#not to like. make this joke ship too deep BUT

[ao3femslashtop100-tournament]

AO3 Top 100 Femslash Ships Tournament: YEAR THREE

Welcome to year 3 of the AO3 Femslash Top 100 tournament! This is a tournament putting all the pairings who appear on this year's Femslash Top 100 list, which is a list of the femslash pairings with the most fanworks on Archive of Our Own.

The first round will begin on the 7th of August 12pm ACST and will be up for one week.

I'm just one person doing this for fun so please bare with me. I am now out of uni, but I have a job and a life, so this tournament isn't ranking highest on my priority list. I should still be able to have a regular schedule for posting, but I will likely miss some asks or propaganda to reblog. (The one exception to this might be at the end of August when I'm going interstate for a concert, but we'll cross that bridge when we get there)

Propaganda is encouraged, but any harassment or attacks on real people will result in me blocking and reporting you. I don't care if you meant it as a joke. I'll do my best to monitor replies and reblogs for shitty behaviour, but ultimately I am just one person who will be busy, so please let me know if you see any harassment or bullying that I seem to have missed.

I am aware that there are RPF and incestuous pairings on the list, please do not send me asks complaining about that, it will just be deleted. Also, even if you consider it okay to send hate to people championing these pairings, it will still get you blocked and reported. At the end of the day, these are just silly little polls about silly little fanfictions, I promise it is not that deep.

If you want a specific image to be used for a ship, please send me it! Any image is fine so long as it's in relatively high quality and can be cropped to a square. Fanart and other fan creations are also accepted as long as they are being used with the permission of the artist!

Info about poll making under the cut.

For convenience, making the bracket and seeding is the same as the last few years. Instead of doing one giant bracket with 100 entries, I'm running two brackets of 50 simulataneously. This means that the winners of the two brackets will then go against each other, and the winner from that will be the overall winner.

One bracket is the odd-numbered entries and the other is the even-numbered entries. All seeding consideration is taken only from the amount of works on AO3. Less than a quarter of the pairings have over 4,000 works, so in my opinion majority are on relatively equal footing. And, as proven by previous years, how many fanworks you have doesn't have much bearing on how hard people will ride for you -- Vrisrezi was 99 on 2023's list and has since dropped off the list entirely, but was able to defeat some of the highest ranked pairings on the list and became our first winner. Once again, ultimately this is just for fun, so don't take seeding too seriously.

[autistobrat]

Sorry if this seems bothering but Im really interested, actually. Could you deduce about me too?

Your media interests are a blueprint of your personality. Simm’s Master? You admire charisma that hides deep-rooted instability; villains who smile while the world collapses. Moriarty from Sherlock? Same archetype but with a British accent and theatrical flair. That fascination says you have a soft spot for controlled chaos; people who are dangerous but only because they’re brilliant enough to pull it off. I mean, it's not going to be fun if there's only brains; you need some chaos ;)

Brett from TwoSetViolin? Your admiration for talent is high, but you also need it to be humanized with humour. You don’t like ‘perfect’; you like exceptional but approachable. Hence why you gravitate towards musicians who make Bach jokes instead of untouchable virtuosos. And honestly, valid choice.

Your choice of shows (Doctor Who, Sherlock, House MD) portrays you as someone who admires intelligence above all else, especially when paired with moral ambiguity and social awkwardness. You like characters who are brilliant but flawed, probably because you see yourself in them; emotionally reserved, often misunderstood, but quietly proud of your ability to see what others don’t.

You describe yourself as emotionally unavailable and prone to dry texting. Classic INTJ defense mechanism. It’s not that you don’t feel things, it’s that you hate performing emotion for others unless they’ve earned it. People often mistake you for cold when you’re actually watching and calculating. I see you. Everyday. Every conversation.

You’ve already told people you don’t like shipping or fandom drama, which means you’ve seen enough internet chaos to develop a hard boundary against it. You’re protective of your own emotional space because you know how easily fandom toxicity can spiral, and you refuse to be pulled into it. That’s why you insist people ‘talk to you like a human being’; you want actual intellectual conversation, not superficial fandom screaming. But I should tell you: wrong side of the internet, mate.

You like classical music, probably because it’s structured yet emotional. It gives you a way to feel things without the messy unpredictability of people. That matches your interest in medical stuff; you like systems you can understand and solve, whether it’s diagnosing an illness or interpreting a symphony.

Your personality is paradoxical in the best way, also. You admire chaos (Moriarty, the Master) but live life controlled. You want people to think you’re unshakable, but you also warn them about mood swings because you know you can be volatile, just not in the loud, dramatic way. You keep people at arm’s length until you decide they’re worth pulling closer, and then? You’re loyal, but still guarded.

At least that's what I concluded.

[moldsporr]

You know, my favorite thing about the Makoto × Sans ship is that it genuinely makes sense when you think about it. I don't know if it was submitted to my tournament because "Kodaka twink × sans hehe" but I can actually see it being a legitimate ship dynamic. This is not to be biased at all but I do think it works actually. Sans × Makoto being the only crackship to make it into the actual tournament feels Correct to me.

[twilight-deviant]

Me compiling, for no real reason, all the times Fisk and Matt have successfully killed each other.* The winner with most kills may surprise you... It's Matt.

*(If I'm missing any instances, let me know.)

Matt Kills Fisk

[What If? (1989) #2]

An alternative to the Born Again arc where Matt, at the end of his rope after being put there by Fisk, kills him in an act of desperation.

[What If Karen Page Had Lived? (2004)]

What If where Karen lives (in hospital) and Matt's feelings become more vengeful than depressed. Mysterio kills himself when confronted, and Bullseye is apparently too sociopathic to punish? So Matt goes after Fisk for his smaller role in the event. (It's a good comic, even if the reasoning to get there feels convoluted and forced. Like I don't think he'd skip Bullseye.)

[What If? Daredevil Vs. Elektra (2009)]

Matt is killed in college but revived by The Hand with no memories of his former life. He becomes a killer, with Fisk being one of his targets.

[Daredevil: End of Days (2012) #1]

Fisk returning to the city after exile and striking a deal with the feds is apparently the last straw for this Matt. (DD S3, eat your heart out.)

[Spider-Gwen (2015) #28]

"Murderdock" worked for Fisk but killed his boss in order to take his place as Kingpin.

Technicality?

(This gets... half a point. Maybe.)

[Daredevil (1964) #380]

[Daredevil (1964) #380]

Incorrect rumors told by separate witnesses over what happened when a ship that Fisk, Matt, and others were on exploded. At least two of the three iterations appear to have Matt killing Fisk. I wouldn't say it counts because this isn't what actually happened, but storytelling is storytelling.

Fisk Kills Matt

[Powerless (2004) #6]

After other attempts fail to silence blind attorney Matt Murdock (not enhanced or Daredevil), Fisk kills him following one final confrontation.

[Daredevil 2099 (2004)]

Fisk's grandson, Samuel, recounts how Kingpin killed Daredevil, ending their rivalry. (Samuel is the new Daredevil. But also Kingpin as well.)

[Darkdevil (2000) #2]

Fisk gave the order to kill Daredevil and Daredevil was killed. I would say this counts. But what ultimately takes Matt down is getting in the way of bullets meant for someone else. The text box calls it a sacrifice. So yes? No? Is the act of sacrifice what killed him, or was he simply murdered? Would Matt have lived if he weren't protecting someone else? I suppose yes, we'll call it murder.

Technicalities

[Devil's Reign (2021) #5]

Fisk does and does not kill Matt here. He kills Matt's real/not-real twin brother Mike (who was pretending to be Matt) due to anger over his original memories of Daredevil's identity being erased from his mind. Unclear whether it counts. In its favor, not only is Fisk fully convinced he's killing Matt Murdock, but Mike is a creation based off Matt's original portrayal of him. He is and isn't part of Matt. Mike was a real boy with his own life at this point though.

[Marvel Knights: Millennium Visions (2001)]

It meets the basic criteria of being a universe where Fisk kills Matt, but this is all we have. Does one page of text really count? A lot of this comic (mostly text) is filled with jokes about other Marvel characters that aren't meant to be taken serious (like the other DD mention). While I like the concept they imagine here, I think it needs more effort than, "Be cool if..."

[Marvel Versus DC: Assassins (1996)]

This one definitely does not count because it's not Matt. It's not technically Marvel? It's a feminine Marvel/DC mashup of two separate characters, Daredevil (Marvel) and Deathstroke (DC), to create a completely new character. But the Kingpin/Riddler amalgamation kills her (by grossly ripping off little horns he previously had surgically grafted to her skull) so...

[seamistgale]

*digs my lost tags up from the ether* uhhh… what did i have in my drafts….?

Dangerous and equally Volatile bf Dan with his Positive Exposure boyfriend who has Experience with Anger Issues like you wouldn't imagine.

He lets Dick most of the moral heavy-lifting decisions instead of defaulting to violence now, bc the Sudden and Unexpected, but Not Unpleasant Codependance has a chokehold on his emotions and need for positive reinforcement. It's nice not to have to worry about things he doesn't get anymore, yk? Who cares if a couple of cities get leveled? Not him, that's who. Dick would though. He'd be so angry. Dan can deal with angry Nightwing-- he can't quite deal with a disappointed, anguished Dick that's angry at himself up because 'maybe i didnt help you when you needed me' Grayson. It's like Jazz crying for him. because of him. It hurts.

Babs thinks it isn't healthy, and has said so and tried to reason with Dick bc you have to see this can end up terribly, right? Given their history, this situation in particular sounds familiar (Dick butting his head where people don't ask him to.) and they've been here more times than she wants to keep count of.

Dick knows he has his bf on a bit of a 'hey tell me whenever u got The Urges babe' leash, but counters that it's helping?? He might be fumbling a bit in the dark on how to phrase things in a way that a) Appeal to Dan's sense of feelings-driven logic thing he has going on, b) Doesn't come up as manipulative because the intent isnt to, to restrict but help his bf redirect all those extreme impulses into good things. bc he believes in him. He's already used to being a good chunk of the hero community's morale booster, and he'd like to say his own moral compass is usually pretty accurate. With Dan he can roughhouse a little bit. just a little. Apparently playfighting is healthy, and by god does he still have some good old flare ups on that suppressed anger he keeps under wraps a goos 80% of the time.

Meanwhile, Dan lets his bf try to be sneaky, it's funny to let him think this whole 'I can fix him' rabbit hole. It would make him angry usually, but Dick's so sincere about caring for him its just… nice bc it reminds him of the family that got taken away from him amusing instead. yeah, that. He goes along with these silly exercises and gets some dates out of it. Oh hey, is that a hobby he actually enjoys? huh, he thought he wasn't capable of those anymore, but whatever. He's pretending, alright? He knows he's a monster, and you can't just un-fuck a ghost, or something. They're all violent in some way or another, that's how they all are. He mentions as much to Jazz with a shrug, because well, its true.

Jazz, making use of her hard-won professionalism, keeps her lips sealed this time. She prods a little, keeps count, and watches as the two prowl around each other like a couple of cats learning to live together. She thinks they're good for each other; sure, codependency isn't something anything rometely positive on any other health professional standard, but this is a halfa ghost made out of two people, and a vigilante that protects the (second, now?) most crime-infested city in order somehow.

Dan CAN change, he just doesn't want to think about it, won't admit it. It's good that he's letting someone else help with things he can't; with his issues around people leaving him, pushing people away via anger, and control issues surrounding himself, it's a miracle he hears Dick out let alone allow him to sway his decisions. He trusts Dick to help. From her perch, Dan's whipped; but she won't be the one to say it, because she knows he's stubborn enough to try to prove her wrong. Jazz isn't going to put ideas in Dan very talented hands for self-destruction and be a homewrecker.

And Dick…? Jazz doesn't know him as well, and assuming is a pitfall, but she also kinda has to judge him a bit, she's dating one of her baby brothers after all. He sounds like he also has issues dealing with control, but on the other way around; it's not malicious trying to gain control of your life, but whenever that extends to others, people tend to fall on the tin balancing line between trying to be helpful and being overbearing. Dan giving Dick agency over some of his decisions probably soothes that sort of compulsive urges too. They keep each other from being a worse version of themselves, at least-- and on the better end (which is the one she hopes for) they'll probably keep developing routines that keep uplifting each other.

Danny would love to stop being Jazz's soundboard about Dan's love life with (the first robin!!! whoa!!) this Totally Random cop that didn't get the ACAB memo. He's SO ready to make popcorn for the inevitable day Vlad finds out his sort-of son is dating Brucie Wayne's son though; those two get along like oil and water.

(funny prompt)

Dick: Were you serious about becoming the final boss?

Dan: Ha ha. Do you think I'd go along with a sweet deal planned by someone else?

Dick: I don't think you did...

(Not sure if I really understood this prompt, but I had fun lol)

Dan: I would kill for you, Dick. I would tear apart this world and gift it to you on a silver plate with a necklace made of stars and a ring of sunlight. Whatever you want, it’s yours 😊

Dick: … okay. So could I ask you to not take over the world?

Dan: No ☺️ Make a list of who you want to save, I’ll spare those people, but that’s it.

Dick:

Dick: *flattered, horny, and very, very afraid*

[itendtothinkalot]

certified hater

summary: jake sim’s got a new roommate. and he hates it. he hates you. until one random wednesday afternoon, you look at him with those eyes, and suddenly he’s noticing things he definitely shouldn’t. now jake’s stuck trying to ignore the fact that his least favorite person is somehow making his heart beat faster. he didn’t sign up for this. but hey, neither did you.

genre: fluff | enemies to lovers

characters: jake x f!reader

words: 15.3k

warnings: curse words, kissing i guess

a/n: based on in this economy's jake! our fav hater is back!

“Well,” he sighed dramatically, hand over his heart. “There she goes. The only decent roommate I’ve ever had. The only one who cleaned the hair out of the drain without me having to beg. Who made late-night ramen taste like a Michelin-star meal. Who laughed at my jokes, told me when my shirt was inside out, and didn’t steal my shampoo.”

His best friend rolled her eyes, already halfway up the porch steps with her bag. “Jake, we’re literally 30 minutes away. You’re going to see me every other day.”

Jake turned to Heeseung with a sunny smile. “Well…take good care of her, yeah?”

“I do take care of her,” Heeseung said, voice flat, eyes sharp.

She snorted. “I’m not being shipped off to war, Jake.”

Jungwon—boba in hand, sunglasses on, posture far too relaxed for someone witnessing emotional carnage—finally spoke.

“Alright, drama club,” he called. “Wrap it up. People are starting to stare. Mostly me. And I’m starting to lose interest.”

Jake turned to him with a deep sigh. “What’s even the point of going home? The apartment is going to feel empty.”

Jungwon raised an eyebrow. “You do realize I still live there, right?”

Jake waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, but you don’t count. You don’t talk to me. You just throw protein bars at my head and call it a meal.”

“And yet somehow, you’ve survived,” Jungwon deadpanned, like Jake was some tragic survivor of mild inconvenience. “Anyway. You got to live with your best friend. Now I get to live with mine.”

Jake froze mid-chew, narrowing his eyes. “…Wait. Wasn’t that hypothetical?”

Jungwon didn’t even look up from his phone. “No? I meant what I said. She’s moving in today.”

“She? You mean to tell me… I’m coming home to a stranger? A female stranger?”

“She’s not a stranger to me,” Jungwon said with an infuriating shrug. “Anyway. She’s chill. You’ll love her. I think.”

Jake pointed accusingly at Jungwon. “I swear if she does something annoying, I’ll—”

“You’ll do what?” Jungwon said, already walking away. “Write her a strongly worded Post-It? Sue her?”

“Ugh. First, I lose my best friend to my annoying boss now…now this? I’m going home!” he yelled, heading for his Uber. “But before I do…Heeseung,” Jake called out.

Heeseung took a slow sip of his coffee. “That’s Mr. Lee to you.”

“Yeah, I’m not calling you that when we’re off the clock and you look like a walking beige napkin.”

“This is Gucci,” Heeseung said flatly, glancing down at his designer shirt—then at Jake’s outfit. “And whatever you’re wearing is…”

Jake sneered. “Is a gift. From your girlfriend.”

“Oh. Then I love them,” Heeseung said sweetly, turning to kiss her on the lips without breaking eye contact.

Jake recoiled. “Tell your boyfriend to back off.”

“Tell your ex-roommate to get a grip.”

Jake narrowed his eyes. “I hope your new place has ants.”

And then... standing there on Heeseung’s stupidly spotless porch, watching them disappear into their stupid new house (because of course Heeseung could just casually buy a house like he was adding a new hoodie to cart), Jake squinted thoughtfully at the disgustingly perfect front yard.

Jake’s eye twitched. God, he hated rich people. To be specific, he hated Heeseung. Stealing his roommate and his best friend, just like that. Selfish bastard.

But then — just by the edge of the driveway — movement.

Tiny. Crawling. Full of untapped petty potential. Jake’s lips slowly curled into a grin.

“Well, well, well,” he murmured to absolutely no one, crouching down like a villain in sweatpants.

“Nature provides.”

Cut to twenty minutes later:

Jake crouched like a criminal in Heeseung’s yard with a plastic cup. Scooping ants off the sidewalk like he was foraging for revenge. Whispering to himself like a lunatic.

“This is what betrayal gets you, Heeseung. You bitch.”

By the time he had an entire squad of confused ants swirling around in the cup like unwilling accomplices, Jake stood up, dusted his hands off, and jogged across the lawn.

He rang the doorbell.

Once.

Twice.

Three times — annoying, spaced out, just to be a menace.

Finally — the door yanked open.

Heeseung stood there, deadpan, already exhausted. In socks. Mug of tea in hand. 

“What.”

Jake grinned, wide, sweet, feral. “Miss me?”

Heeseung blinked at him like he regretted every life choice that led to knowing Jake Sim.

“Didn’t you leave with Jungwon?”

“I was going to but…”

And then — without missing a beat — Jake yeeted the entire cup of ants straight through the doorway.

Heeseung’s eyes tracked it mid-air.

The cup landed with a hollow little plunk on the entryway floor — ants scattering like their Uber just arrived.

Heeseung stared.

“What—” Heeseung’s eye twitched. “Did you just—”

“Nature says hi.” Jake whispered.

And then?

Jake ran. Full sprint.

Cackling like an absolute child as Heeseung’s voice exploded behind him —

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Jake was already halfway down the street, gleefully texting Jungwon like a war general reporting a win.

jake: bro i did smth

jungwon: what did you do

jake: nothing much. Had fun w nature tho…lol

jungwon: wait a min…did u throw ants in their fucking house

jake: yea lol i can still hear heeseung yelling

jungwon: take a vid?

jake: i’ll snap u LOOOL

—-

It wasn’t that Jake hated new people. Well—okay. Maybe he did. A little. Just a bit.

Sure, he looked friendly — floppy hair, easy grin, that dangerously smooth voice that could charm strangers and confuse baristas into giving him extra whipped cream without asking. But deep down?

Jake Sim was a man powered entirely by routine, caffeine, and emotional damage.

At work? Immaculate. Precise. Heeseung’s best guy on every project. The guy you could trust to fix your mess without asking questions.

At home? At home, Jake Sim was powered by rage, Doritos, and spite-fuelled midnight snacking.

And nothing — nothing — disrupted that fragile ecosystem quite like a stranger invading his living space.

Jake sighed and glanced at Jungwon, who sat curled on the couch, no emotion on his face.

“You’re sure she’ll like me?” Jake asked, leaning back like he genuinely needed reassurance.

Jungwon didn’t even glance up from his phone. “Maybe she will. Maybe she won’t. I’m betting my money on the latter.”

Jake grinned, ego inflating instantly. “But I’m charming. I’m handsome. I ooze sex appeal.”

Jungwon finally looked up. Blinked. Paused.

“You’re… okay.”

Jake stared. ��Okay?”

Jungwon shrugged, unbothered. “You’re like store-brand charming.”

Jake squinted. “The hell does that even mean?”

“Looks the same. Works okay. Nobody’s writing home about it.” Jungwon deadpanned. “But yeah, sure. Reliable in a pinch.”

Jake clutched his chest like he’d just been stabbed with a plastic spoon. “I am premium charming.”

Jungwon sipped his drink. “You’re aisle seven, bottom shelf, on sale for $2.99.”

Jake looked genuinely offended. “Wow.”

