#they are... utterly breathtaking

[inchidentally]

wow. wowwww.

[squidcreature]

saw skz last night and i have been forever altered

[mesacnaobloha]

The moon is beautiful tonight

[swytdoll]

♡.ྀི₊thinking about mean!overworked and underfucked nanami:3

it’s utterly cruel as he forces your fucked out face against the penthouse window. any other time, you'd be gushing over the breathtaking view of the city lights, but the way kento's fat tip gnaws at your cervix has your eyes rolling back in your skull.

a sinewy hand grips your throat, tightening to the point where you feel lightheaded. the other hand is firmly placed on your hip, anchoring your ass against his pelvis. you've been in this position for what feels like an eternity, pressed against the glass like an animal as he fucked you like a mutt in heat. the chill of the glass contrasts with the warmth radiating from him, each thrust causing the surface to shudder beneath you.

“such a slut, letting me use you like this—ha! bet it turns you on fucking your boss like this—god,” he snarls, voice thick with lust. the wet squelch of your slick pussy is audible in the room, only adding to your embarrassment. the shame has your eyes brimming with tears, the sting of them mixing with the ache between your legs.

he chuckles darkly. "that's right, sweetheart. i know how much of a fucking whore you are." he's relentless, driving his cock deep into your cunt as he uses your throat to keep you upright. “m’not a whore!” you try to argue, but it's incoherent due to the cock shoved in your cunt. he doesn't respond, but the grip on your hip tightens. his pace is brutal, each snap of his hips causing your ass to jiggle. your pussy flutters around his girth, sucking him in as he plows into you. the pressure building in your abdomen too much.

“don’t make me laugh.” he hisses, bending his knees slightly so that he can hit a new angle, the new position knocking a series of whines from your throat. you’re pretty sure he’s in your womb, molding your gummy walls around his length.

"always prancing around in those slutty skirts and shirts—i see the way you stare at me when you think i'm not looking. so needy. you wanted this from the beginning, didn't you?” he pauses, letting out a guttural moan.

“i knew all along. how could i not? you were practically throwing yourself at me. batting your fucking eyelashes, and now i've got you exactly where i want you. i bet it was all just a ploy to get my dick. i'm right, aren't i?"

even as he’s degrading you, you can't help but moan. kento’s hand moves to your ass, giving your cheek a sharp smack. the stinging sensation forces a cry from you, and you clench around his member, causing him to let out a string of curses.

“my point proven—ha! s’fuckin sad.”

the hand gripping your throat moves to the back of your head, pushing your face further against the cool glass.

"i'm not gonna last long," he groans, his hips beginning to falter. he's going harder, faster, and the way he splits you makes you scream. tears begin to stream down your cheeks as you come undone, the sensation of being full, so fucking full, causing you to go limp in his grasp. he doesn't stop, and the way he fucks you through your orgasm makes your vision go spotty.

he draws your hair into his hands, creating a makeshift ponytail for his fingers to weave into. then, he yanks hard, the sudden action forcing you to arch your back. “why do sluts always have the best pussy? no fair.” he sneers, he's fucking into you with such fervor that you're afraid the window might splinter.

“s-slow down, nanami-san, you're gonna b-break me," you stammer, voice barely above a whisper.

he doesn't.

the only thing you can do is take it. the way his head slams against your hilt has your body shaking, the pressure building up in your core once more. you can't hold on much longer, not with him fucking you like this.

“slow down? you wanted this! running your fuckin’ leg up my thigh at a work dinner, touching me under the table like a desperate bitch—you want this, don't you? i bet you would've let me fuck you there. i could've bent you over that table and pounded your little cunt till you were screaming my name. and now, look at you—fucking pathetic. such a pretty face, such a nice little pussy” he moans loudly, "wrecked. all ruined. and all because of me."

he pulls your hair once more, forcing a strangled sob from your throat. the sound makes him chuckle. kento uses you as a ragdoll, pulling your hair, grabbing your waist, manhandling you like some cheap sex toy. it's fucking disgusting. he spanks you when you go limp, pulling your hair whenever you go quiet. and all you can do is take it. the pain is so delicious that you're not even thinking straight. you just want to be good for him.

he's mean. but you've never been this wet in your entire life. your body is writhing, begging for another release, and when kento’s fingers find your swollen clit, you nearly fall apart. his fingers rub tight circles against the bundle of nerves, sending a surge of pleasure up your calves. his hips stutter, and he's moaning louder.

your knees buckle, another slap. “stay up i won’t tell you again.”

he's so fucking close. the tip of his cock is battering the entrance to your womb, and the way his balls are slapping against your cunt is making you sob. he nearly blows his load in you when he presses a hand below your belly button, feeling his cock through your stomach. he curses, grabbing your hand and pressing it to the small bump.

"can you feel me, sweetheart? can you feel how deep i am? can you feel the bulge?" you can't respond, too fucked out to process the words. he lets go of your hair, instead using both hands to pin your arms above your head. his face is buried in the crook of your neck, and you can feel his hot breath against your skin. “can’t even speak, sad.” he grunts, pressing sloppy wet kisses behind your ear.

you're his, all his. “mine, mine, mine.”

the way his teeth graze the skin of your neck has your eyes fluttering shut, a fresh set of tears rolling down your cheeks. you're a fucking mess, and kento nanami loves it. he can't help himself, not when your cunt is sucking him in like this. he's so close, so fucking close.

the pressure building in his abdomen becomes unbearable, and he lets out a strangled groan as his hips snap forward, his seed spilling into you. he doesn't slow down, not even as his cum overflows from your pussy, dribbling down your thighs.

"oh my god—oh my fucking god," he pants, his thrusts erratic. he's so deep inside of you, and the feeling of him painting your insides white has you on the verge of blacking out. he's filling you, stretching you, breeding you. it's too much.

his grip on your wrists going lax, you're completely boneless. the only thing keeping you from crumpling onto the floor is kento’s firm grip on your wrists. he lets go, and you fall to the ground. the only sounds that fill the air are the soft whimpers that escape your lips, and his heavy breathing.

he runs a hand through his hair, trying to calm himself. he looks down at you, and the sight has his dick twitching.

you're a mess, his cum seeping from your cunt, mixing with your own arousal and dribbling down your thigh. the tear streaks running down your cheeks only make the scene more obscene. you're absolutely wrecked, and he's the one who did it. the thought has him grinning, and he crouches down to your level.

"you took me so well, baby girl," he purrs, tipping your chin upwards. his tone is surprisingly gentle, and you can't help but flush. his voice is a bit hoarse, a result of the noises he'd been making earlier. he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, admiring how fucked out you look. he can't wait to get his hands on you again.

[aakeysmash]

Tattooartist!Sukuna who is so used to being ogled by girls that he’s on the verge of putting his 2 weeks’ notice in. He knows he’s hot, muscular, breathtaking even (like some girl said while sitting on the studio chair and trying to get in his pants), but people piss him off, both men and women. He wishes he could just ink them up and never see them again.

And when he sees you staring at him from across the room he’s sure you’re about to say the same shit every other girl has said in the past three years he worked at the studio. But he’s utterly surprised when, instead, you turn around and close the door behind you.

He waits for you to come back, because you do have a tattoo appointment, but you don’t. That’s why he presses his ear against his door to listen to you trying to reschedule your appointment when there’s another tattoo artist instead.

He gets out and leans on the door, making himself visible, and when the girl at the reception asks you why you want to reschedule you look at him while saying “I just don’t think he’s professional enough to make what I’m looking for.”

And now you’re pissing him off, because he’s good at what he does and he knows it. So he comes closer to you, trying to intimidate you with his height, and slowly challenges you saying how he will get your stencil done for free. If you don’t like it he will personally pay for your tattoo, no matter the price. You accept the challenge, tattoos are super expensive these days, what do you really have to lose?

And that’s how you find yourself in his bedroom getting pounded from the back, your fresh tattoo on your spinal column.

“Thought you said I wasn’t professional enough, mh baby?” He whispers in your ear. “Looks like you enjoyed the tattoo, yeah?”

Between moans you manage to slightly turn around and kiss him on the lips. While you’re still close to his face you smirk.

“Looks like you’re enjoying it more than me.”

You feel his dick jump at your provocative tone, and he picks up his pace while standing back up. He slaps your ass, hard, earning himself a squeal before feeling your pussy cream on his dick.

“Fuck yes I do.”

