no turning back– The warmth between you feels almost like a fever dream. “For a long time, all I wanted was to disappear. I couldn’t stand waking up every morning, knowing that another day awaited me.”

“And what happened?” your breath mingles with his, his closeness becoming nearly intoxicating. “What changed?”

“I met a pretty girl at a pub, that’s what happened,” he murmurs, his dilated pupils flicking up to meet your gaze. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Do all your kisses come with a warning?”

“God, do you ever shut up?”

You don’t have time to respond because he kisses you there and then. His stubble scrapes your skin as your mouths meet again and again, needy hands that hold you as if you were prone to breaking. Logan licks into your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours and swallowing every one of your whimpers.

“So this is what it takes to shut you up, huh?” he murmurs against your lips. You can feel him smiling, and it makes your heart skip a beat.

“Keep talking and you won’t get a single bite of my tiramisu,” you tease him, kissing him again, the taste of beer numbing your senses. “I really like kissing you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, but now that you’ve mentioned that tiramisu…”

“Am I that easily replaced?”

“No. You’re just a pain in the ass.”

Jokes aside, you’re as happy as a clam.

Since that night you and Logan kissed, you’ve been living your best life. Like a freaking schoolgirl with a crush. Some things never seem to change.

He hasn’t been to the bar in three days. Yes, you’re counting them. No, you haven’t lost your mind. You want to see him, but there’s something about making the first move that gives you the chills. What would his reaction be if you showed outside of apartment?

It’s been a long time since you’ve been with anybody. On top of that, all the guys you’ve dated were your age. Being with someone that older than you certainly wasn’t no your plans. You’d be lying if you said that the mere idea of being with him in that way didn’t excite you.

Oh boy, you miss him. You miss his scruffy voice, his gorgeous hair. And you two aren’t even official yet. To be honest, you don’t even know what he wants from you. Is he even the type to be in a relationship?

“Nighty night, gentlemen,” you say to Gary and his friends as you find yourself in front of them, smoothing your apron. Gwen had called in sick tonight, so it’s just you at the bar babysitting a bunch of grown-men.

“What’s up, doll? You’ve forgotten about us. We miss you coming in here to chat,” Gary’s eating his burger at the same time he speaks, something you find repulsive, but you’ve seen worse. “Y’know, I’d love to take you out someday. I have a place you’d like.”

The other men laugh and punch him in the back, just boosting his ego. Pathetic.

“I’ll let you know when I’m free,” you reply with the most polite smile you can offer, intending to go on. “What are you having tonight?”

“You always pull that shit, baby. I don’t think you’re so busy that you can’t accept a date.”

You hate the way he’s looking at you, as if you were wrong for not being interested. As if you didn’t know any better.

“You’re reading minds now? Shocking, Gary.”

“Oh, doll. That attitude of yours shows you’ve never been with a real man like me, that’s all,” he leans back in his chair, resting one of his arms on the table and the other one near his crotch, manspreading. “It’s alright. I like you bratty.”

“I’ll be back when you finally have something to order,” you attempt to turn around but he grabs your wrist, pulling you closer. Your eyes lock, and he seems to enjoy this: being in control. Like a predator hunting his prey. “Come on, Gary. I don’t want to have to kick you out.”

“It’s not that you don't like me, right? You’ve already got your mouth full.”

“Careful.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re not fucking that useless mutant. I see you like ‘em older. Pretty little things like you drive me wild.”

You laugh in his face, showing him your teeth. “It was never about your age, Gary. You’re right: I do like them older. I’m just not into bald, vertically-challenged pricks.”

His entourage of idiots goes silent after that. He looks up at you, eyes burning with hatred. His grip on your wrist tightens, probably leaving a mark. “Fucking bitch.”

“Get your hands off her.”

Logan’s voice forces the two of you to look in his direction. It seems that he’s just arrived at the pub, his jacket still on.

“You joining us? We’re just getting started here, big boy.”

“Did you not hear me?” Logan lunges forward, his nose almost touching Gary’s. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Easy there, cowboy. I’m just having a chat with your girl. She’s one of the good ones, I’ll give you that,” arching a sly brow, his forehead puckers. “You don’t like sharing? We can even take turns.”

Logan clenches his jaw, lips set in a grim line. “Say one more word, and I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I’ll give you a full sentence instead: can you even get it up?”

The tension in the air is thick, every second stretching out as Logan's anger simmers dangerously close to the surface. Gary’s smug grin only makes it worse, pushing him to the edge. Before you can react, Logan’s fist swings forward, connecting with Gary’s jaw with a sickening crack. Gary staggers back, realising your wrist. Blood seeps from his nose, his white shirt becoming stained with it. “You fucker! You broke my nose!”

“We’re just getting started here, big boy,” Logan mocks him, repeating his previous words.

“Stop!” you shout, moving quickly to grab his arm, trying to pull him back. But he’s beyond hearing, his rage blinding him to everything else. He shakes you off, and with a fierce growl, drives another punch into Gary’s stomach. The latter doubles over, gasping for air, the wind knocked out of him. He then falls to the floor, curling into a ball. People start to gather around you, and soon your beloved bar becomes a box ring.

“That’s enough, Logan! He’s barely conscious,” you murmur under your breath, stepping between them, hands up in a desperate attempt to create some space. Logan pauses, chest heaving, fists still clenched, as he finally looks at you. The wildness in his eyes starts to fade, replaced by a dawning realization of what he’s done.

“He deserved it,” he nods vigorously to himself, as if trying to explain his point. “He was hurting you.”

“If you keep that up, you’re going to kill him. My bar is not a fucking cemetery,” your voice trembles a little bit, expecting to talk some sense into him. “I won’t let you do this.”

The room is quiet now, the only sound being Logan’s heavy breathing as he stands there, still tense, still processing. You turn to Gary’s friends, cold fury in your eyes. “Get him out of here,” you watch as they haul him up, practically dragging him to the door. The other clients continue to stare at Logan, their mouths hanging open. “Everybody out, right now! Go home. We’re closing earlier tonight.”

Adam is the last person to leave, slamming the door behind him. You rush to the counter, searching for a mop to clean the fresh blood off the floor. Still agitated, the images of Logan hitting Gary flash in your mind. He approaches you from behind, his fingers circling your forearm. “Bub–”

“Don’t. Now is not the time.”

“I was protecting you.”

“I told you to stop, and you didn’t. You just shook me off,” you snap, glancing at his knuckles which are not even bruised. Slamming your eyes shut, you get to your feet and wash your hands in the sink, the remaining water becoming reddish for a moment.

Logan moves closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. He wraps his arms lazily around your middle section. ”I’m sorry.”

You turn in his arms, your back flushed against the sink and your nose in the air. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“But– Jesus, Logan. You could’ve come sooner. I thought you regretted what happened the other day,” you say and the muscles in his face twitch, his body stiffening at your words. “Thought you no longer wanted me.”

“No, bub. I– I still want you. I want all of you, trust me,” he murmurs, and you allow him to press his body against yours, the scent of the cigar he must have smoked recently enveloping your senses. “I just… don’t know how to do this. I have a habit of ruining things, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to be with you without hurting you.”

“Pushing me away also hurts,” your eyes flick up to meet his gaze again, and he whispers under his breath. “I can’t read your mind. You need to tell me what’s going on in that ancient skull of yours.”

His face falters, flashing you a mischievous look. His hand creeps under the fabric of your shirt, fingernails scrapping against your spine. “I’m sorry, princess. I truly am.”

“You can’t just say ‘sorry’ with that voice and expect me to–”

You’re cut off by his lips crashing down onto yours. You melt into the kiss, unable to deny what your body has been craving for the past days.

“I thought your kisses came with a warning,” you say, detaching your mouth from his, a smile spreading uncontrollably in your face as you see his toothy grin.

“Shut up and kiss me, will you?”

In a clash of tongues and teeth, your mouths meet once again. Tugging the hair at his nape, you feel him growl against your lips. His strong hands trace every curve of your body, kneading the flesh of your hips and undoing the knot at the back of your apron. You’re becoming one with the sink, but in a moment like this, you couldn’t care less. Logan’s hard on nudges your lower stomach, and he ruts against you like an animal.

“You said you wanted to know what’s on my mind, right?” his teeth nibble on the skin of your neck, syrupy voice going straight to your core. “Well, I’d love nothing more than to touch you right now.”

“Right here? On the counter?”

“Yeah, on the fucking counter,” he grabs you by your thighs, hosting you up and placing your body on top of the cold bar. He nudges your knees apart, his bulge meeting your clothed cunt deliciously. “Will you let me, baby? Can I make you come in here?”

“Please. I’m glad we have such a low budget. Camera installment is t–too expensive these days.”

“Do you always talk this much?” he slowly unbuttons your pants, and you help him to remove them.

“Yes. Next question,” your breath hitches in your throat as you feel the pad of his thumb circling your clit through your panties. Your eyelids drop, your head lolling back. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Logan hums, mesmerized with the way your hips roll into his hand, your whimpers sounding like music to his ears. “You have any idea how I felt when I saw him touching you? Wanted to rip his hands off you,” his eyes drift to your chest, how it rises and falls with impatience. “But it’s me who gets to have you like this. He can fantasize about you all he wants: I’m the only one who touches you, ain’t I right?” you sigh with content as his fingers graze your slit, aimlessly bucking your hips. He doesn’t go any further, and you tug at the collar of his flannel, needing more of his callousand hands on you. “Nuh-uh. You want something, you gotta use your words. Got it?”

“I w–want your fingers inside me,” you don’t even recognize your own voice at this point. The few guys you had slept with had never been very talkative during sex. But Logan isn’t like them. This is just the beginning and you’re already starting to realize that he has a dirty mouth, that expectant look on his face as he waits to see your reaction to his words. “Please, Logan. I want you so bad.”

“Oh, I know, bub. There’s something about me I don’t think you know,” he inserts one of his fingers in your cunt, your slick coating the palm of his hand. “These claws I have… they didn’t come on their own. Let’s just say my sense of smell is… pretty good,” Logan can almost see the gears turning in your head as you try to think coherently. He moves his middle finger in and out of you, stretching your walls. “And you… have been wet ever since the first time you saw me. Always nice to everybody, making sure they feel at ease,” you feel like you’re being stretched even further, another one of his fingers sinking into your warm pussy. “But you’re so needy, too. How long has it been since someone touched you like this?”

“Too long, f–fuck. Too long,” you’re squirming, a totally whiny mess. He retratcs his wet fingers and instead goes back to flicking your clit, this time with much less delicacy. His left hand squeezes your tits, and you hate the fact that you’re still wearing clothes. “Shit, Logan. I need you to fuck me. Please. Need your cock.”

His face comes to rest at your neck, and you feel lingering kisses and bites that keep you grounded to earth. “Not here. I need a bed to fuck you properly. You’re only getting my fingers now,” he positions them inches away from your entrance, testing your patience. “Tell me who owns this pussy.”

“L-logan–”

“Tell me and I’ll make you come,” his husky voice is making you dizzy, tears shimmering in your eyes. “Come on. Know you want it as much as I do.”

You succumb to the tentation, like divinity turned to sin. He kisses you roughly, and you struggle to find the correct words. “It’s you, Logan. You own my pussy. It’s f-fucking yours.”

With that, he goes back to nudging that spot that makes you see starts, that filthy squelching sound getting mixed up with your moans. The knot in your belly keeps growing tighter the more he pumps his fingers in and out of you.

“I said you were only getting my fingers for now, but fuck… I need to gest a taste of this sweet cunt.”

He’s on his knees in an instant, urging your legs apart to make room for his body. Your thighs tighten around his face as he licks a hot stripe up your folds, tracing a heated path on your cunt, not wishing to waste a single second. Pleasure builds quickly, your breath hitching as your hands find their way into his hair, pulling him closer when your body begins to tremble.

“I’m close,” you pant, breathing hard, grinding your hips against his face. “I’m so close.”

“That’s it. Come in my mouth like the good girl you are.”

Who had given him a damn script for this?

The release is explosive. Like the peak of a roller coaster: you go up up up, ascending higher. You think you almost see Jesus, but at some point, you also have to crash down with force. Your shoulders slump, your entire body cramping up; yet he doesn’t let you go that easily, his fingers still working, scissoring within you while you ride out the final waves of your high, drawing out every last moment of ecstasy.

Once you finally manage to open your eyes, there he is, staring down at you. He taps your lower lip with his fingers, and then mutters: “Open.”

And you do, because you’re just as messed up as he is. Your mouth parts, and he slides his fingers between your lips, dragging them smoothly across your tongue. His knuckles brush the back of your throat, and you gag around the intrusion, tasting yourself. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, clearly satisfied with the way you’ve cleaned them off.

“I think we should really pay a visit to your apartment,” he suggests, groaning in defeat, and you feel his bulge poking your hip. He must be painfully hard. “I meant what I said earlier. I need a bed if we’re going to fuck. My back’s hurting.”

You raise an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth curving into a smirk. “Why not go to yours?”

“Wade’s in there. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate.”

You can’t help but laugh, pausing a moment to collect your thoughts, heat rising to your cheeks. “So we’re going rodeo?”

Aiming to silence up, Logan kisses you, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Only if you can handle it.”

part 2: “GIVE ME THE FIRST TASTE”

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

12K notes · View notes

hauntedhowlett-writes · 4 months ago

Text

STITCHED TOGETHER

PAIRING: michael “robby” robinavitch x female reader

RATING: explicit

WORD COUNT: 6.1k

SUMMARY:

after accidentally cutting your hand, you seek out your neighbor for help. a favor becomes a friendship and a friendship becomes something more.

TAGS/WARNINGS:

no use of y/n, dual pov, mentions of blood/wounds, mentions of domestic/child abuse (a case at the hospital), hurt/comfort, neighbors to lovers, baked goods as a flirting mechanism, explicit sexual content (18+ mdni), vaginal fingering, edging, oral - f receiving, light choking, praise kink, dirty talk, kissing, begging, p in v, multiple positions - missionary and cowgirl, a sprinkle of domesticity

Your hand pulses with pain. The dish towel you’ve wrapped tightly around your palm is now stained with blood. You raise your fist to knock on your neighbor’s door, hoping that he’s home. You don’t know much about Robby, but you know he works long shifts at the ER, always leaving the apartment with a thermos of coffee and coming home late with shadows under his eyes.

There’s no answer to your knock, no sounds of movement from behind the door, and you mumble a curse beneath your breath. You lift the towel from your palm to check the wound, the fabric sticking slightly to your skin and making you wince. It’s still just as deep as it felt and you’re pretty sure you need stitches but—

“Everything okay?”

You look up. Robby is standing at the end of the hall, the door to the stairwell closing behind him. He must have just finished at work since he’s still dressed in a pair of wrinkled scrubs, exhaustion dragging his shoulders down. You suddenly feel very guilty for bothering him.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you reply, aiming for nonchalant. His eyes catch on your hand where you have it cradled close to your body. Something shifts in him, like a switch flips and suddenly he’s not Robby, your neighbor, but Dr. Robby.

“Did you hurt yourself?” He asks, long strides carrying him down the hall. He drops the backpack on his shoulder to the floor, all his attention zeroed in on your hand. “Let me see.”

You hold your hand out. He carefully unwraps the towel.

“It’s fine, really, I was just going to ask if you think I need stitches—“

“You do.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I guess I better—“

“I can do it.”

“No, no, that’s okay, I can just —“ Robby looks up at you, still holding your hand, and you feel your heart lurch at the sharp edge in his eye. The rest of your words fade away.

“Come on, I’ve got a suture kit under the sink,” he says, grabbing his bag and digging his keys from the front pocket. He unlocks the door to his apartment, leaving it open behind him in a clear invitation. After a second of hesitation, you follow him, shutting the door behind you.

Robby’s apartment is a mirror image of yours. Open concept, with the living room blending into a dining area that opens up to the kitchen. There’s not much in the way of decoration, but it’s clearly lived in — a stack of magazines on a low coffee table, a comfortable looking leather couch with a blanket draped over the back, and a small collection of empty coffee cups on the counter by the sink.

“Sorry for the mess,” he says, crouching down to fetch the aforementioned suture kit. “Bring your hand over the sink for me.”

You do as you’re asked, unwrapping the towel and setting it on the counter. Robby washes his hands and dries them with a paper towel before pulling on some blue gloves, his motions steadfast and efficient. He picks up a squeeze bottle with a long, curved tip and holds out a hand for yours.

He squeezes the contents of the bottle over your wound, using it to wash away some of the dried blood. When it’s clean, he sets the bottle down.

“Good news is that you didn’t manage to hit any tendons,” he says. “Bad news is that hand injuries hurt like a bitch.” He picks up a syringe, uncapping it and sticking it into a vial of clear fluid. “Some lidocaine will help while I stitch you up. When it wears off, you’ll need some Tylenol. You got any at your place?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

He sticks the needle into your palm and you resist the urge to flinch. Each time he repositions it, you hold your breath.

“You gotta breathe for me. I know it hurts, but when it kicks in you’ll feel a lot better.”

You take a deep breath, the exhale shaky. Finally, he finishes with the needle. The pain has eased considerably as the anesthetic begins to do its job.

“Have a seat at the table for me,” Robby says, tilting his head toward the dining area. You settle into one of the chairs and he drags another close to you, setting a sterile bag on the table before taking a seat.

Peeling the bag open, he methodically removes the contents. First the blue sheet that he unfolds and lays on the table, followed by the tray of utensils. He pats the sheet and you set your hand, palm up, on it.

“So, you gonna tell me how you did this?” He asks, opening a swab stained with brown liquid that he runs over the edges of your wound.

“You’re going to think I’m an idiot,” you reply, heat rising to your cheeks. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a little smile.

“I’ve seen some stupid stuff. Promise this won’t even phase me.”

You sigh. “I was cutting an avocado.”

“Did you mistake your hand for it instead?”

“Hey!”

“Sorry.” He rips open a small package, pulling out a curved needle with a length of string already attached. “Finish the story.”

“I was holding it and sliced a little too deep. Went straight through the avocado skin and right into mine.”

“I wasn’t too far off. First stitch,” he says, sticking the needle through the edge of the cut. “Good thing I got home when I did.”

“I would have just gone to the ER if you didn’t.”

“Yeah, and you would have been waiting a few hours to get seen.”

“I feel bad. You’re off the clock. I’m sure you had things you wanted to do.”

“Had a hot date with my shower and some pizza rolls. I think they’ll forgive me for being late.”

You laugh and his eyes flick up, watching you for a brief moment before returning to the task at hand. A comfortable silence settles between you and you take the opportunity to really look at Robby.

He’s older than you by a few years if the grey in his beard is anything to go by. His dark hair looks like it’s grown out a bit from a shorter style and is a little messy, like maybe he’s run his fingers through it a few times. There are faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that grow deeper when his lips curl up in a smile. He’s handsome, you’ve thought as much since introducing yourself when you moved in, but up close and hunched over your hand, helping you with a gentle touch, he’s nearly devastating.

“Done,” he announces, reaching for the surgical scissors on the tray and snipping the end of the suture. “These are meant to fall out as the wound heals, so unless you notice any signs of infection, you shouldn’t need any follow up.”

“That was fast,” you say, looking over the neat row of stitches appreciatively.

“Years of practice.” He wraps a roll of gauze around your palm. “Keep the bandage on for at least twenty-four hours. After that, you can take it off but keep the area clean. Don’t soak it in anything. Try not to move your hand too much so they don’t pop. Alternate between Tylenol and Motrin for the pain.”

“I really can’t thank you enough,” you tell him. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I try to be.”

Though he’s trying to make a joke, his tone sounds despondent. He clears his throat and busies himself with cleaning up the table, avoiding your gaze. You decide not to press him for an explanation. He hardly owes you one.

Later, back in your apartment and lying in your bed, you replay every moment of your interaction with Robby. The way he gently held your hand to check the wound, the confidence with which he moved, the sadness in his voice. You decide that you have to repay him for his help and you know just the way to do it.

Robby is half asleep on the couch when there’s a knock at the door. He checks his watch and frowns. It’s just after eight, the sky dark outside the window, and he’d taken an unexpected nap after his shift. His stomach grumbles, the aching hunger he’d felt when falling asleep returning with a vengeance.

He stands and stretches, rubbing the back of his neck as it cracks and shuffling down the hall to open the door. You’re standing across the threshold with a plate in your hands and a bright smile on your face.

“Hey! I hope I’m not bothering you,” you say, smile faltering as you take him in. “Did I just wake you up?”

“Just from a nap,” he replies, willing himself to look less grumpy. Based on the way your smile dips into a frown, he’s probably not doing a great job. “It’s fine, I promise.”

“I brought cookies. As a thank you. For fixing my hand.” You hold the plate out toward him and he takes it. The bottom is warm. “Chocolate chip.”

The scent reaches him and he nearly groans. “Thank you, but I can’t take these.”

“Are you gluten free? Shit, I should have asked before making something.”

“No, I just mean you don’t need to thank me.”

“Of course I do!”

At that moment, his stomach betrays him, audibly announcing his hunger. You raise an eyebrow at him, hands on your hips, and he knows he’s lost this argument.

“Fine. If you’ll come in and eat one, too,” he says. He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, turning to head toward his kitchen and hoping you’ll follow. When the door shuts and the soft sound of footsteps grows louder, he fights back a victorious smile.

He sets the plate on the counter and pulls off the aluminum foil on top. A small pile of golden brown chocolate chip cookies sits on the ceramic. You stand on the other side of the island, watching him. He picks one of the cookies up and takes a bite, groaning at how delicious it is.

“Christ, that’s good,” he says, punctuating the compliment with another bite. “You made these?”

“Yep. Even used the good chocolate. The real secret is a sprinkle of fancy sea salt.” You reach across the counter and pluck one of the cookies from the pile for yourself.