“Look,” he said flatly, “she’s moving in tomorrow whether you like it or not. So dust yourself off… and for the love of God, take down that thing you call art.”

He pointed lazily at The Painting. The painting that Jake did during his “I’m unemployed and spiraling” era. His “maybe I’m just like Van Gogh” phase. A little stressed, a little depressed, and unfortunately — very creative.

Except he wasn’t.

Because if Jungwon was being brutally honest (and he always was), Jake’s 36 by 36 inch masterpiece was…

A giant, aggressively well-shaded dick.

Like, museum-level shading. Art school tragedy. Anatomically correct in ways that made Jungwon genuinely concerned for Jake’s mental health.

“It’s abstract,” Jake had insisted once, dead serious.

“It’s a dick,” Jungwon had replied, dead inside.

“To you,” Jake had said, like he was Picasso defending himself in court. “To me it represents manhood. The transition from child to man.”

Jungwon stared at him. Stared at the cursed, hauntingly well-shaded disaster on the wall. Stared back at him.

"Just take it down by tonight, you moron." he muttered, already walking back to his room. "Because I am not explaining to a grown ass woman why there’s a three-foot dick staring her dead in the eyes while she’s just trying to eat her cereal."

—-

You balanced a box against your hip, car keys jingling in one hand, your phone wedged between your shoulder and ear as you stepped into the apartment for the very first time.

“You couldn’t skip one class?” you muttered into the phone, nudging the door closed behind you with your foot. “Just one? I am literally dragging my entire life through this hallway alone right now.”

Jungwon’s voice crackled on the other end. “And I am literally about to ace my quiz on post-colonial literature. We all have battles we can’t pick.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out. “I hope your professor forgets your name and ends up giving you the biggest F in history.”

“Trait—”

Jungwon cut you off with a yawn. “Anyway, key’s under the mat. Room in the back is yours. Make yourself at home. Don’t fight Jake. Love you.”

You paused mid-step. “Who?”

“Bye!” he said, then hung up like a man with no conscience.

You stared at your phone. “What do you mean ‘don’t fight Jake’?! Who’s Jake?!”

No answer. Just the echo of betrayal.

You let out a long sigh and took in your surroundings. The apartment was… livable. Clean-ish. A little too beige. Smelled like something between cologne and aggressively microwaved noodles. Classic boy territory.

Still balancing your box, you headed toward the back, where you assumed your room would be. The hallway split into two doors. One was cracked open slightly, revealing a glimpse of a desk.

You knocked once, half-hearted and awkward, and pushed the door open.

And then everything happened at once.

Music. Blasting.

Eyes. Wide.

Box. Dropped.

You screamed.

Because standing dead center in the room was a guy in nothing but boxers, aggressively dancing to Bruno Mars like he was auditioning for a boyband. 

He jumped like he'd been tasered, yanked an earbud out, and yelped, “WHAT THE HELL?! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!”

“WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!” you echoed back, slapping a hand over your eyes. 

“I’M NOT NAKED!”

“YOU’RE LIKE 80% NAKED!”

He grabbed a throw pillow off his bed and held it over himself like it could protect either of you from this moment. “What are you even doing in my room?!”

“Jungwon said the room in the back is mine!”

“This is my room!”

“Then label your damn doors next time!”

“You’re supposed to knock!”

“I did knock!”

“Then you wait for a response, smartass!”

“Are you serious right now?! How was I supposed to know you’d be air-humping the universe like a deranged psycho?!”

“That was choreography!”

You both stared at each other, panting like you’d just come out of battle. You took a long breath, picked up your box again, and hissed, “You must be Jake.”

His eyes narrowed. “And you must be the replacement.”

“Well,” he said, tossing the pillow onto the bed and grabbing a pair of sweats, “we’re off to a great start.”

If first impressions were anything to go by, this was going to be war.

And unfortunately, the battlefield was your new living room.

—-

You wiped your palms on your jeans, jaw still tight as you grabbed another box from the small pile by the front door. This one was heavier—textbooks, probably. Just as you turned around to haul it outside, you slammed straight into a very firm, very warm, very fully clothed chest.

You looked up. Jake.

Now dressed in a hoodie and joggers, hair slightly damp like he’d just showered the shame off. Unfortunately, he still looked obnoxiously good. Annoyingly taller than you. And, somehow, smug—which should be illegal after whatever happened earlier.

He blinked down at you. “Need help?”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but he held up a hand.

“Unless…” He squinted dramatically. “You’re about to peep on me again, then I—”

“Peep at you?!” you hissed. “I walked into what I thought was my room and got assaulted by a hip thrust.”

He shrugged. “I was in the moment.”

“Are you always this delusional?”

Jake leaned against the doorframe like this wasn’t already a disaster. “You really can’t admit it, huh?”

“Admit what?”

“That you enjoyed the view.”

Your jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”

“Don’t worry,” he added, all faux-gentle. “Not everyone can handle the Full Jake Sim Experience.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know, Jungwon warned me about you.”

Jake’s grin kicked up, cocky. “Let me guess — ‘Jake’s a little dramatic, but give it time and you’ll fall for the charm.’”

“Actually,” you said dryly, “it was ‘don’t engage, it only encourages him.’”

“That’s slander,” he declared.

“That’s advice,” you corrected. “Good advice.”

—

Jungwon slid his bag off his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m home!” he called out, voice echoing through the apartment as he kicked the door shut behind him.

Finally. After years of joking about it, he was officially living with his best friend.

Jungwon knew the odds were low that you and Jake would hit it off immediately.

You were... you. Stubborn. Easily irritated. Quietly unhinged. But also — annoyingly kind. Thoughtful in that backhanded, "made you ramen but insulted you while doing it" kind of way.

You’d survive Jake.

Hell, maybe Jake needed to survive you.

He strolled down the hallway, humming as he knocked lightly on your door. “Yo. You alive in there?”

No answer.

He tried again. Still nothing. With a shrug, he walked over to Jake’s door and gave it a push. Open. Empty.

“Jake?”

Then, from the depths of the apartment, came shouting.

Jungwon blinked. Tilted his head. The bathroom. He padded toward the noise—and regretted it immediately.

“I was here first!” you snapped.

“No, I was here first!” Jake shot back, voice bouncing off the tiled walls.

“I had my towel in here! That’s bathroom code!” You yelled.

“There is no such thing as bathroom code, you freak!”

“Let me in! I’m going out and I have to pee!”

“Looking like that?” You sneered at Jake whose smile faded.

A long pause.

“…What’s that supposed to mean?”

You offered a polite smile. “Oh, nothing. I just thought you cared about how you dressed. But hey—good for you. You’re braver than most of the people I know!”

Jungwon closed his eyes. Rested his head against the wall. Inhaled slowly.

This was his life now.

—-

Jake sat slouched at the edge of the table, a half-spilled bowl of kimchi stew in front of him, aggressively chomping like it had personally wronged him.

Across from him, Heeseung and his girlfriend were mid–honeymoon phase nonsense—feeding each other dumplings, whispering like the rest of the room didn’t exist, giggling over god knows what as if Jake wasn’t having a full-blown emotional breakdown one seat over.

“She color-codes the pantry,” Jake snapped, waving his chopsticks like a weapon. “I left one bag of chips—one!—and she reorganized the entire cabinet. Who’s even looking in there, huh? The Pantry Police?”

“Oh—oh, and get this,” Jake ranted, mouth still half-full of kimchi. “She sends me photos of the sink. With captions. ‘This is your plate, Jake. I know it’s yours because it has your little cartoon fork on it. Like—what?! How does she even know I have cartoon forks?! Who memorizes someone’s cutlery?’”

He flailed a hand like he was being victimized.

His best friend didn’t even blink. “The real question is why you’re still using forks with tiny bears on them.”

“That’s not the point!”

“You ever thought of, I don’t know…” Heeseung finally looked up, lips shiny from dumpling sauce. “Being a better roommate instead of…an ass?”

“I’m not being an ass!” Jake protested — loud enough to startle the next table and wild enough to knock over the soy sauce dish. He scrambled to fix it with a sad napkin, still grumbling under his breath like he was the victim here.

“She’s just—she’s too clean, okay? Like robot clean. Psycho neat. I leave one hoodie on the couch and next thing I know, it’s folded, labelled, and put away neatly.” 

“It just sounds like you’re being an ass to her,” she said.

“Yeah, let’s unpack that.”

Jake squinted. “Unpack what?”

“You know.” Heeseung leaned back, annoyingly relaxed. “Why are you all…angsty and weird about her?”

“Because!” Jake snapped. Jake glared. At them. At the table. At the ceiling.

Heeseung raised an eyebrow. “Because?”

Then he exploded, “…Because she freaking pisses me off, that’s why!”

The table went silent.

“That’s crazy. Sounds a lot like flirting to me.”

—-

You threw yourself onto the couch with the kind of rage that could only come from enduring Jake Sim for more than ten minutes. Jungwon sat across from you, calmly chewing on dried squid like he wasn’t witnessing a breakdown.

“He leaves his stupid fucking hoodie on the couch,” you exploded, hands flailing like you were directing traffic in hell. “Like we live in a prison bunk. Like there’s no other surface in the entire apartment for his crusty-ass clothes except the exact spot I want to sit.”

Jungwon nodded slowly. Unbothered. A man built for surviving your storms.

You inhaled sharply. But oh — you were not done.

“And don’t even get me started on the pantry.” You threw a hand toward the kitchen like it personally betrayed you.

“He messed up my color-coded snack shelf. My system, Jungwon.” He raised a brow. Brave. Curious. Foolish.

“What system?”

You blinked. Offended. “My Oreos go beside the dark chocolate. That’s balance. That’s harmony. That’s civilisation. That’s how society should be.”

“But noooo—” you went on, fully deranged now, “Jake Sim, chaotic neutral in sweatpants, decides to put my Oreos between the shrimp chips and the ramen cups like he’s staging a fucking rebellion.”

“So what I’m hearing is…” he drawled, “you think about Jake... a lot.”

“Shut the hell up.”

He ignored you completely. “God, you two act like toddlers.”

“It’s not my fault,” you whined. “He’s making living here hard.”

Like breathing was fine until Jake Sim walked into the room with his stupid smug face and stupid loud voice and stupid boy smell that was weirdly clean for someone who acted like a feral animal.

“You’re not exactly a ray of sunshine to him either,” he pointed out.

“That’s only because…” you muttered.

“Because?”

“Because he’s loud and smug and he–he leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor and–”

“Because?”

“BECAUSE HE FREAKING PISSES ME OFF, THAT’S WHY!”

The room went quiet. Jungwon stared at you. You stared at Jungwon.

And then he went back to chewing his squid, completely unfazed. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “you’re definitely in love with him.”

—-

It was nearly midnight, and the apartment was quiet except for the occasional sharp screech from the horror movie playing on the TV. The lights were off, the only glow coming from the screen casting quick shadows across the room. You were curled up on the couch, blanket over your shoulders, a bowl of popcorn balanced in your lap, gripping a pillow more out of nerves than comfort — heart jumping at every sudden sound.

Jungwon was long gone—fast asleep behind his locked door like a man who knew better.

The apartment was dark. Too dark. The only light came from the TV, flickering ominously across your face as the horror movie reached its cursed little climax.

On screen, the main character was creeping down some nightmare hallway — flickering lights, suspicious footsteps, a soundtrack practically begging something to kill them. You squinted, peeking nervously between your fingers.

“Don’t open the door,” you whispered to the screen, your voice tight. “Don’t open the door, you idiot—”

On screen, the character opened the door.

You sucked in a breath, ready for the inevitable jumpscare.

And then—

“Boo.”

You didn’t even think.

You screamed at the top of your lungs. The bowl of popcorn went airborne. Your fist met something very real, very solid, and very human.

Crack.

“OW—WHAT THE FU—”

You turned mid-panic to find Jake Sim, doubled over and holding his nose, blinking like he’d just been hit by a truck.

Your jaw dropped. “OH MY GOD—JAKE?!”

He groaned loudly. “Did you just punch me?!”

“YOU SNUCK UP ON ME!”

“DO I LOOK LIKE THE FUCKING DEMON?!”

Jake pulled his hand back and stared at the red streak now smeared across his palm.

“Is that—” you gasped, eyes wide, “OH MY GOD, ARE YOU BLEEDING?”

“Yes!” Jake hissed, clutching his nose. “My face is leaking! My nose is leaking because you decided to square up with me like this was Mortal Kombat!”

You scrambled to grab tissues, knocking over a cushion and somehow stepping on your own foot in the process. “I didn’t mean to! It was a reflex! Who sneaks up on someone during a horror movie? You’re lucky I didn’t stab you.”

Jake flopped onto the couch like a man deeply wronged. “You need a warning label.”

“You need common sense.”

“You need to stop throwing hands like you’re in an underground fight club.”

You shoved the wad of tissues at him, dropping onto the couch beside him with a dramatic sigh. “Drama queen.”

“Violent rat.”

The two of you sat there, breathing hard. Popcorn crunched quietly under your sock. The horror movie still played in the background — completely forgotten.

Ten minutes later, you were sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, chewing your lip. Jake sat slouched on the couch, ice pack pressed to his face, still sulking like you’d ruined his modelling career.

“Are you okay?” you asked, cautiously.

Jake didn’t look at you. “Physically or emotionally?”

You squinted. “...Both?”

“Physically, my nose is fighting for its life. Emotionally? I’ve seen things.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh my god, you’re so dramatic.”

He gave you a look over the ice pack. “I googled it. I’m allowed to be dramatic.”

You snorted. “Let me see.”

“What, so you can break it again?”

Still, when you leaned in, Jake let you push his hand away.

Carefully, you touched the bridge of his nose, brows furrowed in focus. Up close like this, you were quiet for once — way too close, way too serious, and way too pretty for his peace of mind.

“It’s not broken,” you muttered, inspecting him closely. “Tragically.”

Jake huffed a laugh under his breath. “Bet you’re disappointed.”

“A little,” you admitted.

Your hand brushed his cheek as you pulled away and Jake’s brain short-circuited for a solid second.

“Okay, you’re fine. Still got your stupid face. The world can rest easy.”

He grinned lazily. “Worried about me?”

You scoffed. “I’m worried you’ll bleed all over the couch.”

You got up to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“To make you tea.”

Jake blinked. That shut him up fast.

“Chamomile?” he asked hopefully.

You groaned from the kitchen. “Isn’t that the only tea you drink?”

Silence.

Then Jake — deadpan, smug — called out, “Weird how you know that.”

You rolled your eyes. Hard. “Weird how you only drink the saddest tea on earth like an old timey British person.”

Jake snorted. “Says the girl who labels her instant noodles like they’re priceless artifacts.”

“At least I don’t treat chamomile like a personality trait.”

“At least I have a personality,” Jake shot back. “Yours starts and ends with passive-aggressive Post-Its.”

You yanked open the cupboard. “Maybe if you read them, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Maybe if you punched fewer people we wouldn’t be here.”

There was a beat.

You grabbed a mug, muttering under your breath, “Should’ve punched harder.”

Jake, from the couch, still icing his nose, let out a scoff of disbelief.

“And yet,” he said flatly, “here you are. Making tea for me.”

You slammed the kettle down louder than necessary. “Because if I don’t, you’ll bleed out and haunt me out of spite.”

Jake leaned back, smug despite the tissue stuffed up his nose.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he called out. “If I do die and end up haunting you, I’m definitely hiding your stupid label maker first.”

—-

The next morning, sunlight trickled through the blinds, soft and golden. The apartment was quiet. Jungwon had already disappeared for his 8 a.m. class like the punctual little overachiever he was.

Which left you here.

In the kitchen.

Making the most humiliating thing of your life:

“I’m sorry I punched your nose” scrambled eggs.

This wasn’t because you liked Jake Sim. God, no. This wasn’t softness. This wasn’t kindness.

This was guilt.

Stupid, irritating, nose-bleeding guilt.

Because yeah — maybe he shouldn’t have snuck up on you like the human embodiment of a jumpscare. But also... maybe you shouldn’t have decked him like you were trying out for MMA.

Maybe.

Unfortunately, despite being fully committed to hating Jake Sim with your entire soul... you also had a functioning moral compass.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Jake padded out of his room half-asleep, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, hair a disaster, still mentally in dreamland — following the smell of butter like a man possessed.

But then he saw you.

And whatever was left of his morning brain just... stopped.

There you were. Standing by the stove — hair pulled back messily like you hadn’t even tried, barefoot, apron cinched around your waist, that stupid little dress swaying just slightly as you moved.

It was... weird.

Soft, almost. Domestic.

Like he’d walked into someone else’s life.

You were humming to yourself, lazily stirring scrambled eggs — completely unaware that Jake had frozen in the doorway like an idiot.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because it hit him — quietly, without warning — that you were pretty.

Not just yeah, okay, she’s kinda cute when she’s not yelling at me pretty.

But actually pretty.

So pretty it knocked the rest of his words clean out of his head.

Which explained why he didn’t notice the sharp corner of the kitchen counter directly in front of him.

WHAM.

His toe slammed into the sharp corner of the kitchen counter.

“Fuck,” he whispered, staggering back like he’d been shot.

You jumped, whipping around. “Oh, you’re awake.”

Jake blinked down at you from the other side of the kitchen, still cradling his busted toe like it was your fault. His hoodie was sliding off one shoulder, hair an absolute mess, socks mismatched.

Meanwhile, you?

Hair tied up like it was nothing. That stupid little dress swishing around your knees. Making breakfast.

It was almost offensive, really.

Jake narrowed his eyes. \Why did you look... annoyingly good this morning? Since when? Since when were you this pretty?

Damn, maybe you gave him a concussion.

You caught him staring.

“What?” you snapped, holding up the plate like it was a peace treaty you immediately regretted.

He blinked, snapped out of it. “What’s this?”

“Scrambled eggs. For you.”

“Pity eggs?”

You rolled your eyes. “Consider it hush money so I don’t have to keep looking at your tragic nose bruise.”

Jake hesitated. Then took the plate — fingers brushing yours just long enough to send something stupid and sparky down his spine.

Shut up, spine.

He cleared his throat. “You didn’t poison these, right?”

“Only emotionally,” you deadpanned. “Just like I do everything.”

Jake snorted under his breath — a sound halfway between disbelief and reluctant amusement.

But then, as you sat across from him, watching him eat like you weren’t the one responsible for his new villain origin story, you shifted awkwardly.

And Jake noticed.

Hard not to, when you were never this quiet.

“Look…” you started, voice forced like you were fighting every bit of your pride. “I was talking to Jungwon, and… maybe I’ve been giving you a hard time.”

Jake paused mid-chew.

Maybe?

Maybe?

“...You broke my face.”

You glared. “It’s not broken.”

He gestured wildly. “It could be. You’re not a doctor”

You exhaled sharply. “I’m just saying... maybe we could be, like, civil.”

“Are you sure you didn’t poison—” 

“I didn’t fucking poison them, you rat.” Jake just stared at you, smug. 

You cleared your throat, adjusting your tone like you hadn’t just threatened him with breakfast. “What I meant to say was… no. I didn’t poison them. If that’s what you were worried about.”

Jake watched you from the corner of his eye — the way your dress moved, the way your ponytail swayed.

“I just feel bad, okay?” you huffed, glaring at his very tragic, very dramatic face. “That big-ass bruise on your nose’s making eye contact with me.”

Jake froze. Instantly concerned.

“...Bruise?” he echoed, voice tight.

“Yeah.”

Like a man possessed, he snatched his phone off the counter, flipped to the front camera—

And the noise he made?

Somewhere between a gasp, a dying bird, and a full-on crime scene.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, horrified. “You ruined my face.”

You blinked. “I—”

“My beautiful fucking face!”

You winced. “That’s… a little dramatic.”

Jake spun around like you’d personally ended his modeling career, shoving the phone in your face. “Do you see this?! How am I supposed to show up to work tomorrow looking like I got body slammed by Dwayne Fucking Johnson?!”

You snorted. “You literally work in tech.”

“That’s not the point!”

“I’m pretty sure it is the point,” you deadpanned. “You’re not an idol, Jake. I’m sure the CEOs will survive your mildly distressed nose.”

Jake let out a pained groan, like you just didn’t understand the gravity of his suffering. “I have a presentation tomorrow!”

You raised a brow. “Okay... and?”

“A huge one!” he cried. “Multiple CEOs. Investors from all over the country. I’m supposed to look like I have my life together. Not like I got mauled by a vending machine!”