[melangedeparfums]

KEEP YOUR HANDS ON ME

husband!nanami x wife!reader

masterlist

tw: suggestive, not proofread, nanami can’t keep his hands off, petnames (“my love”, “my wife”)

nanami was good with his hands.

calloused hands trained by years of practice, manipulating weapons, combining agility and strength. his hands could destroy, wreck, bring everything to ruin - but for you, they create, soften, take care.

the roughness of his hands would meet the softness of your skin, the relief of his fingers on your thin skin - making him hum appreciatively, the slowness of his movements overwhelming you.

his hands were also large, much larger than yours, twice your size in fact, wrapping around every part of your flesh with utter care and patience because, yes, nanami was a man of patience, and he intended to make every bit last.

“see how my hands are made for you? see how you fit perfectly, hmm?” his deep voice made his chest grumble, arising goosebumps on your skin, his sharp look reflecting his focused mind.

nanami learnt to be delicate with his fists, his knuckles grazing over the swell of your breasts, his pants already tight. but Nanami was a man of control, and calm, and he would take his sweet time with you.

nanami knew what to do with his hands. always. when to came to you, it was natural. instinctive. his powerful hands could manhandle you, pin you down, and make you bend for him - his eyes captivated by the magnificent arch of your back against the mattress.

precise.

this man was a man of precision. aiming perfectly at his target. one look, and he didn’t have to think - his fingers moving for him, as he would take sight of you, spread for him. he knew where to touch, caress, pinch. alternating between his index and his thumb. gripping with both hands. slapping. the cold metal of his wedding ring shining through the light, trailing along your spine with finesse, his lips following the same path he created before.

“you are truly breathtaking, my love.”

my love.

you thought your heart would explode, your head dizzy and your vision blurred. something utterly tender in his honeyed tone made your core ache with pain, as his hands memorised the map of your body in the marble of his mind, his fingers foxtrotted on your epidermis gracefully to brand every scar, mole, stretch mark, freckle, birthmark into the furrows of his soul.

like a sculptor modelling the clay with an utter precision, kneading the dough between his fingers, awe shining in his hazel irises in front of the muse that made his heart pound deliciously into his ribcage.

veiny forearms that wrapped around your waist, making you switch positions, his digits pressing into the plumpness of your thighs to make it collide with his pelvis, eliciting a weak whimper from you, and a soft chuckle from him.

an work of art, you were his work of art. and Nanami was the artist, holding moonlight in his two hands all night long.

“my wife.”

──── ୨୧ ────

thank you so much for all the likes and the reposts!! 🫶🏻

[thetruearchmagos]

#welcome to horseblr#you live in an inner city type right have you seen a horse in rl#genuine question

Well, I went to Australia last year, and I think I might've seen one there! Most of Australia being, of course, not 'inner city', not that I've really heard that term outside the US context?

If you would’ve known that that stupid river was the fountain of youth, you never would’ve drank from it. That was 300 years ago. You’re permanently stuck at age 26. The only one you really have left in your life is your horse, who also made the mistake of drinking from it.

[rafecameronssl4t]

Actors on Actors || Drew Starkey x actress!reader

Summary: Actress!reader and Drew partaking in Variety's Actors on Actors!!

Warnings: not proofread sozz

Word count: 3,057 loooong one

A/n: damn I felt like I was in the interview room for this one

MASTERLIST

Drew couldn’t keep his eyes off you as the crew flitted around, prepping for the Actors on Actors interview with Variety. You were standing just a few feet away, laughing lightly at something one of the staff members had said, your head tilted back, eyes sparkling. To him, you looked utterly breathtaking—ethereal, even. Everyone knew Drew Starkey had the biggest crush on you.

He was never subtle about it, often caught in candid interviews or behind-the-scenes clips praising you, his admiration so obvious it became a running joke among his friends and colleagues. But right now, as he adjusted his mic and watched you from the corner of his eye, he wished he hadn’t been so vocal about it. His nerves were getting the best of him.

What if he said something dumb? What if you already thought he was just some lovesick fool? He swallowed hard, trying to calm the fluttering in his chest as you walked toward the set, your heels clicking softly against the floor. “Drew Starkey,” you greeted warmly, a radiant smile lighting up your features as you settled into the armchair opposite him.

You sat first, crossing your legs effortlessly, the picture of poise. “Y/n,” Drew smiled back, leaning forward slightly to kiss both of your cheeks. The casual intimacy of the gesture sent his pulse racing, but he played it cool as you let out a soft laugh, your perfume lingering faintly in the air.

“How’s it going?” he asked, his tone steady, though there was a barely perceptible edge to it—a nervous undertone that betrayed just how much this moment meant to him. His gaze lingered on yours, longer than what might be considered polite, but you didn’t seem to mind. “I’m good, and—” You paused mid-sentence as Drew suddenly leaned forward, his brows knitting together.

“Sorry—hold on,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, softer, as his fingers reached toward the hem of your dress. “You’ve got a little something.” Before you could respond, he gently plucked a stray piece of lint from the fabric, his fingertips brushing ever so lightly against the material.

The touch was fleeting, almost inconsequential, but it sent a quiet thrill up your spine, one you quickly masked with a polite chuckle. “Oh—thanks,” you said, your voice airy as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re welcome,” Drew replied, his lips curving into a shy grin, his usual confidence momentarily replaced by something more boyish and endearing.

For a moment, you could swear his ears turned a little pink. You leaned back, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you studied him. Of course you knew Drew Starkey had a crush on you. It wasn’t exactly a secret.

But there was something undeniably flattering about it—something that made you feel just a bit lighter, a bit more self-assured. However, you'd be lying if you said you didn't have a crush on him. It was Drew Starkey after all.

Your eyes met again, and the silence between you stretched into something that felt almost electric. Both of you wore soft, bashful smiles, the moment teetering between unspoken words and playful tension. Finally, you broke into a small laugh, breaking the spell, and Drew looked away, scratching the back of his neck, his own smile lingering despite himself.

“You know,” you began, shifting slightly in your seat, “it’s kind of funny. We’ve both been at so many of the same events, but we’ve never actually talked until now.” Drew chuckled, his posture relaxing just a little. “I know, right? It’s crazy. First time was… the Glass Onion premiere, wasn’t it?”

You nodded, humming in agreement. “Yeah, I was there supporting Madelyn," Drew spoke. "Ugh, I miss Maddie," You give a small pout as Drew chuckles. “And then Immaculate, I remember standing right behind you in the photo line.” You laughed, your cheeks warming at the memory.

“Oh my god, yes! And somehow, we still didn’t even say hi.” “And then the Queer premiere a couple weeks ago,” Drew said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Right,” you said, leaning forward slightly as your laughter softened into a chuckle. “It’s wild how we’ve been orbiting around each other this whole time.”

“Crazy, huh?” Drew murmured, his voice lower now, his eyes soft as they lingered on you. The way he looked at you was different—not just admiration, but genuine warmth, curiosity, and something else you couldn’t quite place. “How’s everything been?” Drew asks, leaning back in his chair, his voice warm but tinged with curiosity, as if he genuinely wants to know every detail.

“It’s good,” you reply with a soft smile, shifting slightly in your seat. “I’m here in LA, which is nice—” Before you can finish, he interjects, his brow arching in curiosity. “You’re from New England, right?” You click your tongue playfully, tilting your head at him. “I see someone’s done their research, Mr. Starkey,” you tease, flashing him a playful wink.

Drew’s grin widens, and he throws his head back in laughter, the sound rich and easy, like he’s completely at ease for the first time since the cameras started rolling. “I had to, didn’t I? You’re not exactly an open book. I had to dig deep.” “Oh, is that so?” you challenge, your voice lilting with mock skepticism.

“Well, since you’re so curious, tell me—what do you know about New England?” you challenge, leaning forward slightly. He grins, but it’s a little sheepish. “Not much, if I’m honest. You’ll have to fill in the blanks for me. What’s it like there?” Your eyes widen in exaggerated disbelief, your hand fluttering to your chest like you’ve been insulted.

“Wait—you’ve never been? My goodness, Drew! Come with me, and I’ll show you around properly,” you say, your tone teasing but full of warmth. His smile softens, and he leans in just a little. “I’d like that very much,” he says, his voice carrying a quiet sincerity that makes your breath hitch for a fraction of a second. “Well then,” you reply with a chuckle, regaining your composure.

“I think we can organise something. You’re from North Carolina, yeah?” Drew hums in confirmation, his grin widening. “Born and raised. But I gotta admit, New England sounds pretty tempting now.” “It should,” you quip, pointing at him playfully. Then, after a beat, you lean in slightly, an amused gleam in your eye.