“How’s your hand doing?” Robby asks. You hold the hand in question out towards him. It’s been a little over a week and some of the stitches have started to dissolve, two of them still hanging on near the deeper part of your wound. “Looks good.”

“Thanks to a good doctor,” you say. He snorts, the sound self-deprecating even to his own ears. You frown, but don’t try to dig, which is nice. He’s so used to being around people who want him to be an open book when he’d rather sit quietly on a shelf, handling things on his own.

“I need to order dinner.” He turns his back to you, rifling through his junk drawer for the menu of the Chinese place down the street.

“I’ll just—“

“You wanna stay?” He asks, cutting you off. Your eyes go wide with surprise and he begins to internally berate himself when your expression shifts, going soft and warm.

“Sure. What are we ordering?”

It becomes a thing.

The first batch of cookies was a thank you. The second batch was a recipe test. Your excuse for the third batch was that you just made too many and would he want some?

He never turns you away, even if he looks dead on his feet from a long shift. He perks up when he spots the plate in your hands and invites you inside, singing your praises as he tries the recipe of the week. At the rate you’re going through sugar and butter and flour, you’ll need a membership to one of those bulk stores by the end of the month.

Robby doesn’t knock on your door, never seeks you out himself, but he does ask you to stay whenever you stop by. Over dinner, he’ll ask you about your week and listen as you talk about your job or the plans you made with your friends. He doesn’t talk about his own work much, not unless he’s got a funny story to share. You have a feeling he keeps the difficulty of his job close to his chest, shouldering the concern on his own.

That changes on a Friday night.

It’s late, nearly midnight, and you’re reading in bed, a half drunk glass of wine on your nightstand. A sound breaks through your concentration and you pause your reading, listening for it again.

It’s a knock. Soft, so soft you can barely hear it, three taps against your door, followed by silence. You scramble from your bed, nearly tripping on the duvet in the process, and rush down the hall.

When you open the door, Robby is there. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you, and you know without asking that he’s had a tough night. It’s in the set of his shoulders and the tension in his jaw, the way he’s staring at you without really seeing.

“Come inside,” you tell him. He nods and walks past you, pausing in your living room. Compared to his apartment, yours exudes personality. Mismatched furniture and bookshelves full of memories, photographs and art on the walls.

He takes it in while you head to the kitchen, pulling together a sandwich from the contents of your fridge and filling a glass with water. You bring the plate of food and the glass to the living room, placing both on the coffee table and settling yourself on the couch, legs crossed under you. When he doesn’t move, you pat the cushion next to you.

“Eat,” you command.

Robby does as you ask and starts with the water. He drains the glass in a few desperate gulps and you refill it for him while he starts on the sandwich. You turn the TV on to fill the silence, putting on a nature documentary. You watch the show, your attention half on the eating habits of pangolins and half on the man beside you, concern creeping up your spine.

He still hasn’t said anything.

When the plate and glass are both empty, you start to get up to clear them away, but a warm hand on your wrist holds you in place. Your gaze locked with Robby’s, you slowly sit back down. He releases your wrist and you bring your hand up, settling it on the back of his neck and gently tugging him towards you, urging him to lie down. His head is on your lap, pillowed on your bare thighs, and he brings his knees close to his chest to fit the rest of his body on the couch.

You run your hands through his hair, fingernails scratching lightly against his scalp. The tension eases from his body, like a balloon slowly losing air. His eyelids flutter and his lips part on a contented sigh.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask.

“Not really.”

“Because you don’t want to or because you think I wouldn’t want to hear about it?”

He sighs. “You don't want to hear this shit. Trust me.”

“We’re friends, Robby. You can talk to me.”

“Friends, huh?”

“Yeah. Friends,” you reply, despite the sudden dryness of your mouth and the racing of your pulse. He’s quiet for a long moment and you think maybe he still won’t open up but then he takes a deep breath and clears his throat.

“Lost a patient today. A teenager who got between his mom and his piece of shit dad that was wailing on her. The guy pulled a gun on his own son and ran.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He turns, lying more on his back. His eyes are wet with tears that have gathered but refuse to fall. “We did everything we could do. I know that. But I had to look that mom in the eyes that her husband bruised and tell her that her baby was gone.”

There’s nothing you could say to take the pain away, so you don’t. But, you sit through it with him.

Sometimes, that can be enough.

Robby paces the length of his apartment from the door to the kitchen. It’s been a week since that night in your apartment and he can’t get it out of his head.

First he was stuck on the way you took care of him, how you knew what he needed without having to say anything. You were the calm to the storm in his head, the one that raged despite every strong command given to his team in an effort to save the boy’s life that day. He tends to shoulder the responsibility and, subsequently, the guilt on his own but it had been surprisingly helpful to let someone else in, someone who wanted to be there for him without a shared trauma bond. He felt lighter when he returned to his apartment that night.

Over the last couple days, however, the fixation shifted to the way your hands felt on him. The memory of your fingers dragging through his hair, though soothing in the moment, has morphed into something more. It’s no longer a gentle caress in his mind, but a sharp tug while he’s got his face between your thighs, tongue diving deep and desperate.

Despite these thoughts, he’s hesitant to reach out again, especially with these new ideas for how to spend his time with you in his head. But you also hadn’t come over in a week and he worries that maybe you view him differently now that he’s let the wall down a little, he probably should have just—

“Achoo!”

Robby pauses, his attention gripped by the sudden sound that came from the direction of your apartment. He drifts closer to his living room wall.

“Achoo!”

Another sneeze, followed by a pained groan. Are you…sick? Is that why you haven’t come around yet? Before he can overthink it, he’s leaving his apartment and knocking on your door.

When you answer with a blanket held tight around you and a tissue clenched in your hand, he feels a conflicting rush of relief and concern. You sniffle loudly.

“Robby? What are you doing here?”

“I heard you sneeze.” You blink at him, wobbling a bit on the spot. He reaches out to steady you, hands on your shoulders. Gently, he urges you back inside your apartment. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

He leads you to your room, the same as his but infinitely more comfortable. While he furnished his apartment, he didn’t take care to really make it a home, not when he spends so many hours at work. He didn’t see the point. Stepping into your room, it’s the opposite, facets of your personality in every corner.

He sits you down on the edge of the bed. A pile of tissues has taken up residence on your nightstand and he gathers them up while you make a feeble attempt to stop him.

“That’s gross, don’t touch those,” you whine. “I can clean them up.”

“Lie down,” he commands.

“Bossy, bossy.”

Robby hides his smile by leaving the room to throw the tissues in the trash. While in the kitchen, he finds your cabinet of mismatched cups and fills one with water. Rummaging through the pantry, he finds an open box of crackers that he brings back to your room.

“Where’s your medicine?” He asks. You gesture towards the bathroom and he digs through the cabinets until he finds a bottle of Tylenol. He shakes out a few into his palm and brings them back to you. “Take these.”

“If I had a nickel for every time you told me to take Tylenol, I’d have two nickels.”

He laughs as he watches you swallow down the medicine and drink half of the glass of water. He hands you a sleeve of crackers.

“Eat a couple of those so that you don’t end up with an upset stomach.”

When you’ve finished, you set the remaining crackers on your nightstand and wiggle down the bed, bringing your blanket up to your chin. Robby sets a palm on your forehead and you watch him with an expression he can’t name.

“Am I gonna be alright, doc?” You ask. He smiles.

“Yeah, I think you’ll pull through.”

“Will you stay with me?”

Rather than respond, he walks around your bed to the other side and toes off his sneakers. He gets on the bed, staying on top of your blankets as he makes himself comfortable. You turn on your side to look at him.

“Thanks for coming,” you whisper.

“That’s what friends do.”

You wake to a heavy weight around your waist and warmth at your back. At first you’re confused until the memory of asking Robby to stay with you comes into focus. You remember him getting in bed with you, keeping himself on top of the covers while you snuggled underneath to fight off the constant chill your fever brought on.

You turn over slowly, careful not to disturb him. He’s still on top of the covers but he’s curled himself around you, his head nearly on your pillow in an effort to get closer. His chest rises and falls with deep, even breaths and his features are soft with sleep.

The shrill beep of an alarm breaks the silence and Robby wakes with a sharp inhale. You quickly close your eyes, pretending to be asleep as he moves around, presumably trying to get his phone out to shut off the alarm. The noise abruptly cuts off and you hear him let out a deep breath.

He shifts beside you. A palm is pressed to your forehead and his touch lingers for a moment, his fingers tracing your cheek as he pulls away. You fight to keep your breathing slow and even despite the fierce pounding of your heart against your ribs.

Robby gets up from the bed, the mattress creaking as his weight lifts from it. You hear his light footsteps around the room, followed by the quiet click of your door being shut. With him gone, you turn onto your back and stare up at the ceiling.

You know he had to leave, he probably had to get ready for work, but you wish he didn’t. A fantasy plays out in your head, one where he gets to sleep in and you wake up before him, sneaking into the kitchen to make coffee. He wakes up while you’re waiting for it to finish brewing, strong arms wrapping around your waist and his beard tickling your neck when he kisses your neck. The image fades as sleep catches up to your exhausted body, pulling you back into its embrace for the rest of the morning.

“Dr. Robby?”

Robby shakes his head free of his thoughts and looks to his left. Mel’s got a clipboard in her hands and a question in her eyes.

“Are you okay?” She asks in that blunt but empathetic way of hers.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks in return. She blinks.

“Oh, uh, it’s just…you seem distracted?”

He is distracted. There’s been a restless fire in his veins ever since he woke up beside you, holding you close. He hasn’t seen you in a couple days now, giving you the space to get over your cold, and it has him growing a bit desperate, though he would never admit as much out loud and especially not to one of the med students.

“Everything is fine, Dr. King. Whatcha got for me?”

Mel launches into a presentation on a twenty-three year old female that was triaged for abdominal pain. Robby listens attentively and joins her at the patient’s bedside as she delivers a diagnosis and describes the treatment plan. One patient turns into…somewhere around thirty, he thinks. He lost count.

Finally, he finishes his shift and heads out into the night. Back in his apartment, he showers, changes his clothes, and brushes his teeth for good measure. He’s rushing through the after work motions, an energy in him that he only feels when he’s making a split second call that could mean life or death in the ER.

Basic needs met, he gets his shoes on and leaves his apartment. Five quick steps have him knocking at your door. His pulse kicks into high gear when he hears your footsteps on the other side.

You open the door and your smile lights up your face when you see him and he knows you’re saying something but his focus is entirely zeroed in on your lips and how he desperately needs to feel them against his. He reaches out, framing your face between his palms. There’s a flash of surprise in your eyes but then he’s kissing you.

Finally.

“Hey! I was just about—“

Your words are cut off by Robby kissing you.

Robby is kissing you.

With his hands on your jaw, he urges you back inside your apartment and kicks the door shut behind him. One large palm moves cradles the back of your head, cushioning the blow when your back hits the wall and he presses his body close to yours, chest to chest and a thigh between your legs.

You’re in sensory overload, overwhelmed by the feel of his broad shoulders beneath your hands, the smell of his shampoo, and the faint taste of mint when his tongue tangles with yours. His hand settles on the side of your neck and you wonder if he can feel the way he makes your heart race beneath his palm.

When he pulls back, he traces a thumb over your lips, open admiration in his gaze. He presses down on your lower lip and you obey the silent command to open up, let him in, give him more. His breath stutters when you close your lips around his thumb and suck. He pulls it free with a lewd pop, dragging his hand down your neck, squeezing lightly at the base of your throat. Before you can react, his touch ventures lower and you gasp when he roughly palms your breast. Your hips flex against his thigh in a bid for friction.

All of a sudden, Robby steps back, taking your hand in his and leading you down the hall to your bedroom.

“Get on the bed,” he says, voice low and rough. You hurry to comply, crawling up the mattress and lying back on the pillows, anticipation and the hungry look on his face making the ache between your thighs nearly unbearable.

He joins you on the bed, on his knees between your legs, and runs his hands over your thighs and beneath the fabric of your shorts. You arch your back when his thumbs dig into the crease of your thigh, so close to where you want him, but not close enough. A whine escapes you.

“What do you want, baby?” He asks.

“Want you to fuck me,” you tell him, lifting your hips.

“Can’t do that yet.”

You frown. “Why not?”

Robby’s fingers curl into the elastic of your shorts, pulling the fabric down. You lift your hips again so that he can pull them off and toss them to the floor, leaving you in your underwear. His hand presses one of your thighs to the mattress, keeping you spread open for him as he drags his thumb over your pussy, starting at the damp spot near your entrance until he reaches your clit.

“You have to cum on my fingers,” he presses down against your clit, “and my mouth first. Think you can do that?”

When you don’t respond to his question, the deep pressure of his thumb is replaced by a light smack of his fingers. You gasp at the sharp contrast in sensation and try to close your legs instinctively, only to be blocked by his body and the firm grip of the hand still on your thigh.

“Answer me,” he demands, removing his hands from you and raising an expectant eyebrow.

“Yes,” you tell him. You’re pretty sure you would do anything this man asks as long as he touches you again. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a smirk.

“Good girl.”

Those two little words are like a bolt of lightning straight to your core and he knows it, his knowing gaze making you feel hot and flustered. He removes your underwear and with the last barrier gone, he drops to his stomach and brings his face mere inches from your soaked pussy.

His breath fans across your heated skin and that’s the only warm up you get before his mouth is on you, his tongue circling your clit and lapping at your entrance. Your hands are drawn to his hair, fingers gripping the short strands. He looks up at you as he sucks your clit between his lips and groans when you pull sharply on his hair in response.

If you thought Robby would finish this quickly to get on to the main event, you were incredibly mistaken. The man between your legs brings you to the brink of release before dragging you back from the edge more times than you can count, to the point where tears gather in the corners of your eyes and you let out a pained groan of frustration.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” He asks, lifting his head but keeping up steady circles of his thumb against your clit. Not fast enough to bring you off, just enough to keep your need simmering at the surface. You glare at him.

“Let me come already,” you say through gritted teeth. He laughs.

“You could try asking nicely. Say please.”

You stare at him, mouth opening and closing around words that won’t form. He brings his mouth back to your abused bundle of nerves, licking with broad circles that have you seeing stars. You’re so close, just a little more—

He starts to pull back. The pressure of his tongue grows lighter. You drop your head to the mattress and one of those trapped tears finally escapes, rolling down your temple. You’ve never begged a man for anything before but there’s a first time for everything.

“Please, please, please,” you gasp. “Robby, please.”

Two fingers press against your entrance and slide inside, the sudden stretch making you gasp. He curls them against your inner walls with each drag of his hand from your body. The pressure and speed of his tongue on your clit increases. Your thighs start to shake as the thread of tension in your core tightens until it finally snaps and you come with a strangled shout of his name.

Robby doesn’t stop touching you. He keeps his fingers buried in your cunt and his mouth busy by gently licking you through the waves of your orgasm. Finally, he sits up. You watch as he takes off his shirt and stands up quickly to remove his shoes and sweatpants. His cock bobs free and your mouth practically waters at the sight of it. Not excessively long but he is thick and if you thought his fingers were a stretch, his cock might just split you in half. A bead of precum has gathered at the slit and you watch him smooth his thumb through it before dragging his fist over his length with a groan.

“Condoms?” He asks.

“Top drawer.”

He grabs a foil packet and tosses it on the bed before crawling over you, settling his body over yours. He kisses you, deep and slow, grinding his hips into yours and dragging his cock through the mess he’s made of you. His lips deliver the taste of you to your tongue, earthy and erotic. You moan into the kiss when he drags against your clit.

Keeping himself balanced with one elbow on the bed beside your head, he uses his free hand to hitch your leg over his hip, opening you wider and bringing you closer. His lips find your neck, lavishing your sensitive skin with kisses and nips of his teeth. You need this man inside of you now.

“Robby, please.”

He nods against your neck, sitting up only long enough to roll the condom down his length before his weight is back on you, pressing you into the mattress. He flexes his hips against you but this time, the thick head of his cock catches against your entrance and he starts to ease inside, achingly slow. His eyes stay fixed to yours as he does.

“You feel so fucking good,” Robby says, face buried against your neck. You clench around him in response and he chokes on a groan. “Don’t do that, I’m trying not to embarrass myself here.”

You do it again for good measure.

He lifts his head, eyes narrowed at you, and pulls his hips back, his cock dragging against the same spot that made you come on his fingers. He thrusts forward with a sharp snap of his hips that punches the air from your lungs.

He sets a pace that has you seeing stars and moaning his name like a prayer. Your orgasm builds, coiling tight in your center, but you’re not ready for the release. You push against Robby’s shoulder and his expression grows concerned, a deep crease forming between his brows as he pulls back, allowing you room to sit up.

“Did I hurt you?” He asks.

“No, no,” you assure him. “I just…can I get on top?”

A boyish grin chases the worry from his face and he flops onto his back in the empty space on the mattress. You laugh as you straddle his hips though it turns into moan when you sink down onto his cock. The angle is deeper and there’s an added friction to your clit with every roll of your hips. Robby’s hands are everywhere, squeezing your ass roughly or pinching a tight nipple between his fingers.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans, head pressed back into the pillow, the long line of his neck on display. “Just like that.”

You place your hands on his chest for balance, the dusting of coarse hair tickling your palms. When you lean forward, he meets you in a kiss that’s mostly shared breath. Your pace slows and Robby takes over, his feet planted on the mattress to thrust up into you.

“Come for me,” he says against your lips. “I need it, sweetheart, come on.”

You drop your head against his neck, licking at the sweat damp skin as your orgasm returns, no longer a slow building wave but a tsunami that floods your nerves and leaves you drowning in sensation. Your walls tighten around his cock and he groans, dragging you down onto his lap and holding you there as he pulses inside of you.

Sweat cools on your skin. Your breathing slows. His hands trail up and down your back, the gentle touch and cold air of your room making your skin prickle. You lift your head and press your forehead against his.

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble.

“Just Robby is fine,” he says.

You lift your head so that he can see you roll your eyes before slowly getting up, a satisfying ache in your muscles and between your legs. You go to the bathroom and Robby comes in as you’re washing your hands, tossing the condom in the trash and washing his hands as well.

You return to bed, crawling beneath the blankets. Robby joins you, lying on his back so that you can rest your head on his chest, your eyelids already heavy with exhaustion.

“Will you stay with me?”

“You don’t even have to ask.”

Robby wakes to sunlight and the smell of coffee. He stretches before finally rolling out of bed and finding his sweatpants on the floor, pulling them on to follow the scent of dark roast straight to the kitchen.

He finds you at the counter, your hips swaying to a song that plays at a low volume from a bluetooth speaker on your dining table. A pan sizzles on the stove and you pour the contents of a bowl into it. He steps up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing a kiss to your neck. You turn in his hold and kiss him, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He could get used to mornings like this.

When you turn back around, you pick up a knife and reach for the basket of fruit on the counter, plucking something from the pile.

“I hope that’s not an avocado.”

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or commenting 💕

Masterlists

#michael robinavitch #michael robby robinavitch #michael robby robinavitch x reader #the pitt #doctor robby #doctor robby x reader #doctor robby x female reader #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fic #dr robby #dr robby fanfiction #doctor robby fanfic #dr robby x reader #dr robby x you #michael robinavitch the pitt

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kavehayati · 1 year ago

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Wow that was a very good session of haterism this is why I love this account 😻🤞✨

^^ also me cause I’d go right back to her wahoo

#I still hate her but <333 I feel a bit better #better enough to reply back to her but I’ll leave her be #oh one thing I forgot to mention is that she ALWAYS wants what’s mine #btw I don’t even have that much !!!! “I wish I could be stressed at all”#bitch I can’t stop shaking and nothing is sticking in my brain #“at least you could wake up early” BITCH. waking up early is hardly a flex when I wake up at fucking five am and study from day to night #STRAIGHT with NO BREAKS !!!!!#it’s hardly a good thing when I cannot comprehend a word #because I’m so stressed that I legitimately developed insomnia #you piece of shit I hope you get every bad thing that you’ve caused for me all the hassad the jealousy you disgusting human being and I wis #it multiplies a thousand fold for you #so that you don’t need to look down on me any longer like you look down on me AND dahlia #you’re so cruel #I wonder how any of your friends like you #and it’s pathetic that the only way anybody knows me is that I’m fatemas friend #I HATE YOU !!!! I don’t want to be tied to you for the rest of my life #why the fuck do you think I went insane after I found out the only reason Eris liked me was because I reminded her of someone else #THIS is why I feel like I’m a fucking nobody because I’m never ever myself I’m always someone else #how is that fair exactly huh #?!?!)!:$8392/@102@:&:9292/&/&29 #dora daily #such a jealous piece of trash she should’ve begged more to be my friend and I should’ve laughed at her face #these are not the only things she’s done #she was neutral and blamed me at times when a girl was bullying me and getting everyone to gang up on me #now she says it’s not my fault #after what hmmm ? after I went clinically insane ? after the panicking after loosing my family support after everyone hating me #when I say life is unfair I don’t mean generically #I mean quite literally life is more unfair to myself than most people #because I know it’s unfair but according to my analysis of others’ lives most cannot dream to compare to the shit this bitch put me through #for most of my developmental years

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osaemu · 2 years ago

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GOJO SATORU: ❛❛ YES, I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND, AND YES, SHE'S REAL! ❜❜

.ೃ࿐ streamer!au: what happens when your gamer boyfriend brings you on-screen for the first time?

contents: fem!reader. use of she/her pronouns + reader is referred to as gojo's girlfriend. toji slander bcs he deserves it.

author's note: everyone welcome streamer!gojo to the world! he'll be here for a while...