You shrugged, zero sympathy left in your body. “Can’t your boss… what’s his name again… Hee...Heesoo do it?”

“It’s Heeseung,” Jake bit out. “And he’s in Japan for a business trip.”

“Get someone else to do it.”

“I am someone else!” he exploded, pacing now like his nose was about to file a lawsuit.

A beat of silence.

You tilted your head slowly, casually, a little too calm for his liking.

“…What if I did it?”

“...What.”

“I could present it for you,” you said, crossing your arms, your smile inching into dangerous territory. “You wear a mask, pretend you’re sick. Cough a few times for realism. I’ll read your script. Boom. Problem solved.”

You turned back around, all casual, all dangerous. “Your pitch. I could do it.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“Yeah, uh, no offense, Broadway, but the presentation is about app technology. Not jazz hands.”

You shrugged. “Fake it till you make it. Plus, I’m excellent at pretending I know things. Ask any of my professors.”

Jake stared at you.

Like you had absolutely lost your mind.

“You,” he said flatly, “want to stand in front of a room full of multi-millionaire investors... and pretend to know shit about app tech.”

You grinned. “Exactly.”

“That is—hands down—the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Thank you.”

“And also,” Jake added slowly, like it pained him to admit, “possibly... my only option.”

You shot finger guns at him.

You grinned like the menace you were. “Come on, Jake Sim. Admit it. You need me.”

“Fine,” he ground out. Like the word physically hurt coming out of his mouth. “But you’re getting a crash course in app tech in two hours. No complaining.”

You shrugged, breezy, unbothered. “Sounds painfully boring. Can’t wait.”

—-

The next day, Jake had already bolted out of the apartment like his hair was on fire while shouting, “The investors are here and they brought their lawyers! I gotta g–” and then he left.

Meanwhile, you?

You were still in the bathroom, casually putting on lip balm like you had all the time in the world. Because if you were about to scam your way through a tech presentation with nothing but sheer confidence and delusion — you were damn sure going to look like someone who belonged on a Forbes list.

Or, well... the clearance rack at H&M’s attempt at one.

Were you terrified of tech investors? Absolutely.

Were you about to march in there, smile pretty, and pretend you understood whatever the hell Jake had been mumbling about for the past 24 hours? Also absolutely.

Because if there was one thing you were good at — it was faking shit.

(And pissing Jake off. But that was practically a sport at this point.)

You strutted into Jake’s workplace like you owned the building. Or were seconds away from committing tax fraud in it. Either way — heels clicking, head high, shoulders squared like you’d been bred in the wild on sarcasm and petty confidence.

The lobby was ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Air that smelled like imported lemons and old money. A giant, abstract sculpture near the entrance that looked suspiciously like regret and cost more than your entire education. 

Upstairs, Jake checked his watch for what had to be the fiftieth time.

You’re late. 5 minutes late.

His shirt collar felt like it was conspiring to choke him, and the mask he wore (to hide the bruise you gave him) felt less like protection and more like a visual reminder that he’d been punched in the face by you.

The elevator dinged. Jake didn’t even look up at first—he was too busy internally screaming about font sizes and silently mouthing his pitch like a deranged TED Talk speaker. But then the room shifted. The air changed. Like the universe hit slow-mo.

His gaze lifted. And there you were. Jake looked up. And promptly forgot how to function. Because there you were. Walking out of the elevator like you were starring in his worst nightmare — and maybe his daydream too. He wasn’t sure anymore.

Soft curls. Glossy lips. That dress. That damn dress — classy, simple, hugging you like it was personally invested in his suffering. The type of dress that shouldn’t have been this illegal in a workplace setting but was, somehow, devastatingly so.

Jake forgot how to breathe.

Because here was the thing about Jake Sim:

He’d seen you in every possible unflattering state known to mankind.

Screaming about printer ink like it committed tax fraud against you. Hair up in a bun so chaotic it looked like it had survived a natural disaster. Wearing the same hoodie for three days straight — his hoodie, he’d realized once, which only annoyed him more — eyes wild with caffeine and vengeance at 3AM because Spotify ads kept interrupting your study playlist.

And still — still — Jake had always kinda thought you were...pretty.

Annoyingly pretty.

The worst kind.

The kind of pretty that snuck up on you mid-argument or when you were mid-rant about detergent prices. The kind of pretty that didn’t need fixing or dressing up. Just...you.

But today? Today was different. You weren’t just pretty. You were dangerous.

His jaw clenched so hard he swore he heard a crack. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t even think.

It was like the floor had disappeared beneath him and someone had swapped out his organs with static. His heart had ditched the beat and gone straight to drum solo. His brain, normally quick, charming, obnoxiously cocky? Dead.

“You made it,” Jake said — and immediately regretted it, because holy shit, was that his voice? High. Cracked. Betrayed him completely like puberty had just swung back around for one last revenge tour.

“Yeah, well,” you hummed, throwing him a look and gesturing vaguely to the black mask covering the evidence of your sucker punch, “figured I owed you.”

Jake nodded. Or at least he thought he did. Hard to tell.

He decided to stay silent. Because God knows what would happen if he opened his mouth again? God help him — a full-blown Ed Sheeran love song might just crawl out.

So he didn’t. He just...stood there.  Standing at the podium, you looked...ridiculous. Ridiculously good.

Like you didn’t just belong here — like you ran the place. Like you were here to pitch an app or recruit followers for a cult — and honestly? Jake wasn’t even sure which one. All he knew was… he’d probably sign up either way. No questions asked. No dignity left.

"Well, good morning, everyone,” you began, and even you were surprised by how calm you sounded. 

Jake stood in the back, blinking at you like he’d never seen you before. You were charismatic. Smart. A little terrifying. And you had the entire room hanging on your every word.

Somewhere between “LinkedIn is dead” and “our algorithm is based on actual passions, not titles,” Jake realized something horrifying. You weren’t just pretending to be good at this. You were good at this. Confident. Sharp. Effortless. 

His chest swelled — with what felt suspiciously like pride — until reality smacked him upside the head. This was the same girl who, just last night, sat cross-legged on his floor, staring blankly at his laptop and asked, with full sincerity:

"Wait… what does AI even stand for?"

Jake was still smiling like an idiot.

God, he hated to admit it — but you killed that presentation. Clean. Sharp. Smooth in a way that made him kind of want to brag about it like he trained you personally (he didn’t — he barely survived explaining what an API was to you without passing out).

A few came up to shake your hand — small talk, praise, the usual empty corporate fluff. Except no one really asked you questions. Not the tough ones, at least.

Right up until he caught movement at the edge of his vision.

Two guys. Tall. Sleek. Expensive haircuts that probably cost more than Jake’s entire outfit. Hovering. Too close. He squinted. Because they weren’t walking toward him. Nope.

They were walking toward you.

Grinning. Hovering. Talking with their hands like they were about to pitch you a deal or — god forbid — flirt. His eyes narrowed. You were still reeling from the high of the presentation, packing up your notes when a smooth voice cut through the air beside you.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” said Blondie. "Mr. Sim never mentioned someone so young... and pretty working in the App Tech department."

 “Oh, uh, I’m new,” you said, hoping you didn’t sound as awkward as you felt. “Just joined.”

Blondie smiled, clearly not buying it. “New and already giving such an impressive presentation. I’d love to hear more about the algorithm sometime… maybe over dinner?”

You blinked again. Algorithm? Was that on Slide 7?

Before you could even form a response, a voice cut in like an unexpected thunderstorm.

“She’s booked.”

You turned just in time to see Jake—Jake—swoop into the scene like a knight in wrinkled business casual. His jaw was tight, eyes practically shooting daggers. And that mask? Somehow, it made him look even hotter. You were definitely going to need therapy to figure out why anger made him so ridiculously attractive. That was something for a professional to unpack. 

“She’s what?” Blondie asked, blinking.

“Taken,” Jake said, his voice like cold steel. “I’m with her.”

Blondie’s eyes widened like he’d just been slapped with a fish. “Oh! I didn’t realize—”

Jake grabbed your hand and brought it up to his lips with a quick peck, way too casual for the situation. “Anyway,” Jake said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “thanks for admiring my girlfriend. I, too, find her absolutely breathtaking.”

Blondie and his friend, practically evaporated under the weight of the awkwardness. They muttered quick goodbyes and slunk off, leaving you standing there, completely stunned.

“Girlfriend?” You stared at Jake, still holding your hand in his like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Jake leaned down slightly, his voice soft but pointed. “You’re welcome for saving you from that finance bro disaster. You looked like you were about to faint.”

“I was not,” you shot back, still flustered.

“You squeaked.” Jake smirked, his lips curling up in that annoying, irresistibly smug way of his. Your heart skipped a beat, but you shoved it down. He was being a jerk.

You crossed your arms, still confused by the whole situation. “You’re so weird. Why the hell would you do that?”

Jake shrugged casually, as if the whole thing had been no big deal. “Someone had to save you. I’m not letting some guy with a bad haircut flirt with you in front of me. It’s... inconvenient.”

"Inconvenient?" You stared at him, baffled. "What are you even—"

And then, like a slap to the face, it hit you.

He was jealous.

“No way,” you muttered, half-laughing. “Are you… actually jealous right now?”

Jake’s face flushed slightly, but he smirked, all smooth and defensive. "No, I just—"

You interrupted him, holding up your hand. "You are! Oh my god, you are jealous."

His eyes flickered briefly, like he was calculating his next move. “I am not. You're... imagining things.”

You leaned back slightly, giving him a teasing, incredulous look. “Right, because you not letting some guy get too close is just a totally normal response for someone you fucking despise.”

Jake paused, then looked at you with that intense, quiet stare, his expression unreadable for a moment. You felt a flicker of something in your chest, but before you could process it, he said, in a voice softer than you expected, “I don’t despise you.”

—

Jake sat across from you at the tiny grill table, doing his best to act like he didn't care that you were wearing what could only be described as the world's most unassuming dress. It wasn’t even remotely textbook "sexy." No slits, no plunging neckline, just a simple, casual thing that barely clung to you. Yet, somehow, you made it look like flawless.

You were just grilling meat, for crying out loud. Nothing remotely provocative about it. And yet, there Jake was, trying—and failing—to pretend he wasn’t completely losing his mind over it.

Then, disaster struck.

Jake’s grip on his chopsticks tightened, nearly snapping them in half. He could feel a vein pulsing in his temple. He didn't even realize he was glaring until the waiter noticed. And that’s when he realized something was very, very wrong with him.

You turned to Jake, blinking innocently. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Me?” Jake laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that wasn’t even remotely convincing. “Totally fine. Just making sure you’re not about to, y'know, set the whole table on fire.”

He shrugged off his jacket and—without thinking—slung it over your shoulders like his life depended on it.

“You look cold,” Jake muttered, trying to sound casual, but the effort was absolutely wasted.

“I’m sitting in front of an actual fire,” you pointed out, obviously not buying the excuse.

“Just take it,” he said through gritted teeth. He could feel his brain glitching as his fingers brushed against yours for half a second.

“You’re acting weird,” you muttered, clearly starting to suspect something was off. “Did you hit your head again today or…?”

“Just wear the damn thing.”

“Why?” you asked slowly, suspicious. “I’m not even cold.”

“It’s not for warmth,” he snapped, his voice tight with frustration.

You narrowed your eyes, not letting him off the hook. “So what’s it for?”

Jake leaned forward, dropping his voice to a near whisper like he was plotting a heist. “It’s... you're over there looking all... attractive, and the waiter’s looking at you like he wants to take you home. And I—” He paused and muttered, “I’m the one who invited you here, okay? So technically, you’re my dinner guest. And I just feel like you shouldn’t be—”

“Did you just call me attractive?”

Jake froze. For a split second, his mind went completely blank. He’d said it without even thinking, and now that the words were out there, the whole table seemed to get a little bit warmer, a little bit more suffocating.

“Uh—” He fumbled, trying to backpedal. “No! I didn’t—what I meant was—” He cleared his throat, awkwardly adjusting in his seat. 

You stared at him, eyes wide. “Jake... you’re an awfully jealous person today.”

He froze. Blinked. And then launched into a performance so bad it was almost impressive. “Jealous? Me? Oh my god, that’s so cute. That’s actually hilarious. I’m not jealous. You? Of you? Pfft. I just... look, I just think it’s unhygienic for strangers to salivate this close to raw meat, alright?”

He avoided your gaze and took a big gulp of his drink, probably hoping it would give him some answers. “Also, that guy was undressing you with his eyes.”

You gave him a flat look, raising an eyebrow. "And your solution to a perv is to throw a jacket over me like I’m some fragile piece of art in a museum?”

Jake kept his cool, eyes still avoiding yours. “I could go beat him up if you want,” he offered, not-so-casually.

You snorted, leaning back in your chair, slipping your hands into the sleeves of the jacket he’d thrown over you. “You're an idiot.”

—-

The next time Jake found himself questioning the entire fabric of his reality, it was in the kitchen of your shared apartment.

A totally normal evening.

Except not really.

Because you were sitting across from him in nothing but an oversized T-shirt and a smile, and Jake was experiencing what scientists might classify as a complete psychological collapse.

He wasn’t even sure what the hell the conversation was about. Jungwon was laughing about something, maybe a dumb meme or a cursed group chat screenshot, and you were giggling so hard you smacked Jungwon’s arm and nearly knocked over your drink.

Jake didn’t laugh. Jake stared.

Because every time you moved, your stupidly oversized shirt rode up a little, and your bare legs—the ones he absolutely should not be noticing—taunted him like they were sent from hell specifically to test his willpower. 

He hated it.

No, actually—he hated you. Yes. That was the correct narrative. He hated the way you always left passive-aggressive sticky notes on his leftovers ("These are MINE. I will KNOW if you eat one. By you I mean JAKE SIM."). He hated you when you reorganized his entire snack drawer by vibe. (“The spicy chips are angry. They go in the red bin.” What did that even MEAN?)

He hated that you chewed ice. That you used a ten-step skincare routine that monopolized the bathroom for thirty minutes every morning. That you once referred to him as “the reason I believe in selective mutism.”

And yet… he was currently staring at your thighs like they held the secret to inner peace.

Jake looked away, clenching his jaw. What the hell was happening to him? Was this a stroke? Had you poisoned his food?

The next time he went absolutely bonkers was a few days later. He had to pee.

He pushed the door open without knocking, because this was his house and he had…welll…he had the rights.

And then.

He saw you.

Half-naked.

In your bra and underwear, bent slightly over the sink, drying your shirt with a hairdryer.

His brain short-circuited like someone had poured water directly into his skull.

His gaze dropped—just for half a second, a reflex—and immediately locked on your bare legs, and oh god, he hated himself. He spun around so fast he almost slammed into the door.

“OH MY GOD—SORRY!” Jake yelped, one hand covering his eyes like he’d been hit with a solar flare. “You—why—WHAT—why didn’t you lock the door?!”

You blinked at him in the mirror and chuckled, totally unfazed. “Oh shit. I forgot to lock it.”

“What is wrong with you?!”

“Me? You walked in,” you pointed out.

“You left it unlocked!”

“You could’ve knocked!”

“I shouldn’t have to knock in my own apartment! What are you doing half-naked drying your shirt in here?!”

“I spilled soda on myself.” You replied, nonchalant.

“I’M THE VICTIM HERE,” Jake yelled dramatically, still not turning around. “I just wanted to pee and now I’ve seen your underwear! I’ll never recover from this!”

You laughed again, breathless. “Relax. It’s just a body. You’ve seen legs before.”

A long beat of silence passed.

Jake slowly turned his head just enough to peek at the wall. “Are you, um...decent now?”

“Yeah,” you said, tugging your damp shirt back over your head. “Crisis averted. You can resume your regularly scheduled hate.”

Jake turned around cautiously. You were grinning, cheeks slightly pink, shirt clinging a little, hair a mess—and somehow, it was worse. Way worse. Because even like this, maybe especially like this, you looked unfairly adorable.

He stared at you for one second too long.

“Jake,” you said, raising an eyebrow, “are you...blushing?”

“No,” he snapped immediately, brushing past you with all the grace of a man running from his feelings. “Now get out, I need to pee.”

As he shut the door behind him, you called out, “You’re welcome for the free show, by the way.”

Jake groaned.

Out loud.

Into the void.

He was never going to recover.

—-

It all started with what Jake would later refer to—dramatically and with full PTSD—as The Saturday Incident.

He had spent the entire day in bed, pretending to do work, but actually doing what could best be described as “vague laptop clicking” and “aggressively avoiding you.”

You were out in the living room, probably plotting new ways to rearrange the furniture or alphabetize the spices by vibe again. He wasn’t going to risk interaction. Not when his heart had started doing these strange, erratic flips every time you were near. It was disorienting, this fluttering sensation that kept taking him by surprise. Honestly, he didn’t appreciate it. Didn’t appreciate whatever the hell was happening in his chest, because he'd never felt like this before. 

The thought crossed his mind—maybe he should go see a doctor for a cardiogram. Heeseung had laughed in his face when he mentioned it, as if the idea of it being a medical issue was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Jake didn’t get what was so funny, though. All he knew was that every time you entered the room, his heart seemed to forget how to behave, and he wasn’t sure that was something anyone could just laugh off.

So he stayed hidden.

Until there was a knock.

“Jake?” Your voice came through the door—soft, almost... sweet?

He stared at the door like it had personally betrayed him.

“Jake?” you called again, this time with a tone that made his brain short-circuit just a little. He sighed like a man being forced into labor and got up, preparing for whatever minor chaos you were about to deliver.

He opened the door.

And immediately wished he hadn’t.

There you stood. In a dress—a glittery, stupidly pretty dress he had never seen before. The tag was still dangling from it, and for some reason, that made it worse. Like you were a gift waiting to be unwrapped and oh no what the hell, brain, stop right there.

His mouth went dry.

His knees? Unreliable.

You were—unfortunately—gorgeous.

“Can you help me?” you asked, turning around.

And that’s when he saw it. Your bare back.

Jake died a little. Right there in the doorway. He whispered, barely audible: “F-fuck.”

“Huh?” you looked over your shoulder.

“I said—sure! Sure, totally, yep,” he said, voice cracking like a 13-year-old boy seeing shoulders for the first time.

He reached for the zipper like it was made of lava. His fingers brushed your skin and he physically flinched. 

“You busy with work?” you asked casually, like this wasn’t slowly killing him.

“Yeah. Working. Doing... business things. Graphs.” Nailed it. “Are you, uh, going out?” He zipped faster, praying for this moment to end and also never end, confusingly.

“Nope.” You turned back around, smiling. “I just got this dress and wanted to see if it fit.”

Jake stared at you like he was watching the heavens open. “Oh,” he said dumbly.

“Besides, I was bored.” You laughed, brushing past him like this was your room, and plopped yourself onto his bed like it was no big deal.

Jake blinked. “You can’t just—don’t just walk into my room!”

“What? You hiding something?”

“Yes!” he said, voice a little too high. “I mean—maybe. You don’t know my life.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Let me guess. Secret stash of R-rated movies?”

“What?! No!”

“Love letters? Hidden shrine of an ex?”

“Oh my god.”

“Wait—you have love letters?”

“I don’t have any! Why are you like this?!”

You grinned. “Hard to believe. You’re, like, suspiciously single.”

Jake scoffed. “Suspiciously?”

“Yeah. You’re cute in a grumpy, emotionally constipated way.”

He blinked. “Did you just call me cute?”

“I mean, when you’re not yelling about laundry socks and acting like you’ve never heard of coasters.”

Jake’s face flushed. His lips twitched. A smile was fighting its way out, and he hated that you were winning. “You’re so annoying.”

“I’m a delight.”

“You’re hell personified.”

“And you,” you said, leaning back onto his bed, “are blushing.”

“I am not.”

“Jake,” you said, eyes twinkling, “your ears are red.”

He turned away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Okay, but—hold on. Why are you in my room anyway? All dressed up, all dolled up, all pretty.”

You raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “Was that a compliment?”

“No.”

“You just listed three compliments,” you pointed out, your voice teasing.

“They weren’t compliments.”

“They sure seem like it.”

He stared at you—your ridiculous sparkle dress, your smug little smirk, the fact that you looked entirely too comfortable lying on his bed like you belonged there—and felt his heart do a full-body sigh.

Oh no.

Oh no.

He was in trouble.