“Can I just say—and I’m sure you get this a lot—I’m a huge fan of Outer Banks.” Drew raises an eyebrow, his grin turning slightly bashful as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh no, don’t tell me you’re team Pogue,” he jokes, but his eyes are fixed on you with a playful sparkle.

You snort softly, clasping your hands together in your lap. “Not quite. But I’ve gotta say, you play Rafe so convincingly. How do you approach a character like Rafe? I mean, you’re, you know… the complete opposite of him.” You chuckle, your words carrying a mix of admiration and disbelief.

Drew leans back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully before clearing his throat. “Well, Rafe is a challenge, to say the least. He’s not your typical villain. It’s easy to hate him on the surface, but if you dig deeper, he’s this broken guy with so many vulnerabilities. That’s where I try to focus—on making him human. I want people to see why he makes those awful decisions, even if they don’t agree with them. It’s all about balance.”

You nod, your expression softening as you listen. “That’s fascinating,” you say earnestly. “It’s definitely what makes him such a compelling character.” Drew smiles, but you notice something different about his gaze. He isn’t just answering your question—he’s watching you, his eyes holding a softness that makes your heart skip a beat.

Before the moment can linger too long, Drew shifts the focus back to you. “And your character in Ghosted,” he says, his voice warm and curious. “It’s so different from anything you’ve done before. How did you prepare for that role?” You smile at the question, grateful for his genuine interest.

“It was a lot of emotional work,” you admit, leaning back slightly. “She’s so different from me in so many ways. I spent a lot of time understanding her motivations, her fears, and what drives her. It’s a very internal role, so the process was… draining, to say the least. But also rewarding.” Drew’s lips curve into a soft smile as he leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees.

“Sounds intense,” he says, his voice quieter now. “I’ve always wondered in the film how you guys manage to keep it together when the emotions run that deep.” You shrug lightly, a thoughtful smile tugging at your lips. “It’s not easy, but that’s the beauty of the craft, isn’t it? Tapping into those emotions and channelling them into something real.”

Drew nods, his expression softening even further. There’s something unspoken in his gaze—something that lingers longer than words can express. “Yeah,” he says finally, his voice dropping just a fraction. “I get that. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re incredible. I’ve seen your work—it’s inspiring.” His words hang in the air, heavy with sincerity, and you can’t help the rush of warmth that floods your chest.

A small, genuine smile spreads across your face. “I could say the same for you,” you reply softly, your eyes meeting his. For a moment, it’s like the rest of the room fades away, leaving just the two of you, sharing something unspoken yet deeply understood. Drew shifts in his seat, leaning forward slightly, his curiosity evident. “So, let’s talk about Saltburn. You played Venetia Catton. How did you even begin to prepare for a role like that?"

You smile, the mention of Saltburn immediately bringing back memories. “Honestly, Venetia was one of the most challenging but rewarding roles I’ve ever taken on. Emerald Fennell has such a sharp, specific vision as a director, and she brought so much depth to every single character. Venetia wasn’t just the surface-level socialite that she might appear to be at first glance. She’s deeply entrenched in this world of privilege, but there’s a kind of desperation underneath it all—this need to hold it all together, to maintain this facade of control.”

Drew nods, his expression thoughtful. “I feel like Emerald has this incredible knack for creating characters who feel both larger than life and painfully real. What was it like working with her?” “Incredible,” you answer without hesitation. “Emerald is so collaborative and detail-oriented, but she also gives you the freedom to bring your own interpretation to the role. She’s this powerhouse of creativity, and you always feel like you’re in safe hands with her. She’s also hilarious—like, incredibly funny—so even on the more intense days, there was always this underlying sense of ease on set.”

Drew smiles at that, clearly invested. “And then there’s the cast. I mean, Rosamund Pike, Barry Keoghan, Jacob Elordi—they’re all such giving actors. What was it like working alongside them?” You exhale softly, recalling the dynamic energy of the cast. “It was surreal, honestly. Rosamund Pike is… well, she’s Rosamund Pike. She’s this commanding presence on set, but she’s also so warm and generous as a scene partner. Barry, on the other hand, is just a chameleon. He’s fearless in the way he approaches his craft, and watching him work was like taking a masterclass every day.”

“And Jacob?” Drew asks, his tone light but curious. “He’s been everywhere lately.” “Jacob’s amazing,” you reply with a smile. “He’s so grounded, which is kind of funny considering the larger-than-life characters he’s been playing lately. But on set, he’s just this really laid-back, thoughtful guy. We had a lot of fun with our scenes together—he brings this kind of effortless charisma that makes everything feel natural.”

Drew leans back in his chair, letting out a low whistle. “That’s a stacked team. No pressure at all, right?” You laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, no pressure whatsoever. Just casually working with some of the most talented people in the industry.” “Well, you pulled it off,” Drew says sincerely. “Venetia felt so fully realised—like, even in her silences, there was so much going on beneath the surface. It was fascinating to watch.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, his compliment catching you off guard. There’s an earnestness in his voice that makes your heart skip a beat. “So,” you say, shifting into the next topic, “you’ve played a lot of interesting characters—Rafe Cameron, of course, but also roles like Zach in The Other Zoey and the projects you’ve got coming up. Do you feel like people expect you to stick to certain kinds of roles because of how iconic Rafe has become?”

Drew’s smile fades just a little, his expression turning thoughtful. He seems to appreciate the question, his blue eyes searching yours for a moment before he answers. “Yeah, there’s definitely that expectation sometimes,” he admits. “Rafe is such a big character, and I think when people see you in one role, they assume that’s all you can do. But as actors, we want to stretch ourselves, you know? Surprise people.”

He pauses, his gaze never leaving yours. “It’s kind of like you, actually,” he adds softly. “You’ve done dramas, you’ve done comedies… you’ve proven that you’re not just one thing. I think that’s what makes people really root for you—you're versatile. You don’t let them put you in a box.” The sincerity in his tone catches you off guard, and you can feel heat rise to your cheeks again. You shift slightly in your seat, trying not to let his words completely throw you off balance.

“That’s… really nice of you to say,” you murmur, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I think that’s the beauty of what we do, right? Showing people different sides of ourselves, through the characters we play.” Drew nods, his eyes softening. “Exactly. You just said it better than I could.” You smile, letting the moment hang between you for just a beat longer than it probably should.

You adjust in your seat, leaning forward slightly as you shift the focus of the interview. “Alright, let’s talk about Queer. You play Eugene, and from everything I’ve heard, it’s such an emotionally rich and complex role. What drew you to it, Drew?" You smile as he laughs. “Honestly, it was the script. You know with it being based on William S. Burroughs’ novel, and the way it explored themes of longing, identity, and self-destruction… it was just so raw. Eugene is such a fascinating character because he’s flawed, but you can’t help but empathise with him. It felt like a challenge I couldn’t pass up.”

You nod, smiling softly. “It sounds like it required you to really dig deep emotionally. Was it intimidating stepping into a story like that?” “Completely,” Drew admits with a laugh. “But it was also the kind of role that forces you to grow as an actor. I had to be vulnerable in a way I hadn’t been before, which was scary but also freeing. And having someone like Luca Guadagnino directing—it felt like a safety net, you know? He creates such a safe, collaborative environment.”

“Luca’s brilliant,” you agree, your voice filled with admiration. “And then there’s Daniel Craig. What was your experience working with him? I mean- I remember working with him on Glass Onion and being blow away by how meticulous he is." Drew grins, a flicker of boyish excitement crossing his face. “Oh, he’s incredible. Daniel is one of those actors who’s just so present in every scene. He has this intensity, but he’s also really generous as a scene partner. He listens, reacts—he makes you feel like what you’re doing really matters.”

You smile, nodding your head, "He's also got such a great sense of humour!" Drew laughs, nodding. “Exactly! Like, he can go from delivering this super heavy, emotional scene to cracking a joke that has the entire crew in stitches. It’s such a unique balance, and it keeps the energy on set really light, even during the intense moments.”

“Do you have a favourite memory with him from filming?” you ask, genuinely curious. “There’s this one scene we did that was really emotionally charged—like, full-on tears and everything,” Drew begins, his smile softening. “After we wrapped the take, I was still kind of in that headspace, and Daniel just clapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Well, that was bloody exhausting, wasn’t it?’ It snapped me out of it, and we both just started laughing. It was one of those moments where you realise, ‘Okay, this is heavy, but it’s also what we love to do.’”

You laugh at the image of Daniel’s bluntness, shaking your head. “That’s so him. He has a way of grounding you, doesn’t he?” “Completely,” Drew agrees. “And honestly, having him on set made me feel like I had to step up my game. He’s such a pro, and you can’t help but want to match that level of commitment.”