"oh, please," satoru laughs, leaning back and grinning at the screen in front of him. he tosses his hair, but it falls back into his eyes just seconds later. "no way you guys all thought i would lose that one. c'mon, have some faith in me!"

you watch satoru reply to the hundreds of comments lighting up the side of his monitor, smiling endearingly at the way he laughs at some and practically chortles at others.

it was only after the two of you started dating that satoru disclosed his streaming hobby, and to your surprise, he was pretty popular. thousands of people tuned in to watch him play some game or another every night, and well, it paid better than you'd expect.

satoru whistles, hands resting comfortably behind his head as a particular question catches his attention. "ah, do i have a girlfriend?" he muses, grinning as he shoots a quick side-glance at you. "yeah," he continues, snorting when what looks like a flurry of no fucking way's flood the chat.

he clicks his tongue disappointedly, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "what, did all eight thousand of you think i couldn't pull? thanks a lot," satoru deadpans, waving his hand and sighing dramatically. "i don't know what any of you mean. i'm a catch!"

you snicker at that, and your laughter only increases when satoru turns and gapes at you. he juts his bottom lip out, face sinking into an adorable pout at he crosses his arms. "even my own girlfriend's laughing at me," he mumbles petulantly. "hmph!"

satoru sticks his tongue out at you childishly, and you blow a kiss back. he pretends to faint before turning back to his monitor, quickly skimming the comments before he gasps. "what do you mean, she probably doesn't exist?!" he sputters, clutching his heart exaggeratedly.

the look on his face is priceless — imagine getting told by thousands of people that one, they think you can't pull, and two, that they don't even believe your significant other exists. naturally, satoru reacts as dramatically as ever. he pretends to ignore everyone in the comments before calling them out individually.

"oh, i see you, toji... fishy-guru," satoru gripes, wagging his finger at his screen. "my girlfriend exists and she's mine! don't even think about it." he pauses, squinting at the chat before correcting himself with an eyeroll. "fushiguro. whatever. either way, she's real and she's all mine."

satoru swivels his chair to face you, making an incredulous face as he gestures to the screen. "can you believe this?" he grumbles, ocean-blue eyes focused on you. "these guys don't think you're real."

you shrug, toying with the corner of his sheets as you smile back at satoru. he's so childish, but that's just one of the many things you adore about him. sure, he's an annoying brat, but at least he's a total sweetheart too.

your boyfriend extends his hand, beckoning you to come over to him. "c'mon, darling," he cooes, scrunching up his nose at you. "wanna help me prove these losers wrong?" satoru mouths please, and the puppy eyes he gives you are cute enough to convince you.

so you hop off his bed, running a hand through your hair as you stroll over to where he sits in front of his monitor. beaming like a kid on his birthday, satoru takes your hand and twines his fingers with yours.

smiling smugly, satoru pulls you on screen and into his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. you watch the chat erupt with she's real's and how did he pull a girl like her's and smile, flicking satoru's forehead affectionately.

he ignores the thousands of dumbstruck users in his comments and holds you close to his chest, adjusting his grip on your waist to make his lap as comfortable as possible for you. satoru's adoring eyes are fixed on you, only you, even as his chat explodes.

suguru-geto: haha i already knew

toji-fushiguro: how the fuck did a loser like him pull her?

yuuji-itadori: gojo has a girlfriend??? what did i miss??

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innorality · 13 days ago

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riding clarks absss ( @slvthrs did this before me :p)

"clark, c'mon, stop smiling like that!" you softly slapped his chest as his whole body jerked with the way he was containing his laughter. "s-sorry it's just... I've never been asked this before!" his hand flew to his mouth to conceal it, thick eyebrows bending in amusement.

moments prior, you had asked him if you could ride his abs, considering they were abnormally prominent and that, when flexed, his muscles were just about hard enough to grind efficiently against your clit.

you've been insatiable the past week—asking to ride his thigh, his fingers, his nose... and he always happily obliged, because watching you use him in such ways was the best thing he could ever experience in his kryptonian life, but this time, it took him by surprise.

"is it so weird to ask your lover if you can ride his abs..." you crossed your arms over your chest, plopping down against his lap. you were sitting on top of him as he lied down with his back hitting the mattress, looking up at your faux-pouty face with genuine heart eyes.

"no, baby, it isn't. y'know what? c'mon, ride 'em. ride my abs, go on." his sudden change in tone has your core heating up in interest, your arms falling limply from your chest. his hands migrated from his mouth to the back of his head, a silent promise to let you do as you please.

and so you do—swiftly, you unbuttoned his shirt, revealing bit by bit his chiseled chest and washboard abs. you almost drooled but sucked the saliva back into your mouth, before propping yourself up.

"you're not taking these off?" he questioned, referring to the panties you were wearing. you shook your head softly without looking up at him, focusing on his chest. "feels weird without 'em." you simply replied while chewing slightly on your bottom lip. he hummed, and you began to move.

you started off slow, trying to find the right movement. it took a few minutes of small gasps and soft grinding before you finally found one and sped up a bit. it was still relatively slow, but fast enough to make your noises a bit louder.

"just like that, sweetie, you're perfect... feels good?" and you nodded, squeezing your eyes shut at the unusual pleasure. "y-yeah it feels... really nice."

eventually, you ended up grabbing his shoulders for leverage, speeding up more. clark could feel your panties getting wetter and wetter against him, the fabric sticking to his skin slightly. "fuck..." he whisper-sighed, noticing the way his dick had started to twitch back to life. he felt his pants tightening, but did not say a word about it.

instead, he talked you through it.

"that's it, baby... nice and steady f'me, yeah?" his now sultry voice had you moaning, walls clenching around nothing as if your body had recognized his voice as a stimuli. your clit bumped against the ridges of his abs through your panties, making you twitch ever so slightly.

"s-shit clark... feels so much better than i– than I expected..." your words were slipping past you, mind too cloudy to come up with anything else. the rest of your speech beyond this point was mainly composed of calls of his names and a few profanities.

you threw yourself back, one of your hand following and accidentally landing right on top of clark's erection. your eyes shot open and your head whirled back, your gaze boring onto the large bulge.

you looked back at him when you felt his hands landing on your hips, following your movement and rhythm. "help?" you breathed out and he nodded, mouthing a silent please before a moan slipped past his lips as soon as you squeezed his dick.

you started rubbing it through his pants quickly, not giving him anytime to adjust to the sensation but he bit back (in his own way), tightening his grip around your hips and immensely speeding up your pace, controlling your movement and velocity.

"shit, keep going like that– please- fuck, clark!" you didn't even know what you were saying at that point—all you knew is that you were to cumming and you did not want this to stop.

clark, too, was high off the pleasure—the feeling of your soft hand rubbing his cock through his briefs, the vision and sensation of you grinding against his abs, the warmth of your cunt, the sound of you moans-

and fuck, he's already cumming.

his cock twitched when hot roped of cum coated the inside of his pants, back arching and grip impossibly tight around you. he's moaning out your name, begging for who knows what, sweating like never before.

subconsciously, he's been rubbing you harder against him and the feeling of his abs against your clit along with the vision of him orgasming like that sent you over the edge aswell. you came inside your panties—as they were already wetter than they have ever been—while chanting "oh–clark, clark, clark!" like a mantra, your cunt pulsing and tightening on itself.

your muscles locked for an instant before relaxing as you sighed, one last moan slipping past your lips before you plopped down on top of him. you were both sticky, woozy, and undeniably satisfied with how this little experiment went.

the both of you stayed quiet for a moment before you opened your mouth.

"didn't know you could whimper like that, kent." and he chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. "with how good you feel, you better get used to it, gorgeous."

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net-game-sekai · 1 year ago

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dare i say it. i went to the first 2024 miku expo show and i did not care about the LED screen.

#like okay. i do see where people are coming from of course i do it makes sense. HOWEVER #is it. that serious. that we need to be talking about walking out and doing a black ocean with the light sticks etc etc #like you guys need to come to the grey area conclusion that is this could have been handled better and we will voice our critiques #but our tickets are paid for and we will try to enjoy the show.#like my primary critique was the setlist and i STILL had fun. and the music is like the main thing!!#it was my first vocaloid concert after being a fan for a very long time and i had fun. didn't pay a ton for my tickets either so ig im lucky #but still i think it's gotten way out of hand. i think crunchyroll should know ppl weren't happy with it!#i think merch sales should have been managed better! and prices should be lower! i agree with basically all the main points #but i think the drama needs to be brought wayyyy down. like we gotta calm down.#explain REASONABLY and CLEARLY what you didn't like in the areas where that critique is helpful #meaning like official feedback sections and official help emails. not the replies of ppls tweets who are having fun and not song producers!!#i should also mention my seat was very much to the side of the arena and even then the screen didn't bug me #there were a few moments where i wished there was more of a light show happening behind the characters but it didn't detract much for me #again my primary complaint was the setlist. another post in itself that i might make tomorrow lol #vocathoughts

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solxamber · 8 months ago

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Pick Us!

In which you have to choose a club and it looks like everyone wants a piece of you.

Part 2 (Choosing a club)

You were minding your own business, dodging Grim's increasingly creative ways to get you to buy premium tuna, when Crowley swept in with his usual dramatic flair.

“Ah, my dear pupil!” he exclaimed, arms wide like a bad community theater actor. “To better immerse yourself in school life, you must join a club. It’s mandatory!”

Before you could protest or ask any clarifying questions, he disappeared in a swirl of his cape, leaving you standing there with nothing but Grim’s unsympathetic shrug.

Naturally, this information traveled faster than you could process it, because the next thing you knew, Ace was practically dragging you by the arm across campus.

The Basketball Club

“Alright, listen,” Ace began, spinning a basketball on one finger and grinning like he just invented the sport. “You’re obviously joining the basketball club. It’s the best. I’m here, Floyd’s here, and even Jamil’s here, so really, it’s a no-brainer.”

“Is that supposed to sell it?” you asked, crossing your arms.

“Uh, yeah!” he said, tossing the ball toward you. It immediately bounced off your hands and hit the floor. Ace, undeterred, caught it mid-bounce and gave you a wink. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you. I’m, like, super good at this. Just ask him!”

From across the gym, some poor guy—bless his heart—tried to nod in support, but you caught the nervous look he shot Ace instead.

“Okay, sure,” you said, “but isn’t this just an excuse for you to show off?”

“Maybe,” Ace said with zero shame, dribbling the ball dramatically before attempting a layup. The ball bounced off the rim and into Floyd’s waiting hands.

“Shrimpy!” Floyd called, tossing the ball behind his head without looking (and still somehow making the shot). “Join the club. It’ll be fuuuuun.”

You hesitated, because with Floyd, “fun” could mean literally anything. “Define fun,” you said cautiously.

“Simple! You, me, and Ace crushing people in games!” Floyd grinned, leaning closer to you. “And if anyone tries to mess with you, I’ll squish ‘em.”

Ace groaned. “Floyd, you can’t just threaten people into joining.”

“Why not?” Floyd asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Because it’s weird!”

“No, it’s effective,” Floyd countered, shooting you another toothy grin. “C’mon, Shrimpy, you’re already here. I’ll even let you call the plays. Or, you know, not. Whatever.”

“...You’re just bored, aren’t you?”

“Obviously,” Floyd admitted, leaning lazily against the wall. “But hey, if you join, I won’t let Ace hog the ball. Win-win, right?”

And then there was Jamil, who had been sitting silently on the sidelines, observing the chaos with his usual exasperated expression.

“Are they done?” he asked, finally standing and walking over to you.

“I don’t think so,” you replied, watching as Floyd tried to steal the ball from Ace mid-dribble.

Jamil sighed. “Typical.” He glanced at you, his tone cool and measured. “Ignore them. They’re just trying to drag you into their antics.”

“Antics?” Floyd repeated, offended.

“Yeah, Jamil,” Ace added, narrowing his eyes. “What’re you implying?”

“I’m implying you’re both terrible at convincing people,” Jamil said smoothly. He turned back to you. “If you’re interested in joining the club, you’ll actually get something out of it. Physical exercise, teamwork, strategy. And if you stick around, I’ll make sure you’re not stuck with them during practice.”

“Hey!” Ace protested.

Floyd just laughed. “Jamil’s still salty about the last scrimmage.”

“Hardly,” Jamil said, arching an eyebrow. “I’m just pointing out that if you want to learn how to actually play, you’d be better off with me.”

You blinked. “Are you… offering to train me?”

He shrugged, but there was a faint smirk on his face. “If it means saving you from their nonsense, yes.”

All you can do is sigh and say "I'll think about it"

Track and Field Club

You barely made it out of the basketball club’s gym alive when Deuce grabbed your wrist like his life depended on it. His expression was that unique combination of earnest and panicked—classic Deuce.

“Wait, don’t decide yet!” he said, already dragging you down the corridor. “You haven’t even seen the track and field club! You might like it better!”

“Deuce,” you began, trying to keep up without tripping. “I haven’t even—”

“Just come on!”

Before you knew it, you were standing on the edge of the outdoor track, blinking in the sunlight as Deuce shoved you forward like he was presenting a prize to a panel of judges. Jack, in the middle of sprint drills, stopped mid-stride to look over at you. His tail flicked once, and he jogged over with that intimidating mix of focus and curiosity he always had.

“You’re trying to recruit them?” Jack asked, crossing his arms.

Deuce nodded, puffing out his chest like he was making the ultimate sales pitch. “Yeah! Track and field’s way better than basketball. No offense to those guys.”

“I take offense,” you muttered, but neither of them heard.

“Plus,” Deuce continued, “we’ve got variety. Running, jumping, throwing—you can do anything. It’s not just bouncing a ball around, you know?”

Jack nodded in agreement. “It’s good for discipline. Builds strength, endurance, and focus. If you want to improve yourself, this is the place to do it.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, glancing at the track. “And what if I… don’t exactly have focus?”

“That’s fine!” Deuce said, grinning brightly. “We’ll help you! Right, Jack?”

Jack nodded. “Of course. We’ll start with basic drills.” He gave you a once-over, sizing you up. “How’s your stamina?”

“Define… stamina,” you said cautiously, because you had a feeling your answer wasn’t going to impress him.

Jack’s ears twitched, and he leaned slightly closer. “How far can you run without stopping?”

“Uh,” you began, nervously shifting your weight. “To the fridge?”

Jack blinked. “...You’re joking, right?”

Deuce coughed loudly, clapping a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about that! Everyone starts somewhere, right? Besides, they’re here because they want to try something new.”

You stared at Deuce. “I don’t remember saying that.”

“Exactly!” he continued, ignoring you entirely. “Think of how awesome it’d be to have us training you! We’ll get you in the best shape of your life. Right, Jack?”

Jack, who was still mildly horrified by your fridge comment, hesitated. “...Sure.”

Deuce, now fully in salesman mode, gestured to the track like it was some sort of holy land. “And you don’t have to worry about teamwork stuff! You can focus on your personal goals and—”

“Unless you’re in a relay,” Jack interjected.

“Right, but relays are cool!” Deuce added quickly. “Like… team spirit, you know?”

You glanced between the two of them, taking in Jack’s intensity and Deuce’s enthusiasm. They were both staring at you with a mix of hope and determination, and honestly, it was kind of endearing.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “If I join, do I get to skip the first practice?”

“No,” Jack said immediately.

Deuce grinned sheepishly. “But we’ll go easy on you!”

“Jack doesn’t look like he believes that.”

Jack tilted his head, his tail swishing once. “You’ll thank me later.”

“I’m not sure I’ll survive later,” you muttered.

Deuce ignored that, clapping his hands together. “Great! I knew you’d love it here! C’mon, let’s give them a quick demo, Jack!”

Before you could protest, the two of them took off around the track, moving at speeds that made you feel dizzy just watching. Deuce kept glancing back to grin at you, while Jack stayed focused, every stride perfect.

You stood there, bewildered and vaguely impressed, wondering if joining any club was a good idea at all. Still, as Deuce stumbled back toward you, sweaty but grinning like a puppy who just fetched a stick, you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Think about it, okay?” he said, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “We’d love to have you here.”

Jack jogged up beside him, barely winded. “You’ll fit in if you put in the effort.”

“Yeah,” Deuce agreed, nodding earnestly. “So… what do you think?”

You hesitated, glancing at the track, then at them. “…I’ll get back to you.”

Deuce grinned like that was a victory, and Jack just nodded approvingly. As they walked back to their drills, you realized you had yet another club to consider—and these two weren’t going to make it any easier.

Board Game Club

Before you could make your escape—or even fully process the events of the day—your wrist was suddenly seized by Ortho, who zoomed in out of nowhere like a missile with a purpose.

“There you are!” Ortho exclaimed with unsettling cheer. His grip was surprisingly firm for someone who probably didn’t even need to touch you to move you. “Big Brother’s been waiting! Come on!”

“Wait—what? Ortho, where are we—”

“No time for questions!” And just like that, he lifted you into the air like you were a deranged package and he was some kind of express courier. You barely had time to flail before he rocketed off, delivering you with precision to the board game club's headquarters.

You landed with an unceremonious thud, right in front of Idia, who nearly fell out of his chair.

“Ortho!” Idia hissed, his flaming hair flaring. “You can’t just abduct people like that!”

“But you said you wanted them to join!” Ortho chirped. “Mission accomplished!”

Azul, seated calmly at the head of the table, adjusted his glasses and smirked. “Well, well. A delivery service—how efficient. Welcome to the board game club.”

You were still processing the fact that you’d been airmailed when Idia slouched lower in his seat, muttering, “Ugh, so embarrassing. Ortho, seriously…”

“Uh,” you began, brushing yourself off. “Hi?”

Azul gestured grandly to the table in front of him, where an array of meticulously organized board games was displayed like they were ancient treasures. “Here, we focus on strategy, intellect, and the fine art of outwitting your opponent. Unlike other clubs,” he said with a pointed glance at the door, “this one doesn’t require you to break a sweat.”

“That’s actually kind of appealing,” you admitted, still wary.

Idia perked up slightly, his hair flickering a little brighter. “See? I told you it’s cool. I mean, if you like, uh, not running around like some NPC.”

Ortho leaned over, nodding enthusiastically. “And Big Brother’s really good at this stuff! He’s undefeated in our club tournaments!”

“That’s because you’re the only other member who’s not a liability!” Idia blurted, before realizing what he’d just said. “Uh—I mean—you’d totally, like, be an asset. Probably.”

Azul cleared his throat, clearly annoyed at being excluded from the compliment. “Allow me to demonstrate. Why don’t we have a quick match? You against Idia.”

“What?” Idia sat up straight, his hair sparking nervously. “No way! That’s not fair—I can’t just—”

Azul gave him a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of losing, Idia.”

Idia’s face turned pink. “Fine,” he grumbled, setting up the board. “But don’t blame me if I crush them.”

You sat down reluctantly, realizing too late that this was probably a trap. Idia’s fingers moved at lightning speed as he set up his pieces, muttering calculations under his breath. Ortho leaned over your shoulder, giving you completely useless advice like, “Just believe in yourself!”

To your surprise, you managed to hold your own for the first few turns. Idia glanced up at you, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were reevaluating your existence.

“Huh,” he murmured. “Not bad. For a newbie.”

“Is that a compliment?” you asked, moving your piece cautiously.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he said quickly, his face turning red again.

Azul chuckled from his spot at the table. “See? A game of wits and strategy. Isn’t this far superior to running laps or throwing balls into hoops?”

“Hey!” you said, pointing your game piece at him. “Don’t diss the other clubs. They’re passionate too!”

Azul raised an eyebrow. “Passion doesn’t win battles. Strategy does.”

The game dragged on, and by the end of it, you were completely out of your depth. Idia, on the other hand, looked like he’d just stepped out of an anime boss fight, his hair flaring dramatically as he made his final move.

“Checkmate,” he said, grinning slightly.

“Wrong game, Big Brother,” Ortho corrected.

“Whatever!” Idia snapped, but he didn’t look too upset. “It’s over, okay?”

Azul leaned forward, smirking again. “So, what do you think? Ready to join?”

You leaned back in your chair, your brain fried from trying to keep up. “I… I need to think about it.”

Ortho beamed. “That means they’re considering it! Success!”

Idia muttered something under his breath about “too much pressure” and “why is this so stressful,” but you caught a tiny flicker of a smile as he fiddled with one of the game pieces.

Azul, ever the businessman, handed you a brochure as you left. “Take your time. But remember—intellect always wins.”

You left the board game club feeling like you’d just survived a high-stakes negotiation. And as Ortho cheerfully waved goodbye, you couldn’t help but wonder if all the clubs were this intense.

Film Studies Club

You were rounding a corner, still recovering from your latest club recruitment ambush, when a perfectly manicured hand shot out and grabbed your wrist.

Before you could even yelp, you found yourself being gracefully pulled into the Film Studies Clubroom by none other than Vil Schoenheit. His strides were purposeful, his posture impeccable, and his expression…well, let’s just say it was the definition of I’m doing you a favor, peasant.

“Vil?” you sputtered, barely managing to keep up. “What are you—”

“I need to vet you,” Vil said simply, his voice calm but leaving no room for argument. “The Film Studies Club could use some fresh blood, and you look… adequate.”

“Adequate?” you echoed, mildly offended but too intrigued to argue further.

He led you to the center of the room, gesturing for you to stand under a perfectly angled spotlight. “Don’t misunderstand,” Vil continued, crossing his arms and regarding you with a critical eye. “I’m merely evaluating your potential. Our club requires both talent and diligence—qualities that, if I’m being honest, are rare in this school.”

“Uh, thanks?”

Vil ignored you, pulling out a script and flipping through it like he was deciding your fate. “If you can’t pass the audition, you can still join as a backstage hand,” he said airily. “We’re short on those too.”

“Wow, what an inspiring pitch,” you muttered, but Vil’s sharp gaze silenced you immediately.