Because he didn’t hate you at all.

—-

Jake had one goal tonight: get snacks, avoid feelings, don’t die.

He’d nearly made it to the kitchen—eyes forward, brain reciting his grocery list like a prayer—when he heard your voice.

“Jake?”

He froze like someone had hit pause on his life.

There you were, curled up on the couch with a blanket around your legs and a bowl of popcorn in your lap, looking... cozy. Cute. Normal. Like you weren’t the cause of 99% of his internal screaming today.

“Yeah?” he called over his shoulder, already bracing for disaster.

“Come watch this with me.”

Jake turned halfway, one hand still on the fridge. “What? No. Why would I wanna–”

You pouted. And he hated—hated—how fast his resolve crumbled at the sight of it.

“C’mon. Please? I’m lonely,” you said. “Jungwon’s not back for another hour.”

Jake audibly swallowed, “F–fine.”

Still, he sighed and walked over like a man approaching a guillotine.

He sat on the very edge of the couch, as far from you as possible. Like you might spontaneously explode and take him with you.

You blinked at him. “Why the fuck are you sitting miles away from me? I’m not gonna eat you.”

Jake’s ears went red so fast it was almost impressive. “I’m—just giving you space.”

You threw a popcorn kernel at him. “What, do I have cooties now?”

“No!” he blurted, then immediately regretted sounding like a panicked fifth grader. “I just thought—I mean, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You tilted your head, amused. “I thought we were pass our enemy phase and in the ‘I-only-hate-you-when-it’s-convenient-phase.”

His heart stopped.

Jake stared at you.

“We are! I just–”

You shook your head and patted the seat next to you. “Come on. You're so dramatic. Sit like a normal person.”

Jake, against his better judgment and every self-preservation instinct, scooted closer. A little. Then a little more.

You tossed the blanket over his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. “There. See? Not so scary.”

He sat stiffly under the blanket like it was radioactive, absolutely convinced he was going to die. His arm accidentally brushed yours and his brain lit up.

You leaned in slightly, focused on the screen.

Jake leaned back slightly, focused on not passing out.

And somewhere between the opening credits and the second kernel of popcorn you tossed at him “for flinching like a grandma,” Jake realized something horrifying.

He didn’t hate you.

At all.

And worse?

Instead, it was the absolute opposite. Maybe he liked you.

(Or had the biggest stinking fucking crush on you.)

Either way, these feelings were huge. And scary.

—-

Jake was fine.

Totally. Absolutely. 100% fine.

So what if he maybe thought about the way your shoulder brushed his during the movie? Or the fact that your laugh made his chest do weird twisty things? So what if you looked really cute in that dumb glittery dress and then even cuter in sweats and a bun with popcorn crumbs on your shirt?

He was fine.

No, he was lying. He was not.

Because Jake Sim didn’t do feelings.

Feelings were for wimps. For poets. For people with acoustic guitars and questionable Spotify Wrapped playlists. For people like Heeseung.

Not him.

Jake Sim was immune. Built different. Untouchable. Feelings? He left those at the door with his dignity and expired loyalty card points.

Which is why he was currently, aggressively, avoiding you like you were radioactive.

You walked into the kitchen? He walked out.

You tried to start a conversation? “I’m busy.” (He wasn’t.)

You reached for the chips? “Take it yourself.” (They were on the top shelf. You couldn’t reach. He still left.)

You asked if he wanted to hang out? “No thanks. Be alone. Bitch.” (He did not mean that. At all. And also whispered it when you were already out of earshot, afraid he’d hurt your feelings.)

He was strong. He was cold. He was emotionless steel wrapped in flannel.

Until—

“Jake?” you called from the hallway.

He glanced up from pretending to type on his laptop. “What?”

“Do you wanna go to the store with me? We’re all out of eggs.”

And like the absolute fraud he was, Jake—emotionless, avoidant, emotionally repressed Jake Sim—paused for 0.0000001 seconds before nodding.

“Yeah. Let me grab my shoes.”

Traitor.

He followed you out like a puppy who just got asked if he wanted a treat.

As you walked side by side through the aisles, Jake pushed the shopping cart like he was starring in the most generic romcom montage of all time, trying not to let his arm bump yours again because every time it did, his brain felt like it had just short-circuited.

But it was fine.

Totally fine.

He was definitely not thinking about holding your hand in the snack aisle.

Definitely not wondering if you'd let him try one of your gummies, even though he could buy his own.

Definitely not wondering if this was what it would feel like to be yours.

He wasn’t. He wasn’t thinking about any of that.

Nope.

Totally normal. Totally platonic.

He was so screwed.

It all started in the canned goods aisle. And honestly? Jake should’ve known the canned goods aisle brought nothing but bad luck. It happened in third grade when he tripped over his shoelace and fell into a container of perfectly aligned canned soups. It happened when he was trying to grab some mushroom soup for Jungwon when he was sick and ended up dropping the can right on his pinky toe, fracturing it.

And it’s happening again now.

You were just standing there, trying to decide between tomato basil and cream of mushroom, looking entirely too cute for someone who was making soup decisions. Meanwhile, Jake, trying to pretend he wasn’t watching you, was already making a mental list of things he could buy—anything to distract himself from his growing awareness that his brain was short-circuiting.

“Hey,” the guy said. “This might sound crazy, but... are you single?”

Jake turned his head so slowly you’d think someone had insulted his ancestors.

He was standing a few feet away, comparing granola bar sugar contents like a responsible adult, and now he was staring at this random man like he’d just asked to marry you in front of a priest.

You didn’t even seem fazed. You turned your head slightly, giving the guy the most nonchalant look, probably silently wondering if this guy had any idea how little he cared about his question.

Jake could feel the nerve in his temple twitch. The air between you and the guy became suffocating. Jake's hands flexed, holding onto the cart like it might need a good shove.

The guy, oblivious to the thunderstorm brewing a few feet away, “Just thought that you’re really cute, and I figured I’d ask.”

You blinked. “Oh! That’s—um—”

“She’s not,” Jake snapped, suddenly right there, standing next to you like he’d teleported in through sheer fury. “She’s very not single. Taken. Off the market. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.”

The guy blinked, taken aback. “Oh... are you two—”

“Together?” Jake interrupted, smiling like it physically hurt him. “Yeah. I’m her boyfriend.”

You glanced at him, his eyes glinting with that smirk of his. And then it hit you—he was playing this way too well. A little too well. You turned back to the guy, giving a dramatic gasp.

“Oh my God,” you said, suddenly faking an epiphany. “Babe, I didn’t even realize he was flirting. I was too busy thinking about how your hair looks so good today.”

Jake twitched.

You leaned into him with an exaggerated sigh, grabbing his hand like you were in some overly dramatic rom-com. “I’m so sorry. I’ll try to pay more attention when people are flirting with me. Would that be okay with you, my Jakey-wakey? My Jakey-kins? My love machine?”

Jake nearly choked on his own spit. “Okay. That’s enough.”

But you were on a roll. You turned to the stranger, practically glowing. “Isn’t he so cute when he’s protective? Ugh, he gets so territorial over me. It’s like his thing. Next thing I know, he’ll start growling and peeing in the aisles to mark me like his territory.”

Jake made a strangled sound, clearly regretting everything. “Please stop.”

You ignored him, fully leaning into the bit. “Honestly, I’m just waiting for him to pick out a leash for me next, y’know? Just to make sure everyone knows I’m his property.”

Jake made a strangled sound. “Please stop.”

You pressed your cheek to his shoulder. “Should we kiss?” You smiled, putting your arms around his shoulder.

And then, in what could only be described as a full-blown panic move, Jake spun around and ran.

Like, actually ran.

Through the snack aisle, dodging bags of chips and disgruntled shoppers, past the sample table, and out the store doors. It was as if he'd spotted an actual threat. You stared after him, holding his dignity in one hand and a can of soup in the other.

The stranger who had been casually eyeing you looked even more confused now, as if he’d witnessed a scene from a badly written TV sitcom.

You shrugged, trying to cover for the man who was now two aisles away, “My boyfriend can be a little bit crazy,” you muttered, laughing awkwardly as you began walking toward the door. You dropped the soup can on his foot. “See you!”

And without waiting for a response, you bolted out of the store after him.

“JAKE SIM, I’LL KILL YOU!” you yelled across the parking lot.

You found him pacing next to his car like a madman who’d just come to terms with the fact that he’d let his emotions spiral in public. His hands were in his hair, tugging like he was trying to physically yank his frustration out of his brain.

You marched up to him, heat rising in your chest, and the nerve to confront him. “Hey! You made me look like an idiot!”

Jake turned to face you, eyes wide, clearly surprised that you were actually following him. “You made yourself look like that!” he snapped, a slight edge in his voice.

“Oh, I wouldn’t have to if you stopped acting like my boyfriend around any man who approaches me!” You felt your hands on your hips, standing your ground like you were the queen of this absurd conversation.

Jake’s face froze, his brows furrowing in frustration. “You want freaks like him to approach you?”

“No?” you shot back. “But I’m perfectly capable of turning them down on my own.”

“I was just—” he began, floundering for a reason that was not his own mess.

“Was just what? Why do you keep doing this? Acting all weirdly jealous and protective!” you interrupted, genuinely curious now.

Jake exhaled, turning slowly, like the weight of this conversation was about to implode on him. His voice softened, his eyes wide, clearly caught off guard by your determination. “Because…” he started, his voice lower than usual, the words stumbling out like he was wrestling with a secret.

“Because what?”

He didn’t answer.

Just stood there—hands clenched, jaw tight, breath sharp.

Then suddenly—he dropped his arms like they weighed a ton. Like he couldn’t hold it in anymore. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a single, desperate step before spinning back around to face you.

“BECAUSE!” Jake shouted, his voice louder than he intended. Your eyes snapped open wide, caught completely off guard.

Jake kept going—words spilling, frantic. “Because I don’t know what this is—whatever the hell you’ve done to me—but I can’t think straight. I can’t breathe when you look at me like that and I haven’t felt like this ever and it’s—it’s messing me up.”

His hands went to his temples. “Like fuck…I think I might need therapy. Like, actual therapy. Because of you.”

The air between you cracked—silence stretching heavy and tight.

You stared at him, voice soft now. “I– did I do something wrong?”

Jake dropped his hands, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. His face twisted, like he hated even having feelings, like letting them out was burning him from the inside.

Then—quieter. Broken.

“No,” he said. “Fuck, no. Quite the opposite.”

You stood frozen. “What?”

He stepped closer, eyes wild, voice raw.

“I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me, okay?” Jake snapped. His voice cracked, raw and strained like it had been clawing at his throat for days.

“You walk into a room and suddenly I can’t think straight. I forget how to function. I forget what I’m doing. It’s like my entire brain short-circuits just because you looked in my direction.” He raked a hand through his hair, pacing in a tight circle like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts.

“You drive me crazy. You laugh at things that aren’t funny, and you talk like the world’s ending if you don’t say it all right now, and you never let anything go—ever—and it’s infuriating. It’s exhausting. You’re exhausting!”

He turned, pointing at you like you were the cause of every malfunction in his soul.

“I shouldn’t care if you’re cold. I shouldn’t want to punch every guy who looks at you for longer than five seconds. I shouldn’t feel like I’m being electrocuted every time you accidentally touch me. That’s not normal. That’s not me. I’m Jake fucking Sim for crying out loud!”

He paused, chest rising and falling, eyes burning into yours.

“I don’t even like people! I liked hating you! I was good at hating you! And now I can’t sleep and I can’t think and all I do is wonder what you’re doing and if you’re thinking about me too and I—”

He broke off, swallowing hard.

Then softer, hoarse:

“I don’t know what this is. But I think I’m losing my goddamn mind over you.”

You stood there. Blinking. Heart somewhere near your ankles.

Jake had just... exploded. Confessed? Kinda? In the most Jake way possible—by yelling about how much he hated that he didn’t hate you.

“…Okay,” you said slowly, like someone trying to defuse a bomb with zero training. “So, like... just to clarify… you’re not mad at me. You’re mad because you like me?”

Jake stared at you like he couldn’t believe that was your takeaway. Like you’d just handed him a banana when he asked for a pen.

“I just—like, not to make this about me,” you continued, hands half-lifted like you were talking to a wild raccoon, “but that was a lot of yelling and you kinda sounded like you were about to fight me and propose in the same breath.”

He groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Oh my god.”

You bit your lip. “So... um. Do you wanna kiss me or punch drywall? I just need to know what stage of emotional collapse we’re currently at.”

A beat.

“Like... if I lean in, am I getting kissed or concussed?”

He looked like he was seriously considering both.

You tried to smile. “I mean… thanks? For the mental breakdown, I think?”

He just blinked—still breathing like he’d sprinted through a breakup, a confession, and a public meltdown all in one afternoon.

Like he hadn’t decided yet whether to kiss you, cry, or walk into traffic.

Then, softer, you glanced up at him. Still unsure. Still trying to play it cool despite the fact that your heart was definitely trying to beat its way out of your chest.

“Like… I mean, I totally get why this would frustrate you,” you said, nodding seriously, like you were a therapist delivering a diagnosis. “Totally understandable. If I was going through what you were going through, maybe I’d be a little insane too. With, you know, healthier coping mechanisms, sure.”

Jake groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re talking too much. Do you like me or not?”

You blinked. “Wow. Okay. No trigger warning?”

“I’m at my limit.” Jake sighed.

“Yeah,” you said. “That’s… kind of obvious. You’re, like, one sentence away from combusting.”

Jake pointed at you like he couldn’t believe what was happening. “I—God, this is so embarrassing. Let’s just pretend this didn’t happen.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like you,” you muttered, looking away.

“You’re saying a whole lot of nothing,” he snapped.

You threw your hands up. “Well, I’m sorry I don’t have a perfectly rehearsed monologue ready! Some of us don’t process our feelings through public tantrums!”

Jake narrowed his eyes, “I yelled because I was panicking!”

“Well maybe don’t yell at someone who likes you, Jake!”

“You didn’t even say you liked me!”

“I was getting there!”

“You were stalling!”

“I was awkward!” you shrieked, pointing right back at him. 

Jake threw his hands in the air. “Why are you the one acting like you just confessed your undying love through a full-blown breakdown?!”

A beat.

Silence.

Your faces? Bright red. Breathing like you just finished a cage match.

Then you exploded.

“FINE. YES. I LIKE YOU TOO, YOU PSYCHO!”

Jake froze. “You what now?”

You looked away, furious with yourself. “You heard me. I’m not repeating it. Take the win and choke on it.”

“That was the worst love confession I’ve ever received.”

You glared at him. “It wasn’t supposed to be one!”

“Well, it was horrible.”

“Yeah? Yours wasn’t exactly sonnet material either.”

You stared at each other. Still angry. Still flushed. Still… weirdly too close.

And somehow, despite all the yelling, all the sniping—

There was that thing in the air again. That pull.

Jake blinked. “...So are we dating now or what?”

You groaned. “Not like this, the fuck”

—-

The silence in the apartment was deafening.

Not literal silence—the kettle was whistling like it was being paid to, and someone’s phone was playing a YouTube video just loud enough to be irritating. But the emotional silence? The thick, suffocating, “we confessed our feelings and now we don’t know how to human anymore” kind of silence? Yeah, the two of you were losing it.

You were standing in the kitchen, arms folded, staring at the toaster like it had personally wronged you. Jake was sitting on the couch, holding a mug he wasn’t even drinking from, eyes glued to the television pretending to be absorbed.

Neither of you spoke.

The toaster clicked. You jumped like you’d been shot.

The two of you glanced at each other. You blinked at him. He blinked back. 

Then immediately looked away, sipping his mug. The wrong end of the mug.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re drinking from the side with the tag still in it.”

“I like the taste of paper sometimes,” he said without looking at you.

You tried. “So... uh, did you sleep okay?”

Jake nodded way too fast. “Yeah. Great. You?”

“Fine.”

“Cool.”

You stared at each other for another five seconds.

Then, at the exact same time:

“So, what are you—” “Do you want—”

Silence again.

You turned back to the counter, flustered. “This is so weird.”

Jake exhaled sharply. “You think?”

You glanced at him. “Well, I’m not used to openly... liking you or being I guess civil.”

“You’ve done a great job hiding it,” he muttered.

You smirked, falling back on habit. “Well, I am cuter when I’m emotionally unavailable.”

“I think it’s scarier when you’re emotionally available.”

You turned, arms folded. “So what, you prefer when I threaten you with kitchen utensils?”

Jake shrugged, leaning against the counter like he wasn’t seconds away from combusting. “At least I knew where I stood.”

And that? That shut you up real quick.

Because you both knew—you’d just entered new, terrifying, heart-melty territory.

And neither of you had a clue what the hell to do next.

—-

There was a sock on the floor.

A sock. On the floor.

His sock.

White. Crumpled. Mocking you from the hallway.

Something inside you snapped.

“SIM JAEYUN!” you shrieked, the kind of full-volume yell that summoned the fury of every past version of you who’d ever tripped over that man’s laundry.

Jake’s door opened slowly, like even it was afraid of you. He peeked out. Hair messy. Shirt hanging loose. Clueless. Hot. You hated him.

“...Yeah?”

“HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU TO PICK UP YOUR SOCKS—”

“I—”

“You what? This isn’t the first fucking time–”

“Ah, fuck it.”

You didn’t get to finish.

Jake stepped out. Two fast, easy strides.

And he kissed you.

Hard.

His hand found the back of your neck, fingers pressing gently yet desperately, as if he’d been aching for this moment, pulling you closer with a sense of urgency that couldn’t be ignored. Without hesitation, his lips met yours—no gentleness, no grace—just raw, impulsive need.

The hallway blurred.

You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound whole. His other hand gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, like he needed your body to make sense of the chaos in his head. The kiss was hot and heavy, all teeth and tongue and emotion that neither of you had known what to do with until now.

Your hands clenched around the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him even closer, as if you were trying to tear the tension from his chest and claim it for yourself. Jake’s groan vibrated against your lips—low, desperate, and filled with something completely unrestrained. His hands dug into your waist, his grip tightening as if he couldn’t get enough of you. And then, with a sudden shift, he moved—forward, desperate, no longer willing to hold back.

In one swift, breathless motion, Jake pressed you against the wall, his body caging you in with just enough force to knock the air from your lungs. His hand gently cradled your jaw while the other slid down to catch your wrist, his fingers locking with yours as if the touch was a lifeline, something he couldn’t let go of even if he tried.

You gasped, the back of your head colliding softly with the wall, and Jake swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss like he was trying to consume you whole. The kiss turned hotter, more frantic—lips pulling, chasing, moving with an intensity that had been building for weeks and was now unleashed all at once.

Then, you squeezed his hand. Hard. Your body trembled with the force of it, like you needed something to hold onto before you lost yourself. And Jake felt it—felt the desperation in your touch. Without hesitation, he squeezed back, his thumb brushing over yours as he refused to let go.

For half a second, his forehead rested against yours, both of you gasping for air, and neither of you willing to pull away.

You blinked up at him, your mind still spinning from the kiss, disoriented.

“…I’ll pick it up,” you whispered, your voice softer than you intended. “The socks.”

You bent down, still avoiding his gaze, grabbing the sock off the floor. “Just... just put it nicely next time.”

You turned and walked back into your room, your legs unsteady as if they could no longer hold you together.

Jake stood in the hallway, frozen, his heart racing, his mind completely blank. He gripped the wall beside him like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. But it did. And now, he had no idea what to do with it.

—-

Jake hadn’t screamed your name like that since the glitter explosion 2 months back.

“WHERE’S MY RED FOLDER?!” he bellowed.

Before you could even think of a way out of this—or how to hide under the floorboards—Jake barged into your room. Hair still wet from the shower. His shirt hanging half-buttoned, like he’d walked straight out of a webtoon. Fuck, he was sexy. Not the time though because you were sure you were about to get beaten up.

He slammed the door open so hard that it bounced back off the wall with a sickening thud.

You gave him a nervous smile, your best attempt at pretending you weren’t about to die. “Don’t be mad…”

Jake’s voice dropped to a dangerous growl. “What did you do?”

“I… might’ve thought it was old,” you said, wincing at the honesty in your voice. “So I kinda... threw it away?”

Jake’s body went rigid. His eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“You what?!”

“I—” You stammered, hands raised defensively. “I swear it looked all crumply, all old and–and–and ruined!”