You tilt your head, studying him for a moment. “It sounds like Queer really pushed you as an actor, in the best way.” “It did,” Drew says earnestly. “And, you know, hearing you talk about working with Daniel—what was it like for you? I mean, I imagine Glass Onion had a very different vibe, but I’m sure he brought that same energy.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you reply. “Daniel has this way of making everyone feel like they’re part of something special. And with Glass Onion, there was this playful energy because the story is so twisty and fun, but Daniel was always so focused and intentional with every scene.” Drew leans in slightly, clearly fascinated. “Did you ever have one of those moments with him where you just stopped and thought, ‘Wow, I’m working with James Bond’?”

You laugh, nodding. “More than once! It’s impossible not to. But then you get to know him, and he’s just… Daniel. Down-to-earth, funny, and incredibly kind. It makes you forget about the whole ‘James Bond’ thing—at least for a little while.” Drew grins. “That’s good to know. I feel like we’ve both been lucky to work with him, even if I’m still a little starstruck.”

“That’s what Daniel Craig does to you, ladies and gentlemen,” you teased, your laughter light as you pointed at the camera, winking playfully. Drew’s amused chuckle followed, a soft sound that matched the warmth in your tone. The atmosphere of the interview had shifted, the playful banter between the two of you creating an easy camaraderie as the conversation drew to a close.

“Well, I think we’ve discovered we have a lot in common after all,” Drew said, his smile widening as he turned toward you. His eyes glinted with a mix of amusement and genuine appreciation. “This has been a great pairing, truly.”

Your smile softened as you met his gaze, the connection between the two of you almost palpable. “I think so too,” you responded, your voice light and sincere, a soft chuckle escaping you as your gaze lingered on him. “Very great pairing,” you added, your words more than just agreement—there was an unspoken understanding, a mutual respect that hung in the air.

Drew’s smile widened slightly at your reply, the chemistry between the two of you becoming more evident as the final moments of the interview came into focus. Despite the cameras and the public personas, there was something undeniably real in the exchange, something that hinted at more than just a professional connection.

[gf2bellamy]

So you know that one scene where Rossi comes to an briefing session in a tux because the bau got summoned last minute? Could I please request fem!reader coming to an evening meeting all dressed up because she was at a party and didn’t have time to change when she was called? And Spencer is a complete blushing mess because his crush looks so pretty?

distracted — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader wearing a dress, mention of nice perfume a/n: thank you for your request !!! i hope you like this <3

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft chime, sealing you in as you let out an exasperated sigh. You glanced down at yourself, smoothing out the fabric of your dress as if that would make it any less noticeable. The deep color clung to your frame in a way your usual work attire never did, the hem brushing just above your knees, heels clicking softly against the floor.

This was not how you had expected your night to go. 

You had been at a party, actually enjoying yourself for once, when your phone buzzed in your clutch. Hotch’s name had flashed across the screen, and just like that, the night had taken a turn.

Now, instead of sipping a drink and making polite small talk, you were about to walk into the BAU’s conference room—filled with your very serious, very observant coworkers—wearing something completely out of character. 

You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as the elevator dinged at your floor. It wasn’t a big deal. It was just a dress. It was just your team. It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen you outside of work before. 

But still, the moment you stepped out into the hallway, you found yourself walking a little slower. You reached the door to the conference room and hesitated for only a second before pushing it open. 

The room fell momentarily silent. Then— 

A low whistle. 

“Damn, sweetheart, you clean up nice.” Derek Morgan’s voice was laced with amusement, a slow grin spreading across his face as he leaned back in his chair. 

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight back the small, amused smile tugging at your lips. “Don’t get used to it,” you shot back, making your way toward an empty seat. 

Across the table, Spencer Reid had gone very still, his usual rambling tendencies seemingly failing him for once. His gaze flickered over you quickly before he looked away, ears tinged a faint shade of pink. 

Garcia beamed at you, practically bouncing in her seat as she showered you with compliments. “Oh, my God, look at you! I mean, I always knew you were gorgeous, but this? This is next level, honey.” 

You laughed, shaking your head as you took the empty seat beside Spencer. 

He wished you hadn’t. 

It was bad enough seeing you walk through that door, looking like something straight out of a dream. But now, you were close—so close that the faint scent of your perfume drifted toward him, wrapping around his senses like a spell.

Not only did you look like an absolute angel, but you smelled incredible too. His brain, usually brimming with facts and statistics, felt utterly useless. 

He had barely managed to keep his jaw from going slack when you first walked in. Breathtaking didn’t even begin to describe you. Now, as you sat beside him, chatting with Garcia, he could feel the warmth creeping up his neck, spreading to his ears. He prayed no one noticed. 

You were still waiting for Rossi and Emily to arrive, which gave you time to talk and settle in. Meanwhile, Spencer remained frozen, struggling to process anything beyond the fact that you were right there, looking like this, smelling like this, existing like this. 

He was just staring. 

His usual encyclopedic mind—capable of recalling thousands of facts in perfect detail—had never felt this empty before. 

Spencer’s brain was so empty, so utterly useless in this moment, that he failed to notice the way Derek was watching him. Normally, Spencer noticed everything—the smallest change in body language, the slightest shift in someone’s tone—but right now? Right now, all he could focus on was you. 

Derek, on the other hand, was very much aware. 

Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, Derek observed the entire scene with growing amusement. He had always known Spencer had it bad for you.

The lingering glances, the way he got just a little more awkward when you were around, the way his usually rapid-fire explanations slowed whenever you asked him a question—yeah, Spencer was a goner. 

But this? This was something else entirely. 

Derek’s grin widened as he watched Spencer sit there, frozen, eyes locked on you like he was seeing a miracle unfold before him. He didn’t even seem to realize he was staring.

Priceless. 

Derek waited, just to see if Spencer would snap out of it on his own. He didn’t. So, with a barely concealed smirk, he leaned in slightly and murmured, “You good, Pretty Boy?” 

Spencer blinked. 

It was as if someone had flipped a switch in his brain. His entire body stiffened, and he finally tore his gaze away from you, only to find Derek smirking at him like a Cheshire cat. 

Spencer cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “Yeah. Yes. I'm good."

Derek chuckled, shaking his head. “Man, I knew you had it bad, but this?” He let out a low whistle. “This is next-level, kid.” 

Spencer’s ears burned a deep shade of red. He quickly averted his gaze, desperately hoping you hadn’t overheard any of that. 

Derek laughed loudly, shaking his head again. 

You turned around at the sound of Derek’s laughter, narrowing your eyes playfully. “What are you two talking about?” 

Your gaze flicked between them, curiosity piqued. Derek was grinning, while  Spencer was completely avoiding your eyes. 

His head snapped forward, suddenly very interested in the open case file on the table. His fingers fidgeted with the pages, but you could see the way his ears were burning, the telltale sign that he was flustered. 

Derek, of course, looked far too pleased with himself. 

“Oh, nothing,” Derek drawled, dragging out the words just enough to make it clear he was absolutely up to something. “Just discussing some… observations.” 

You raised an eyebrow, shifting your focus back to Spencer, who still refused to look at you. “Spence?” 

His shoulders tensed at the sound of his nickname, and for a brief second, he looked like he was contemplating whether he could somehow phase through the chair and disappear entirely. When he finally turned toward you, his expression was carefully neutral—too neutral. 

“Yes?” His voice was just a little too high. 

You squinted at him, suspicion creeping in. “Are you okay?” 

Derek chuckled under his breath, clearly enjoying every second of this. 

Spencer cleared his throat, straightening up like that would somehow help him regain his composure. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Completely fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?” 

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. He was fidgeting, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against the table. His face was still a little flushed. 

Weird. 

“…Okay,” you said slowly, still unconvinced but willing to let it go.

As Derek and Garcia launched into their own conversation, their voices fading into the background, you turned your full attention to Spencer.

“Hey,” you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Is that a new cardigan?” 

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard—not just by the question, but by the way you scooted closer, closing the already minimal space between you. 

His brain short-circuited. 

Not only had you noticed something as small as a new cardigan—a detail most people wouldn’t give a second thought—but you were also now sitting impossibly close. He could feel the warmth radiating off you, smell that same perfume that had been distracting him all night. 

“Oh—uh, yeah,” he stammered, fingers twitching slightly against the fabric. “I got it last week.” 

You hummed in approval, reaching out to touch the sleeve lightly. “I like it. It suits you.” 

Spencer was practically spinning at this point. 

His heart was hammering in his chest, and he was fairly certain that if he tried to speak again, the words would come out as a complete mess.