“Read this,” he instructed, handing you the script and gesturing for you to begin.

You hesitated, glancing at the lines. “You’re serious? Right now?”

“Do I look like someone who jokes about art?” Vil asked, raising a perfectly sculpted brow.

Point taken.

Clearing your throat, you started reading, trying to put some effort into it. Vil watched you intently, his expression inscrutable. He occasionally tilted his head, as if mentally dissecting every word you spoke, every movement you made.

When you finished, you looked at him expectantly, waiting for his verdict.

Vil tapped his chin, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not hopeless,” he said finally, in a tone that made it sound like a compliment. “Rough around the edges, yes, but I’ve seen worse.”

“Gee, thanks,” you said dryly.

“Don’t be smug. You’ll need work,” Vil continued, ignoring your tone. “But I suppose you have potential.”

“And if I didn’t?”

Vil gave a delicate shrug, his expression cool. “Then you’d still be useful behind the scenes. But consider this your opportunity to elevate yourself. Being part of my club means striving for excellence—no exceptions.”

You couldn’t help but smirk. “Is this really about me, or are you just desperate for members?”

Vil’s eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of amusement there. “Desperation has nothing to do with it. I’m simply ensuring that my club remains unparalleled. If you happen to benefit from my guidance, so be it.”

“Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse? I'll think about it.”

Vil’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “Smart choice. Now, don’t make me regret it.”

With that, he turned on his heel, leaving you standing there wondering what exactly you’d just signed up for—and if Vil’s idea of “elevating yourself” involved a complete personality overhaul.

Science Club

You barely had time to process Vil's dramatic exit when a familiar voice whispered theatrically, “Ah, my muse! Fate conspires to bring us together!”

Before you could react, Rook Hunt appeared—swooped, really—out of nowhere and expertly whisked you away from the Film Studies Clubroom. It was less like being led and more like being caught mid-flight by an overly enthusiastic bird of prey.

“Rook?!” you yelped as he practically danced you down the hallway. “What is happening?”

“Mon ami,” he declared, his eyes glittering with fervor, “you must see the science club! A world of wonder awaits you!”

“Wait—science?” you echoed, incredulous. “You’re in the science club?”

“Ah, oui! Science is but another stage upon which the beauty of nature and humanity performs its eternal dance! The experiments! The cultivation of life! The creation of culinary masterpieces! All expressions of art, no?”

You weren’t sure if he was describing scientific principles or poetry, but before you could argue, Rook had dragged you into the science clubroom.

The room was a chaotic mix of activities. One corner housed a vibrant garden under grow lights, another had chemistry equipment bubbling away ominously, and a third corner smelled suspiciously like freshly baked bread. Trey Clover stood near a counter, pulling cookies out of an oven as if this were the most normal thing to happen in a science lab.

“Ah, there you are,” Trey greeted, smiling warmly. “Rook said he’d bring someone by. I’m guessing you’re deciding on a club?”

You glanced between Rook, who was already gesturing dramatically at a rack of test tubes, and Trey, who held up a tray of cookies like a peace offering. “I… guess I am?”

“Bien sûr!” Rook exclaimed, sweeping an arm toward the greenery in the corner. “Behold! We grow life itself here! Tomatoes, basil, flowers—anything your heart desires!”

Trey added, “We also bake and cook as part of our activities. It’s a great way to learn about chemistry and make something useful at the same time.”

“And explosions!” Rook chimed in enthusiastically. “Occasionally, there are explosions.”

Trey shot him a look. “Not… intentionally.”

Rook turned back to you, his expression radiant. “Think of the possibilities, mon ami! With science, you can cultivate beauty, create masterpieces, and perhaps even unlock secrets of the universe! And, of course, I am here to guide you—to nurture the artistic soul that dwells within!”

“Also,” Trey added, far more pragmatically, “we’re not picky about what activities you want to try. It’s a flexible club, so you could do a little bit of everything.”

You considered this as Trey handed you a cookie. It was warm and delicious, which admittedly swayed your opinion a little.

“Hmm,” you said thoughtfully, “so I could garden, bake, and blow things up all in one club?”

“Exactly!” Trey said with a smile.

Rook leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. “And think, mon cher—if you hone your talents here, you could support Vil in creating the cinematic beauty he so envisions! Science and art, united in harmony!”

You blinked. “Wait, are you trying to recruit me for this club and help Vil at the same time?”

Rook grinned. “Nature does not limit itself to one purpose, mon ami, and neither do I.”

Trey sighed but didn’t deny it.

“Well, this is definitely… something,” you said, nibbling on the cookie. “I’ll think about it.”

“Ah, a maybe!” Rook clasped his hands together like you’d just promised him your soul. “A victory in itself!”

Before you could say anything else, Rook twirled you toward the door, clearly ready to drag you to your next destination—or possibly just keep talking about “the poetry of chlorophyll” until you gave in.

Pop Music Club

Just as you were beginning to suspect Rook was about to wax poetic about “the lyrical mysteries of yeast fermentation,” a sudden voice interrupted.

“Oh-ho, what’s this?”

Before you could even react, Lilia Vanrouge materialized out of thin air, practically glowing with chaotic energy. “Ah, my dear friend! You’re far too bright a star to waste away on science experiments! Come with me—pop stardom awaits!”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

And just like that, you were swept up in Lilia’s whirlwind. He dragged you down the hallway with a skip in his step and a mischievous laugh, leaving Rook and Trey in his dust.

“Lilia, I can walk, you know!” you said, stumbling to keep up.

“But where’s the drama in that?” Lilia replied, cackling as he pushed open the doors to the Pop Music Clubroom.

Inside, the room was a cacophony of sound and color. Disco lights spun, a half-finished banner reading ‘Next Big Thing!’ hung lopsidedly on the wall, and Kalim was gleefully banging away on a drum like it owed him money. Cater sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through his phone and periodically snapping selfies with sparkly filters.

“Oh, hey!” Kalim greeted you, waving so enthusiastically he almost hit himself with the drum stick. “You’re here to join us, right? This club is the best! We have music, dancing, and it’s all just super fun!”

Cater glanced up from his phone, his grin wide and just a little too calculated. “You’d fit right in! Think of all the magicam-worthy moments we could create together. Plus, the followers you’d get? Off the charts.”

“Followers?” you echoed, glancing at Lilia.

“Ah, but of course!” Lilia said, flinging his arms wide as if presenting you to an adoring crowd. “The Pop Music Club isn’t just about music—it’s about presence! Charisma! The ability to captivate a room with a single note or a dazzling smile!”

“It’s also about having a good time!” Kalim added, spinning in a circle for no reason other than sheer joy.

Cater nodded, holding up his phone. “And don’t forget—every moment is a potential viral video. You, me, Lilia, and Kalim as the dream team? We’d own the algorithm.”

You hesitated. “Uh, I don’t even play an instrument.”

“Neither does he!” Lilia said brightly, pointing at some unfortunate bystander.

“Hey!” he protested. “I play the Kalimba!” He promptly tried to play a note, missed the rhythm entirely, and Lilia laughed like it was the funniest thing ever.

“See?” Lilia said, unfazed. “Talent is optional here. All we need is your spirit!”

Cater stood, brushing imaginary dust off his pants. “We also dabble in choreography, so if you’ve got two left feet, don’t worry—we’ll teach you how to make them look intentional.”

“Come on, join us!” Kalim said, grabbing your hands and bouncing up and down like an overexcited puppy. “We could totally use your energy!”

“What energy?” you asked, deadpan. “I’ve been dragged between clubs all day—I barely have any left.”

“Exactly!” Lilia said with a wink. “We’ll channel what’s left into a glorious crescendo of pop music excellence!”

You weren’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or just surrender entirely to the chaos. Lilia’s grin was practically infectious, Kalim’s enthusiasm radiated like the sun, and Cater was already adjusting the angle of his phone to catch you in the best light.

“Well,” you muttered, “at least it sounds… lively.”

“Lively is an understatement,” Cater said, snapping a selfie with you and Lilia in the background. “Hashtag PopStarsInTheMaking! You’re gonna love it here.”

“Let me guess,” you said dryly. “You’re already planning to upload that, aren’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Cater said with a wink.

Lilia clapped his hands, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “So, what do you say? Ready to unleash your inner star?”

“I… will think about it,” you replied, edging toward the door.

“Think fast!” Kalim called after you. “The bass is calling your name!”

You bolted before anyone could shove an instrument into your hands.

Equestrian Club

As you hurried down the hallway, still reeling from the pop music chaos you'd just escaped, you nearly collided with a flash of red.

"Ah, there you are!"

You blinked up at none other than Riddle Rosehearts, who looked as though he'd been scouring the entire school for you. His eyes narrowed, and his voice carried a tone of stern authority mixed with subtle relief.

"I've been looking for you," Riddle said, crossing his arms. "Ace and Deuce mentioned that you’re considering which club to join. As housewarden, it’s my responsibility to ensure you make a proper choice."

You blinked, still processing. "Oh, uh… thanks?"

"Enough dilly-dallying," Riddle said briskly, taking your wrist with surprising firmness. "You're coming with me to the Equestrian Club."

"Wait, what—"

Before you could finish, Riddle had already begun marching you toward the stables. You were half-dragged, half-guided, catching snippets of his lecture along the way about the merits of horseback riding, discipline, and poise.

When you arrived, the warm scent of hay filled the air, and the sound of soft nickering greeted you. The stables were pristine, the horses sleek and well-groomed. Standing nearby were Silver and Sebek, both tending to the horses.

"Riddle, you found them" Silver greeted you with his usual calm demeanor. He gave you a faint smile as he gently brushed a dappled gray mare. "Perfect timing—we were just about to go for a ride."

Sebek, on the other hand, straightened like a soldier at attention, his voice booming. "THEY WILL JOIN US, OF COURSE! IT IS ONLY FITTING FOR AN INDIVIDUAL OF WORTH TO EMBRACE SUCH A NOBLE ART!"

"Sebek, indoor voice," Riddle said sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I AM OUTDOORS!" Sebek retorted, though he did lower his volume slightly.

You glanced nervously at the horses. "Uh, I don’t know if I’m… horse material."

"Nonsense," Riddle said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Riding teaches discipline, focus, and responsibility. It’s the perfect club for fostering growth—and for avoiding unnecessary distractions like some less dignified clubs."

"Pop Music Club?" you guessed.

Riddle sniffed, his expression sour. "Among others."

Silver walked over, still holding the brush, and gave you a reassuring nod. "Don’t worry. The horses are gentle, and we can teach you everything. It’s a peaceful activity once you get used to it."

"Peaceful!" Sebek exclaimed, throwing his arms wide. "It is a pursuit befitting the greatest warriors! EVEN LORD MALLEUS—"

"Sebek," Riddle interrupted, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Focus on the matter at hand."

"Apologies!" Sebek barked, saluting.

Riddle turned back to you, his expression softening just a fraction. "The Equestrian Club isn’t just about riding horses. It’s about elegance, partnership, and understanding. You could benefit greatly from it."

"And the horses are great listeners," Silver added.

"Unlike some humans," Sebek muttered under his breath.

You bit back a laugh as Riddle gave Sebek another glare.

"What do you say?" Riddle asked, stepping aside to let you see one of the horses—a chestnut with a kind, inquisitive gaze. "This is Vorpal. Perhaps a ride would convince you?"

The horse whinnied softly, and for a moment, you considered it. There was something appealing about the tranquility of the stables, the camaraderie of the club members, and the undeniable charm of working with such majestic creatures.

But then you remembered the drum chaos, the science experiments, and Vil’s dramatic vetting process.

"Let me, uh… think about it?" you said, taking a step back.

Riddle sighed, though he looked more exasperated than disappointed. "Very well. But don’t wait too long—indecision is unbecoming."

"Yeah," you mumbled. "Got it."

As you made your escape, you could hear Sebek booming, "RIDING A HORSE WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE!"

You weren’t sure about that, but you were certain that escaping club recruitment was starting to feel like an Olympic sport.

Magift Club

As you staggered away from the stables, thoroughly frazzled by Sebek’s enthusiastic yelling and Riddle’s intense lecture on discipline, you barely had time to catch your breath before—

“Yo, gotcha!”

A pair of hands grabbed your shoulders from behind, and you let out a very undignified yelp. You turned to find Ruggie grinning up at you like a mischievous hyena that had just found its next meal.

“Ruggie! What—?”

“No time for questions, boss,” he said, practically dragging you down the path. “Leona’s orders. He told me to bring ya to the Magift Club.”

“The Magift Club?” you repeated, already sensing disaster.

Ruggie nodded, smirking. “Yup. Let’s go, let’s go!”

“But—wait—I don’t even have magic!” you protested as he hauled you toward the field.

“Details, details,” Ruggie waved off, his grip on your arm firm.

Soon enough, you were dumped unceremoniously on the sidelines of the Magift field. Leona was lounging on the grass under the shade of a tree, looking entirely too comfortable for someone allegedly trying to recruit you. Epel was nearby, aggressively practicing his throws while muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “I’ll show ‘em.”

Leona cracked one eye open lazily as Ruggie dropped you off. “’Bout time,” he drawled.

“Leona,” you said flatly, “why would you want me in the Magift Club? I don't even have magic.”

He yawned, looking entirely unbothered. “Yeah, I know that. You’re still better than the other herbivores running around. You can be the manager.”

“Manager?”

“Yup,” Ruggie chimed in, plopping down next to Leona. “You’d handle all the boring stuff—paperwork, schedules, snacks, makin’ sure Epel doesn’t throw a fit when he gets tackled.”

“I don’t throw fits!” Epel yelled, narrowly missing a hoop with his throw.

Leona smirked. “Sure you don’t.”

You crossed your arms, unconvinced. “Why me, though? You’re telling me I’m the best candidate for this?”

Leona sat up slightly, his sharp eyes locking on yours. “I’m sayin’ you’re the least annoying option. I don’t need some herbivore manager who’s gonna cry every time I take a nap instead of practicing. You’re not useless, so quit whining.”

Ruggie leaned in conspiratorially. “Basically, you’re the only one Leona doesn’t feel like chasing off the field after two days.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a ringing endorsement.”

Leona shrugged. “Take it or leave it. Makes no difference to me.”

At that moment, Epel ran up, panting slightly from his practice. “C’mon, you should join us!” he urged. “You don’t need magic to be part of the team. And if you ever wanna learn some tricks, I can teach ya!”

Leona gave him a lazy side-eye. “Don’t scare them off.”

“I’m not scarin’ ‘em! I’m convincin’ ‘em!” Epel shot back, glaring at Leona before turning back to you. “Seriously, we could use someone like you. The club’s fun, I promise!”

Ruggie snickered. “Fun’s a stretch. It’s more like… survival of the fittest with a ball involved.”

“And napping,” Leona added with a smirk.

Epel crossed his arms. “Well, maybe if someone practiced instead of nappin’, we’d win more games!”

Leona waved him off with a scoff.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “I don’t know, guys. This sounds like a lot of chaos.”

“Chaos is half the fun,” Ruggie said with a grin. “C’mon, boss, think of all the free food we get during games. And you’d get to boss Leona around as the manager. Ain’t that worth it?”

Leona snorted. “Good luck with that.”

You glanced at the trio—Epel brimming with determination, Ruggie radiating mischief, and Leona looking like he didn’t care but also somehow cared just enough to try. It was… weirdly tempting, in its own way.

“I’ll… think about it,” you said finally.

“Fair enough,” Leona said, already reclining again. “Don’t take too long, though. We’ve got a game next week, and I’m not filling out paperwork.”

Ruggie winked. “Don’t worry, you’ll come around. Everyone does.”

As you left the field, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just been almost recruited into something much more taxing than a simple club.

Mountain Lovers Club

Before you could escape the Magift field and all its potential paperwork, you took a sharp turn—only to smack right into what felt like a wall of polite menace. A soft, knowing chuckle sounded above you.

“Oh dear, do be careful,” came Jade Leech’s unmistakably smooth voice.

You took a step back, already dreading the conversation. “Jade,” you said warily, “what are you doing here?”

His sharp smile grew ever so slightly. “Waiting for you, of course. Word travels fast, and I’ve heard you’re in the market for a club.”

“Oh no,” you muttered. “You’re not here to—”

Before you could finish, he was already guiding you away, his hand light on your arm but unyielding, like a vice hidden under a silk glove.

“Come now,” he said, his tone as polite as ever, “I simply must show you the Mountain Lovers Club.”

“The what now?” you asked, bewildered.

“The Mountain Lovers Club,” he repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“And… who else is in this club?”

“Why, just me.”

You stopped in your tracks. “It’s just you?”

“Yes.” Jade smiled serenely, as if this were not a glaring red flag. “I am the founder, leader, and sole member. But with your arrival, that could very well change.”

You blinked at him, unsure if you’d misheard. “Wait, so you’ve been running a one-person club this whole time?”

“Indeed.” His expression didn’t falter in the slightest. “The Mountain Lovers Club is dedicated to the appreciation of all things mountainous. Hiking through beautiful terrain, foraging for wild plants, observing unique ecosystems, and—on occasion—befriending the local fauna.”

“Befriending?”

“Examining, petting, observing closely…” His eyes gleamed. “Perhaps all three.”

You shook your head, trying to process. “So… why me?”

Jade clasped his hands together, the picture of poised enthusiasm. “You strike me as someone who appreciates unique experiences. The Mountain Lovers Club offers a chance to explore the great outdoors, expand your horizons, and develop a deeper appreciation for nature’s wonders.”

“And by ‘great outdoors,’ you mean mountains?”

“Precisely.”

“And it’s just you?”

“For now,” he said, his tone warm but his gaze uncomfortably intense. “But every great journey begins with a single step. Yours could be joining this club.”

You gave a nervous laugh. “Uh… I don’t think hiking through mountains is really my thing.”

“Ah, but how do you know unless you try?” Jade’s smile widened. “Besides, I’ll be there to guide you every step of the way. No need to worry about getting lost… or encountering anything unexpected.”

The way he said “unexpected” made you want to run for the hills (ironic, given the circumstances).

“Look, I appreciate the offer, but—”

“I insist,” he cut in smoothly, his tone polite but with a note of finality. “At least allow me to show you the club’s activities. Perhaps a short hike this weekend? I’ve already prepared a route.”

You stared at him. “You’ve already…?”

“Of course.” His gaze was calm, calculating. “Preparation is key. I’ve even packed a lunch.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Jade, I—”

He tilted his head, his smile remaining perfectly composed. “Surely you wouldn’t refuse without at least giving it a chance? I’ve put so much thought into this.”

“Why do I feel like I don’t have a choice?” you muttered.

Jade’s smile was razor-sharp and utterly unrepentant. “Because you don’t.”

You sighed in defeat. “Fine. One hike.”

“Excellent,” he said, his tone soft and victorious. “I’ll see you this Saturday at dawn.”

“Dawn?!”

“Oh yes,” he said, his eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. “The mountains are at their most beautiful in the early morning light. You’ll love it.”

As he sauntered away, leaving you to process your fate, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just agreed to something far more treacherous than a simple hike.

Gargoyle Research Society

The moment you finally reached Ramshackle Dorm, exhausted from the whirlwind of club-hopping and increasingly bizarre sales pitches, you let out a long sigh of relief. The day had been nothing short of chaotic, and all you wanted was to collapse onto your creaky old bed and forget the words “club activities” ever existed.

But just as your hand touched the doorknob, a familiar voice, deep and regal, called out from the shadows.

“Child of man.”

You jumped slightly, spinning around to see none other than Malleus Draconia emerging from beneath the pale light of the moon, his presence as imposing and enigmatic as always. He stood by one of Ramshackle’s crumbling stone walls, his expression calm but his eyes bright with an unreadable intensity.

“Oh, Malleus,” you said, your voice tinged with weariness but also a touch of warmth. “Didn’t see you there.”

He tilted his head ever so slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I was merely admiring the architecture of your dorm. It has a certain… wistful charm.”

You smiled faintly. “I guess that’s one way to put it.”

Then, with the sort of graceful confidence only Malleus could manage, he stepped closer, his presence looming but never threatening. “I have heard,” he began, his tone soft and deliberate, “that you have been seeking a club to join.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “How did you—”

“The winds carry whispers,” he said cryptically.

“Right,” you muttered, deciding not to question it.

Malleus folded his hands neatly in front of him, looking every bit the picture of regal sincerity. “If you have not yet made your decision… I would like to invite you to join my club.”

Your brain, still reeling from Jade’s mountain escapades and Leona’s managerial demands, stalled for a moment. “Your… club?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice brimming with quiet pride. “The Gargoyle Research Society.”

“The… what now?”

“The Gargoyle Research Society,” he repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I am both its founder and sole member.”

Of course, he was.

Malleus seemed oblivious to your stunned silence as he continued, his expression softening into something almost earnest. “The society is dedicated to the appreciation and study of gargoyles. We explore the campus, observing their intricate designs and marveling at their history. There is so much beauty in their silent watch over us.”

You blinked. “So… you just walk around and look at gargoyles?”

“Precisely,” he said, his tone unironically enthusiastic.

“And… that’s it?”

Malleus nodded solemnly. “Indeed. It is a noble pursuit, one that nurtures both the mind and the spirit.”

For a moment, you were at a loss for words. Of all the clubs you’d encountered today, this might just take the crown for most niche.

Malleus, however, seemed utterly earnest. His eyes bore into yours, his expression sincere and unguarded. “I understand if this does not align with your current interests,” he said, his voice softening. “But should you ever feel the call of the gargoyles… know that you are always welcome.”

There was something so genuine in his tone, so quietly hopeful, that you felt a pang of guilt for even thinking about brushing him off. You sighed, offering him a tired but sincere smile. “You know what? I’ll definitely consider it.”

Malleus’s eyes lit up, his calm demeanor giving way to a flicker of pure joy. “Truly?”