Jake stepped forward, eyes burning with anger. You could feel the heat of his fury radiating off of him—jaw clenched, fists tight by his sides, like he was about to explode. You knew this look. It was like he was one wrong move away from detonating.

And just when you thought the situation couldn’t get worse, you did the only thing you could think of.

You threw yourself at him.

Your hands grabbed his shirt, and before he could even get a word out, you yanked him down, your lips slamming into his with the force of a thousand thunderstorms. It was hard, urgent—so intense, so sudden, that it instantly shut him up.

Jake froze for a split second, like you’d short-circuited his brain, and then, just like that—he kissed you back. No hesitation. No holding back. You were already moving, pushing him backwards, your arms locked around his neck, drawing him closer, deeper. His lips tasted like desperation, like need, and it was all consuming.

You kissed him with everything you had, no holding back. No gentleness. Just the kind of hunger that had been building up between you two for far too long. Your lips moved together, fast, messy, and you felt him press into you, desperate to keep up. Every part of you wanted him—wanted him to feel the frustration, the desire, the rage that had been bubbling under the surface for weeks.

Jake groaned into your mouth, his grip on your waist tightening. You kissed him harder, faster, pressing him back against the wall until he was pinned, his breath ragged as you both gasped for air.

His hands found your thighs and, without a word, you jumped. Legs wrapping around his waist, you felt him catch you effortlessly, your bodies moving as one.

Then, with a sharp turn, he slammed you against the nearest wall, his lips never leaving yours. The kiss was relentless, like he was starving, like he needed to make you feel every part of him, every inch of his desire. His grip on your waist was bruising, possessive, and you responded in kind, tugging at his hair, pulling him closer.

Your mouths collided, chasing each other, moving too fast, too clumsily. 

Jake pulled back only when you both couldn’t breathe anymore. Your foreheads rested together, breaths uneven, eyes wild and hungry.

He looked you over once, placed you back down on the floor, his expression unreadable, and then muttered, “...I’ll just rewrite it.”

And before you could process it, before you could say a word, he was gone. Leaving you breathless, in your own room, utterly wrecked—staring at the spot where he'd just completely destroyed every last bit of control you had.

—-

You were standing in the kitchen, Jake was at the sink, and the tension was so thick you could practically slice it with a knife.

“I don’t understand why you would move the dishes,” Jake snapped, gesturing like you’d committed an actual war crime. “I have a system.”

“You have no system,” you shot back, holding a spatula like a sword. “You just shove stuff in and pray the dishwasher works it out like divine intervention.”

“It does work it out!”

“Really? Because last week you melted a Tupperware lid onto a knife.”

“That was ONE TIME—”

You threw the dish towel down. “You’re such a control freak.”

Jake turned, dripping wet hands mid-air. “You alphabetized the seasoning rack. By aesthetic. I had to Google what "sage green" looked like.”

You huffed. “It’s about visual peace, Jake!”

He took a step closer. “You know what’s not peaceful? Living with a freak who organizes our spices!”

You stepped toward him, eyes locked, breathing hard. “Well you know what’s not sexy? Whining about spice jars!”

“Funny,” Jake growled, now chest to chest with you, “because I still want to kiss you right now.”

You both froze.

You were both holding something—him, a mug. You, a spatula. Neither of you blinked.

Then—at the exact same time—you both dropped them.

Clatter.

And lunged.

You collided in the middle of the kitchen, your mouths crashing together, the kiss so intense and fiery it felt like it could set the room on fire. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you into him like he couldn’t get close enough. You fisted your hands in his shirt, yanking him even closer, until there was nothing between you but shared breaths and weeks of pent-up frustration.

His kiss was desperate, furious, like he hated how much he wanted it, and yet couldn’t stop. Your lips moved together, teeth clashing, and you met his passion with equal intensity—biting his lip, tilting your head, the quiet sigh you let out making him groan into your mouth.

You were both angry, breathless, and so far gone you didn’t even care.

When you finally pulled apart, your noses brushing, your lips swollen and tingling, you both just stared at each other. Your hearts pounded.

Then, at the exact same time, you both asked, “...Are we boyfriend and girlfriend or what?”

There was a moment of silence, and then Jake pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, and then your neck, before pulling back with that signature smirk.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I think we are.”

You grabbed the front of his shirt, yanked him back down, and kissed him again.

“Good. Now shut up and kiss me.”

Jake groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding to your back, pulling you even closer.

“God, I’m so in love with you, it’s actually disgusting,” he muttered, his voice full of both frustration and affection.

And for once, you couldn’t agree more.

—---

It was your first official date.

Like—an actual, real, human-first-date. No yelling. No post-argument makeouts. Just food. Chairs. Maybe eye contact if you were feeling brave.

You’d been dating for three days.

Which, so far, had consisted of:

Yelling at each other.

Making out.

Rolling your eyes at each other.

Making out again. Repeat steps 1–4.

Three days of chaotic tension. Of brushing shoulders in the hallway and pretending it didn’t set your whole body on fire. Of accidentally calling him “babe” and then gaslighting him into thinking he misheard you. Of Jungwon asking the two of you to shut up and stop arguing in the middle of the night. You weren’t arguing. 

Three days of sharing the sink like civilized people, brushing your teeth side by side, totally normal, totally casual—totally not internally spiraling over the fact that your former arch-nemesis was now your boyfriend.

And then there were the quiet moments.

Like this morning, when you walked into the kitchen to find him already making coffee. He handed you a mug—black, just the way you liked it—and pretended he didn’t notice the way your fingers brushed.

You stared at it.

“What?” he said, avoiding eye contact. “I’m not a monster.”

You took a sip. “So you’re being nice to me now?”

Jake shrugged. “Don’t get used to it. I just don’t want to date someone who’s chronically dehydrated.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re worried about my water intake while you eat chips for breakfast.”

“Those chips had lime on them,” he said. “That’s vitamin C.”

Still, later that day, he also handed you a granola bar before you left the house. No comment. Just tossed it at your head with alarming accuracy and walked away.

And that was your boyfriend.

You, of course, were no better.

Like last night, when you walked past his room and saw him still hunched over his desk, blue light glowing off his face, glasses crooked, typing like he was trying to physically punch a thesis into existence.

You didn’t say anything.

Just stood there in the doorway for a second, watching the way his brows were furrowed in that hyper-focused, very-stupid, very-Jake way.

Then you glanced at the time. No dishes in the sink. Nothing in the trash.

He hadn’t eaten all day.

You scowled, muttered something about “men and their lack of survival instincts,” and turned straight into the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, you dropped a steaming bowl of his favorite ramen next to his laptop without saying a word.

Jake blinked up at you. “Did you—?”

You didn’t look at him. “Don’t pass out. It’ll be annoying to carry your unconscious body.”

Then you left.

Fast.

Too fast for him to say thank you. Too fast for him to see the way your lips twitched just slightly at the corners.

And then…

The next day, you were minding your business, scrolling on your phone, sprawled on the couch like the world owed you peace, when Jake casually walked in and dropped himself beside you—close, but not too close.

He cleared his throat once. Then again. Dramatically.

You glanced at him. “Are you dying?”

“Not today,” he said. Then added, without looking at you, “Wanna hang out tonight?”

You blinked. “Out where?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Somewhere with food. Lighting. Chairs. That’s usually what dates have, right?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Was that you asking me out?”

Jake didn’t flinch. Just sipped his drink. “Depends. You gonna say yes?”

You stared at him for a long beat.

He stared at the wall like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

Then, you smirked. “Only if you promise not to talk about tech stuff the whole time.”

Jake raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a grin. “If you’re lucky, I’ll limit myself to only mentioning API twice before dessert.”

You squinted. “You’re really bad at this whole romance thing, aren’t you?”

He grinned back, impossibly confident. “And yet, here you are. Saying yes anyway.”

You rolled your eyes, your lips threatening to betray you with a smile. “Yeah, well, I make questionable decisions sometimes.”

Jake nudged your knee with his, grinning like he’d just won a gold medal. “You’re about to make another one. I’m picking you up at seven.”

You crossed your arms, trying to look unimpressed. “We live together.”

Jake leaned back, completely unbothered. “So? I can’t be romantic?”

You didn’t argue.

God help you.

You were kind of excited.

—-

This was your first date.

And you were spiraling.

You had changed your outfit three times. Reapplied your lip balm five. Stood in front of the mirror giving yourself a pep talk like you were about to go on national television.

Jake was downstairs.

Wearing cologne and Jake never wore cologne.

When you finally met him outside, Jake blinked at you like you'd just materialized from a dream. His eyes widened, then quickly darted away, as if he could avoid the full force of your impact.

“You clean up okay,” you teased, trying not to smile too wide.

He opened his mouth, clearly trying to recover, but it came out wrong. “You look... pretty.” He froze, his face turning a shade of red that should’ve been illegal. Then he scrambled, “I mean, uh, shitty.”

“I heard you the first time, Jake,” you said, tapping his face lightly, almost affectionately. “So do you.”

—-

“Stop stealing my fries.”

“I’m not stealing. I’m redistributing.”

“Stop that! It’s not my fault I ordered curly fries and you got regular fries.”

“And I regret it. Let me live.”

You were about to launch into a full rant about Food Boundaries when your foot brushed his under the table. Then his knee. Then his thigh.

Neither of you moved.

And then—like gravity just snapped—you were both leaning over the table. French fries abandoned. Eyes locked. Breaths syncing. Heat crawling up your neck.

Jake reached out, brushed a hair from your cheek, his fingers lingering just a second too long.

You stared at his lips. He stared at yours.

Oh, you were so going to kiss in this grimy diner booth, and it was going to be beautiful and stupid and you didn’t even care.

And then—

“Well, well, well.”

You both froze.

Standing next to the table, milkshake in hand, eyes wide with the smuggest expression on Earth: Jungwon.

Jake sat up like someone just caught him cheating on a test.

You blinked. “Jungwon! Hi! What a surprise!”

Jungwon glanced between the two of you. The blushing. The weird knee situation. The shared fries. The vibes.

He sighed, long and dramatic.

Then took a sip of his milkshake and said—

“Fuck. Now I gotta move out.”

And with that, he turned and walked away.

Jake looked stunned. You stared after Jungwon in horror.

“Do you think he’s gonna tell everyone?” you whispered.

At that exact moment, both your phones buzzed in unison—a notification from Jungwon’s Instagram, tagging both you and Jake.

“That answers our question.” Jake replied.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

And under the flickering diner lights, knees still touching under the table, Jake reached across and laced his fingers through yours.He glanced at your intertwined hands, then at your face.

“God. I think I actually really like you.” he muttered, like it physically pained him.

You didn’t even blink.

“I hope the fuck you do. I’m literally your girlfriend.”

Jake groaned, slumping back into the booth like you just personally ruined him.

“This is so humiliating.”

You grinned, squeezing his hand.

“Yeah. For you.”

[humanjarvis]

nurse for a day

synopsis: who knew a sick doctor could be such a handful? 

tags: stubborn zayne who hates being sick, reader takes care of him anyway, sleepy delirious zayne, fluff fluff fluff, humor(?), suggestive for .5 seconds word count: 2k 

a/n: i personally think i ate with this one 

It was quiet. Too quiet. 

As you slink through the seemingly empty house, ducking into shadows like you’re on a stealth mission, you really wish your boyfriend weren’t so damn stubborn. 

On your earlier phone call, Zayne had tried admirably hard to mask the nasally tone in his voice—to pretend like his frequent coughs were simply him “clearing his throat.” But you knew better.

He doesn’t get sick often—what with knowing exactly how to prevent it, and all—but when he does, he detests it for several reasons. The most pressing one, at the moment? You love when Zayne is sick.

Not because you think he deserves it, not because you want to see him suffer, but because you get to play nurse. After so many days being taken care of and scolded by the best doctor in Linkon, you finally get to return the favor. 

Except Zayne isn’t particularly…appreciative of the favor. You’re a very strict nurse, he’s frowned at you several times before. You tell him over and over again that you only want him to feel better, but that doesn’t stop him from holing up in a bunker every time he comes down with something. It’s the only time he avoids you. 

And now, he’s hiding from you. In his own home. 

You know he’s here. When you arrived, his freshly washed car was sparkling in the driveway, a full mug of jasmine tea was still steaming on the kitchen countertop, and various office supplies were left scattered across the coffee table. As if he’d heard you coming and frantically abandoned ship. 

You’d searched the usual spots: his empty bedroom, so pristine it looked like a hotel cleaning crew had stopped by; the walk-in closet, to make sure he hadn’t disguised himself among the hangers; and his study, where there’d been nothing but heaps of paperwork threatening the desk’s structural integrity. 

He’s being extra sneaky this time, you scoff to yourself as you tiptoe around upstairs. Room after room, and no endearingly, adorably, annoyingly stubborn doctor inside. 

But then, pressing your ear to the laundry room door, you hear it. 

The unmistakable crinkle of a candy wrapper.

You’ve never felt so lucky that Zayne reserves his self-control for you and not sweets. 

With a deep breath and a crack of your knuckles, you jiggle the doorknob slightly before bursting into the room. The man inside, hunched over the floor next to a tissue box, jumps at the sudden noise before freezing in place. And then, slowly, shyly, he spins to face you with the wide eyes and stuffed cheeks of a disgruntled hamster. 

Zayne has spent enough time with you to know what the unimpressed look on your face means: Explain yourself. 

“I don’t remember you knocking,” he sniffles curtly, unable to hide the way his stuffy nose constricts his throat. The rosy blush on his cheeks is the only indication of his guilt. 

“I don’t remember signing up to date an escape artist,” you shoot back, satisfied with his resulting wince. “What are you doing all the way in here? Was the space under the desk in your study not suitable this time?” 

“Just wanted a—”sniff—“change of scenery,” he jokes lamely, gesturing to the sleek washer and dryer towering over him. 

Sighing, you crouch down in front of him, taking in the wall of chocolate wrappers barricading him in. “Is the idea of me taking care of you really that bad? I’m just trying to help.” 

“That’s exactly it,” he says dryly. “You always help more than what’s needed.” 

At that, your eyes narrow into slits sharp enough to cut through bone. His bones, if he’s not careful. “Excuse me?” 

“I mean,” he clears his throat, grimacing at the dull burn in his sinuses, “You always help me exactly how I need it, and more.” 

“That’s what I thought you said. Now, come downstairs so I can give you the medicine you need, Dr. Zayne. And hand over the candy.” 

It was no secret that Zayne loved sweet things. The confiscated tub of chocolates sitting on the counter was evidence enough. 

But as you look down at his frowning face, cup of chemically red liquid in hand, you can’t help but wonder if it’s because Zayne loves sweet things that he hates taking medicine. 

Once he’d finally trudged into the kitchen, you’d sat him down on a barstool before fishing the dreaded bottle out of the cabinet. “Why not a lozenge instead?” he’d asked. “One of the citrus ones.” 

You hadn’t fallen for his trap, of course. But as he eyes you like he’ll make a break for it any second now, a weary part of you wishes you had. 

“You know,” you lean in conspiratorially, “they say if you plug your nose, you won’t taste it as much.” 

“Illness doesn’t make me a fool,” he mutters bitterly. “I, more than anyone, know how fruitless that trick often is. It doesn’t even work on the kids in the pediatric ward anymore.” 

“And why would a 27-year-old man need the same encouragement as sick children, I wonder?” you crack slyly. 

Zayne looks away, taking a sudden interest in the floor tiles. 

Snorting, you double-check the dosage in the medicine cup and hold it out to him. He regards it with abject misery, his big, hazel eyes staring up at you pleadingly, and you feel a crack in your resolve.

“Fine,” you grumble, pivoting to raid the pantry behind you. Retrieving the most acceptable pastry you can find—there are about 7 different options—you set the blueberry muffin on the island in front of him. 

At the peace offering, those hazel eyes light up slightly, driving out some of the pallor on his face. With a deep breath, Zayne grunts softly before downing the liquid like a shot, shuddering at the aftertaste. Eyes closed in a lasting grimace, he reaches blindly for the muffin before you push it into his grasp, and he sighs in contentment when he bites into it.

Running a hand through his dark hair, you can’t help but grin fondly. 

If only the pediatric ward could see him now. 

After Zayne recovered from the horrors of modern medicine, he’d sullenly asked for more tea, since the batch he’d made earlier was cold now. Pinching his cheek, you’d sent him to sulk on the living room couch so you could keep an eye on him. Which had worked, for several minutes. You’d gathered the ingredients, and he’d flipped blankly through a journal, intermittent sniffles reassuring you of his presence. 

But as you gawk at the abandoned sofa, you realize he must have ducked you while your back was turned. 

Yep. Definitely an escape artist.

With a frustrated growl, you hurriedly plunk the tea bag in and listen for signs of movement. Hearing the faint clicks of a keyboard, you stomp up the stairs to his study, not caring if the drink in hand sloshes over the rim of his favorite penguin mug. Serves him right.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you snap, setting the cup on his desk to put your hands on your hips.

“Working,” he answers with an innocent upturn of his lips. 

“I mean,” you clarify, “what do you think you’re doing when you should be resting?”

Too distracted to keep typing, Zayne switches his attention to the stack of papers before him. “I feel much better already,” he lies flatly, breaking eye contact when yours bore into his. 

As an incredulous laugh escapes you, you throw your hands up in exasperation. “What would you say to one of your patients if they tried to work through an illness?” 

“I’d say that as a medical professional, I only have the jurisdiction to advise them on the best course of treatment. Once out of hospital care, it’s up to them to exercise judgment and decide if they’re able to work or not. Like I’m doing now,” he retorts, and you almost commend his ability to bullshit such a polished answer.

“Right, of course,” you entertain him sweetly. “So is that why you just scrawled your signature through the bottom of that confidentiality agreement?”

With sluggish alarm, Zayne jerks his head down to survey the damage, and sure enough, his swooping penmanship has rendered the contract illegible.

“How could I have missed the signature line?” he whispers, face aghast with disbelief. “I…I don’t even know what…”

“I do,” you sing triumphantly, walking around to haul him up from his armchair. “I know exactly what’s wrong.” 

The main reason Zayne hates being sick isn’t the symptoms. It isn’t the unneeded pity, the inopportune sick days, or even the insidious slide of what tastes like poison down his throat.  

No. Unfortunately, for your stubborn snowman of a boyfriend, the main reason Zayne hates being sick is simply of his nature: cold medicine makes him terribly drowsy. 

Its heightened effect on him is just like his alcohol intolerance—something in his genes just can’t handle outside influences. 

So as you lead him back to rest on the sofa, laying his head across your lap, it becomes clear you’re now dealing with an oversized koala. 

“You smell nice. I think. I can’t really smell anything,” he murmurs into your navel, tickling your skin with his rhythmic deep breaths. 

“Mm. You smell nice too, under the medicine scent. Like jasmine tea.”

As you gently massage his scalp, he burrows into your stomach, lifting his head up seconds later as if remembering something. 

“Did you d’something different with your hair today? Looks nice,” he slurs, blinking at you with sleep-laced eyes. 

“Yep!” Nope. “Thank you for noticing, Zaynie. So observant even when you’re sick,” you coo, rubbing soothing circles into his back. 

With a delirious hum, he smiles softly at the praise before his gaze lands on your chest, rising and falling above him. “You’re very…warm,” he whispers, baby pink tongue wetting his lips. But just as he leans up to nuzzle into you, you stop him halfway. 

“Oh no, you don’t,” you chide, catching him by the scruff. “Not right now, at least.” 

A quiet sigh is his only resistance, and as he slumps back down, he brings a hand around your waist to leave a lingering kiss on your stomach. 

“Are you tired, Zayne?” you ask, cradling his head in your palms to meet his clouded gaze.

“Mm. I’d like to go to bed now.”

As you turn off the bedside lamp, preparing to leave Zayne in peace for the night, feverishly warm hands pull you down onto the mattress. Lying beside him, you flutter your eyes closed as he presses a tender kiss to your cheek. 

“Aren’t you worried about getting me sick?” you question, raising a brow in the moonlight. 

Chuckling, he shakes his head languidly. “Sinus infections aren’t contagious,” he yawns. “But even if they were, transmission would only give me the chance to look after you in return.”

“Are you sure? Someone once told me I’m too stern of a nurse. I’d hate to be the same way as a patient.” 

Zayne frowns contemplatively as he rests a hand on your hip. “Even though your methods are…involved,” he swallows, “I appreciate the consideration you’ve shown me today. Thank you for taking care of me.” 