All because you had noticed him. Noticed something about him. Complimented him. And were now sitting so close he could barely think straight.  

His crush had most definitely just gotten worse. 

[solxamber]

Receiving Gifts on White Day with: Pomefiore

go here for other dorms

Vil Schoenheit

The moment you open the door, you are met with perfection.

Vil stands there like a vision—poised, radiant, and utterly breathtaking. He’s holding an immaculately wrapped gift box, the soft scent of roses and vanilla lingering in the air around him. The morning sun catches in his golden hair just right, as if nature itself understands that lighting must always be optimal for Vil Schoenheit.

"Good morning, darling," he greets, voice as smooth as silk. His violet gaze sweeps over you, and he hums in approval. "Even when you’ve just woken up, you manage to be beautiful."

Your brain? Gone.

He hands you the gift box, watching expectantly as you unwrap it. Inside is an array of handcrafted chocolates—each piece a miniature masterpiece, adorned with delicate gold leaf and intricate designs. They look too perfect to eat.

“You made these?” you ask, slightly in awe.

“Of course.” Vil tilts his chin, looking pleased by your reaction. “I refuse to give my beloved anything less than perfection.”

You take a careful bite, and the flavor explodes across your tongue—smooth, rich, and utterly decadent. Your knees almost buckle.

“Vil,” you whisper. “These taste expensive.”

He smirks. “They are expensive. Do you think I would let you eat anything subpar?”

You swallow, still reeling from the sheer level of effort he put into this. “You really went all out.”

Vil exhales softly, stepping closer. His fingers brush against your cheek, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. "Of course I did," he murmurs. "Because you are worth every bit of effort, and more."

And then, just as your heart completely melts, he leans in—pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your forehead.

You are never recovering from this.

Rook Hunt

You don’t even fully open the door before Rook is already sweeping into a dramatic bow.

"Ah, mon trésor, my radiant light in this world! How blessed am I to bask in your presence on this most divine morning!"

You barely have time to blink before flower petals—where did they come from!?—flutter through the air around him. It’s as if he planned stage effects for this exact moment.

"Rook," you say slowly, staring at the spectacle before you. "Did you… did you set up a whole romantic scene just for delivering a gift?"

He gasps, clutching his chest as if you’ve just wounded him. "Ma chérie! Do you truly think I would offer you anything less than an experience befitting of your magnificence?"

Before you can begin to process that, he presents you with a gift—an exquisitely wrapped box tied with silk ribbon. His eyes sparkle as he watches you open it. Inside are the most beautiful chocolates you’ve ever seen, hand-painted with delicate landscapes, stars, and even tiny portraits of things he knows you love.

"Rook…" Your heart swells. "These are stunning."

He smiles, warmth radiating from him. "Ah, but they pale in comparison to the beauty of your smile, mon amour."

And then—because he is Rook Hunt—he swoops in, gently taking your hand and pressing a feather-light kiss to your knuckles. The gesture is so sweet and so sincere that your face immediately heats up.

"You—" You stammer, gripping the box. "You’re unbelievable."

He only laughs, absolutely delighted. "Ah, but you adore me for it, non?"

….Unfortunately, he’s completely right

Epel Felmier

The moment you open the door, Epel is already looking away, rubbing the back of his neck like he's seriously debating running for it. In his hands is a slightly crumpled gift bag, which he shoves into your hands like it's a live grenade.

“H-Here,” he mutters, still refusing to look at you.

You blink, opening the bag to find a box of handmade chocolates—surprisingly neat—with a little note inside.

You pull it out, reading: “I tried real hard on these, so if you don’t like ‘em, at least pretend ya do. – Epel.”

Your heart melts.

“Epel.” You grin. “You made these yourself?”

He huffs, crossing his arms. “Duh. What, ya think I’d just buy somethin’ for my partner?”

You take a bite—and immediately pause.

“…Epel.” You stare at the chocolate. “These are amazing."

His ears go red. “Quit exaggeratin’.”

“I’m serious. These taste like they came from a professional chocolatier.”

Epel scowls, still embarrassed. “I was trained by Vil, y’know. Had to make sure they were perfect.”

Your chest tightens. “Wait. You practiced for this?”

His blush deepens. “Maybe.”

You stare at him, then suddenly grab his collar and kiss his cheek.

Epel freezes.

Then, very quietly: “Aw, hell.”

You laugh, stepping back. “Happy White Day, Epel.”

He groans, face fully red. “Ain’t nothin’ happy about you makin’ me feel all flustered first thing in the mornin’…”

….You are absolutely going to do it again.

Masterlist

[monzabee]

she's the lady in red (when everybody else is wearing tan) - a. hotchner

criminal minds masterlist || part of the nanny series

Summary: there is an fbi gala and hotch finds himself in dire need of a date for the evening. who's a better candidate than his nanny?   

Pairing: aaron hotchner x nanny!reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: rossi as a matchmaker, sexual tension, hotch has feeeeeelings (that he doesn’t know how to process) 

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

He should’ve said no when Dave suggested the idea that you accompany him to the bureau gala.  

In fact, Aaron is certain he did say no—at least twice. But Rossi had just given him that smug, knowing look, the one that meant he wasn’t really asking, just informing Aaron of how things were going to unfold. And somehow, that’s how Aaron Hotchner finds himself standing in the middle of his foyer, waiting for you to come out of your room.  

“Miss Y/LN, we are going to be late,” he calls out, glancing at his watch with a sigh. 

The last thing Aaron wants is to make a grand entrance at the gala, but Rossi had been insistent that he bring a date—more insistent still that you were the perfect candidate. And despite every logical argument against it, here he is, standing in the foyer of his own home, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket while he waits for you. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Your voice floats down the hall, light and amused, but he catches the edge of nervousness in it. “How do I look?” 

He glances up as you step into view, and his brain immediately short-circuits. You look stunning. The black fabric your dress is s draping in a way that is both elegant and utterly breathtaking. Your hair is styled perfectly, your makeup subtle but just enough to make him notice details about you that he really shouldn’t be noticing. But Aaron is not a man easily rattled. He tamps down the reaction threatening to show on his face, clears his throat, and says, “You look fine, now let’s go.”  

Your lips part with shock, and he can even see Jack and Jessica giving him matching looks of disbelief from across the room. “Fine?” you echo, folding your arms over your chest. “I need gorgeous, I’m changing.” 

Aaron exhales sharply. “We don’t have time for this.” 

You ignore him completely, spinning on your heel and disappearing back into your room with a dramatic click of the door. 

Jessica lets out a low whistle. “Oh, you messed up.” 

Jack, sitting on the couch with his legs swinging, nods in though. “She never just looks fine.” 

Aaron drags a hand down his face. He should’ve just told you the truth—because the truth is that you looked incredible, enough to make his pulse trip in a way that was entirely inappropriate for someone in his position. But saying it out loud would mean acknowledging it—and acknowledging it would lead to thoughts that he’s been trying very hard to suppress. 

So, instead, here he is, standing in his foyer, waiting again. “Miss Y/L/N,” he calls out, his voice strained with impatience. “We’re going to be late.” 

“If you’re so worried about being late, just go without me, I’ll come later!” You voice calls out through the door, laced with faux nonchalance. 

Aaron exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s not an option.” 

“Well, then, I’m going to need a few more minutes,” you reply, sounding entirely too pleased with yourself.  

He can practically feel the smile on your face, and it’s enough to drive him a little mad. Aaron’s patience is beginning to wear thin, but there’s something about your playful tone that keeps him from making the rash decision of storming out of the house without you. He just wonders how he is going to survive tonight with you by his side. 

Aaron shouldn’t have let you leave the house—and he doesn’t mean this in a possessive caveman sort of a way. He means it in a, I can’t think straight when you are sitting right next to me and I might accidentally crash this car in a tree, sort of a way. He knows he’s good at schooling his expressions, he’s been told this a lot of times throughout his life, but tonight, it feels like an impossible task. Because the moment you stepped into the car—your dress brushing against the seat, the scent of your perfume curling around him—Aaron felt his carefully maintained control slip, just a fraction. And now, he’s across the room sipping his drink, whilst watching you. You look at ease, laughing at something Garcia says, nodding along as Morgan gestures wildly in some grand retelling of a story. You fit in so effortlessly, as if you were always meant to be here, part of this world. 

He should look away. 

Yet he finds himself unable to do so. But then, as if sensing his thoughts, you glance up, locking eyes with him across the room. Your smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something in your gaze—something teasing, something knowing. 

You catch him staring. 