“Truly,” you said, nodding.

“Then I shall look forward to the day you join me,” he said, his voice as soft as a promise.

With that, he gave you a small, graceful bow before disappearing back into the night, leaving you to wonder how you’d managed to end the day not only agreeing to a potential club but also feeling oddly flattered by the idea of studying gargoyles.

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “What a day…”

Masterlist

Part 2: Choosing a club

a/n: it completely slipped my mind that ortho is in film studies sorry :(

5K notes · View notes

isabelckl · 4 days ago

Text

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 7

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

masterlist

The water felt nice. Warm, a little heavy.

Lights swam over your arms — red, green, something blue, whatever. You kicked lazily toward the deep end, hair floating around your face, eyes barely open. Everything up top was loud. Music, shouting, glass clinking, someone throwing up maybe.

You didn’t care.

It was better down here. Dimmed and Fuzzy. Kind of perfect.

You heard your name, muffled and far away.

You stayed under a second longer.

The second shout came clearer. “Bitch, come up!”

You broke the surface with a laugh, hair slicked back, water dripping down your face. “What?”

Your friend stood at the edge of the pool, holding a half-empty cup, eyes wide like she’d been calling you forever.

“What?” you asked again, louder this time, wiping your face as someone cannonballed behind you. A wave hit your back, followed by a splash of cold and a bunch of laughter from the other end of the pool.

Your friend rolled her eyes. “Get your ass up here. Gio’s been bugging me since he got here and you’ve just been floating around like a mermaid bitch.”

You scoffed, rubbing water off your cheek. “The hell do I care about Gio? Tell him to get over it.”

Your friend scoffed and shook her head before turning away, muttering something under her breath as she pushed through the crowd and disappeared back inside the house.

You just rolled your eyes and grinned at the girl sitting at the edge of the pool, who held out a red cup without a word. You took it and drank whatever was in it without thinking. Something fruity and strong. It burned just enough.

You winked at her, head buzzing, skin warm, everything soft around the edges. The music thumping in your chest. Voices blurred with the beat as lights swam across the pool deck.

You climbed out of the pool, water trailing down your legs, your black bikini clinging to your skin. The night air wrapped around you, cooler than you expected, but you barely felt it.

You grabbed the shirt you left on the table and pulled it over your head, still damp, sticking a little as it slid down.

The music shifted into something you like, “Love Me Harder”. You bobbed your head to it as you walked back toward the house, passing a couple making out against the open bathroom door. The shouts from the patio faded behind you.

Inside, it was louder.

Your eyes moved across the room, scanning for Olivia. You’d left your phone with her hours ago. Maybe longer.

“Hey, have you seen Olivia?” you asked the nearest person, some girl holding an empty bottle. She blinked at you and shrugged.

You rolled your eyes and cut through the crowd, weaving past people playing some drunk version of charades in the hallway, others yelling over a chug.

The kitchen smelled like tequila and weed. Too hot and loud.

You barely looked up until you spotted her—Olivia—perched halfway up the stairs, talking to some guy.

You walked over, stepping between them without a word. “My phone?”

The guy looked you up and down.

Olivia grinned, already holding it out. A smirk tugged at her mouth, eyes gleaming like she knew something.

She passed you your phone, fingers brushing yours for a second too long.

“Oh,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “Gio was looking for you.”

You groaned. “I don’t wanna hear another thing about Gio.”

Your face twisted without meaning to, already turning away—right as he showed up.

Of course.

“Hey,” Gio said, stepping in front of you. “I’ve been looking for you.”

You blinked, trying not to sigh. “Yeah? What?”

He smiled like it meant something. “It’s just been a long time, you know? Since we talked. Since... all that. I guess I just wanted to say I missed it. Or whatever we had.”

You barely looked at him as you opened E's messages that had been sitting on your phone for an hour.

well don’t drink too much ?

plss

take care

i still wanna marry u

Your lips twitched. That stupid flutter in your chest kicked up again.

Gio was still talking. You weren’t listening to any of it.

You tapped back to your messages.

you:

still sober babe

You sent it, even though the edges of your brain were already fuzzy from everything you’d had.

“Hey—are you listening?” Gio’s voice broke in again.

You looked up and raised your brows. “What?”

“I just told you I missed you.”

You shrugged, tone flat. “Well, Gio. I don’t. And seriously, you need to find another girl. I’m too busy with my life right now.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “How am I supposed to just get over it? You think it was easy for me? I—”

You weren’t even hearing it. Your eyes shifted past him, drifting lazily until they landed on someone leaning against the wall near the billiard table.

Her head was down, thumb lazily scrolling through her phone, a red cap dangling from her other hand like none of this touched her.

Is that Ellie?

You squinted through the low light and noise. Shit. It was Ellie.

She was in a black jacket thrown over a white tee, pants slung low on her hips. Leaning against the wall like she didn’t care to belong, sipping from her drink like it was just another night to survive.

Gio was still talking, some half-assed plea falling out of his mouth, but you were already walking, cutting straight past him without a word.

“Ellie?” you called out, blinking hard. A grin tugged at your lips. “No way! You’re here?”

She looked up, caught off guard, eyes widening just slightly.

You didn’t think and closed the space between you and threw your arms around her, your body still a little damp, shirt clinging where it shouldn’t.

Her hand settled lightly on your waist. Warm and a little hesitant.

“Hi,” you laughed as you pulled back, grinning stupid. “I thought my mind was the playing tricks on me for a second back there.”

Ellie scratched at the back of her neck, “Yeah,” she said, smiling softly. “I’m here.”

You tilted your head a little too close, eyes glittering. “This definitely wasn’t on my bingo card tonight.” Your voice came out sweet and reckless, heat curling behind it.

You glanced down at yourself, dragging two fingers over the damp hem of your thin shirt. “Oh, and shit—sorry for the,” you waved at your clothes, “I’m a little bit wet.”

Ellie’s eyes dropped before she could stop herself. She nodded, a tiny jerk of her head, mouth opening like she might say something—but didn’t.

“It’s… it’s okay,” she said quietly, eyes dipping down for the briefest second before meeting yours again. Quick, but not quick enough.

She gave a small shrug, like she hadn’t just looked.

Her fingers tapped lightly against her cup, trying to seem casual. But her gaze kept pulling back—hovering just a little too long before she forced it away again.

For a moment, you just looked at her.

You didn’t know why, but she looked different tonight. Or maybe it was the way the slow flashing lights hit her face, catching in her lashes, slipping across her cheekbones. She looked… kind of good like that.

You smiled, small and easy. “So what made you come here?”

Ellie glanced down, then back up. “I don’t know. Just... really checking it out.” She gave a half-smile, one corner of her mouth lifting like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to stay.

You tilted your head. “Damn right. But if I’m Stan though?” You widened your eyes a little. “I’d be honored. Ellie Williams? Here?”

Ellie shook her head, eyes rolling soft. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” You grinned, watching the way she tried not to smile.

She scoffed under her breath, shaking her head again.

“So how’s your night so far?” you asked, shifting your weight closer to her. “Just got here? You seem sober enough for me.”

Ellie glanced to the side, like she was about to lie but didn’t. “Just watching. And yeah... sober enough.”

You followed her gaze to the group around the billiards table, some guys lining up shots with way too much confidence.

“Oh? You play with them?” you asked, already grabbing her wrist, pulling her gently with you. “C’mon. Let’s watch.”

Ellie let you lead her, falling into step.

“Just watching,” she repeated, eyes flicking to the table. “And you? You looked drunk to me.”

You gave her a look. “Oh please, drunk? I’m tough.”

She watched you for a second, like she was trying to tell if you were serious. Her eyes flicked over your face, amused and skeptical.

“Right,” she scoffed again, shaking her head.

You smirked as you caught her smile she tried to hide before she turned back to her drink.

“What? Do I look drunk to you already?” You asked, leaning in slightly.

Ellie raised her brows, amusement dancing in her eyes. She took a slow sip, watching you over the rim of her cup, before shaking her head. “Actually.. no.”

“If I were drunk, I’d already be doing something reckless.” You said with a grin.

You paused just long enough for it to land.

“Which will be later.”

You looked around, just casually scanning the room—until your eyes landed on Gio, cutting through the crowd again like he hadn’t gotten the message the first time.

You groaned under your breath. “Oh, fuck me.”

Ellie glanced over.

Before Ellie could ask, you grabbed her wrist. “Come with me. Please.”

She blinked. “What?”

But you were already pulling her, slipping through bodies, heading for the stairs like you had somewhere to be.

You took the stairs two at a time, a little buzzed. Ellie followed close behind, her cup in one hand, eyes flicking around, unsure where you were taking her. A couple was half-tangled on the landing, making out as if they forgot other people existed. You sidestepped them, brushing past a guy vaping at the top who barely looked up from his cloud. The sweet smoke curled around your head.

Ellie quietly moved past him too, close enough for you to feel the warmth off her arm.

The hallway was narrow and dim. Doors shut or cracked open, bass from downstairs thudding through the walls. You walked past a room glowing blue from a TV screen, another filled with people yelling over Mario Kart.

You made it to the end of the hallway, eyes landing on a closed bathroom door. You knocked once, then again—louder.

Ellie raised a brow behind you. “You brought me all the way up here… to pee?”

You knocked again with more urgency. “Kinda?”

No answer.

You leaned your ear closer, but it was quiet inside. Probably empty.

“I just needed to escape my obsessive ex for a minute,” you muttered, knocking once more for good measure.

You pushed the door with your shoulder. A little harder than you meant to.

It creaked open, swinging wide—and you stumbled a step forward, catching yourself on the doorframe with a laugh.

Ellie stepped forward fast, her free hand reaching out like she might catch you. “Jesus—are you good?”

You looked over your shoulder, rolling your eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Her brows pulled together just a little.

You smirked, brushing your hair back. “I’m not drunk, Ellie. Relax.”

She didn’t say anything right away, just watching you like she wasn’t fully convinced.

You pulled the door slowly, inching it closed. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

Ellie gave a quiet scoff under her breath. “Don’t fall in,” she muttered.

You flashed her a grin. “Yeah yeah, oh—tell Gio to get lost if you see him looking for me.”

That earned a small snort from her, but she nodded, backing away down the hall as the door clicked shut behind you.

You peed quickly, flushed, and washed your hands. When you looked up, your reflection met you in the mirror—flushed cheeks, lips pink from whatever drink had been in the red cup.

Your hair had started to curl as it dried, sticking in loose waves around your face and neck. One side of your shirt had slipped down your shoulder without you noticing, the thin fabric hanging unevenly, clinging to your skin in places, loose in others. It barely reached the middle of your thighs.

You tilted your head at your reflection, eyes narrowing slightly.

You grabbed your phone from where you left it on the sink and angled it toward the mirror.

One quick pic. Just you—flushed, eyes low-lidded, shirt slipping off your shoulder.

You sent it to E.

You:

[image attachment]

does this look drunk to u?

It took less than a minute for the screen to light up again.

do u want me dead?

u look hot

like way too hot

that’s what u look like drunk ??

no. come home right now.

i wanna be the only one who sees u like this

You grinned, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

You:

not drunk yet 😋

can you come home now pls?

i can't take others seeing u like that

i'm picking u up

the kids miss u

come home and let me take care of you

i wanna take care of you when you’re drunk

You stared at the screen, a little smirk tugging at your mouth. Heart all gooey and stupid. God, she was such a loser.

Another message lit up.

but go on

have fun

i understand this is all part of dating someone pretty like u

You scrunched your nose, fingers already moving.

You:

awww baby shut up

no one else gets me stupid like you do

they can stare all they want

but you’re the one i go home to 😌💋

good

don’t kiss other girls pls ? xD

You:

courseeee

ttyl

💋

You locked your phone, grinning to yourself. The mirror caught your bright smile again.

God, you were down bad.

But you felt good. Buzzed in the right way, skin warm, head light. You weren’t about to let some clingy ex ruin the night for you—not when you looked like this, not when the air felt this electric.

You adjusted your shirt half-heartedly, let your hair fall where it wanted, then reached for the doorknob with a smirk.

You unlocked the door, pulling it open to find Ellie leaning against the wall just beside it, phone in hand. The soft glow from the screen lit up her face, catching on the curve of her smile.

The music downstairs thudded louder now, flooding the hallway again.

She glanced up when she saw you. Straightened a little. Her eyes dropped down to your body—just for a second—before meeting yours again.

“Hey,” you said loudly, grinning. “Let’s go back downstairs.”

Ellie gave a small nod, tucking her phone into her pocket as she pushed off the wall.

“You good now?” she asked, voice a bit low and husky.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Never better.”

Ellie fell into step beside you as you started walking back down the hall, the two of you brushing shoulders once.

“What about your ex?” she asked, voice low, almost amused.

You scoffed. “He can do whatever he wants. I didn’t come here for him.”

Ellie glanced sideways at you, a crooked smile twitching at her lips. “No?”

You turned your head, smirking. “Duh.”

Right then, someone rushed past—barely looking where he was going. A splash of cold hit your side as the drink in his hand tipped, spilling across your already damp shirt.

“Seriously?” you muttered, looking down. The wet spot clung colder than before. You patted at it uselessly, annoyed.

The guy tossed a lazy “my bad!” over his shoulder and disappeared down the hall.

You sighed. “Drunk boys.”

Ellie didn’t say anything at first. Her eyes followed the guy as he stumbled off, then flicked back to you—pausing on your shirt for a beat before she cleared her throat.

Then, casually, she slid off her jacket. “Here.”

You raised a brow. “What’s that for?”

She held it out. “Before someone else spills something on you again.”

You waved it off with a grin. “No need, I’m good.”

Ellie hesitated.

You tilted your head, playful. “What—trying to cover me up?”

Her mouth parted like she was about to respond—but you beat her to it, tugging the loose edge of your shirt back into place.

“It’s fine, seriously,” you said, flashing a grin. “Feels like you’re the only one looking anyway. And I’m starting to think you like the view.”

That made her blink. She scoffed softly, shaking her head, but the flush creeping up her neck said plenty.

You turned, already heading back toward the stairs, tossing a wink over your shoulder. “Come on, Williams. Try to keep up.”

The bass had thudded through the floor, pulsing straight through your legs as you moved a little quicker down the stairs, the song blasting loud—something synthy and bold that made your heart beat in time with it.

Behind you, Ellie had called out, “Don’t move so fast.”

You’d glanced up just as you hit the last step, tilting your head back at her. “What?”

She’d been halfway down, steady, careful, her hand brushing the railing. The music had swallowed your voice, so you raised it.

“I said—what?”

Ellie had shaken her head, eyes rolling a little, but there’d been a smile tugging at her mouth, trying not to let it win.

The thump of the song had gotten louder as you pushed back toward the billiard table. Everything had been darker now, all red-and-gold haze. The overhead lights were gone—maybe someone had turned them off on purpose—but the glow from the string bulbs and that lava lamp in the corner had been enough to see by.

The house had been packed. People were laughing too hard at nothing, leaning too close to be casual. The air had been hot, sticky with heat and alcohol, and the edge of your buzz had turned a little giddy again.

You grabbed a bottle off the counter and sank onto the edge of the sofa near the billiard table. The cushion gave under your weight, still warm from whoever sat there last.

Across the room, a group of guys play pool like there’s a trophy on the line.

Ellie trailed behind, hovering for a second before sitting beside you.

You held out the bottle with a raised brow. “Want some?”

She glanced at it, then shook her head. “I’m good.”

You shrugged. “More for me, then—”

But before the bottle reaches your lips, her hand slips in and takes it straight from yours.

You blinked, caught off guard, watching as she drank it without saying a word.

“Thought you were good,” you said, laughing a bit.

Ellie leaned back slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Changed my mind.”

The room pulsef around you—saturated in red and gold, the music heavy and constant. You felt it under your skin.

You glanced at her for a while—longer than you meant to.

She didn’t notice at first, too focused on the game, the bottle resting loosely in her grip. Her jaw was tight, lashes catching the red-gold light.

She looked good like that. Kinda hot.

Your eyes dropped to her mouth before you caught yourself, heart kicking a little faster as you glanced away.

You shifted on the couch, letting your knee brush against hers, feeling the warmth creeping up from somewhere deeper than the alcohol.

You cleared your throat, watching as the guys at the table started arguing over a missed shot. One shoved the other, laughing, before the group wandered off, taking their chaos with them.

You scoffed softly. “Wanna play?”

Ellie glanced over. “Billiards?”

You nodded, trying to keep it casual. “Unless you’re scared.”

She arched a brow, amused. “Of losing?”

“Of me.”

Ellie smirked, pushed off the couch, and set the bottle down on the nearest table.

You were already standing, a little unsteady, grinning at her. “Let’s make it interesting.”

She raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“Loser takes a shot,” you said, eyes gleaming. “Come on. Don’t be soft.”

Ellie hesitated just a second too long—like she wanted to say something else—but the look you gave her made her sigh, amused. “Alright. But just one.”

You cocked your head. “Scared already?”

She rolled her eyes, grabbed a cue stick, and twirled it once before stepping toward the table. The music throbbed louder and heavier.

You followed, your heart syncing with the bass, beat for beat.

People had started to crowd around, some watching, some dancing, the air thick with smoke and spilled drinks. You grabbed a stick from the rack and moved to the other side of the table, grinning as you leaned down to break.

You chalked your cue with dramatic flair—pure show—but your aim was off. The cue ball barely clipped the edge of the triangle and sank a single striped.

Ellie watched from the other end, mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh.

Then she stepped forward, bent low, and broke with a sharp crack—clean, loud, and confident. Two solids dropped like nothing.

You blinked. “Okay. What the hell was that?”

She shrugged, all casual. “Guess I’m good at stuff.”

You narrowed your eyes. “No one’s casually that good.”

She just shrugged before sinking another. Smooth and effortless.

You leaned back against the edge, arms crossed, watching her with a squint. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

She didn’t even look up. “You’re the one who challenged me.”

“And you’re the one who’s apparently a secret pool monster.”

Finally, she glanced at you, eyes glinting under the red-gold glow. “You said loser takes a shot, right?”

You scoffed. “Yeah, and I think I just sealed my fate.”

She lined up again, slow and sure. “Might as well pour it now.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting a grin. “Keep talking like that and I might pour us both one.”

Ellie smirked, not breaking eye contact as she leaned over the table, cue steady in her hands. “You wouldn’t dare.”

You tilted your head. “Wanna bet?”

She lined up the shot, lips twitching like she was trying not to smile—and sank another ball, clean and smooth.

You let out a groan, grabbing the nearest bottle and unscrewing the cap. “You’re obnoxious.”

Ellie stepped back, cue resting against her shoulder. “You challenged me.”

You raised the bottle, letting it hover over the rim of a plastic cup. “Yeah, well—I’m challenging you again. Winner takes a shot this time.”

Ellie quirked a brow. “That’s not how winning works.”

You shrugged, already pouring. “Yeah, well. I'm tipsy and I make the rules.”

She watched you for a beat, something amused and soft in her eyes.

You handed her a full cup. “No backing out now, Williams.”

Ellie took it slowly, fingers brushing yours for a second too long. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The music behind you shifted. A family familiar beat, much louder.

“God, I love this song,” you murmured, already moving your hips a little, tipsy joy radiating off you.

She took the shot like it was nothing, barely even wincing as it went down. You watched her, eyes narrowing a little—not just because she handled it better than you ever could, but because she looked unfairly good doing it.

“Okay, now we’re even,” you said, grabbing your cue again. “Back to losing gracefully.”

Ellie smirked. “Speak for yourself.”

You rolled your eyes and took your turn—this time, a lucky one. One striped ball sunk clean into the corner. You gasped, triumphant, raising your arms like you'd just hit a buzzer-beater.

Ellie clapped, slow and sarcastic. “A miracle.”

“Shut up,” you grinned, eyes glittering as you lined up another. “I’m making my comeback.”

You missed completely.

Ellie didn’t even hide her laugh this time. “Inspiring,” she muttered, stepping in again.

Her shot was perfect. Of course.

You leaned back, cup in hand, watching as she moved around the table—cool, steady, casual in a way that made your stomach flip. Her shirt shifted as she bent forward, and you looked away before you stared too long.

“You know,” you called over the music, “you’re really annoying when you’re good at things.”

“Aw, thanks,” she said flatly, not looking up.

Another ball sank.

The crowd behind you had mostly shifted away, drawn back into the music or to whatever chaos was happening by the patio doors. It was just the two of you now, a half-empty bottle and a cup between you, the light flickering red over Ellie’s face.

You let out a small breath, arms folded lazily across your chest. The buzz was heavier now, in your limbs, your throat, your head.

So you just… watched. Let her play.

She moved with that same quiet precision—focused, lowkey cocky in the way she leaned over the table, cue steady, eyes narrowed.

She looked hot like this, it almost annoyed you.

A guy suddenly stepped in, looking sober enough to ask for a match.

“Winner stays?” he asked, grinning at Ellie.

She hesitated, eyes flicking toward you.

You rolled your eyes, waving her off with a lopsided smile. “Go on, Williams. Defend your throne.”

Ellie squinted at you, clearly not loving the idea. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said.

She looked at you for a second longer, like she didn’t quite believe it, but then turned back to the game.

You stuck around, letting your back hit the nearest wall as you watched them play. Occasionally, you sipped from your cup—sweet, sharp heat sliding down your throat. Ellie never missed. Ball after ball, clean and controlled, giving the guy barely a chance.

Except once—right when she glanced your way.

You were already staring at her. A soft grin curling at your lips.

She muttered something under her breath—too low to catch—then shook her head as the guy lined up his only real shot.

You grinned wider, pleased with yourself.