“Approval from the illustrious Dr. Zayne,” you whisper, gently tapping his reddened nose. “I hope this means he won’t hide from me next time.” 

As he winces, you can almost see the events of this afternoon replaying in his mind. “If he can help it, there won’t be a next time. But yes, I won’t hide from you again. I truly do feel better with you here beside me.” 

“And you’ll feel even better with proper rest,” you remind him. “Sleep. I’ll stay right here until you do.”

Finally relenting, he turns on his side, holding you to him like a child with a teddy bear. 

And though he’s never believed in them before, when Zayne wakes the next morning, nose clear and fever broken, he thinks you might be a miracle worker. 

[muffinlance]

The feral cat gator of a 13 year old freshly scarred Zuko being forcibly adopted by the foggy swamp tribe! Bonus points if they willfully ignore the fact he's a firebender and treat him as a very strange waterbender bending-wise

It was Earth Kingdom ships that drove the metal one onto the reefs, so when the little thing came crawling up through the marsh spitting and hissing and dressed in red, they knew it weren’t no earthbender. No matter how much mud it had tripped in, trying to find where the ground stopped sucking at its feet.

“Wow-ee,” said Old Earl, “that sure is one way of keepin’ off the ‘squito-chiggers.”

And they all watched from Big Earl’s porch, sitting or rocking, as them bugs came for the all-you-can-eat and ended up on the bar-b-que.

“Sure is some weird bending,” said Little Earl, who was taller than Big Earl, but when they'd been twelve and they’d wrestled for the title it hadn't been Little Earl who’d won.

The little thing looked maybe twelve, too. And he was little little. But he had that same look like he was going to shove someone’s face in the mud until they said otherwise, as he stood there all panting and dripping and just realizing they’d been watching him this whole time.

“It’s firebending,” the one-kid mud-wrestler said, as bugs kept pop-snapping into flames around him.

Old Earl cupped a hand over his ear, like he couldn’t hear. And he kept doing it, while the kid got louder and louder about that bending of his, but quieter and quieter about looking at them like they were his next bugs.

“Oh, firebending,” Old Earl said, nodding like he’d only just got it, when the kid had stomped straight up to his chair. “Right, right, Old Jane’s got fire-water-bending, too. Why don’t you take him to her, boys.”

“It’s not-- ugh,” shouted the kid, but maybe he only had the one volume. Certainly only had the one volume for stomping, even though stomping was what got a fellow’s shoes shoved down so deep in the mud they’d be seeing them again as mole-shrimp hats. Not that the kid had shoes. Neither did Earl, Earl, or Earl. ‘Cept for Fancy Earl, but he’d gone off to Ba-Singing-Se, to be fancy.

Anyway, Old Jane was the best at turning anything and everything into fire water, which was the kind of thing a fellow called his or her liquor when they wanted fancy folk to keep right on walking. Was really good for making shouty little firebrands take their naps, too, which let Old Jane get her glowing mitts all over that fresh burn of his. And the love-bites from the shark-wrasses that had probably been half the reason the kid had come a-shore all a-shouting in the first place.

“Nope,” diagnosed Old Jane, when the kid woke back up. “That’s just how he talks. Mother was a screamer-bird, I’d say.”

“You take that back about my mother,” screamed their screamer-bird, who had pretty good hearing for someone who’s ear had lost the same fight as his eye. Anyway, Old Jane had done the best she could about both, and nothing was on fire that shouldn’t be, and she had that extra quilt she’d been working on that needed a body under it

And the waves and the shark-wrasses had all the rest of the kid’s crew

So sure enough they set their little screamer-bird up with a nest and let him cry loud as he wanted.

Anyway, if there was one thing Earl Earl Earl and Jane knew, it was how to make a joke so good the other person didn’t even know it were a joke.

“Firebending,” their little fledgling shouted, and waved his arms around, like all that fire pointed at no one was going to get them startled off.

“A-yep,” nodded Old Earl. “That there is some fire-water-bending. Just like Old Jane.”

Old Jane wasn’t the kind of gal who showed off, but she wasn’t the kind who missed no cue, either. She swirled a lick o’ liquor out of her latest barrel and twirled it ‘round and straight into her mouth, and when she spit it out, it looked so much like the little bird’s breath-o’-fire that he didn’t even notice the spark rocks she kept on her fingers as jewelry. No one did, ‘til they’d seen the trick a few times.

The kid’s mouth hung open so low and so long, a moth-tick flew in. That was some kind of life lesson, that was. The swamp was good at sending those.

The Earth Kingdom sent troops a-stompin’ through, losing boots and scaring catigators out of their sunning spots left and right, askin’ all rumbly about those fires they’d spotted, and if anyone from that shipwreck had made it on shore, and talkin’ about how there’d be money in it for them if they made that last answer a “yes,” sounding like Fancy Earl and all his talk about commerce and living standards.

“Got a few parts of them ship people in the lagoon,” Big Earl said. “Probably still floatin’ if you want ‘em. But we better bring the shrimp-minnow nets, ‘cuase they’ll just slosh on through the turtle-sturgeon ones.”

“...No thank you,” the head stomper said, like sayin’ polite words made a fellow a polite man. He’d tracked those boots of his right up onto their porch without so much as a scuff on their mud rug. Even the kid had used the mud rug. “And the fire?”

“Oh,” said Little Earl, with a grin, “that was Old Jane.”

And she did her trick again, only less tricky, so they could see the spark rocks real good. “You boys want some fire water?” she offered. “It ain’t blinded no one who wasn’t already headed that way.”

They didn’t want any, which was grand, ‘cause she hadn’t really been offering.

When the last of them had gone stomping off back to the kind of land that let people stomp it, it took them two whole hours to lure out the catigators from under the porch. And their little screamer bird, too.

“...Why didn’t you turn me in?”

“What?” asked Old Earl, cupping his ear.

“Why—”

“What?”

“—didn’t—”

“WHAT?”

“—you—”

“Speak up, boy,” Old Earl said. “I never heard such a quiet child.”

And boy, did that set their bird back to singing.

[sixeyesonathiel]

bad ideas in bikini – day one.

pairing — tech bro satoru x fem reader

synopsis : gojo satoru was supposed to be taking a break, not obsessing over the woman across the hall who slammed her door in his face and lives in his head rent-free ever since. he's not the type to fall easy-too smart for that, date-to-marry only-but you? you show up in bikinis and arguments, and suddenly he's one bad decision away from wanting everything.

tags -> cruise ship au, summer situationship, romantic comedy, fluff, humor, eventual smut, porn with plot, sexual tension, banter, reader is emotionally unavailable, satoru is a workaholic, bad decisions in luxury settings, more tags to be added.

wc — 2.9k | series masterlist | next

there are few things more humbling than dragging a suitcase worth more than your monthly rent across marble floors that scream money louder than a crypto bro in a group chat. satoru gojo, pride of the tech world, darling of investors, and very much a man on the verge of an identity crisis, is currently losing a battle with a set of titanium-rolled designer luggage and his own deeply rooted guilt complex.  

he’s not ungrateful. not exactly. it’s just—he doesn’t know what to do with stillness. or with silence. or with a fourteen-day sentence of uninterrupted, unscheduled nothing. the absence of deadlines makes his skin itch. no meetings to prep for, no crises to solve, no three a.m. bug reports demanding immediate attention. just... space. endless, terrifying space where thoughts have room to breathe and expand and remind him that he’s twenty-eight years old and has never been on a single date because he’s been waiting for something that feels like destiny.  

he’s trying to be grateful. really. suguru’s voice echoes in his head—something about burnout and boundaries and how normal people don’t respond to vacation invitations with cost-benefit analyses. shoko had been the one to actually book it, apparently, while suguru distracted him with questions about deployment schedules. “you’re going,” she’d said with the kind of finality that meant arguing would result in both of them ganging up on him with medical facts about stress-induced heart attacks. “and if you try to cancel, i’m reprogramming all your smart home devices to only play elevator music.”  

“hey, you deserve a break,” they said. “get some sun,” they said. “if you don’t stop working 80-hour weeks we’re staging an intervention,” they said. which would be touching if it hadn’t come with actual threats of physical restraint. he’d laughed, of course. until suguru pulled out a pair of designer handcuffs—where did he even get those?—and said, “i’m not joking.”  

so now he’s here. on a boat. or a ship? cruise liner? floating capitalist fantasy? whatever this maritime monument to excess is supposed to be called. it smells like jasmine and old money and guilt. mostly guilt. and eucalyptus, for some reason, like the entire place is trying to whisper “detox” into his pores through sheer olfactory force.  

the atrium stretches up like a cathedral built to worship champagne and tax write-offs. crystal chandeliers dangle like frozen waterfalls, casting rainbow fractals across marble that probably costs more per square foot than his first apartment. everywhere he looks, there are people who belong here—women in flowing cover-ups that cost more than his laptop, men in linen shirts that somehow don’t wrinkle, couples who’ve mastered the art of looking effortlessly wealthy while discussing wine pairings.  

satoru kicks his suitcase into the presidential suite with all the grace of a man who very recently forgot how doors work. the room’s obscene. vaulted ceilings that make him feel like an ant, velvet drapes in deep burgundy that probably have their own insurance policy, a bed big enough to host a small wedding or maybe a medium-sized corporate merger. there’s a private balcony overlooking an ocean that stretches to infinity, a wine rack he won’t touch because wine makes him sleepy and sleepy makes him think about how empty his apartment is, and a glass-walled bathroom that makes him mildly uncomfortable with how many versions of himself he can see at once.  

there’s also a towel folded into a swan. why. who decided this was necessary. does someone get paid specifically to fold towels into waterfowl? is this their full-time job? are they happy?  

“they literally said they’d chain me to the ship if i refused...” he mutters to no one as he tosses his sunglasses onto the massive bedspread, the frames clattering against silk that probably costs more than his car payment, “but jesus christ, did they book me the presidential suite??”  

he flops onto the mattress like a man starved of sleep and sense, arms spread wide, staring at the ornate ceiling as if it might contain answers to questions he’s afraid to ask. it doesn’t. just more chandeliers, more gold leaf, more evidence that he’s somehow stumbled into a tax bracket he doesn’t belong in. the mattress is too soft, the pillows too plush, everything too much like a fever dream designed by someone who’s never experienced financial anxiety.  

his phone buzzes. suguru, obviously. because of course his friends have coordinated to check up on him like he’s a flight risk. which, to be fair, he probably is.  

“so?” comes the voice, smooth and smug and entirely too pleased with himself. “presidential suite, huh?”  

“shut up.” satoru stares at a ceiling cherub that seems to be judging him personally.  

“that bad?”  

“it’s too much. i feel like i’m squatting in a billionaire’s bathroom. the toilet has a remote control with seventeen buttons. i’m afraid to touch anything because i’ll probably break it and then have to explain to my insurance company why i owe seventy thousand dollars for a golden bidet.”  

suguru’s laugh is sharp and delighted. “you work eighty-hour weeks, you haven’t been on a date in your entire adult life because you’re holding out for ‘the one,’” suguru’s voice takes on a mocking tone that sounds suspiciously like shoko coaching him through speaker phone, “and your idea of a social life is arguing with customer support chatbots about server lag. you’re taking the damn vacation, satoru.”  

“yeah, yeah.” he picks at a loose thread on the comforter, wondering if it’s possible to feel homesick for a lifestyle that was slowly killing him.  

“and you left the laptop at home, right?”  

satoru’s gaze drifts to the work bag tucked discretely in the corner, laptop barely visible but definitely present, like a shameful secret he can’t quite abandon. guilty silence stretches across the line.  

“you little shit.”  

“it’s just in case,” he says weakly, sitting up to run a hand through hair that’s gone flat from the humidity and stress. “you know i get twitchy without code. what if there’s an emergency? what if the servers crash? what if—”  

“what if you actually try to enjoy yourself for once in your pathologically overworked life?”  

“...coding is healing.”  

“coding is an addiction and you’re in denial.”  

“it’s creative problem-solving.”  

“it’s avoidance.”  

“it’s—”  

suguru hangs up. he deserves it. he really does. but that doesn’t stop him from staring at the phone for a long moment, thumb hovering over the callback button before he sets it aside with a sigh that echoes in the too-large space.  

by the time 11 p.m. rolls around, satoru has managed to unpack with the efficiency of someone who’s spent years living out of suitcases, avoid thinking about work for approximately fourteen minutes (a personal record), and locate exactly zero human interaction that doesn’t require him to pretend he knows what he’s doing. he’s eaten dinner alone at a table clearly designed for two, wandered through half of deck seven pretending he knew where he was going while elderly couples smiled at him with the kind of pity reserved for obviously lost young men, and considered answering work emails at least six separate times.  

the ship rocks gently beneath his feet, a rhythm he hasn’t quite adjusted to yet. everything feels slightly off-kilter, like the world has tilted just enough to remind him he’s not on solid ground anymore. metaphorically and literally.  

which is how he finds himself in the hallway outside his suite at 11 p.m., dressed in silk pajama pants that cost more than his first paycheck and a t-shirt that’s seen better years, fumbling with his keycard like a man who’s never encountered basic door technology. his hair falls in pale, disheveled waves across his forehead, the strands catching the hallway’s warm light like spun glass, slightly damp from the shower and completely uncooperative.  

the laptop bag—because of course he couldn’t leave it in the room, what if he needed it—slips from his shoulder. he grabs for it with the reflexes of someone who’s dropped exactly one too many electronic devices. misses. the suitcase, apparently feeling left out of this disaster, tips forward with the enthusiasm of an overexcited dog. the handle extends with a sharp *snap* and thwacks him directly in the shin.  

“god—dammit.” the words escape through gritted teeth as papers scatter like startled birds. his keycard, the little plastic traitor, spins across the polished floor like it’s auditioning for olympic figure skating.  

and just as he’s crouched there, half-winded and fully annoyed, cradling his shin like a wounded animal, the door across the hall opens with the soft precision of expensive hinges.  

and you step out.  

barefoot. silk robe. a vision of luxury and irritation distilled into one lethal silhouette.  

satoru’s brain short-circuits with the efficiency of overloaded servers. holy shit, she’s gorgeous. holy shit, she looks like she wants to murder me. holy shit, why am i still staring?  

you’re a still frame carved in shadow and lamplight, robe knotted loose at the waist like you don’t particularly care who sees, the fabric falling in elegant lines that speak of money and taste and the kind of confidence that comes from never having to check price tags. the overhead sconces catch on the edges of your cheekbones, throwing dagger-sharp light down the bridge of your nose, across the flat, unimpressed line of your mouth. your face is impassive, carved marble, until your lips part with surgical precision.  

and something in his chest does something unprecedented. not just attraction—though that hits him like a server crash, sudden and catastrophic. something deeper. something that feels suspiciously like recognition, like his nervous system has been waiting twenty-eight years for this exact moment of eye contact with someone who looks at him like he’s simultaneously fascinating and infuriating.  

which is insane. because he doesn’t know you. because he’s supposed to be logical about these things. because his entire dating philosophy revolves around careful consideration and compatibility assessments and definitely not whatever this instant magnetism bullshit is supposed to be.  

“are you done making noise,” you ask, voice colder than the champagne he won’t drink, each word enunciated like you’re speaking to someone particularly stupid, “or should i request a room transfer? some people actually want to sleep.”  

satoru freezes like a guilty child caught stealing cookies, his position crouched on the floor suddenly feeling less like an accident and more like a submission to your obvious superiority. his hair, already disheveled from the humidity and stress, falls forward to partially obscure eyes that are wide with something between panic and fascination.  

“i—i’m sorry!” he fumbles, snatching up his keycard like it might serve as some kind of shield against your withering assessment. the movement sends more papers fluttering, and he makes a desperate grab for them while trying to maintain eye contact because somehow looking away feels like admitting defeat. “i’m usually more coordinated, i swear! well, not really, but—”  

“let me guess.” your gaze performs a clinical sweep of his current state—six feet and change of rumpled silk and shame, hair like winter light gone wild, eyes the color of deep water reflecting sky, wide with something that might be awe if it weren’t so clearly mortified. you take in the scattered papers, the overpriced luggage, the laptop bag he’s clutching like a security blanket. “drunk businessman who thinks vacation means bothering everyone else?”  

the assessment hits like a diagnosis he doesn’t want to accept. drunk? no. businessman? technically, but that makes him sound like his father, all power lunches and merger discussions. bothering everyone else? probably accurate, actually.  

“actually,” he blurts, posture crumpling under the weight of your precision, shoulders curving inward like he’s trying to make himself smaller, “i don’t drink much. and i’m not really a vacation person, this was more of a forced—”  

the door closes with the finality of a judge’s gavel. not quite a slam, too controlled for that, but decisive enough to cut through his explanation like a blade through thread.  

he stares at the polished wood in stunned silence, still crouched on the floor like he’s praying to the patron saint of social disasters. somewhere behind him, his keycard completes its slow journey down the hall with the soft whisper of plastic on marble.  

and here’s the thing that’s really going to mess with his head: he wants to see you again. not in the way he’s supposed to want things—carefully, logically, after appropriate consideration of compatibility factors. he wants to see you again in the way that makes him question his entire approach to human connection. he wants to prove he’s not the disaster you clearly think he is, wants to see what you look like when you’re not irritated, wants to know what kind of person chooses a silk robe for hallway confrontations and somehow makes it look like armor.  

which is ridiculous. because he has a system. because he’s supposed to date to marry, which means coffee dates and careful questions about life goals and family plans. not... this. not whatever this magnetic pull toward someone who just told him he’s bothering everyone else simply by existing.  

but that dumb, hopeful part of him—the part that still believes in moments and fate and people seeing each other clearly—is already planning apologies and explanations and ways to accidentally run into you that don’t make him look like a creepy disaster.  

the hallway settles into quiet that feels heavy with judgment. the sconces continue their warm glow, indifferent to his humiliation. somewhere in the distance, the ship’s engines hum a low song of displacement and forward momentum.  

“great, satoru,” he mutters, finally rising to retrieve the wayward keycard, his movements careful and deliberate now, hyperaware that you might hear him through the door. “real smooth. she probably thinks you’re an absolute disaster.”  

which he is, obviously. but somehow the sting of that truth feels sharper when filtered through the memory of your unimpressed gaze, the way you looked at him like he was a problem that needed solving—or better yet, avoiding entirely.  

he gathers his scattered papers with methodical precision, each document a small reminder of the life he’s supposed to be taking a break from. quarterly reports, code reviews, meeting notes he probably shouldn’t have brought. the laptop bag feels heavier now, weighted with the knowledge that he’s exactly the kind of person who brings work on vacation and then makes noise about it in hallways at 11 p.m.  

the keycard finally cooperates, and his door opens with a soft beep that sounds apologetic. he steps inside, arms full of the detritus of his minor disaster, and turns to look back at the hallway one more time.  

your door remains closed. quiet. a barrier between his chaos and whatever composed, adult world you inhabit where people don’t drop things or make noise or apparently require forgiveness for existing in shared spaces.

and yet. some small, stubborn part of him—the part that’s always been drawn to impossible problems and elegant solutions—wants to knock on that door and explain himself properly. maybe apologize with the kind of sincerity he reserves for major code failures. maybe ask if you’re okay, if he actually woke you up, if there’s anything he can do to undo the impression he’s apparently made.  

he doesn’t, of course. because he’s not completely lacking in self-preservation instincts, and because some problems don’t have technical solutions. but he stands there longer than necessary, laptop bag cutting into his shoulder, hair falling across his forehead in pale waves that catch the light from his suite like captured starshine.  

the door closes behind him with a soft click, and he’s alone again with the overwhelming luxury and the persistent weight of wondering what it says about him that the first genuine human interaction he’s had in months involved someone looking at him like he was a particularly disappointing software bug.  

but somehow, despite the humiliation and the scattered papers and the very real possibility that he’s going to spend the next fourteen days avoiding the hallway entirely, he can’t quite shake the memory of how you looked standing there. composed and untouchable and somehow more real than anything else in this floating palace of artificial experiences.  

and that’s what scares him most. not the attraction—that’s just chemistry, biology, whatever. it’s the way something in his chest recognized you before his brain had time to process what was happening. it’s the way he’s already wondering what you sound like when you’re not annoyed, what you look like when you smile, whether you’re here alone or with someone who gets to see past that icy composure.  

it’s the way this feels less like meeting a stranger and more like remembering someone he forgot he was looking for.  

he blames the robe. and the way your voice cut through his nervous rambling like it was designed specifically to make him shut up and pay attention. and the way he still wants to apologize properly, even though—especially though—you’ve made it clear that his apologies aren’t particularly welcome.  

fourteen days, he reminds himself, running a hand through hair that’s already given up any pretense of cooperation. he can manage to avoid one beautiful, irritated stranger for fourteen days.  

probably.  

hopefully.  

who is he kidding—he’s absolutely going to find excuses to be in that hallway again.

if interested, please drop a comment to the itinerary to get on the passenger list

[nyxsteaparty]

#⠀YOU⠀X⠀HIM⠀:⠀NOW⠀TRENDING⠀!