Aaron freezes, his grip tightening around the glass in his hand. He shouldn’t be looking at you like this. He shouldn’t be thinking about how beautiful you look under the dim lighting, how effortlessly you command the attention of everyone around you. He shouldn’t be wondering how the night might unfold if he let himself indulge just a little, if he let himself forget, just for a moment, that this is supposed to be nothing more than an obligatory evening with someone who is only doing him a favor. 

Rossi appears at his side not a second later, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’re in trouble, my friend.” 

Aaron exhales slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Rossi chuckles, following his line of sight. “Sure, you don’t.” He takes a sip of his own drink before adding, “You know, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.” 

Aaron tenses. “Dave—” 

“I’m just saying,” Rossi interrupts, holding up a hand. “You spend so much time convincing yourself that you can’t have nice things. Maybe it’s time to reconsider.” 

“It would be... inappropriate.” Aaron mutters, swirling the remainder of his drink around the glass.  

Rossi hums, clearly unimpressed. “The only inappropriate thing here is the fact that you’ve left her alone.”  

“She’s not alone,” Aaron points out, “she is with Garcia and Morgan, and she seems to be enjoying herself.” 

Rossi raises an eyebrow, taking another sip of his drink. “You’re missing the point, Aaron. She’s with them, but she’s not with them. You’re standing over here, sulking by yourself, while she’s over there, looking like she’s the center of the party. The thing is, you can’t ignore the fact that she’s not just doing you a favor anymore.” 

“I’m not doing this,” he says flatly, but it sounds like a lie, even to his own ears. 

Rossi gives him a knowing smile. “Sure, you’re not. But that’s what you keep telling yourself, right?” He pats Aaron’s shoulder and turns to walk away. “Just think about it. You might surprise yourself.” 

As much as he hates to admit it, Rossi’s words resonate with him on some level. And with every passing moment, the need to get closer, to figure this out, grows stronger. He can feel the tension building inside him. Every time you laugh, every time your eyes find his, it’s like an unspoken promise—one that he’s not sure he’s ready for, but that he’s terrified to ignore. He drowns the rest of his drink as he pushes himself off the bar he’s been leaning against, and makes his way across the room toward you. His steps are deliberate, though his heart is pounding louder with each one. He knows he’s walking into uncharted territory now. 

You’re talking to Garcia, your eyes lit up with amusement as Morgan tries to tell another one of his over-the-top stories. The sound of your laughter reaches him, and for a second, he’s caught off guard by how good it feels to hear. He stops just a few steps away, unsure of how to approach this, unsure of how to even begin. 

You glance over your shoulder and catch his gaze. There’s no playful teasing in your eyes now—just an invitation, like you can see the conflict written all over his face. “Oh hi, is everything okay?” you ask, your voice soft, almost too gentle for the room's lively sounds. 

Aaron takes a breath, pushes aside the rush of thoughts. “I think you owe me a dance.” He’s surprised by the firmness in his own voice. It comes out more like a challenge than a suggestion, but somehow, it feels right. 

You blink, momentarily surprised. “A dance?” you repeat, sounding amused. “I didn’t know you danced, Mister Hotchner.” 

Aaron exhales sharply, tilting his head slightly. “I make exceptions,” he says, his tone edged with dry amusement. “Are you going to make me ask twice?” 

Your lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. “I think I like hearing you ask,” you tease, but there’s warmth in your voice, something softer beneath the playful edge. 

Aaron huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Come on,” he says, offering his hand, “before I change my mind.” 

You study him for a moment—his unreadable expression, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers flex slightly, like he’s not used to reaching for something just because he wants it. And then, without another word, you slip your hand into his. He guides you toward the dance floor with quiet confidence, weaving through the crowd with ease.  

Aaron places a careful hand on your waist, his touch light but firm at the same time. The other still holds yours, firm yet hesitant, as if he’s acutely aware of every point of contact. “You know,” you muse, tilting your head, “I never pegged you for the dancing type.” 

“I’m full of surprises,” Aaron replies, his voice low. 

You hum, clearly unconvinced. “Is that so?” 

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts slightly, guiding you into an easy rhythm. You move together effortlessly, the closeness between you a delicate balance of restraint and something neither of you are ready to name. “I suppose you’ll have to find out,” he finally says, his lips quirking in the faintest hint of a smirk. 

“Mister Hotchner,” you gasp, a smile widening your smile, “is that a smile I see?” 

Aaron exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t get used to it.” 

“Oh, but I think I will,” you tease, tilting your head to get a better look at him. “It’s a good look on you.” 

His grip on your waist tightens—just for a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but enough to make your breath hitch. There’s something different about him tonight, something lingering in the way he holds you, in the way his eyes flicker with something unspoken. 

“You’re enjoying this,” he accuses lightly, though there’s no real bite to his words. 

“You could say that,” you admit easily, eyes twinkling. “Are you?” 

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he glances down, watching the way your hands fit together, the way your bodies move in sync with the soft melody filling the air. Then, as if coming to some sort of quiet resolution, he meets your gaze again. “Yes,” he says, his voice softer this time. “I think I am.” 

“Good.” You hum, smiling up at him, “It’s a much better look on you than the one you had earlier.” 

Aaron raises an eyebrow. “The one I had earlier?” 

You nod, biting back a grin. “You know, the one where you looked like you’d rather be anywhere else in the world.” 

He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “I didn’t—” He stops himself, sighing. “Alright, maybe I did.” 

You laugh, the sound light and warm, and something about it makes his chest tighten. “And yet, here you are, willingly dancing with me.” 

Aaron tilts his head slightly, considering you. “Maybe you’re more persuasive than I thought.” 

“Or maybe,” you counter, voice dropping just slightly, “it was my dress, hm?” 

His grip on you tightens just the slightest bit, and his jaw tenses like he’s fighting back a reaction. You can see the flicker of hesitation in his gaze, the momentary war between logic and something far more dangerous. But then, instead of pulling away, he exhales slowly and meets your eyes with a quiet intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His voice is steady, but there’s something beneath it—something resolved. “You already know the answer to that.” 

Your breath catches. The playful teasing between you is replaced with something more pulling.  Aaron’s fingers flex against your waist, like he’s testing the boundaries of this moment, deciding just how far he’s willing to let himself go. His gaze dips briefly to your lips, then back up to your eyes, and you swear you feel the earth tilt beneath you. 

“Do I?” You ask, but he can tell the usual teasing is absent when your words come out more breathy than usual. “You haven’t commented on my current choice of clothing, at all. If anything, I’m rather disappointed.” 

He searches your eyes for any sign of teasing, but all he finds is quiet challenge, a barely concealed curiosity that mirrors his own. Aaron swallows, his grip on you firm but careful, as if he’s weighing the risks of giving in to whatever this is. His voice is lower when he finally speaks, edged with something you can’t quite name. “You already know what I think,” he murmurs, his thumb ghosting over the fabric at your waist. “I think you are the most gorgeous woman in this room.”  

“Oh,” The single syllable barely escapes your lips, softer than a breath, but he hears it. You see the way his jaw tenses, how his fingers twitch slightly where they rest against you, like he’s resisting the urge to pull you closer. He waits for you to turn this whole thing into a joke, or an attempt at teasing him, but it never comes.  Your fingers tighten slightly around his, and your voice is quieter now, more uncertain than you expected. “I didn’t think you noticed things like that.” 

His lips press together, and for a moment, you think he won’t answer. But then his grip shifts, just slightly, his thumb brushing against your skin in a way that feels almost on purpose. “I notice everything about you.” 

Your heart stumbles. 

The music is still playing, the crowd still swirling around you, but none of it matters. Not when he’s looking at you like that, not when his voice is laced with something so unspoken, so dangerous. “Aaron…” You don’t know what you’re about to say, but his name leaves your lips before you can stop it. 

Something flickers in his gaze, something torn between restraint and the pull of whatever this is. But before either of you can figure it out, the music shifts, the tempo picking up just slightly, and reality slips back in like a breath of cold air. 

He blinks, inhales slowly, and when he speaks again, his voice is steadier, like he’s found his footing. “Come on,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “I believe you owe me another dance.” 

[jinusajas]

02/11/25; 01:15pm

{ drabbles / headcanons }

[ how they celebrate valentine’s day with you ]

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel, caleb

notes: slight crack with rafayel's 😂

you were in the middle of reading your novel, believing that sylus was too busy to celebrate valentine's day with you as you were left to your own devices. despite the prior disappointment you felt at the thought of being unable to spend such a lovely holiday with him, in the end, you chose to be a good lover and simply spoil yourself for the day instead. you never brought it up or even asked, hence why you were currently surrounded by your favorite snacks, simply relaxing in bed while flipping though the pages of your book.

the start of your night was utterly normal, peaceful even when you found yourself surrounded by darkness just seconds later.