You stayed there for awhile before you wandered toward the kitchen, grabbed another drink you probably didn’t need, then found yourself in the bathroom down the hall, dabbing cool water on your neck and cheeks. Your head was buzzing and too warm. Everything was a little floaty and pink.

When you stepped back into the hallway, Ellie was already there, waiting.

She looked at you for a moment. Her yes trailing over your flushed face, the slight wobble in your step, the faint glassiness in your eyes.

She let out a soft breath.

“Hey… you okay?” she asked again, voice lower this time.

“I’m great,” you said, slow and sure, even as your words almost slurred. You tilted your head, smiling all dumb and tipsy. “Did you win?”

“Yeah.”

You grinned at her. “Good. I don’t want you losing to some guy.”

Ellie huffed a soft laugh, rubbing the back of her neck.

You brushed past her, already heading down the hallway again. “Latch” was playing in the background, Sam Smith’s voice curling through the air like a memory.

“Oh my god, I love this song,” you said dreamily, half to yourself.

“Wait—what?” Ellie called after you, catching up with a few quick strides. “Don’t you need to sit down for a bit? How many did you have?”

You ignored her. Your fingertips trailed along the wall, that floaty warmth in your chest swelling with every lyric bleeding through the air. You looked over your shoulder with a teasing smile.

“Come on.”

Ellie slowed beside you, brow creased, eyes scanning your face like she was trying to figure out just how far gone you were. But there was something soft there, too. Maybe even amused.

Before Ellie could say anything else, a pack of rowdy guys burst through the hallway behind you, all hyped up and laughing as they started doing some train-line dance toward the back doors.

You barely had time to blink before Ellie’s hand was at your waist, tugging you gently aside.

“Careful,” she muttered, guiding you out of their path.

You stumbled a little with the sudden movement and ended up against the wall, your shoulder brushing cool plaster. Ellie stayed close—close enough that you could feel the warmth of her side next to yours, her hand lingering for a second longer than necessary.

The two of you stood there, side by side, watching the dance floor ahead in silence.

The glow from the string lights outside flickered through the patio doors, soft and uneven. The thrum of the song still pulsed beneath your feet.

Ellie said something beside you but you couldn’t hear a damn thing over the music.

You turned, brow raised. “What?”

She leaned in, her mouth just beside your ear, her perfume catching faintly.

“Do you wanna dance?” she asked, voice rough over the bass.

You tilted your head, grin already tugging at your lips. You leaned close to her ear, just enough for your breath to tickle. “Are you asking me to dance?”

Ellie pulled back an inch, smirking. She leaned in again, even closer this time. “No. Just saying that if you do wanna dance… I won’t be there with you.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes in mock offense. You leaned in, palm brushing her arm lightly as you whispered into her ear, “I don’t feel like dancing anyway.”

Ellie gave a quiet huff of laughter, her eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back up again.

You caught the flick of Ellie’s eyes down to your mouth, and it made something wicked curl in your chest. Drunk and warm and reckless, you smirked.

“Do you wanna fuck?” you asked, half-shouting over the music, teasing.

Ellie’s eyes went wide. “What?!”

You laughed, tossing your head back, “I’m kidding!!” you grinned at her.

Ellie shook her head, the tips of her ears red as she muttered something under her breath.

You laughed again, softer this time, but it came out more breath than sound.

Your smile faltered. The warmth in your chest turned heavy.

You blinked, frowning suddenly, one hand pressing lightly to your ribs like you could calm it down. “Shit,” you mumbled. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Ellie straightened immediately. “Hey—hey, okay, come on,” she said, slipping her arm around your waist before you could even stumble.

Ellie helped you up the stairs, her arm still steady around your waist, guiding you toward the hallway. You managed to make it halfway before the next wave hit—sharp and sudden.

You stopped, hand flying to your mouth, the other gripping the wall beside you.

Your head dropped forward, eyes squeezing shut. The air felt heavy, like it was pressing down on your shoulders.

Ellie hovered beside you, silent but present, her hand resting lightly on your back.

After a moment, the feeling passed—mostly.

You let out a long breath and straightened slowly, leaning back against the wall, the cool paint grounding you.

“I’m fine,” you said quietly, not meeting her eyes at first.

Ellie moved to stand against the opposite wall, arms loosely crossed, watching you. “You sure?”

You gave a soft smile, rolling your eyes a little as you finally looked up at her. “Yeah. I’m not that gone.”

Ellie didn’t respond, just watching you, her face unreadable in the low purple hallway light.

Downstairs, Latch still playing, the bass just a faint thrum beneath your feet now. Like memory. Like déjà vu.

You stared at Ellie for a second, something tugging at the edge of your chest. The light from the stairwell tinted her skin, softened the space between you.

“Do you wanna know something?” you asked suddenly, voice low.

Ellie raised her eyebrows, tilting her head slightly—wary now, remembering what you said earlier, unsure whether to shake her head or nod.

“I kissed a girl before,” you said, your gaze unfocused, drifting just past her shoulder. “To this exact song.”

You breathed out a laugh that didn’t feel like one. “We were fifteen. At this party thing, kind of like this. She pulled me outside and kissed me when this came on.”

You looked at her now. “She was my first.”

And hopefully not the last.

Your mind drifted, landing somewhere familiar.

On E.

The girl who got to know every version of you without ever seeing you in person. The one you told things you hadn’t even said out loud before. Who asked questions gently. Who stayed up late just to talk.

The girl who felt safe. Soft in a way that wasn’t just flirting—it was understanding.

You swallowed, pulse fluttering.

You didn’t say any of that. You just leaned your head back against the wall, the music humming through your ribs.

Your eyes settled on Ellie.

She stood right there in front of you, her brows drawn just slightly like she was trying to read you. Lit by dim hallway light and a song that had already carved itself into your memory once.

She looked worried. Not just in a you might throw up on me kind of way, but something quieter. Like she knew something you didn’t.

Like she was watching you chase a thought she’d already caught.

And maybe that was what made her feel so real in that moment.

And maybe the closest you’d ever get to having E at all.

That thought alone was enough to make your head spin.

The music thrummed through the floorboards. Your body remembered this song the way your heart remembered E’s messages. The softness. The teasing. The way she made you feel like she knew you, even through a screen.

You swallowed hard.

Because you remembered what Ellie said at the library that day, too.

The way Ellie’s voice cut through your thoughts so casually.

Your stomach turned. Not in a bad way. In that horribly fluttery way. The way it had back then, when your brain had first started making connections it had no business making.

E. Ellie.

The timing.

The sarcasm.

The way she said it—too smooth, like she knew what she was doing.

And you’d told yourself it was ridiculous.

But then… wasn’t that exactly how E flirted? Smooth. Confident in a way that snuck up on you. The kind of teasing that made your knees weak and your mouth dry.

You remembered thinking, That’s not Ellie. Ellie’s not like that.

But now… standing here, drunk and warm and wrecked under the pressure of her gaze, you weren’t so sure anymore.

Because maybe you didn’t know Ellie like you thought you did.

And maybe that was the problem.

You didn’t know if it was the alcohol, the song, or just the way Ellie was looking at you right now, like she already knew what you were about to say.

Your pulse picked up.

Somewhere beyond the walls, the music swelled again. Clearer now, and louder. Like the whole house was leaning in too.

I feel we're close enough…

You blinked, heart thudding. Ellie hadn’t moved. She was still watching you.

I wanna lock in your love..

Your lips parted, the air too thick and warm. Your hands twitched where they hung at your sides.

I think we're close enough…

The words echoed through the hallway, slow and sticky, wrapping around you like heat.

Could I lock in your love, baby…

“I think…” you swallowed, voice soft, barely audible above the throb of bass, “I think I wanna do it again.”

Ellie didn’t say anything. Her expression didn’t even shift. She just looked at you. And for a second, the space between you buzzed with something you couldn’t name.

Now I've got you in my space…

You leaned in.

I won’t let go of you…

No plan. No thinking. Just instinct, and warmth, and that stupid song crashing in your chest.

Your lips pressed to hers, quick, uncertain, too drunk to be graceful but not drunk enough to pretend you didn’t mean it.

You woke up with a pounding headache.

The room was familiar—sunlight spilling through pale curtains, soft and quiet. You’d been here before.

You shifted, the sheets cool against your skin—bare skin.

Your eyes shot open.

You were naked under the covers.

Your heart kicked up. You turned your head slowly.

You were in Ellie’s room.

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bananabreads · 28 days ago

Text

Dad!lads when their children have a fever.

Dad!Rafayel, Dad!Caleb, Dad!Sylus, Dad!Zayne, Dad!Xavier — the lads guys taking care of their child when they have a fever ♡⁠(⁠˃͈⁠ ⁠દ⁠ ⁠˂͈⁠ ⁠༶⁠ ⁠)

RAFAYEL —

Your usually noisy and energetic daughter, the same little girl who used to run around the halls pretending to be a royal princess, was now quietly shuffling down the hallway.

Rafayel was in the living room, lost in his strokes, painting a soft coral landscape in shades of lavender and red. when he heard the faintest sniffle. A sound so small, yet enough to pull him from his concentration.

He turned quickly, brush still in hand, just in time to see his daughter standing at the doorway. Her eyes were glassy with tears, cheeks flushed deep pink, her hair damp and sticking to her forehead. She was trembling slightly, and her tiny fists rubbed at her eyes as she took a weak step forward.

“P-Papa…” she said, reaching up for rafayel.

The brush dropped from Rafayel’s hand and hit the floor with a soft clatter.

“Oh, my little guppy,” he breathed, rushing over in long strides. He knelt and gently scooped her up, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other supporting her legs. She immediately buried her face into his shoulder, her little fingers clutching at his shirt.

Her skin was burning.

“Sweetheart, you're so warm…” Rafayel murmured, concern lacing his voice as he pressed his cool hand to her cheek, then her forehead. “You’re burning up... when did this start?”

She only whimpered in reply, coughing into his chest, her small body trembling with discomfort.

Without another word, Rafayel carried her out of the living room, moving quickly but gently toward the bedroom. His usually composed expression was shaken, his brows furrowed in worry, his lips pressed tight.

You had just stepped out of the bathroom when you saw them—your daughter curled in his arms like a wilted flower, Rafayel looking at you like he was holding a star that was starting to dim.

“She’s burning up,” he said softly. “She came to me like this. She didn’t even cry out loud.”

You quickly rushed over. “She was fine earlier... She was just sleeping..”

Rafayel laid her down carefully, already peeling off her sweaty clothes and replacing them with soft, dry ones. He whispered to her the entire time, kissing her temple between every movement.

“You’re so strong, my little princess… But Mommy and Daddy’s here now. It's okay to be vulnerable...”

He applied a cooling pad to her forehead, stroked her hair back, and tucked her under a fresh blanket. Then he turned to you, voice calm but firm.

“I’ll stay with her. I’ll watch her.”

“Rafayel, you haven’t slept—”

“She came to me, like that, all alone and crying,” he said, barely above a whisper, as if it pained him to say it aloud. “I won’t let her wake up scared again.”

You knew there was no arguing with him. So you simply nodded and left to prepare some light food while Rafayel stayed by her side, softly humming a lullaby that calmed her down, that lullaby you sang to him when his sick.

Later that night, your daughter’s fever finally broke, but not before Rafayel had spent hours holding her hand, changing her cooling pads, and whispering promises of moonlight swims and star chasing when she got better.

CALEB —

Your daughter’s cheeks were flushed, her forehead far too warm against your chest as she whimpered quietly. You paced the living room, phone pressed to your ear while your little girl clutched your shirt tightly with trembling fingers.

“She’s got a fever,” you told Caleb softly, heart aching as her cries grew louder. “Can you buy some medicine on your way home? And the cooling pads she likes—the apple scented fever cooling pads..”

The line was quiet for a second. Then Caleb replied, voice already clipped with urgency, “I’m on it. I’ll be home soon.”

You didn’t know it, but he had already turned away from his work, ignoring the duties he needed to do after knowing that his daughter is sick. That alone was reason enough for him to drop everything.

Twenty five minutes later, the door opened with a soft creak and Caleb came in, slightly out of breath and arms full of bags. “Hey, hey,” he said gently as he walked over to you both. “I’m here now, baby. Daddy’s here.”

He knelt down next to you, brushing your daughter’s sweat damp hair away from her forehead. “My poor princess… You’ve been burning up, huh?”

She looked up at him with glassy eyes, barely able to muster a whimper. Caleb wasted no time, he unpacked the medicine, fever patches, and even her favorite jelly snacks. “Brought you soup, too. It’s the kind with the little bow noodles in it. Thought that might make you feel better.”

You watched as he gently cradled her, her tiny arms wrapping around his neck while he fed her medicine and whispered soothing words.

“She’s still warm,” you said quietly.

“I’ve got her,” Caleb murmured back. “You’ve been holding down the for all day. Go take a shower or lie down for a bit. I can handle her.” he said as he's still gently cradling your daughter

You asked and gently stroked your daughter's hair, “You sure?”

He looked up at you, and though his eyes were tired, they were steady. “She’s our girl. I won’t leave her side.”

So you let him take over, watching as he wrapped her back in her bright pink blanket and pressed a cool patch to her for head. He stayed awake by her side the whole night, hand gently stroking her back while he hummed softly. He wiped away her tears, held the bucket when she got nauseous, and gently swayed her in his arms when she grew restless.

Even when you tried to take over again the next day, he refused with a smile. “You already did the hard part. Let me be the one she needs right now.”

But by the second day, you noticed something was wrong.

You found Caleb leaning against the hallway wall with a towel in one hand and the thermometer in the other, his eyes half lidded and breathing uneven.

“Caleb?” you called softly.

“Mm?” He looked up, clearly dazed. “I’m just—gonna put this back on her forehead—”

You stepped forward and pressed your hand to his forehead.

He was burning.

“Caleb, you have a fever too,” you said, voice sharp with concern.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled. “I just—must’ve caught it from her, but it’s nothing serious.”

“You’re shaking,” you said, catching his arm before he could stumble. “You need to rest.”

“No, she still needs me. She wakes up crying and—”

“Caleb.” you said, not letting him continue his words.

Your voice stopped him.

“She has both of us. But right now, I need you to lie down before you collapse.”

He opened his mouth to protest but closed it again when your daughter’s weak voice called from the room, “...Mommy..? Daddy…?”

Caleb’s expression softened instantly.

“We're right here, sweetheart,” he whispered as you helped him into bed beside her.

And just like that, your once unstoppable husband curled up under the covers, his arm protectively around your daughter despite his own fever. She snuggled into his chest with a soft sigh.

You sighed too, half exasperated, half fond.

Now you were nursing two sick babies, one who is a 6 feet tall and stubborn as hell colonel and a 4 year old daughter who was exactly like her father.

SYLUS —

It started slow, your daughter didn’t have her usual energy that morning. She didn’t run to you with her stuffed crow or talk your ears off about the princess storybooks Sylus gave her. Instead, she was quiet, clinging to you with a sad, sick baby look in her eyes.

By afternoon, her forehead was burning and her cheeks were flushed. She didn’t say she was in pain, but you could tell. She always wanted to be strong like you and sylus and would try to keep up a strong front.

She never liked to be alone when she was sick, so you spent the entire day lying on the couch, your daughter resting on your chest, her tiny arms curled around your torso. Her breaths were shallow, and every now and then, a little sob would escape her throat. Not loud. Not panicked. Just tired, feverish sobs muffled by your shirt.

You stroked her back in slow circles. “I know, baby. I know it doesn’t feel nice... Just rest. Mommy’s right here.”

She had already taken her medicine. You had gently wiped her down with a damp towel earlier. The strawberry scented cooling pad she liked was pressed gently to her forehead now. But the fever hadn’t let up. And the tears hadn’t stopped either.

You didn’t have a hand free to call Sylus. You didn’t even think of it, too busy whispering gentle reassurances and trying to cool her down.

And then the front door clicked open.

You looked up.

Sylus was home.

He had just come back from work, a quick one, supposedly. His hair still slightly damp from the rain, jacket slung over his arm, expecting to see the usual chaos or laughter when he stepped inside.

Instead, he found silence… and the sight of his little girl curled on your chest, whimpering softly.

“Wait—what happened?” His voice was sharp, low, not angry—concerned. Instantly alert.

You looked up, voice quiet, “She has a fever… I didn’t get to message you. I couldn’t leave her side.”

Sylus was beside you in seconds.

“She took her medicine, I gave her water, but she still feels really bad...”

He knelt beside the couch. “Hey, sweetheart…”

At the sound of her father’s voice, your daughter stirred. Her puffy eyes fluttered open, and a tiny hand reached toward him.

“D-daddy…”

That one broken little word destroyed him.

“Oh, baby…” Sylus quickly slipped onto the couch beside you, pulling both of you into his arms like he could protect her just by holding tighter. “Daddy’s here now, okay? You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

He gently cupped her cheek with his hand, his brow furrowed as he felt the heat still lingering on her skin.

“She’s still so warm,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “You’ve been holding on this whole time, huh?”

Her little sobs came again, muffled against your chest, but this time Sylus was there too, his hands rubbing her back, voice low and soothing.

“Shhh, I know. I know it hurts. But you’re not alone anymore. We’re both here now.”

You felt her finally exhale, body sagging between you and Sylus, too tired to cry anymore. Her hands shifted slightly, now gripping both your shirts.

Sylus stayed there for hours. He didn’t even change out of his damp shirt.

You noticed the worry in his eyes, even as he stayed calm for her. He checked her temperature every thirty minutes, adjusted the cooling pad when it slipped, made sure her water was always within reach.

And every time she whimpered, even half asleep, he would immediately whisper, “I’m here. Mommy and Daddy’s not going anywhere.”

Later, when she was sleeping deeper and breathing softer, Sylus tucked the blanket tighter around her and leaned into your shoulder.

Then he looked down at her again, his baby girl, his softest weakness, and quietly said, “She’s strong… but next time, I want to be here the second she gets sick. I don’t care what work i have. You two are my first priority."

ZAYNE —

Your daughter had been unusually quiet the entire afternoon, not that she was ever loud to begin with. But this time, there was no soft humming while she drew, no gentle tug at your sleeve to ask for cuddles. Just a flushed face, drowsy eyes, and her small form curled under her blanket on the couch.

You touched her forehead and immediately felt the heat radiating from her skin.

“Oh, baby,” you murmured, brushing back her damp bangs. “You’ve got a fever…”

She only responded with the tiniest nod, eyes glassy. She just clung onto you more.

Your heart cracked seeing your daughter at this state and just gently hugged her more, wrapping her in her favorite blanket.

You called Zayne immediately. “She’s got a fever. Her temperature’s rising, she’s barely talking…”

Zayne, ever the calm doctor, only replied, “I’ll be home in twenty minutes. Don’t give her anything yet, I’ll handle it. I’ve got something for her.”

True to his word, he arrived on the dot, his coat still draped over his arm, a sleek black medical bag in one hand… and a pink paper bag with something suspiciously not medical in the other.

He knelt in front of your daughter on the couch, gently placing the back of his hand on her cheek. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly, his voice melting into something softer than you usually heard. “Not feeling so good today, huh?”

She shook her head wordlessly, leaning into his palm.

Zayne smiled, brushing her hair away. “Okay. Let Daddy check you over, alright? Just like last time."

He did his usual exam, efficient, gentle, precise. Checked her throat, her heartbeat, her stomach. Listened to her breathing and heart, all while murmuring things like “Doing so well” and “I know that tickles, hang on just a little”. Zayne was carrying jasmine in the kitchen, about to make her drink her medicine as you went to her bedroom to get her a new change of clothes. Then came the medicine, which he carefully measured and mixed into a tiny bit of warm juice.

But your daughter hesitated.

She hated medicine. Always had.

Zayne leaned in and whispered, almost conspiratorially, “I brought something special today.”

She blinked up at him, curious. “What is it daddy…?”

He reached into the pink paper bag behind him and, without letting you see, unwrapped a small, round mint choco candy.

“You can have this after you take your medicine. Just between us, okay?”

Her tired eyes lit up just a little, and she slowly nodded.

She reluctantly took the medicine, and Zayne quickly popped the candy into her mouth right after. She lit up with a soft, content hum.

From across the room, you raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”

Zayne cleared his throat. “Hydration… support.”

You squinted. “Was that candy?”

“She’s sick,” he said, completely unbothered. “Small boosts are clinically proven to help recovery.”

“You’re bribing her with sweets.”

He quickly defended your daughter, “She’s brave and took bitter meds. She deserves a reward.”

You crossed your arms, amused. “You’re spoiling her.”

He smiled that subtle, quiet smile of his and looked at his daughter, now curled into his side, dozing off with a faint sticky sheen of mint choco candy on her lips.

“I know,” he murmured. “And I’ll keep doing it.”

That night, he stayed by her side with quiet devotion, taking her temperature at intervals, jotting down notes like a doctor on a shift, and refilling her water cup without ever waking her.

You found another empty candy wrapper tucked behind a book on the nightstand.

He noticed you notice.

“…Don’t look at me like that,” he said calmly. “That was emotional support caramel.”

You laughed quietly as you tucked them both in. “You’re such a softie.”

Zayne didn’t deny it. He just pulled your daughter a little closer and kissed the top of her head. “Only for the two of you.”

XAVIER —

Usually, your son was the easiest sleeper in the world. You'd lay him down, tuck him in, kiss his forehead, and before you even reached the door, he'd be fast asleep, snoring like a tiny, peaceful bulldozer.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he was warm, too warm. His skin was flushed, cheeks red, body squirming under the covers as he tossed and turned. You had already given him medicine, put on the cooling patch, even tried rubbing his back and softly humming his favorite lullaby. Still, he couldn’t fall asleep.