IN WHICH you don’t know who started it — but now everyone is convinced you’re dating him. how does he feel about these allegations?⠀(pre–relationship).

~300 words each saja boy, mostly for my own enjoyment, my characterization only :3

𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐔

ㅤㅤㅤㅤhe’s absolutely mortified, and there’s almost something pretty about the way he absolutely panics. absolute ‘oh no they found out! wait, there was nothing to find ’ energy. it started with a photo of him leaning toward you — only to whisper, he swears on it. he didn’t mean to stand to close, to have his eyes linger on you for far too long. but he did, and now there’s a hashtag of a mash of your names together, and hundreds (maybe thousands?) of edited photos. he doesn’t even understand how the fans noticed. he surely didn’t.

now it’s all he can think about. the first post he saw, he physically dropped his phone. it hit the ground like a brick, heavy, loud, and disruptive. the others pause. “.. you okay?” abby had asked, eyebrow raised like he’s more curious than concerned. jinu hummed affirmatively bending strangely to pick up the phone with a forced smile on his face and an urgency of someone who was being chased by a serial killer. “fine. totally fine.” he’s the complete opposite of fine.

how is he supposed to face you after seeing all of those tweets? he doesn’t know. but what he does know that his latest search history has been .. weird. weird enough that if anyone opened up his safari they would immediately know what was plaguing his mind.

‘how to delete trending hashtags?’

‘did (name) notice jinu looking at her??’

‘signs that they think about me romantically’

he tries to forget about all the shipping. try to look at you in a platonic light again. but the universe had other plans. he can’t open any of his devices without being bombarded with those posts. an au where you two are exes getting back together, a slideshow of nearly every picture of you two near each other’s proximity. there’s even a whole poll deciding who fell first. and eighty–eight percent of the people who voted went ahead and voted for jinu.

he wants to argue and deny everything, he really does. but then he looks over at your way and, oh, the place where his heart should be flutters in the stupidest way possible. in a way a demon like him probably shouldn’t be able to feel. oh, he thinks. they’re right.

𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐘

ㅤㅤㅤㅤhe named the damn ship. as if he wasn’t already the biggest contributer to it — no, he named it too. like it was his own child. instead of something normal like ‘abby(name)’, it’s something way worse. everything abby does near your proximity just makes the ship grow and expand it’s fandom even more.

tugging you away from paparazzi, making you wear his beanie out in public just because it ‘looked better on you’ — and your staff doesn’t help, posting pictures of the two of you behind the scenes (though you’re just talking, you know, like normal friends do). most are blurry, yes, but the fans have eagle vision.

he thinks it’s funny. cute, even. you brought it up once. as a joke — “we’re trending again. gonna feed into it?” he blinks like he’s gaining consciousness for the first time. “should i? no, yeah, we should.” you think he’s just joking. you realize that you’re dead wrong when he brought out his phone and wrapped an arm around your shoulder — suddenly your hashtag blows up because someone decided to actually post the selfie. if he had a pr team, they would hate abby’s guts. or abs.

no, he has no shame. his likes are public (because he isn’t aware you can make it private) and embarrassingly filled with gym content, fan edits of him, and posts about the two of you. if the fanbase didn’t exist — there’s still abby to show love and support to your pairing. it’s gotten to the point that he thinks you’re playing dumb, because everyone and their mothers knew how hard he tries to make you laugh.

because deep inside, he’s glad that everyone agrees that you’re cute together. if anyone’ll have you, it has to be him.

𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

ㅤㅤㅤㅤof course it’s trending. he made it trend. the moment fans started noticing your interactions, he leaned into it — just slightly. not enough for you to question him, but enough for hardcore fans to notice immediately and go batshit crazy. your manager rubbed her head and mumbled something about ‘pr nightmares’, but does romance care? no, romance only romances.

he times things so perfectly that you have to admit that if you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were in a ‘secret relationship’ too. you’d post a selfie of you wearing red and suddenly he’s posting “red looks good on you ♡” on his twitter. he’s so .. subtle in a not–so–subtle way. when confronted in interviews, he gives vague answers. “they’re very dear to me.” he once said, head leaning on the palm of his head. “like family?”, “like the moon is to the tide.” he’s always been smooth like that.

he knows exactly what he’s doing and lives for the thrill of it. except — well .. sometimes, he forgets it’s supposed to be for show. romance enjoys the attention, the fan’s screams. but most of all, romance loves the way your mouth twitches as you try not to smile at an overly corny pick–up like he used, the way you shove him playfully backstage after another interview.

the fans say you’re a visual match made in heaven. he agrees. not because you’re pretty (you are), or because it benefits his image (he could care less, really) — but because he likes the idea of being paired with you, someone who grounds him.

“you’re not actually into all this shipping stuff, are you?” you scoff, bumping his shoulder with yours. he chuckles. “aren’t you? i already planned out our entire marriage.” the thought of it is .. dangerous. but so is he.

𝐌𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐘

ㅤㅤㅤㅤhe never really acknowledges it. but he’s seen the it. the little fancams slowed to hell and back just to show the two of you making eye contact for a split second. the fans catch everything. it unsettles him how right they might be. mystery never intended to give them material. it’s just the way he looks at you. but he’s confused — not because he doesn’t know where the ship stemmed from, but because they were only noticing his behaviour recently.

you ask him about it one day, phone showcasing a video of you in the center, with him staring (question mark? can’t really see his eyes) in the background. he takes one glance, “pictures.”, he answered with a shrug. he plays dumb really well — too well. you genuinely thought he just didn’t know what shipping is. but he totally does. “you feed the fire.” he tilts his head innocently. “didn’t know there was a fire. a lie. he figured out how incognito mode works just to read fanfics of you two. out of curiosity at first, but then it became a small habit he gained.

but you don’t know any of that, obviously. what you do know is that he stands unusually close to you at events now, and you swear you can feel his hand on the small of your back to guide you whenever you happen to walk in the same direction. he doesn’t exactly bark like they say he does (not in front of you, anyway), but he can and will growl. there’s something animalistic and protective about the way he hovers like second nature — like right beside you is where he’s supposed to be.

mystery stays completely unbothered. if the fans want to talk, let them. if they just so happen to post ship edits of you two with his new favourite love song, that’s fine. great, even. at least the world already knows you’re his.

𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘

ㅤㅤㅤㅤhe hates it, he needs every video, picture and post deleted and burned to ashes. there could be a video of you handing him a water bottle and there’d be a comment saying that he’s, quote, ‘down bad’. down bad for what? hydration? every time those videos happen to unfortunately come up his for you page he instantly groans like it’s instinctive. baby just doesn’t get it. he looks like he tolerates you at best. that’s if he even looks your way. (that’s what he tells himself.)

he has a private account where he just .. watches. videos he’d see slowly went from mukbangs to that horrid mishmash of your names. he views them. not because he enjoys seeing them .. but for research purposes. he has to know what to avoid, right? “.. you’re not even my type.” he said mid–watch, to no one but himself. why is he talking to himself? fuck. he shuts off his phone and throws it across the bed. it lands on a pillow, still playing that edit of you that got two million likes.

this revelation starts to affect how he talks to you. or, more accurately, how he doesn’t. baby doesn’t talk to you for two days. three. for preventative measures, of course. he doesn’t do ‘crushes’ — it’s some social construct he stopped believing in the moment he became a demon. except he’s dodging you like you’re garlic and he’s a stereotypical vampire. the only thing he can say in your presence is a lame, “your shoelaces are untied.” while you’re wearing something that doesn’t even have them.

you still checked. he’s doomed. and worst of all, it’s public knowledge now. fuck the imaginary shoelaces, it was whatever he had left of his soul that came undone.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀ㅤㅤㅤ©ㅤ@ nyxsteaparty .

[mokulule]

Wheel of Fortune

Fandom: DP x DC Ship: Dead on Main (Jason/Danny) Inspired by this post

Jason was relaxing with a book in one of the student lounges at Gotham U. It had been hours since his last class ended, but this couch was comfortable and he’d just reached an interesting point in his book. He’d read it before, but that was beside the point. Around him the lounge area had emptied out as it had neared dinner time. The TV had been left on by someone and it was now playing reruns of Wheel of Fortune - easily ignorable background noise, so Jason hadn’t bothered to locate the remote.

Footsteps behind him instantly drew his attention but he kept his shoulders relaxed and his eyes on the book. He’d stopped reading but still turned a page. He waited for the footsteps to pass by, but they didn’t. They stopped right behind him. They-

“Fuck me in the ass tonight?” There was a note of disbelief in the question.

Jason’s head snapped up, bewildered and saw a young man: black hair, blue eyes, short, slight build, looked like a stiff wind could blow him over - not a threat, the back of his mind concluded. He had been looking towards the direction of the TV, but when Jason turned to look at him he snapped suddenly horrified eyes onto Jason. His face turned increasingly red. He completely clammed up.

Intrigued Jason looked at the screen showing Wheel of Fortune and ah-

He suddenly understood.

“Luck be in the air tonight,” he announced confidently.

There was the sound of a slap and Jason turned to find the other man covering his face with a groan and a mumbled, “not for me it isn’t.”

Jason found a smirk stretching his lips and he just couldn’t help it.

“Well that depends?”

Danny was absolutely mortified, he couldn’t believe he’d said that out loud and not only that but a handsome stranger had heard his absolute fail, but that last statement had him pausing. He let his hand fall away. The smirk he was met with made his knees feel a little weak.

“Depends?” Danny squeaked.

And oh shit, the man stood up and walked towards him and he was like a head taller than Danny and he looked like he could fold Danny in half. Danny gulped, he definitely had a problem. And then he was standing right up in Danny’s space.

The little agreeing hum from deep in the man’s chest set Danny’s body on fire. He leaned in close to Danny’s ear so he could feel the cool air of his breath tickling the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

“Depends on how much you meant the first statement.”

Danny’s brain broke a little.

The man was completely frozen before Jason and he leaned back with a small frown, slightly worried.

“You okay?” Jason asked.

It took a moment, before he seemingly came online again. He blinked and focused back on Jason.

“Is this a joke?”

Jason shrugged, suddenly self-conscious, because he didn’t really normally flirt and he was starting to feel like he should back further away. He didn’t, but it was a close thing.

“If you want it to be?” He finally settled on.

“And if I don’t?”

Jason sucked in a breath when blue eyes met his own. He wet his lips nervously, feeling like he was balancing on the summit of a mountain about to take a plunge. “Then it’s not.”

“Oh, thank fuck.”

Jason barely registered the words before he was pulled down into a kiss with surprising strength, and there were hands in his hair tugging deliciously and it was Jason’s back hitting a wall and huh, maybe he needed to re-assess the threat level, but later; Jason was busy right now.

_

Hope you enjoyed this silly thing. If you're not too busy tell me what you thought on the way out, comments make the day brighter and it feeds the muse.

[ncsdlr]

Look At All These Dinosaurs Then Look At Us

Zora Bennett x Reader

Smut

—————————————

The next morning, the sky is clear and the sea has calmed, and you’re on the deck again with Zora—this time, sharing coffee in mismatched mugs.

She’s back in her guarded stance. Back to folded arms and clipped sentences. But every now and then, you catch her looking at you with that same dazed expression—like you’re something she doesn’t understand but can’t stop orbiting.

You laugh at something stupid—a joke about seagulls or soggy granola bars—and the sound makes her twitch. Like you’ve just struck a nerve.

“You’re smiling,” she mutters.

You grin wider. “Yeah?”

“Stop that.”

“Why?”

Zora swallows. Her voice is quiet when she says, “Because every time you look at me like I’m not dangerous, I forget how to breathe.”

You blink. “You’re not dangerous to me.”

She turns her head sharply, trying to hide the pink that blooms across her cheekbones.

——

It happens after a moment that should’ve been perfect.

Maybe you’re both on the deck again, the sunset bleeding across the sky like a fresh wound, and you say something soft. Something that makes her smile—really smile—for the first time. You lean in, your fingers barely brushing her arm. You’re so close. Too close.

And she pulls away.

Hard.

Your smile falters. “Did I—?”

“Don’t,” she says quickly, voice rough. “Don’t do that.”

You freeze. “Zora, I—”

“You’re a kid,” she snaps, and immediately hates herself for the way your face falls. “You’re young. You’ve got… your whole damn life ahead of you. You should be worried about classes and clubs and whatever bullshit twenty-somethings do, not… this.”

You’re quiet. Hurt leaking through your expression.

“I’m not a kid,” you say. “You don’t get to call me that just because it’s easier than admitting you want me.”

Zora flinches. Her jaw clenches, eyes flicking anywhere but you.

“And I’m not asking for forever,” you continue, softer now. “I’m just asking for a chance. But if you keep using my age as an excuse, then maybe you’re not afraid of what people will say. Maybe you’re just scared of letting yourself be happy.”

That lands. Deep.

But Zora doesn’t respond.

She just walks away, fists clenched at her sides like she’s holding in something nuclear.

——

The ship is quiet again. The storm’s passed. But your chest still feels like it’s drowning.

You haven’t seen her since the fight. She’s been avoiding you—burying herself in duty, pacing the decks like something she can’t name is chasing her.

You find her in the equipment room, sitting on a crate in the dark. Shoulders slumped. Elbows on her knees. Like someone who just lost a war she never wanted to fight.

You don’t knock.

“I don’t need protection from you, Zora,” you say.

She doesn’t move.

You step closer. “I need honesty.”

Zora lifts her head slowly, eyes bloodshot. “What do you want me to say?”

“That you want me. That you feel it too.”

“I do feel it.” The words rip out of her like they hurt. “But that doesn’t mean I should.”

You blink. “Why?”

She stands—quick, frustrated. “Because you’re barely out of school. Because people will talk. Because I’ve seen what happens when someone like me touches something good.”

“You think I care what anyone says? You think I give a shit about some age gap when we almost died together?”

She looks at you then. Really looks. Her lip trembles.

“I wake up every night thinking about you,” she says, voice raw. “And I tell myself not to touch. Not to look. Not to want you because it’ll make me selfish. Because you deserve someone who doesn’t flinch every time they feel something.”

You close the distance between you, heart pounding.

“I choose you,” you whisper. “Even with the scars. Even with the guilt. Even if it’s messy. So stop protecting me from something I’m not asking to be saved from.”

She’s breathing hard now, jaw clenched like she’s trying to hold herself together with threadbare willpower.

“You want me?” you ask.

Her hands twitch at her sides.

“Then take me.”

And that’s it.

The thread snaps.

Zora grabs you like she’s been starved for centuries—kisses you hard, all teeth and desperation, pinning you against the wall with a groan that vibrates through her whole body. There’s no space left between you now. No excuses. No denial.

She breaks the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Fuck what they think.”

Then she kisses you again, and this time she doesn’t hold back.

—

Now you’re here.

And she’s pressed against you.

And you’re not pretending anymore.

Her hands are on either side of your face, lips brushing over yours like a question she’s already decided to answer. You kiss her back—messy, aching, needy—and she groans softly, low in her throat, then immediately pulls back with a warning look.

“Quiet,” she breathes, voice gravelly. “Your dad’s in the next damn room.”

You grin, whispering, “Then maybe don’t make me feel so good.”

Zora’s eyes narrow—dark, hungry. “Don’t tempt me.”

But you already are.

Her hands slide under your borrowed t-shirt, palms hot against your stomach as you arch into her touch. You bury your face in her neck, trying not to gasp when her mouth finds the soft skin beneath your ear.

“Fuck,” she murmurs, barely audible. “You’re so warm.”

Her fingers trail lower, slow and purposeful, and you clutch at her shoulders, trying not to make a sound as she slides her hand into your shorts. Her lips are on yours instantly, muffling the sharp breath you let out when she finds you already soaked.

“Shh,” she whispers into your mouth. “You gotta be good for me, sweetheart. Quiet.”

You nod, frantic.

But it’s hard to stay quiet when her fingers move like that—precise, controlled, devastating. She kisses you harder to keep you from moaning, one hand bracing your thigh up against her hip, the other deep between your legs.

“God,” she pants, teeth grazing your lip. “You’re gonna get us both caught.”

You try to answer but she curls her fingers just right and your whole body stutters against her. Your eyes roll back as your breath hitches—a high, desperate sound muffled by her mouth.

She slows down just enough to make you whimper, her voice tightening as she says, “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You cling to her, trembling, face buried in her chest now as she brings you over the edge—fast, quiet, overwhelming. Your body arches before she pins you down with her own, her fingers still inside you, her lips brushing your ear.

“Good girl,” she whispers. “Just like that.”

You’re breathless. Shaking. Half-laughing into her skin.

“Zora,” you breathe, dazed and high, “they definitely heard something.”

She chuckles—chuckles, smug and low—and kisses your jaw.

“They’ll survive.”

“I should probably go,” you whisper. “Before someone—”

“No.”

One word. Firm. Commanding.

You blink up at her.

Zora looks down at you like she owns you. Like she’s already stripped the guilt from her soul and decided if she’s going to hell, it’s with you tangled in her sheets.

“You’re not leaving this bed,” she says, low. “Not until I’ve had you again.”

You shiver.

She moves over you like a slow-burning fire, dragging your clothes down, lips trailing heat over your collarbone, down your chest. Her mouth finds your nipple, tongue flicking just once before she bites, gentle but possessive.

You gasp—too loud.

She covers your mouth with her hand, eyes locking onto yours. “Be quiet, baby. Unless you want your dad walking in here while I’m inside you.”

Your eyes widen.

You nod under her palm.

She grins, feral, and shifts lower between your legs.

When her mouth finally presses against you, it’s all you can do not to cry out. Her tongue is slow, deliberate, circling your clit like she’s savoring you. Her fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wide, keeping you right where she wants you.

Every time you get close, she slows. Teases. Draws soft moans from your throat only to swallow them with her mouth back on yours.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “You were made for this.”

You’re writhing under her now, every nerve lit up, every muscle trembling.

“Zora, please—”

“Please what?”

“Please let me come.”

That smug glint returns to her eyes.

“You think you ask now, huh?” she murmurs, teasing your clit with her thumb. “One orgasm and suddenly you forget who’s in charge.”

You whimper.

She leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Be good for me, and I’ll let you fall apart.”

You nod so fast your head might fall off.

Then her fingers slide inside you again—two this time, deeper, relentless—and her mouth returns to your clit, and this time she doesn’t stop.

You come with a strangled gasp against her, her body blanketing yours to silence it. Her name on your lips, her hand gripping your waist like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go.

You’re breathless. Boneless. Fucked-out and glowing.

And Zora?

Zora just kisses your cheek and mutters, “Still too loud.”

——

You wake to the gentle sway of the ship and the warmth of Zora’s arm draped over your waist. Her breath is steady against the back of your neck, her body curled around yours like she was afraid you’d drift away in your sleep.

Your thighs ache.

In the best way.

You shift just slightly and feel her stir behind you. Her voice, all gravel and morning rasp, rumbles low against your shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

You smirk. “Trying to sneak out before I destroy your reputation, Bennett.”

She nuzzles into the space between your shoulder blades, mumbling, “Pretty sure my reputation was gone the second I let you climb into my lap.”

You turn in her arms, brushing her hair off her cheek, watching the softness she only ever shows you.

“I should go before my dad gets suspicious.”

Zora hums and leans in for a slow, sleepy kiss—lazy lips, tongue barely teasing. She pulls back with a half-smile, eyes still closed.

“You’re trouble.”

You grin. “And yet, you let me stay.”

She smacks your ass. “Go. Before I decide I need a third round.”

You pull on the first thing you find—Zora’s oversized crew shirt—and slip quietly out the cabin, hair messy, skin still flushed, legs wobbly.