"what the hell?" you sit up in bed, dropping your novel on the ground as you blindly searched for the lamp settled on the nightstand. however, you were unable to move, feeling a pair of hands wrapping around your form coupled along with a series of laughters.

"luke, kieran, unhand me right now!" you bark at the twins, feeling them carry you away from your bed with ease.

"no can do, miss queen! boss man gave us strict orders to bring you to him!"

the twins continue carry you away, seemingly able to navigate through sylus's mansion even without the need for any lights. you try to wiggle out of their hold, yet end up letting out a grunt when you felt your ass landing against a plush cushion. the twins had dropped you off somewhere, making you glare into the darkness, ready to chew out the troublesome pair-

only to have your eyes widen with shock when the lights came back on. your eyes stung for a brief moment before allowing you to finally see the surprise sylus had planned for you. you were settled on the dining table, and seated across from you was sylus himself, lifting up a glass full of red wine in a toast. "hello sweetie, how nice of you to finally join me."

your mouth opens, yet the words become lost the moment you were able to actually look at the table. as far as your eyes can see, you saw various dishes across the table, finally taking in the scents of your favorite foods and various heart shaped confectionaries for dessert. tears dot your vision, making you wipe them away with the back of your hand, "i thought you had forgotten. i-"

hearing your sniffles and seeing your tears causes sylus to put down his wine glass, standing back to his full height as he took quick strides towards you. taking you within his embrace, he lets out gentle coos of your name, setting you on his lap while holding you against him.

"as if i would ever forget to celebrate our love, little dove."

filled to the brim with utter adoration for him, you cling to the front of his suit, allowing sylus to lean down and capture your lips in a sweet kiss, reminding you of just how pure and deep his love ran for you.

when zayne asked what you would like to do for valentine's day, your mind immediately went to the art museum you had wanted to visit since its opening a few months ago.

never one to deny you of any of your wants and needs, zayne takes you to the museum while walking around with you. he basks in the joy and awe with each painting and sculpture you pass by. and despite how you were the one who had purchased the box of macarons to share-

zayne was the one left holding it, since you were so engrossed at being at this museum.

yet the turning point came when you stood in front of an oil painting that seems to take up the whole section of the museum. your eyes were glued to the watercolors that painted the scenery of the deep ocean along with what appeared to be mermaids swimming in and out of an underwater city.

"wow, this is amazing. i heard rafayel was a genius in his own right, but this- his art, so breathtaking, almost like a fairytale..."

the way your eyes shimmer with admiration for the artist causes a surge of something dark and almost possessive to course through zayne's veins. the sudden sensation makes him grip at the box of macarons in a tighter manner, nearly crushing the cookies as a frown paints his expression. you were still ogling the painting when zayne decides to place the box of macarons on a nearby bench, coming closer to you as he wraps his arms around your front.

"what- zayne?"

he buries his face within your hair, "i didn't think i'd be able to feel jealous over a painting."

your eyes go wide, ready to ask what he meant when your lover suddenly leans down to press a kiss against your lips, swallowing the rest of your words. you let out a soft moan in response, shyly kissing him back while feeling zayne delving his fingers into your hair.

with you being so focused on his kiss, you were unaware of zayne's smile and his feelings of victory at being able to win your attention back from that man's painting.

you shared the love of stargazing with xavier, so when he invites you out on a picnic beneath the stars for your valentine's day date-

you said yes to his offer immediately.

you had prepared for this picnic throughout the day, making several sandwiches along with a charcuterie board to share along with some sparkling wine. xavier offers to carry the heavy basket filled with food as you held on to the blanket.

your ballet flats meets with the plushness of the emerald green grass, eyes already scanning the skies as you were basking in the sight of the twinkling stars settled millions of miles above you. xavier looks back at you, seeing the way you stopped as a kind smile graces his features.

taking a hold of your arm, xavier leads you towards the middle of the field, helping you spread out the blanket fully before settling on top of it with you. your boyfriend spreads out your meal, setting up the charcuterie board while offering you a sandwich as well.

taking tentative bites of your food, you rest your head against xavier's shoulder, simply basking in the moment with him. your eyes were glued to the galaxy above you, listening to xavier's voice as he pointed out the constellations and traced at the stars with his fingertips.

feeling warm and oh so happy with him, you look away from the skies and gently call out his name.

"yes?" you meet his gaze, seeing the love he had for you shining in them when you lean closer to the philos prince. "i love you, thank you for this."

instead of answering you with words, xavier leans forward to capture your lips in a sweet kiss, slotting his lips against yours while silently conveying i love you, too.

for valentine's day, rafayel treats you to a nice lunch before taking you to the aquarium. while walking around the gorgeous area, you felt your mouth watering at the sight of the ice cream shop settled near the entrance. after purchasing your tickets, rafayel slides his wallet back into his pant pockets when he meets your puppy dog expression.

he sighs, "okay princess, spill, what is it that you want?"

"an ice cream cone sounds really nice right now." you tell your boyfriend with a pout, pointing at the ice cream stand.

he feigns a sigh, yet walks with you to the stand anyways, allowing you to purchase your favorite flavor before ruffling your hair. you were giggling now, taking eager licks of your ice cream while offering some to your lover.

rafayel pouts, but leans down to take a huge bite out of the soft serve ice cream, making you laugh, "oh my god, that was a bite from a shovel!"

"no it wasn't!" he retorts while playfully pulling on your cheek, only to stiffen just moments later. he lets go of your face, and you give your boyfriend a confused expression while rubbing at your cheek, "huh? rafe, what is it?"

his frown seems to deepen, lips forming a pout as he marched deeper into the aquarium. your eyes go wide, following him all while calling out his name. your search for him leads you to an area where the coral reefs were on display-

and your boyfriend was actively glaring at this angelfish that had startling sapphire blue scales. you continue to take tentative licks of your ice cream, wanting to observe what would happen next-

only to see the angelfish's mouth open and close several times with bubbles forming within the waters.

"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?!" rafayel's voice echoes throughout the aquarium as his hands form into fists, pounding into the glass as the angelfish continued blowing bubbles at him.

"r-rafeyel, calm down, what happened?" you try your best to diffuse the situation, yet his pout deepens while pointing an accusing finger at the angelfish, "h-he just called me a limp noodle and said that i wasn't good enough for you!"

before rafayel could demand that one of the workers allow him inside of the waters, you pull your overly dramatic boyfriend away from the scene, feeling a bead of sweat run down your cheek as you thought of ways to help with calming the lemurian down.

"oh my god, i'm in heaven right now!" you tell your boyfriend of two years while cutting into the fluffy strawberry shortcake, placing the delicious morsel within your mouth all while letting out a moan of pleasure.

caleb simply chuckles at your words, tending to his own cup of coffee. he never once removes his gaze away from you, smiling like a lovesick fool, "whatever makes you happy, baby."

resting his cheek against the palm of his hand, the farspace colonel was glad he was able to take some time off for this special day. knowing that you were a true romantic at heart, there was no way in hell he would ever miss out on celebrating valentine's day with you.

so, he buys you all of your favorite treats, allowing the various plates filled with a variety of different cakes and chocolates to surround you. he admires the look of happiness on your face, basking in the way you ate each pastry in such a meticulous manner, as if wishing to savor every bit of it.

in the midst of caleb admiring you, he notices the whipped cream settled on top of your lips, feeling a devilish grin forming against his features. he says your name, breaking your attention away from your cake. "hm?" you face him just then, allowing caleb to lean forward to capture your lips in a chaste kiss as his tongue swipes away at the cream. caleb relishes in the way you were trembling before sitting back down in his seat, picking up his cup of coffee while taking a casual sip.

noticing the heat settled on your cheeks and the way your expression turned sheepish, he had to bite back the urge to chuckle at you while ruffling at your hair.

i could get used to this soft happiness. caleb thinks to himself, focusing his attention once more on your achingly cute features and how you were too shy to meet his gaze.

end notes: i feel like all of us wanted infold to drop a fluffy banner, but was a little disappointed / shocked when it didn't happen and got something feral instead 😭🙌🏻 so have this fluffy drabble instead to fill your needs for a fluffy valentine's day with our lads boys 🥰

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[sunboki]

⎯ caught in the webs. ⟡ featuring han jisung

🕷️ : Spider-Man! Han Jisung x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. Spider-Man! au, nerd Jisung! au, high school! au, pining, confessions (somewhat), slight self-doubt, a little angst, nervous sungie :(

WORD COUNT. 7.4k words ⭑ 35min read

WARNINGS. cursing, mentions of an existential crisis, (not actually) ghosting, insecurity, slight anxiety/degradation of oneself, dubcon(??) kiss

AUG'S NOTES. although i initially planned for this to be a mere 4-5k word fic… yeah. got a little carried away, oops. funny enough i’ve been seeing so much spider-man merch everywhere—got me thinking this fic was meant to be :) please enjoy and feel free to leave your thoughts in a reblog!! have a lovely day everyone <3

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. To everyone else in high school, Han Jisung is just a nervous, somehow ingenious chemistry nerd. And yet, beneath the glasses and long hours studying, a secret lies. Because Han Jisung isn’t just a nerd, but Seoul’s one and only, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. But what happens when he finds himself head over heels for no one but you? No less scrambling for the courage to ask you out before the Valentine’s Dance? Between the fine-line of his secret identity and the more he falls for you each day, he finds himself hoping you feel the same way.

or alternatively :

In which the tangle of webs makes for complications, and love.