His eyes were glossy and tired, but he just kept whimpering, rolling over every few minutes, and calling out in a weak, hoarse voice:

“...Daddy… Mommy…”

You and Xavier had been by his side the whole evening, sitting on either side of the bed. The air was heavy with worry and exhaustion. You leaned back against the headboard, gently stroking your son’s sweaty hair as he shifted restlessly in your lap. Xavier sat at the foot of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the thermometer in his hand with a furrowed brow.

“He’s still hot,” you whispered.

Xavier sighed through his nose. “I know.”

He looked down at his son, the little boy who used to cling around his parents to avoid walking was, now curled up in a nest of blankets and softly whimpering.

“Does it hurt anywhere?” Xavier asked gently, moving closer. “Your head? Tummy?”

His son sniffled and reached out his arms.

“I dunno… I feel… yucky.”

Xavier immediately scooped him into his arms, rocking him gently. “Okay. Okay, buddy. You don’t have to explain. I got you.”

You watched as your son clung to Xavier’s shirt, face buried in his father’s chest. Xavier didn’t say anything for a long while, just sat there holding him close, slowly swaying with that same quiet strength he always had.

Eventually, he murmured, “You remember the story I told you about the galaxy spaceship? The one that takes tired kids straight to dreamland?”

Your son nodded weakly.

“Well… Daddy’s got two tickets. One for you, one for Mommy. But the spaceship only moves when you close your eyes.”

His little fingers curled tighter into Xavier’s shirt.

“oke.. I’ll try…”

“You’re so brave,” Xavier whispered, kissing the top of his head. “Bravest boy I know.

Even after the fever meds kicked in, your son still couldn’t sleep for more than ten minutes at a time. You took turns holding him, wiping his forehead, humming, offering water, adjusting the cooling patch. You and Xavier looked like two sleep deprived zombies, but neither of you dared to leave the room.

At one point, past 2 a.m., you found Xavier sitting upright in bed, your son sprawled across his chest like a weighted blanket, finally dozing off for real this time.

“Don’t move,” you whispered from the doorway.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he muttered back, barely blinking. “This little guy’s finally out. It only took six storybooks, two songs, and like… seven cooling pads...”

You smiled, even through your exhaustion.

“He usually knocks out in two seconds. Now he’s burning up and crying... I hate it,” he mumbled. “If I could take this fever for him, I would in a heartbeat.

You sat beside them, gently wrapping the blanket around both of them. “He’s gonna feel better soon. Especially with you here.”

Xavier looked up at you, tired but soft. “Yeah. But I’m not sleeping till he does.”

And he didn’t.

He stayed there the whole night, his son snoring softly on his chest by dawn, his arms still protectively around him, eyes half-lidded but stubbornly open.

A dad who could hold the whole world up, just for his boy.

1K notes · View notes

ickbite · 24 days ago

Text

THINK I NEED SOMEONE OLDER !!

PAIRING: neighbor!hee x reader

Synopsis. It’s okay to get with a guy a few years older than you! Even better when he tries to ignore how beautifully charming you are!

NOTE: age gap relationship (4 years) lowkey was craving this … 6k words — enha masterlist

Summer clung to the building like it didn’t know how to let go: thick, heavy, and restless. You stepped out onto the shared porch between your apartment and the one next door, glass of cold water in hand, tank top sticking to your skin. It was late, but too hot to sleep. The porch light above flickered again, buzzing once before sputtering out. You rolled your eyes at it and leaned against the railing anyway.

Right on cue, you heard a door creak open.

You didn’t turn, not yet anyways, it took everything in you not to dissolve into a massive puddle of sweat already. You just took a sip and waited.

“Still broken?” came a familiar voice—deep, calm, and slightly amused.

Heeseung.

You turned slowly, letting your gaze move over him. Gray sweatpants, black t-shirt, and a screwdriver tucked loosely in his hand like he hadn’t really planned to use it.

“I was starting to think you were ghosting me,” you said, giving him a look.

He didn’t rise to it. He never did. That’s what made it fun.

“I keep meaning to fix it,” he said, stepping past you toward the light fixture. “Never got around to it.”

“Mmm.” You sipped your water again. “Typical man.”

He shot you a sideways glance. “You got something against men?”

You smiled, stepping closer. “Only the ones who ignore me.”

“I notice you,” he said quietly, still not looking at you.

He was always like this, too composed and unreadable for your liking. You’d met him two months ago when you moved in. He’d helped you carry one box, said your name once, and since then had politely ignored every attempt at small talk.

Well… Almost every attempt, you’d have to corner him and put him in situations like this to get him to talk to you.

He reached up, twisting at the fixture with slow, precise movements. You let your eyes wander, just for fun.

“You always dress like that at midnight?” he asked suddenly, voice low.

You looked down at yourself, what was wrong with the way you were dressed? Sure, the tiny shorts you had on were close to showing your bare ass and your tank top was so thin that anyone who looked hard enough could see the outline of your boobs, but that wasn’t your fault or anything. All you could do is shrug, “it’s hot.”

“You think that’s an excuse?”

“You’re the only one complaining,” you said. “Unless you want me to cover up?”

That made him pause, his face looking like he was contemplating. Then, with frustrating calm, he said, “Do what you want.”

You tilted your head, lips tugging into a smirk. “Oh, I plan to.”

The light above you buzzed again, sputtered, and then gave up entirely.

Heeseung stepped down from the small ledge and sighed. “Guess I’ll need a new bulb.”

“Or maybe it’s nervous,” you offered, brushing past him as you returned to lean against the porch railing. “Lights flicker when the energy’s high, you know. Too much tension.”

He glanced at you. “There’s no tension.”

“I beg to differ.” You said it too sweetly for it to sound mean. He didn’t reply.

You turned your head, watching him for a moment in the dark.

“You always this quiet?” you asked.

“Only when I don’t trust myself to speak.”

That one landed.

You straighten your posture, heart beating just a little faster, watching the way he shifted his grip on the screwdriver like he suddenly wanted to be anywhere but standing next to you on a warm summer night with too little light and too much want.

“I’m nineteen,” you said softly, stepping closer. “In case you were wondering.”

He looked at you now, scanning you up and down. Like it physically hurt him to do it. “You’re too young.”

“It’s not like it’s illegal or anything.”

“That’s not the point.”

You smiled. “Then tell me what the point is.”

Heeseung’s jaw flexed. He glanced at your lips. Just once. Then back at your eyes, “I think you know.”

Another silence stretched between you. And then, finally, he stepped back. Just once. Just far enough to feel like rejection.

“I should go,” he said.

“You always run away when girls flirt with you?” You teased, stepping yet another step closer to him.

“Only when I want to flirt back.”

Your chest tightened. But you held your ground.

“Goodnight,” he added, voice low.

You didn’t say it back. Just watched him disappear inside.

The porch was quiet again. No light. No breeze.

Just the glass sweating in your hand and the faint hum of something that felt like it had already begun.

⸻

Next to go was the sink.

A slow, rhythmic drip that turned into a small, stubborn stream. You’d tried tightening the faucet, even looked up a tutorial, but it kept leaking very loudly and very annoyingly. Just enough to ruin your night.

So naturally, you knocked on his door.

Heeseung opened it a little slower than usual, like he was deciding whether or not to answer at all. He was in the same black shirt as the night before, hair slightly messy, one hand braced on the doorframe.

You leaned against the doorjamb with an innocent smile. “Hi, neighbor.”

He blinked. “What’d you break?”

“I didn’t break anything,” you said. “But my sink might be having a crisis. Thought I’d ask the guy with the screwdriver if he wanted to play handyman again.”

He hesitated. “Have you told maintenance?”

“I could,” you said. “But you do such a better job,” your hand goes to slightly run down his arm.

His eyes narrowed slightly. You didn’t miss the way he looked at your bare legs before dragging his gaze away.

“Come on,” you added. “I’ll owe you one.”

Heeseung stared at you for a second longer, then stepped out of his apartment without another word.

⸻

Your apartment smelled faintly of vanilla and laundry detergent. He paused just inside the door, looking around like he’d stepped into dangerous territory — which, to be fair, he had.

You watched as he walked past the bookshelf crammed with poetry books and old Polaroids, past the record player and the half-melted candle on your coffee table.

He looked everywhere but at you.

“The sink’s in here,” you said, motioning to the small kitchen. “She’s leaking.”

He rolled up his sleeves and crouched down under the counter, grabbing the pipe. “She?”

“All misbehaving appliances are girls,” you said, hopping up to sit on the counter beside him. “Boys just short-circuit and die. Girls at least give you warning signs.”

That earned a quiet laugh. “You’ve thought about this too much.”

You let your bare foot tap against the lower cabinet. “I think about a lot of things.”

Heeseung didn’t respond. He was busy adjusting the valve, fingers working in steady, precise movements.

You tilted your head and watched him.“Ever been inside a girl’s apartment before?” you asked casually.

He paused again. “Not answering that.”

“So you have.”

He glanced at you, lips twitching. “What about you? Ever lured a man over with plumbing issues?”

“Only the ones who pretend not to like me.”

This time he did look at you straight on, like he was weighing something in his head. “You’re not subtle, you know that?”

Honestly, it made your knees buckle slightly. “No fun in being subtle.”

Heeseung turned back to the sink, jaw tight. You caught the way his hand flexed on the wrench. He was trying so hard not to look again.

“I think it’s fixed,” he muttered, standing up slowly.

You stayed seated on the counter, knees almost brushing his chest. He didn’t move away right away, toying with everything to make sure of his work.

You smiled. “That’s it? No bill?”

His voice was low. “Thought I’d add it to your tab.”

“And what’s on that so far?”

Heeseung’s eyes dropped to your lips for a second too long, then back up. “Trouble,” he said. “A lot of trouble.”

You grinned. “That’s the best kind of anything.”

He stepped back then… weirdly fast. Like he realized how close he’d let himself get. He wiped his hands on a paper towel and continued to look everywhere but you.

“You should be more careful,” he said, voice tight. “Inviting guys in like this.”

“Who said I do this with just anyone?” You bit your lip.

“You’re nineteen,” he said, like it was a defense.

You slid off the counter and took a step closer. “You already used that one.”

He backed up until his shoulder brushed the doorframe. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

You stepped even closer, now just a few inches between you.

“Yeah?” you whispered. “Or maybe I just know exactly what I want.”

His breath caught.

And still, nothing happened.

You didn’t touch him. Didn’t lean in. You just looked him in the eye and let the silence carry every word you weren’t saying.

Then, calmly, you stepped back.

“Thanks for fixing the sink,” you said lightly, like your heart wasn’t pounding.

He opened the door to leave. But before he stepped out, he paused—one hand still on the knob. “Don’t do that again.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That look,” he said without turning. “Don’t give it to someone like me.”

Then he left.

And the door clicked shut, soft but final. But that ache under your skin? That feeling stayed.

⸻

He didn’t answer your texts.

Not that you’d sent anything obvious — no hey, where’d you go? or miss me yet? You weren’t desperate. Just strategic. Just playful.

Just one message:

u still alive or did the police get u

No response.

You weren’t surprised.

Heeseung had been doing the whole avoidance damage control routine like a pro. No more porch run-ins, no more accidental eye contact in the hall. Even his mail pile vanished earlier now, like he was timing it to avoid bumping into you.

It would’ve been impressive if it weren’t so stupid and if it weren’t you he was avoiding.

So on a sticky, slow Wednesday night, when the air felt like it was sitting on your skin and your playlist (full of tame impala and mitski like artists) had hit its third repeat, you decided to make a move.

Of course, not a bold one, you were too embarrassed. Just cookies.

Soft, warm, chocolate chip with flaky sea salt on top, the kind that melted in your mouth and made people forgive you for anything.

You boxed them in a clear plastic container, scribbled “for the grump next door” on a sticky note, and padded barefoot down the hall. You placed it on his doormat and knocked once. Then you walked away like it meant nothing.

And you told yourself that it didn’t, you were still young after all, this was just flirting.

But the next morning, when you opened your door, the container was sitting on your mat. Empty.

No note. No message. No thank you. Just a cleaned out tupperware that used to hold cookies.

You stared at it, your chest blooming with something smug and sweet, and said aloud to the hallway, “You’re welcome.”

⸻

Two days later, the door creaked.

You were already outside, tank top, loose cotton shorts, a half-melted popsicle hanging limply between your fingers. It was past eleven, and the sky looked like wet ink. Your skin was still damp from your shower, hair thrown up into a messy bun, strands clinging to the sides of your neck.

You didn’t look at him right away.

Just let the sound of his door echo like thunder.

Heeseung stepped out slow, like he was testing the air. Gray sweatpants again. A white shirt this time, sleeves pushed up his forearms. His hair was still damp too, probably showered after work. He leaned against the porch railing, almost mirroring you.

And no one spoke at this… at least not right away.

Until you broke the silence with a tiny, half-smile. “So you did like them.”

He didn’t turn his head. “They were alright.”

You licked a drip from your popsicle, letting the silence thicken.

“You ate all of them.”

“Didn’t want to be rude.”

You tilted your head. “Leaving the container without a note felt pretty rude.”

Heeseung finally looked at you then. Fully.

It was soft at first — just a glance, barely a pull of his brows. But then it dragged. Slowly. Over your legs. Your lips. The sticky pink smear on your wrist. His eyes flickered upward and met yours, like he hated himself for all of it.

“No more gifts,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Are you allergic to generosity or are you just emotionally unavailable?”

That almost got a smile. Almost.

“It’s confusing,” he said. “Makes it harder to pretend this isn’t…”

He trailed off.

You leaned forward, elbow resting on your knee. “This isn’t what?”

Another silence.

He didn’t answer. You didn’t need him to.

Heeseung looked exhausted, but not in the physical way, but like someone fighting a current he already knew was going to win. His fingers tapped against the porch rail once, then stilled.

“You looked better without the distance,” you said after a beat. “Three days of silence didn’t suit you.”

He scoffed under his breath. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”

“You’re hard to ignore.”

That one landed and his grip on the railing visibly tightened.

“Don’t do that,” he said lowly.

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like I matter.”

You stared at him, the popsicle melting slowly in your hand. “If you didn’t matter, I wouldn’t have baked you cookies.”

“Cookies aren’t—”

“You ate all of them, Heeseung.”

He looked away, biting the inside of his cheek like he was trying not to smile. He didn’t succeed.

You let the tension stretch, let him stand there knowing you were winning this round too. And when you were sure he wouldn’t speak again, you said, quietly “why does it scare you?”

Heeseung blinked, startled.

“Me. Us. Whatever this is,” you added. “You act like I’m dangerous.”

“Because you are.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sharp honesty.

He stepped toward you, slowly, arms crossed over his chest. He was still a full foot away, but something about the shift made the porch feel smaller.

“You’re young,” he said.

You stood.

“You keep saying that like it’s a spell. It’s not. It doesn’t make you want me any less.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Swallowed hard. “You’re playing with fire,” he muttered.

You took one slow step closer. “Then stop standing so close to it.”

That did it.

His jaw tightened, like the fight was slipping. His chest rose with something deeper than breath. His eyes dropped to your mouth again, then away, like he’d burned himself on the thought alone.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said.

You smiled, just a little. “I think you’re the only one who believes that.”

Another silence.

Then, quieter than anything else so far, he said, “Don’t flirt with people who might not know how to stop.”

You didn’t blink. “You just don’t want to admit you don’t want to.”

And then, like that, you turned. Walked past him. One bare foot after the other. But just before you reached your door, you paused. “I’ll leave it unlocked next time,” you said softly, not looking back.

Then you disappeared inside. And the door clicked shut like a promise. Heeseung didn’t move for a full minute. But his heart did. God, it did.

———

The sky was bruised purple, heavy with rain and the promise of a storm. You watched from your window as the first fat drops splattered against the glass, blurring the city lights into shimmering halos. The air was thick, charged, like the whole world was holding its breath.

Then the power flickered once, then twice and finally went out completely.

You sighed, the sudden quiet so different from the usual hum of the ceiling fan and streetlights. The apartment plunged into darkness except for the soft glow of your phone’s flashlight.

Perfect timing.

You grabbed a candle from your kitchen counter, lit it, and set it on the windowsill. The flickering flame threw dancing shadows across the room, turning your familiar space into something fragile and uncertain.

Just as you settled on the couch, the doorbell rang.

Your heart jumped and your mind grew curious, you weren’t expecting anyone especially not at a time like this.

Peering through the peephole, you saw him: Heeseung, soaked through, rain dripping from his hair and sleeves, eyes wild but holding something like relief.

You opened the door before you could think twice.

“Power’s out,” he said, voice low. “Thought you might need help.”

You swallowed the heat rising in your chest. “Or maybe you just wanted an excuse to come over.”

He stepped inside without waiting for an answer, shaking water from his hair. The smell of rain mixed with his natural scent, something earthy, warm, utterly him.

You moved aside, watching him carefully as he pulled off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair.

“It’s gonna be a long night,” he muttered, scanning the darkened room.

You nodded, lighting another candle.

Heeseung sank onto the couch beside you, close but not touching. The silence stretched, heavy and electric.

“You never stopped,” he said finally, voice rough. “Not even when I tried.”

You met his eyes, bold and steady. “Did you want me to?”

He hesitated. “I wanted to do the right thing. But you… you make it impossible.”

You smiled softly. “Maybe we both stopped trying.”

Thunder rumbled outside, shaking the windows. Heeseung’s gaze dropped to your lips, then back up. “I’m not good at this.”

“You’re not supposed to be,” you said. “That’s why it’s real.”

The storm raged on, but in the quiet darkness between you, something fragile and fierce was born.

His hand brushed yours, just barely and it was enough. Enough to say everything without a word.

———

The storm had passed, leaving the world washed clean and the air crisp with early morning quiet. You woke to soft light filtering through your curtains, the scent of rain still lingering in the cool air.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A message from Heeseung:

“Coffee? I’m down the hall.”

You smiled, grabbed your robe, and padded barefoot to your door.

Heeseung was sitting outside, a steaming cup in each hand. He looked… tired. The rain had left his hair damp, and the corners of his mouth were softer than you’d ever seen.

“Morning,” you said, taking the cup he offered.

“Morning,” he replied, voice low but steady.

You both sipped in silence for a moment.

“Last night was…” you started.

“Too much,” he finished.

You laughed softly. “I mean—”

“No regrets,” he said.

You looked at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nodded. “You make me want things I thought I should ignore.”

You reached out, brushing a stray damp strand behind his ear.

“I’m glad,” you whispered.

His eyes met yours, open and honest and something more. For the first time, the space between you didn’t feel dangerous.

It felt like home.

————

You hadn’t seen Heeseung all day.

Not in the hall, not on the porch, not in the quiet hours of late evening when the light turned gold and sleepy. You tried not to look for him, but the way your ears perked at the sound of footsteps gave you away. You kept your door cracked longer than usual. You left a second mug on the counter like it was instinct.

Still, nothing.

Until 10:47 p.m., when three soft knocks tapped against your door.

You opened it slowly, and there he was.

Gray hoodie, hands in his pockets, hair damp from a shower (his hair is always damp!). He looked like he was about to say something casual, probably something like “just wanted to check on you!” but the moment your eyes met, it died on his lips.

“Hey,” you said, voice quiet, warm.

He swallowed. “You doing anything?”

You shook your head. “Should I be?”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “Come with me.”

You didn’t ask where. You didn’t need to.

⸻

The rooftop was warm from the day’s leftover sun, and the air smelled faintly of concrete and summer wind. The city sprawled below in a thousand tiny lights. The hum of cars far off. Somewhere, someone played jazz through a half-open window.

You stood at the edge of the roof together, side by side, not speaking. The silence felt comfortable now, not awkward nor heavy. Just full.

Heeseung sat first, back against the short brick wall, long legs stretched out. You sat beside him slowly, pulling your knees to your chest, careful not to brush against him.

“Do you come up here often?” you asked softly.

“I come up here when I want to stop thinking.”

You smiled. “And how’s that going?”

He didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed somewhere far below, but his fingers twitched slightly where they rested against the concrete — like they wanted to reach for something but didn’t trust the space between.

“You always come up here?” you asked.

“Only when I can’t sleep,” he said. “Which is most nights lately.”

“Because of me?”

He looked over at you then, not smiling, not teasing but honest.“Yeah.”

The word landed like a ripple in your chest.

You let the silence stretch again, watching the way the wind tugged at his hair. How soft he looked in this light. How close.

“I thought you’d keep avoiding me,” you said.

Heeseung let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I did. For like five hours.”

“And then?”

“And then I wanted to see you more than I wanted to do the right thing.”

Your heart ached at that. Because it wasn’t flirty. It wasn’t clever. It was real.

You rested your chin on your knee. “What’s the right thing, anyway?”

He shrugged. “Not this.”

“But this is what you want.”

His voice dropped. “Yeah.”

You turned to face him more fully. “So take it.”

That hung between you — bold and unshaken. You didn’t look away. And he didn’t blink.

Slowly, his hand moved. Just his fingers at first, brushing against yours on the ground like they weren’t sure if they were allowed. You tilted your palm up.

He took it.His fingers threaded through yours — warm, steady, a little shaky. Neither of you said anything.

He looked down at your joined hands, then up at your face. His voice cracked just slightly when he spoke.“You make me nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel like I’m already halfway in.”

You smiled. “Nothing wrong with that. ”

His lips twitched. Then stilled.

You weren’t sure who moved first. Only that suddenly, his face was inches from yours, the air charged and humming between your mouths. He looked at you like he was waiting for you to stop him.

You didn’t.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, barely louder than a breath.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Please.”

And then — finally — he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t wild. It was quiet and aching, like something he’d been holding in too long, like a secret finally spoken. His mouth moved over yours slowly, reverently, like he didn’t want to miss a single second.

His hand cupped your jaw. Yours curled into the front of his hoodie.

When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads rested together, breath mingling, hearts not quite steady.