And walk directly into Duncan.

Zora’s second-in-command. Six foot something, built like a tank, always watching. The kind of guy who could break you in half but probably volunteers at animal shelters on weekends.

He looks you up and down. Pauses.

Clock: disheveled hair. Zora’s shirt. No pants.

You freeze.

He raises one eyebrow. Then—just to ruin your entire nervous system—he gives the most knowing, smug little smirk you’ve ever seen and says:

“Mornin’.”

You blink. “Uh—hi.”

He glances toward Zora’s door, then back to you. Still smirking.

“Get some water, kid. You’re dehydrated.”

And walks away.

You stare after him, mortified, face burning. But you can’t even be mad.

Because he’s not wrong.

——

It’s later that same day. The adrenaline has cooled. The sea’s quiet.

You find Zora standing on the deck again—alone, like always—hands on the railing, shoulders tense. Her hair’s still damp from a rushed shower, and she’s wearing a fresh shirt, but she hasn’t looked at you since you joined her.

You lean against the rail beside her.

She doesn’t move.

“…You’re doing it again,” you say softly.

Her jaw clenches. “Doing what?”

“Pulling away.”

Zora exhales through her nose. “I’m not.”

You give her a look.

“…Okay,” she admits, “maybe a little.”

You wait. Let her fill the silence.

Finally, she mutters, “Your dad’s gonna hate me.”

You blink. “What?”

“He’s not stupid,” she says. “He sees the way you look at me. The way I look at you. And when he finds out what we’ve been—” She breaks off, shaking her head. “It’s not just the age thing anymore. It’s you. You’re someone’s daughter. You’re… his daughter.”

You step closer. Your voice is gentle. “Zora…”

She doesn’t look at you. “I’ve done a lot of shit in my life. Saved people. Hurt people. Made calls I can’t take back. But this?” Her voice cracks, just slightly. “This is the first time I’ve wanted something just for me. And I keep waiting for someone to come take it away.”

You place a hand over hers. She flinches, then lets you hold her.

“You think he’s gonna take me away from you?”

Zora swallows. “I think he’s gonna look at me and see someone who’s too old, too dangerous, too—”

You cut her off, voice firm. “He’s gonna see someone who carried me out of water when I literally about to be eaten alive by a mesasaurus. Who’s been watching over me every night since. Someone who makes me feel… safe.”

She turns toward you slowly, eyes full of doubt.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” you say. “Not to his judgment. Not to anyone’s.”

Zora stares at you like she doesn’t quite believe it yet. Like it hurts to hope.

You lift her hand and press a kiss to her scarred knuckles. “I’m yours,” you whisper. “Let them talk.”

For the first time all day, she smiles. It’s small. But it’s real.

“…You’re dangerous when you’re sweet,” she mutters.

You grin. “And you’re soft when you’re scared.”

She leans in, forehead pressing against yours. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” you whisper. “But I might tell Mr. Duncan.”

“‘Mr. Duncan,’” she laughs. “I’ll tell him you called him that.”

——————————————

There will be more after this, promise

[charles-leclerizz]

driver diaries : collection #8 you're their celebrity crush

models : CS55, CL16, MV1, LN4, OP81

VIP guest's in the front row : @vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @lorarri, @ccupcakqs], [@dallaavv, @nichmeddar, @sisinever, @athanasia-day] IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED, PLEASE SEND IN AN ASK, AND MUTUALS LET ME KNOW IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE REMOVED ON PRIV !

availability : crushing on each other (pre-dating)

designer's comments : a request from a lovely anon!! thank u sm, remember to wear your seat belts <33

Carlos Sainz 55 he's trying to be a nonchalant guy

Carlos has always considered himself relatively good under pressure. Tire strategy at Spa? No problem. Post- race interviews in three languages? Easy. Surviving the entirety of Drive to Survive with his dignity mostly intact? Doable.  

But apparently, none of those scenarios quite compare to the moment he glances up from his espresso and spots you walking through the paddock like you haven’t just shattered his entire understanding of reality by existing in Monaco, on a Saturday morning, wearing a linen dress and strappy sandals like in the movies he’s seen you in. 

For a brief, horrifying second, he wonders if he’s hallucinating. Maybe he hasn’t slept enough. Maybe someone spiked the hospitality coffee machine. But no- because you’re real, in fact, you’re smiling at someone near the hospitality suite, and you’re wearing Ferrari red. Which, frankly, feels a little unfair. Was it not enough to be gorgeous and globally adored? Did you really have to match his team, too? 

He tries to walk casually past you. He fails. Because you turn. You see him. And then- you smile. 

Carlos short- circuits. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, a little voice is screaming in Spanish that this is not a drill, this is not a simulation, this is his celebrity crush making eye contact and waving. 

And like an idiot- like a boy in school with his name scrawled on a notebook- when you say, “Carlos, right?” 

 He laughs, awkwardly. He never laughs awkwardly. 

 “Depende,” he says, using a smirk to try and cover his panic. Depends. “Are you about to file a complaint or ask for a tour of the garage?” 

 You raise a brow. “Are those my only options? I had a few other requests as well.” 

 Carlos swears, right there, if the FIA were to cancel the entire weekend and declare you to the Grand Prix, he’d happily park his car and never drive again. 

Charles Leclerc 16 this is not a drill

Charles is not easily shaken. He’s been in four- car battles at Silverstone, he's handled the Monaco curse with the quiet pain of a man betrayed by his own hometown, and he’s spoken to British media while heartbroken. But all of that composure is hanging by a thread the moment his assistant walks up and says- far too nonchalantly- “Hey, don’t freak out, but your celebrity crush is at the paddock.” 

He laughs. He does. Because it sounds like a stupid joke, the kind of bait Pierre might use to get him to walk into a prank. But then he hears a nearby PR girl whisper your name, and he looks out the hospitality window, and- mon dieu. 

There you are. Just standing. Talking. Wearing sunglasses and a white silk button- down that’s doing unspeakable things to his central nervous system. You’re not even doing anything that special, just sipping from a glass of iced sparkling water like you’re hydrating for a casual day of stealing souls. 

Charles panics. Silently. With elegance. 

 He thinks to change his shirts three times. Rehearses his opening line in his head. By the time he actually walks over, he’s radiating the specific, manic energy of a man trying to pretend this is all very casual and not at all the beginning of his villain origin story. 

But when you spot him and smile, he’s a goner. 

"Charles,” you say, “you looked good in quali last week.” 

He freezes. He forgets how to thank people. How to form words. 

“I- you- merci. You… also looked… good… in your movie. That I watched. Alone. In the dark. That sounded weird, ignore that part.” 

  You laugh, which somehow makes it worse. Or better. It’s hard to tell. 

  “Would you like to show me around the garage?”  Charles nods, then immediately regrets how aggressively he nods. “Yes. Of course. Oui. Do you- do you want a hat? I can get you a hat. Or a jacket. Or a fireproof suit. Do you want to sit in the car? You can sit in the car.” 

  And just like that, Charles is no longer a racing driver. He’s a man at the mercy of his most embarrassing crush moment, and it’s only Friday. 

Max Verstappen 1 folds like a melting ice-cream

Max has built his identity around not being fazed. He’s dealt with championship pressure, multi- hour debriefs, and Helmut Marko giving unsolicited opinions on his love life, all without blinking. But none of that adequately prepared him for the way his heart genuinely stumbles in his chest when he sees you standing next to the Red Bull garage like you weren’t just voted one of Forbes “most beautiful people alive”.  

He knows your face- of course he does. You’re everywhere. Music videos. Award shows.   And now you’re at the paddock. His paddock. 

You glance his way, and Max looks down at his shoes. Like he’s shy. Like he’s twenty again, getting his first podium. 

At first, he thinks maybe he’s seeing things. Maybe someone on the team printed out a cardboard cutout of you as a joke. But no- cutouts don’t wear perfume. Cutouts don’t laugh that easily. And cutouts certainly don’t look up, spot Max Verstappen, and say, “Hi.” 

He panics internally. 

Because what the hell is he supposed to do with that? Say hi back? Pretend he’s not the man who once told a Dutch interviewer that you were the only person he’d consider watching a romcom for? 

But to his credit, he smiles. And when you say, “You’re taller in real life,” he snorts and replies with “You’re intimidating in real life,”. 

You grin, sharp and amused. “You scared?” 

Max shakes his head slowly, voice low. “Terrified.” 

And then, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, you lean in slightly and say, “Show me the car?” 

  And God help him, he does. 

Lando Norris 4 he's so glad that you matched his freak

Lando Norris has known a lot of chaos in his life. Races in the rain, PR misquotes, Daniel Ricciardo’s prank era. But none of that holds a candle to the sheer psychological collapse he experiences when he sees you- his actual, literal, not-a-bit-made-up celebrity crush- standing by the McLaren motorhome like you’ve definitely not got a reserved seat in his dreams and just happened to show up in person. 

At first, he tries to walk by. Cool. Chill. Sunglasses on, hoodie up, no big deal.  Except he walks into a recycling bin. 

And you see it. Of course you do.

You’re trying so hard not to laugh, and he honestly thinks he might pass away from the humiliation. But then you smile- and say, “You alright there, superstar?”

He wants to die. But also? He wants to marry you. 

“I swear I’m usually more coordinated,” he says. 

You raise an eyebrow. “Says the F1 driver who just lost a fight with a paper bin.” 

You’re so pretty. It’s aggressive, actually.

He approaches, heart thudding, hands clammy. 

“Hi,” you say. “I love your helmet design.” 

He short- circuits. “I love- everything you do ever in your life ever.” 

You blink. Then laugh. “That was smooth.” 

“Was it?” 

“No.” 

“Can I try again?” 

You grin. “Sure. One more life. 

He scratches the back of his neck. “If I give you a tour of the garage, will you pretend you  didn’t see that?” 

You smirk. “Only if you give me a McLaren bucket hat.” 

“Done,” he says, already texting someone to bring one over. 

He’s going to have to write about this in a diary he doesn’t own yet. 

Oscar Piastri 81 he now knows why he prefers to stay calm

Oscar prides himself on being the voice of reason, the man who doesn’t get distracted by chaos or press drama or petty gossip. But even he has to admit that all logic exits his body the moment he sees you walking through the paddock in tailored trousers, sunglasses balanced on your head, and a kind of confident glow that makes him feel like he’s watching a movie trailer narrated by Morgan Freeman. 

You’re talking to someone from the F1TV crew, and Oscar is standing like a statue, staring, forgetting that he’s still holding a protein bar halfway to his mouth.  And then you turn. And smile. And say, “Hi.” 

Hi. 

He swallows. Hard. “Hello. Yes. Hi.” 

Flawless. Well done, Piastri. 

You step closer. “I’m a fan, you know.” 

His soul briefly detaches from his body. “Oh. That’s- that’s cool. I’m also… a fan. Of yours. I mean. Not of myself.”

There’s a beat of silence. You nod, clearly amused. “I heard the McLaren garage is impressive. Think I could get a peek?” 

He blinks. “Yeah. Yes. It’s very… orange.” 

God help him, he’s never going to recover from this conversation. 

[ram-bles]

a crumb of nsfw daisuke?

daisuke x reader | headcanons

requests/inbox: open

[ 🔞 minors dni ]

woah. from sweet to spicy. ill give this a try!

wrote this on mobile, sorry for the fuckass formatting.

gender neutral reader. sillies. lots of sillies. weed mention (like once).

🌺 c'mon, he somehow sneaked in some of his secret stash'a magazines. he's still a guy after all.

"Dai?" "Yeah?" He's busy on his Gameboy, but he acknowledges you, tilting his body to show his face but his eyes were glued to the screen. "Did you steal these porn mags from Jimmy or someth—" A pink blur suddenly pushes you away, using his feet to kick it back under his bed. "DUDE. PRIVACY. C'MON NOW."

🌺 You've probably caught him once or twice even before you two were a thing. It wasn't hard to, after all, you both shared a room.

Too lost in the sauce to even notice you, so you had to clear your throat. You've never seen someone so shocked to the point he doesn't know whether to shove his dick back in his pants, hide under the blankets, or try to do both at the same time but completely failing. He's stuttering your name out along with strings of apologies. Don't get your dick caught in your zipper now, Daisuke. "I didn't know you were there! Shitshitshit- I'm so so sorry- Aghhhh." He felt pathetic, whining in embarrassment. Daisuke ends up just pulling the blanket over the entirety of him. "You could've just asked me for help, y'know." He stares at you, scandalized as if he wasn't rubbing one off just moments ago. "How the fuck was I s'posed to know?!" You shrug, amused. "Dunno." "Man, fuck youuuu." "Happily." "Get over here already, please!"

🌺 Outside internship though? Weed before sex seems like something he'd do. I can't explain why.

🌺 Feeling his rings on you... in many ways.

🌺 Pretty sure we all agree that he's into praising. Both giving and receiving.

🌺 You know he's having lots of fun when the pitch of his voice goes high. Squeaking, voice cracking, whining.

🌺 Speaking of how vocal he is, he's probably loud too. But, since you're in the ship now, he'll try his best to keep it down, either on the pillow or you. He'll also be rambling about random things just so he doesn't finish early.

🌺 Dirty talking? ❌ He'll be cringing like there's no tomorrow. He'll make a discord (or whatever equivalent) kitten joke about it if he does.

🌺 Unintentional dirty talking though... That's another story. Or should I rephrase, more-so leaning towards cussing.

"Fuck— you're sosososo pretty..." His hands were pressing the back of your knees, folding and spreading your legs for him. He whines your name out, resting his length on your abdomen while he impatiently waits for your permission. "C'mon, pretty. I'll be this deep inside you." - "Feels good. Feels so good." He's panting and rutting into you like a dog. "You should- nh- loosen up a little- shit- if you get any tighter I think I'll cum..."

🌺 Quickies galore. Sure, it's less risky, but with his libido? Anyways, he's pretty easy to please anyways. A round or two would probably be enough for him.

🌺 Wearing his clothes while at it? Mega turn on for him.

🌺 Well, yes his libido is high, but you still need to be straightforward with him. He can't take hints...

"Want head?" "?!? Who's head?!" "YOUR DICK." "YOU'RE CUTTING IT OFF?" "WHAT? NO, I MEANT SUCKING YOUR—" "Good morning to you both too." "CAPTAIN?"

🌺 He loves giving and receiving hickeys. You would have to remind him everytime not to mark too high on your neck.

🌺 His aftercare involves lots of cuddling and lots of smooching.

🌺 Ending with a silly note. The first time you've done it with him, he ended up saying thank you since he didn't know what to do.

[neeeooon]

shut me up ;

blue lock michael kaiser x fem!reader, series

genre/cw

-> 16+ smau/writing hybrid (chs w writing indicated w a 🎸), rock band au, college au, aged up characters, enemies to lovers, slow burn, real people are used in the photos, shipping, dark humor + kys jokes, kaiser’s past, violence, mentions of sh, mentions of drinking (ab)use, mentions of sex, y/n is very dramatic and likes to exaggerate things, more will be added as the story progresses…

description

-> blue lock university wasn’t your first pick. or your second. or your third. but you’re here now, and after three years, too deep in your degree to transfer. blu was known for its loud crowds, its rowdy students, and its top tier soccer team—all things you ignore to focus on your education so you can graduate quicker. but when you’re forced to find a place after your dorm-mate bails last minute, you realize the rumors might be much worse than you expected.

playlist

-> shut me up, mindless self indulgence -> my own summer (shove it), deftones -> twin flames, midrift -> aerials, system of a down -> mascara, deftones -> i hate everything about you, three days grace -> screaming, loathe -> entombed, deftones -> realize, trxy! -> savior, novulent -> void in blue, glare -> why’d you only call me when you’re high?, arctic monkeys -> strawberries & cigarettes, troye sivan -> verrückt, eisbrecher -> two-way mirror, loathe -> bitches, mindless self indulgence -> link here

status

-> completed!

-> extras! relationship poll | asks | your art

-> two-way mirror (rin-centric spin-off)

profiles (1) profiles (2)

0 | homeless

1 | apt 503

2 | douchebag jar

3 | chigiri makes other friends

4 | custody battles and housewarming parties

5 | new neighbors (🎸)

6 | the death of isagi yoichi (🎸)

7 | mystery girl

8 | so you’ve met kaiser! (🎸)

9 | bambi and thumper

10 | y/n and the groupies (🎸)

11 | movie night (🎸)

12 | war flashbacks

13 | international boyfriend day

14 | noise complaint (🎸)

15 | operation thumper

16 | you’re cheating on me?! (🎸)

17 | moving?

18 | count your days

19 | loud on purpose (🎸)

20 | a day in the kaiser life (🎸)

21 | best friends, baby! (🎸)

22 | cat dads and carpools

23 | pretty girl pt 1 (🎸)

24 | pretty girl pt 2 (🎸)

25 | y/n protection squad (🎸)

26 | jealousy

27 | a night in the kaiser life (🎸)

28 | curiosity killed hello kitty

29 | names in heart tattoos (🎸)

30 | eat that girl for lunch (🎸)

31 | talk about subtle

32 | y/n the virus (🎸)

33 | piece of shit (🎸)

34 | unread text messages (🎸)

35 | i want to be loved (🎸)

36 | interrogation

37 | loose ends (🎸)

38 | becoming human (🎸)

39 | hard launch

40 | shut me up (🎸)

taglist (CLOSED)

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© neeeooon, 2025

[bethsvrse]

EX BOYFRIEND

PAIRING micky barnes x fem!reader

TAGS/WARNINGS nsfw, head canons, kinda fluffy, pls pls send in requests for him

pt 2 kind of

Ex-Boyfriend!Mickey Barnes who had no idea you signed up for Kenneth’s Expedition. He who freezes when he sees you for the first time on the ship. His brain short-circuits, his mouth goes dry, and for the first time in a long time, he feels like he might actually die for real this time and never come back. You weren’t supposed to be here. You were supposed to be back on Earth, away from him, where he could at least pretend to move on. But now? Now you’re right in front of him, and all he can think about is how much he still wants you.

Ex-Boyfriend!Mickey who becomes obsessed all over again. It’s sick, how fast it happens. One second he’s reeling from the shock, the next he’s watching you like he used to—memorising the way your hands move when you work, the way you bite your lip when you’re concentrating. He tells himself it’s just old habits, but that’s a lie. He’s right back where he started, desperate for you, aching for you, unable to focus on anything that isn’t you.

Ex-Boyfriend!Mickey who gets territorial the second he sees you talking to someone else. He’s not stupid, he knows he has no claim over you, not anymore. But that doesn’t stop the jealousy from twisting in his gut, making his fingers clench at his sides when he sees another guy laughing at something you said. Mickey’s always been a little self-destructive, and now he’s pacing outside your quarters, trying to convince himself not to knock.

Ex-Boyfriend!Mickey who can’t stay away. It starts small like passing you in the hall, lingering too long when you make eye contact. Then it escalates. He starts sitting next to you at meals, cracking jokes like old times, watching your reaction like his life depends on it. And when you laugh? Fuck, it’s over for him. He needs you again.

Ex-Boyfriend!Mickey who starts touching himself to the thought of you again. It’s pathetic, but he can’t stop. Every night, his hand is wrapped around his cock, eyes squeezed shut as he pictures the way you used to moan for him. He remembers exactly how you sound, how you feel, how you’d tug at his hair when he was between your legs. He swears he’ll stop, swears he won’t do it again, but then you smile at him the next day, and he’s right back in his bed, stroking himself raw to the memory of you.

Ex-Boyfriend!Mickey who finally breaks and kisses you. It happens fast, you’re teasing him, just like old times back on earth then suddenly, he’s got you against the wall, lips crashing against yours, hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. It’s desperate and messy, and when you kiss him back, he groans like a dying man finally given oxygen.

Ex-Boyfriend!Mickey who fucks you like he’s making up for lost time. He’s all over you, kissing every inch of skin he can reach, muttering how much he missed you against your throat. He wants you whining for him, wants to remind you exactly how good you had it. When he finally pushes inside, it’s slow, deep, possessive—like he’s trying to carve himself back into you, make sure you never forget who you belong to.

Ex-Boyfriend!Mickey who knows he’s in trouble. He told himself he wouldn’t do this again. Wouldn’t fall for you all over. But now you’re lying in his arms, breathless and he’s tracing lazy circles on your back, already wondering how long he can keep you this time.