“I’ve wanted that for a while,” he said.

You smiled, barely able to speak. “Me too.”

The wind stirred your hair. A car honked far away. Someone downstairs laughed.

But here, up on this rooftop, it was just you and him.

And something that had started slow finally beginning to catch fire.

———

Heeseung didn’t kiss you again.

Not right away. Not after the rooftop.

You’d both sat there for a while afterward, legs tangled, sharing secrets you’d never planned to say out loud. You told him how lonely the apartment felt some nights. He told you he hadn’t let anyone in, not really, in over a year.

Eventually, he walked you to your door and stood there for a long time like he wanted to be invited in. But he wasn’t ready and you didn’t force it. You just reached for his hand one last time and said, “Goodnight.”

He didn’t say it back.

He just watched you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked.

⸻

The next day, he acted like nothing happened.

Not in a cruel way. Just careful. Neutral.

You saw him on the porch that morning — hoodie sleeves pushed up, coffee in hand. You waved. He nodded. Said nothing.

You tried to match it. You leaned on the railing like usual, bare legs tucked under you, hair freshly styled. The breeze played with the hem of your shirt, and you saw him glance over, quick and sharp — then back down to his phone.

You bit back a smile. He was failing at pretending. Badly.

Good.

⸻

That evening, your doorbell rang once.

You opened it to find a small white takeout bag and no one standing there. But you heard his door click shut a second later.

You brought it inside.

Inside was a container of tteokbokki — still warm — and a napkin with messy handwriting.

Eat something. You forget. - H

Your stomach fluttered like a traitor.

You texted him:

thank u. i’ll return the favor. don’t think this gets you out of round 2 tho.

No response.

But a minute later, you heard the sound of his microwave.

⸻

By the time the sun went down, the apartment was too warm to be comfortable. You sat cross-legged on your couch in shorts and an oversized tee, flipping through shows you weren’t watching.

You were thinking about the kiss.

How it started slow. How it stayed with you.

How he hadn’t touched you since — not even a brush of fingers — and how that made you want him more.

You heard footsteps outside.

His.

Then a pause.

Then a knock.

And you opened the door without hesitation.

Heeseung stood there, hoodie zipped halfway up, hands in the pockets, eyes unreadable.

“Can I come in?” he asked softly.

You nodded and stepped aside.

He didn’t sit right away. He stood near the counter, like he was thinking of a reason to stay or an excuse to leave.

You leaned against the arm of the couch and said, “You didn’t answer my text.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re not regretting it, are you?”

He looked at you then — long, hard, like the idea offended him. “No,” he said, walking forward. “I’m regretting not doing it again.”

You smiled, slow and dangerous. “So do it again.”

He didn’t wait this time.

He crossed the room, leaned down, and kissed you like he meant it — deeper, hungrier, the kind of kiss that spoke of every second he’d spent trying not to think about you. His hands found your waist. Yours tangled in the collar of his hoodie.

You pulled him down onto the couch with you, your knees bracketing his hips, mouths still pressed together. This time, it wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t shy.

It was need.

He pulled away just enough to look at you, lips swollen, breath uneven.

“I’m trying not to move too fast,” he whispered.

You laughed softly. “I don’t care.”

His head dropped to your shoulder with a groan.

You stayed like that for a while — him curled against you, your fingers brushing through his hair, silence thick with everything unsaid.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.

“This doesn’t feel casual anymore.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “That’s because it never was.”

⸻

It started with small things.

Like how he didn’t knock anymore.

Some nights, he’d just show up — hoodie tugged over his head, eyes tired, hands deep in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. You’d open the door without a word and let him in. Sometimes he brought food. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he just wanted silence and your shoulder.

Other times, he kissed you the second you closed the door behind him.

Like he needed it. Like he couldn’t not.

One evening, around 9 p.m., he texted you:

I’m outside.

You found him sitting on the stairs just beneath your porch, arms resting loosely over his knees.

He looked up as you stepped out, then nodded for you to join him.

“I like when it’s quiet,” he said as you sat beside him.

You rested your chin on your knee. “Me too.”

He tilted his head, gaze soft. “You look different out here.”

“More peaceful?”

He shook his head. “More quiet.”

You smiled. “And you’re still sitting next to me.”

“That’s the problem.” He said it so easily now. Like he’d stopped fighting it.

You nudged his shoulder with yours. “What problem?”

He didn’t say it. He just leaned in and kissed you like an answer.

⸻

It didn’t take long for people to start noticing.

Not because you were obvious, but because the energy shifted. You weren’t flirting anymore. Not really.

Now, you looked at him like he was already yours.

And he looked at you like he hated how much he loved that.

One night, your upstairs neighbor passed you both in the hallway as you leaned against Heeseung’s doorframe, laughing too softly for anyone else to understand. She paused. Smiled.

“You two finally figured it out?”

You blinked. “What?”

She just waved her hand. “Nothing. It’s cute.”

Heeseung’s ears flushed pink.

⸻

The first time he stayed the night, it wasn’t planned.

It was a Friday. You’d had a bad day — some frustrating texts from friends, missed deadlines, your AC rattling like it was about to die. Heeseung showed up just after midnight with a bag of snacks, two cold cans of soda, and a promise to fix the AC.

You didn’t even make it through the first half of the movie.

You fell asleep with your head on his chest and his fingers tangled in your hair, both of you tucked into the corner of the couch like you were afraid moving would wake the spell.

When you opened your eyes, it was morning. The sky was pale and the city quiet. Heeseung was still there, one arm wrapped around your waist, his breath slow against your neck.

You didn’t move. You didn’t want to.

⸻

Later, as he slipped his shoes on at the door, you watched him with your arms crossed and a sleepy smirk on your face.

“Next time, bring a change of clothes.”

He glanced back at you, already smiling.

“You planning on keeping me here?”

You shrugged. “We both know you don’t want to leave.”

He didn’t argue, only leaned in, kissed your forehead, and said,

“I’ll be back tonight.”

And he was.

⸻

It was supposed to be a quick trip.

Just groceries. Maybe some snacks. You’d texted Heeseung out of boredom, and he’d replied three minutes later with:

“Pick me up.”

So now here you were, in a corner aisle of a half-empty store, laughing quietly as Heeseung leaned over your shoulder to read the label on a bottle of soy sauce you didn’t actually need.

“I swear you only come here to flirt in front of the ramen.”

You tilted your head toward him. “It’s the most romantic aisle. Obviously.”

He grinned, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Then I guess I’ll propose in front of the instant miso.”

Your laughter echoed softly through the aisle. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t scandalous. Just a kind of closeness that said we’re comfortable here — in this in-between space of almost something, almost everything.

Heeseung tugged the cart behind him as you tossed in a bag of frozen dumplings. Your fingers brushed as you walked. You didn’t think twice before linking your pinky with his.

Neither of you noticed the guy standing at the end of the aisle.

Not until Heeseung froze mid-step.

You followed his gaze — and found a tall guy with messy hair and a smirk standing by the cereal section, arms crossed over his chest like he’d just stumbled across something way more interesting than Frosted Flakes.

“Hee?” the guy said. “Seriously?”

Heeseung’s hand slipped from yours instantly. His expression changed. Not guilty, exactly — but startled. Like something private had just been exposed to air too early.

You glanced between them. “Friend of yours?”

“Jay,” Heeseung muttered. “We… used to work together.”

Jay raised an eyebrow. “Used to?”

You stepped back slightly, giving them space, but Jay’s eyes flicked to you and then to Heeseung with a grin that said got it.

“I was just grabbing cereal,” Jay said, lifting the box like proof. “Didn’t realize you were busy.”

Heeseung shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s not—”

“Relax,” Jay cut in. “I’m not judging.”

He looked at you again, this time a little differently — not rude, not intrusive. Just curious.

“You his girlfriend?”

You opened your mouth, but Heeseung beat you to it.

“She’s… someone.”

Jay blinked, caught off guard. “Okay.”

Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re not really… telling people yet.”

Jay gave a small, knowing nod. “Then I didn’t see anything.”

You smiled a little. “Thanks.”

Jay winked at Heeseung. “She’s cute. Don’t mess it up.”

Then he turned and disappeared into the next aisle, humming to himself like the world hadn’t just shifted.

⸻

In the car afterward, Heeseung was quiet.

You didn’t press him. You let the silence sit, warm and humming, like tension without teeth. It wasn’t until you pulled into the parking lot that he finally spoke.

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like I’m ashamed.”

You looked over at him. “I know.”

He turned toward you, hand resting between your seats, thumb brushing yours gently. “I just… wasn’t ready for anyone to see it yet.”

“You don’t owe anyone anything, Hee.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “I know. But you do.”

You raised a brow. “Me?”

“Yeah. You deserve someone who’s proud of it. Of you.”

The words sat heavy in your chest — heavier than you expected. You squeezed his fingers. “Then be proud.”

He looked at you, then down at your joined hands. “I’m trying,” he said softly. “Just… don’t let go while I figure it out.”

You leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

⸻

You expected him to disappear.

Not fully — but to go distant. To start second-guessing what this was, what you were. After all, someone saw. Someone knew. And the last thing Heeseung had ever been was careless.

But he didn’t go anywhere.

He texted you later that night:

Home safe?

You left your hoodie in the car. Smelled like strawberries.

Might keep it.

You stared at the last message for a while.

Smiled.

Didn’t answer.

Let him sit with the feeling of wanting more.

⸻

The shift didn’t come all at once.

It came in the details.

He stopped sitting on the other side of the couch. Now he pulled you into his lap like it was second nature, held you while you talked, laughed into your shoulder when you made a joke.

One afternoon, you were curled up with your legs across his lap, flipping through a magazine you weren’t really reading. He was scrolling through his phone. You glanced over at his screen and realized he was typing your name into a playlist.

“She likes sad music” was the title.

You tried not to melt. Failed.

⸻

A week later, you made the mistake of calling him your friend in front of a delivery guy.

“Yeah, my friend’s inside—he’s just grabbing the—”

“Friend?” Heeseung called from the kitchen. His voice sounded innocent, but you knew better.

You leaned against the wall, calling back: “Do you want me to say situationship to the man dropping off pizza?”

He poked his head out from the kitchen, holding two soda cans. “Roommate with benefits?”

You blinked. “That makes it sound like we split rent and trauma bond.”

He walked over, handed you a can, leaned in to kiss your cheek.

You were very aware of the delivery guy watching through the half-cracked door.

“Boyfriend,” Heeseung said, voice low against your ear. “Next time, just go with boyfriend.”

Then he turned around like he hadn’t just lit your entire chest on fire.

⸻

You didn’t call him that again.

Not for a while. But he’d said it. And the word kept echoing in your head, soft and dangerous.

The real surprise came on a Sunday.

You had fallen asleep on his couch after a long day, curled into a ball with your face pressed against his hoodie. It was raining again. Heeseung sat across from you at the kitchen table, scribbling something in a notebook you didn’t know he used.

When you woke up, he was gone.

But a piece of paper had been tucked into your hand. Folded once. Smelled faintly like his cologne.

You opened it slowly.

I’m bad at saying it, but I’m not scared anymore.

I want to stay.

———

It started with music playing too softly from your phone.

A lazy morning. One of those cloudy, sleepy Sundays where the world felt distant — the kind where time stretched long and warm and slow, and the only thing that mattered was the blanket wrapped around your shoulders and the boy sitting on your floor, quietly tying the laces of your shoes.

He looked up at you after the second knot, dark hair flopping into his eyes. “Your laces were a mess.”

You blinked. “You tied my shoes?”

“I live dangerously.”

You smirked. “You’re soft.”

“You like that.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Later, you were on the porch — two mugs, one blanket, and Heeseung sitting with his legs stretched out, back against the wall, his eyes somewhere on the horizon.

You watched him, the way he looked more at home now. The way he no longer pulled away when you touched him. The way he let his hand rest on your thigh like it belonged there.

“You never said what that note meant,” you said softly.

He didn’t look at you. Just reached for his mug. “I thought it was pretty clear.”

“It was,” you admitted. “But I want to hear you say it.”

He stared into his coffee like it might give him the words.

Then, without ceremony, he said:

“I want this. I want you.”

You looked at him.

He still wasn’t smiling. But he was serious — in that quietly terrified way that people are when they’re finally telling the truth.

“I’m not good at big declarations,” he added. “I won’t do the speech or the fireworks. But I’ll wake up next to you. I’ll know your coffee order. I’ll call you when the streetlights turn on just because I know you like the sound of my voice at night.”

Your heart pulled tight.

“I’ll stay,” he said. “If you want me to.”

You didn’t speak.

You just leaned in and kissed him — soft, slow, like an answer. Like a yes.

He kissed you back, but he smiled this time, too. You felt it. You tasted it.

When you pulled away, you rested your forehead against his.

“You’re already here,” you whispered.

Heeseung nodded. “I know.”

———

That night, you shared his bed for the first time. Not rushed. Not messy.

You brushed your teeth together, bumping elbows. You stole his t-shirt. You crawled beneath his blankets and let him hold you like the world would still be waiting in the morning.

He fell asleep with one hand over your heart. And when you woke up — warm, tangled, safe — he was still there.

Not leaving. Not running. Just yours.

In all the ways that mattered

#enhypen jaeyun #enhypen smau #jake smut #ni-ki fluff #kpop #sunghoon #sunghoon smau #heeseung #heeseung enha #heeseung enhypen #heeseung x reader #enhypen x reader #enhypen fluff #enhypen smut #ethan:heeseung

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mrsjjongstby · 1 month ago

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Nishimura Riki - headcannons

Designs your nails and LOVES doing it for you.

As you know, man’s artistic as HELL so, it's only right that he does your nail designs. You just give him a plain nail template opened on your tablet, and he gets into action. In the starting of your relationship when you asked him if he could design your nails for the first time, he was surprised but he immediately nodded with his round eyes looking up at you.

Then later on, when you didn't ask him to design them for you (because he was tired and you didn't want to bother him) he insisted- no begged to let him design them for you. He said, and i quote, “Let me do them for you baby, you know it’ll turn out bad when your genius of a boyfriend isn't designing them.”

Though he may act like he’s tired of designing your nails, he LOVES it. No matter what he’s doing, how busy he is, he’ll drop everything and design your nails for you. He’ll even add his initials somewhere in the design because he just loves being yours and you being his.

2. Asks for a kiss before helping you.

Oh you want that cereal which is on the top shelf? A kiss. You forgot to bring your towel into the bathroom and you need him to get it for you? A kiss. You want him to bring you a hot cup of tea after a long day? Kiss.

Whatever you want from him- you'll get it but only with a kiss ofc.

For instance, you’re laying on the couch watching a series that's got you hooked on alongside with Niki beside you with his leg on yours. You feel the need to drink water after gobbling down all the popcorn. As you move your gaze away from the screen, in search of water bottle, you notice that it's beside Niki. You nudge him with your elbow asking for the water bottle, he momentarily turns his gaze to see you and then takes the water bottle in his hand.

But here’s the catch, before you can take it, he pulls his hand back and leans his face closer to you with a mischievous glint in his eyes, clearly asking for a kiss. You chuckle and peck his lips, satisfied, Niki smiles and gives the bottle to you.

3. Sends voice recordings when he’s away

You are the only person he yaps to. Seriously, you are his personal, real-life diary. He shares everything with you, all from his embarrassing childhood moments to his deepest darkest desires. He doesn't feel weird or embarrassed while doing so because why would he be? You are his safe person, and he trusts you. Just like how you do with him.

And so, when he’s away, he always sends voice recordings of him speaking about anything and everything. Right from, “Good morning, babe” to “Today was so tiring but seeing engenes definitely made me feel better”

He shares everything. his struggles, his happiness, his amusement he faced while being in completely different countries and states. Your contact is like a cute little documentation of him yapping on and on about how the weather was too hot, how his room service food was bland and how much he misses you.

There are constant sighs when he’s talking about you- about your presence. “It’s so exhausting, I just wish you were here.” He says with so much desperation but ends it by saying, “I love you, angel. Sleep well.” knowing you’re probably asleep due to the different time zones.

He misses you a little extra hard when you reply with voice recordings of your own, he constantly says I love you and ends it every time with a kiss pressed into the mic of his phone.

4. Your space is his space.

He absolutely hates being away from you. You literally are like oxygen for him. So, he doesn't want to stay away from you even for a second. He’s constantly in your space, sitting too close to you or clinging onto your side like a koala.

Normally when you both are in public, he doesn't show pda and just sticks to holding your hand and pecking you. And you don't mind it because you know that not showing pda doesn't equal to him not loving you. Because its exactly the opposite when you both are alone.

He craves for your touch. He just needs to be close to you even if it's just you both sitting together scrolling on your phones. To him, what matters is that he’s close enough to you that you both can feel each other's presence.

And just one little complaint about how your hand is sore because he put his whole-body weight on it, he’ll give you the most offending, heart-breaking reaction to you with betrayal written all over his face. “You don't want me, right? You don't love me anymore, do you?”

5. Draws on your hand.

Take note that if you sit beside him while he’s sketching on a book that your hand isn't yours. Infact your hand isn't a hand, it's his canvas. He gently takes a hold of your hand and draws beautiful and small art on it.

There are, ofcourse many hearts on it along with his name etched on your skin with the ink of the pen. He just loves doodling on your hand and thinks it's the most beautiful and best canvas ever. You don't mind it either, especially when he’s drawing small masterpiece on your, well normal hand. Sometimes his art turns out so good, you want to get a tattoo of it.

You even told him that, if you ever get a tattoo, you’ll a tattoo of his art which ofcourse made him beam with joy and kiss you passionately. “Really?? Then I'll get a similar one so, we’ll be matching!”

6. Talks to you when you’re asleep.

Ok, not that he’s creepy or anything but when you are sleeping beside him, a sudden wave of realization hits him. That you are actually here, with him. He so down bad for you it's insane and he thanks God every day because he doesn't know what he’ll do without you.

He just believes that he got lucky with you because how did an angel like you fall for him? He just looks at you stupidly soft when your eyes are closed and your breathe steady. Sometimes he talks to himself, “wow. she’s really mine?? Tf.” and other times talks to you when you are asleep.

Like, “I don't know, I want to be with you for a long time- forever. I feel safe around you baby.” and ends it with, “You know I love you right?” then he kissed your head, then your cheek and then finally your neck and keeps his head there, drifting off to sleep.

7. Showers with you.

Now, not like a sexual one, just quiet, warm, emotionally safe. The kind where it’s just you, him, and the water running... like the world doesn’t exist for a few minutes.

He’s quiet in the shower, but he’s always holding you — an arm around your back, your forehead against his shoulder, his hand gently brushing water through your hair. It’s not about talking, it’s about presence.

He takes care of everything without making a big deal out of it. Pumps shampoo into your hand. Holds your towel open when you step out. Gently dries your hair with a tee because he knows your scalp’s sensitive to rough towels.

The steam makes him even softer somehow. He speaks in a quieter tone, like loudness doesn’t belong in this moment.

“Close your eyes, I’ll rinse it for you.”

Afterwards, he lets you wear his comfiest hoodie (the worn-out one he never lets anyone else touch) and pulls you into bed with damp hair and all.

He never treats showering together as a performance — to him, it’s just a deeply gentle, intimate kind of comfort.

8. Doesn't sleep without you

Niki’s the type who wakes up to even the tiniest movement. You shift a little? Pull the blanket up? Try to sneak to the bathroom quietly? His arm instantly wraps tighter around your waist. Voice low, all sleepy and confused:

“Where are you going…?” “No. Come back.”

Even when he’s half-asleep, his instincts scream “hug her or perish.” He doesn’t even open his eyes properly—just blindly reaches out, grabs your arm or your shirt, pulls you back into his chest like a possessive little koala. No mercy. He’s not dramatic about it. He doesn’t even realize he does it. He’ll wake up in the morning completely wrapped around you, limbs tangled, face in your neck…

Once he’s fully asleep, he becomes impossible to peel off. You try to untangle yourself and he just tightens his grip like muscle memory.

“Five more minutes.” (You’ve been there for three hours.)

Also, he gently rubs his thumb on your arm in his sleep without even knowing. Like his body’s making sure you’re still there.

9. Shows cool tricks all the time

Niki has this unspoken rule with himself: If he knows how to do something cool, you HAVE to see it. Doesn't matter if it's dancing, solving a Rubik’s cube, flipping a pen, opening a soda can in a weird way—

“Babe. Look.” (does triple spin) “Sick, right?”

You could be trying to study, and he’s just on the other side of the room spinning a water bottle perfectly on the table. You look over and he grins like a kid who just got an A+ without studying.

“Tell me that wasn’t smooth.”

Does the most randomest tricks too. Like one time he threw his cap in the air and ducked his head so that the cap landed on his head.

Absolutely the boyfriend who teaches you random tricks too. How to shuffle cards, moonwalk, do a footwork step— And if you mess up?

“Nooo, not like that.” Gets up, shows you ten more times. Then claps like a proud coach when you get it right.

The moment he finds out you’re watching him dance, he goes 10x harder. Acts like he’s just messing around, but that footwork is clean.

“What? I was just warming up.” (Sir. That was a full concert.)

Even if it’s the smallest thing—like stacking snacks in a perfect tower—he’ll tilt his head, step back, cross his arms like:

“I’m a genius.

But when you show him something cool? He gets SO competitive.

“Okay now watch me do it better.” (He says it jokingly, but he must win. It’s law.)

Deep down? He just wants to see you laugh and get impressed. He never really asks for compliments—but the second you say,

“You’re so good at that…” He tries to act chill but his whole chest is glowing.

taglist: @gnarlyhoons @stormlit-pages @himynameisraelynn @see-c (lmk if u wanna be added!)

A/N: ok.......... long fic will be posted soon but until then, here's a little something for y'all! stay hydrated!

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