“And- I mean, it’s not like she knows I’m Spider-Man so,” Han rationalizes, hands flailing about in an awkward manner of both panic and hope, currently spilling his worries out to a luckily, ever patient Chan.

That is, opposed to Minho (Han’s official roommate) whom the two both know would nod his head and eventually (bluntly) tell Han he’s thinking far too hard before going back to studying. 

And yet, at this very moment, Minho might be the sole reprieve in calming said boy’s nerves with his no-nonsense attitude.

Because in less than three weeks their high school’s annual Valentine’s dance will be here, and if anyone knows something about Han Jisung, it’s the borderline pitiful way he pines over you like some neglected puppy, a factor it seems only you don’t notice.

As for the thing nobody knows of apart from some greatly trusted compadre’s, Han Jisung isn’t simply a dorky high schooler, but Seoul’s one and only, (trying-to-be) friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. 

Who.. is having a heart attack merely thinking of your face, your laughter, your smile, your— ugh.

Three weeks to gain as much style and confidence as he can muster and, first and foremost, the balls to even ask you out when the time comes. 

To put it simply, he’s fucked.

Completely, utterly, fucked.

Biochemistry with Mr. Jang is the pits when it comes down to his hour-long lectures, but it isn’t the boredom itself grasping his attention so deliberately, it’s you.

Two seats ahead, one seat to the right. 

And oh, if Han isn’t smitten.

You’re smart, stupidly smart. With your pretty hair and pretty face and crinkling eyes when you smile, where your lips curl in delight. You seem to glow, as if an ethereal fae he’d learn of in childish folklore, come alive amid his wildest daydreams.

So it’s the shrill ring of the dismissal bell that has him jumping from his seat, palms slapping against the wood of his desk with a stinging force effectively gaining the attention of most everyone in the class.

And the harrowing silence.

Trust, his face goes beet red, and Jisung had never choked on an apology faster in his life beneath Mr. Jang’s scrutinizing stare.

Though, from the corner of his eye, he can see it: that breathtaking smile of yours hidden behind a hand as you laugh. 

Jackpot.

Han Jisung has just hit the lottery.

Even if it was his scolding earning your laughter. But he’d brush off the matter a thousand times over to see that smile again. And again and again, like a selfish itch incapable of being satiated.

He really is hopeless.

.

.

.

“No you don’t get it! She smiled at me and—“

The rest is a series of groans and oddly unintelligible sounds, ones the partner of his decides not to inquire about.

Now squirming around the hallways, Jisung buries his face into his hands, whining loudly. Third period leads both him and Minho to Physics together, the decently spaced walk across campus to the classroom allowing leeway for (currently-kept-secret) Spider-Man’s groveling. 

Funny story, actually.

The way Minho found out, that is.

Having grown used to his webs over the few months of adjusting, he’d been ignorant in forgetting his roommate would be home as well.

Which.. ensued the piece of bread he used his webs to beckon over—while making the glorious concoction donned as a grilled cheese—met with Minho’s furrowed, evidently confused brows and an equally, albeit slow, acceptance whilst continuing on to the fridge.

A predictable reaction, Jisung would’ve supposed.

If not for the fact he downright begged the boy to not tell, dread forming in his stomach merely watching that sly, mischief-filled sneer curl at his roommate’s lips. 

Laundry and dish-duty for a week.

Thanks, Minho.

As for Chan’s introduction to Seoul’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, the two had been approaching each other after Chan’s football practice when the older of the two tossed a football at the younger counterpart, under the (accurate) impression Jisung couldn’t catch to save his life.

That was correct.

The unable-to-catch part, yeah.

But of course, per his luck, if Han couldn’t catch it, that damned radioactive spider would help him catch it.

And he did. Both hands, firm and fast.

Quick enough to freak the quarterback out and, given a few weeks time, unveil his secret after one too many tests on his reflexes and a downright scary amount of footballs thrown at his head.

“So you’re diseased.”

“I am not, we’ve been over this.”

“You’re walking on the ceiling.”

Fair enough, he’d admit if not for the cereal (that he currently figures out how to hold upside down- or right side up? It’s hard to tell) stuffed in his cheeks, feigning a glare matching Minho’s where his roommate pokes his nose indignantly prior to beginning off towards the bathroom.

Nearly 8am, and he’s aiming to keep comfy pajamas on as long as possible before having to exchange for school clothes.

Curious, observant umber irises waste time peering at the expanse of his torso visible where he hangs upside down, lips forming into an ‘o’ of awe seeing the defined lines descending down his belly flex with every move.

Those are new.

Perks of a spider bite, huh. 

Of the few.

Eventually resorting to doing forgotten dishes, he patiently waits for the grumpy roommate of his to finish in the bathroom, rumbling echo of the hairdryer synthesizing with the morning news’ daily report.

Weather, local updates. But the portion gathering his attention comes in the form of the headline: Creeping villain, Lizard, once again detained by Seoul’s mysterious vigilante, Spider-Man.

And simultaneously, listening in on the story, he finds a glow of pride settling in his chest.

He did that. With a few bruises and scrapes sufficing as evidence but, overall, his doing.

Nevertheless, with the rising pride comes the rising stupidity.

Apparently. 

Resulting in, while lost in the throes of his inflating ego, the reckless unleash of webs upon random surfaces as fast as he can manage, failing to notice the risky positioning of a web by his foot until—as if from a cartoon—he trips over it. 

“Ow! My foot- and my coffee..”

The shatter of his mug and Minho’s exasperated sigh seem to speak for themselves.

Most days it’s simply him and his thoughts in classes, and he enjoys that. Sometimes. 

The serenity, the ability to focus with ease, his headphones as his only companion—in which he tries pinpointing a suitable theme song for himself with. 

Embarrassing, he knows, but the aspect is exciting, having his own theme song.

He is a hero, after all.

Or.. one in training, after all.

A thumb and index tap along the surface of his desk, scribbling into his notebook. 

Web Fluid, consists of the topic at hand, scrawled on the top of the page.

A matter he knows he can create easily per his spider-like abilities, but finds himself pouring over regardless, curiosity gnawing at him with each formula jotted down on the lined paper.

Until you come along, and every sensible ounce of brain power goes aloof.

“Hey, what would you think about tutoring— web fluid?”

Your initial offer, from what he could tell, is swift to change, and Jisung feels his ears burn.

“Oh, yeah- I was just- web fluid, y’know? ‘Cause I, like everyone else, hate spiders (sorry radioactive spider) so I just-“

“That’s interesting, actually. You’ve got a real good grasp on chemistry.. huh.”

Lips puckered into a puff of contemplation, you’re slow to nod, gaze scanning over the wild bullet points, numbers too overwhelming to even consider.

So easy, he makes it all: the calculations, the math.

So easy, you make it all: the interactions, the conversation. 

Envy strikes him like a lightning bolt.

Why can’t he just calm down? Behave as he would if he were Spider-Man? 

Capable, assured.

“Think you could tutor me? I can pay you?”

This was not what he expected. 

“Tutor?” Han repeats, as if to clarify whether he’s hearing things. Not a belittling sort of echo, but one to console his inner panic, hope, bewilderment.

Emphasis on the bewilderment.

The nod of your head affirms all he needs to know, and, while suppressing the urge to shout with joy, he offers a small smile, waving a hand synonymously.

“Sure, yeah. Tutoring would be great. I think I’d have time between my internship with Stark Industries- not that I’m like- bragging or anything- just Mr. Stark can be kinda pushy and—“

He takes a moment to calm down before continuing to ramble on.

“We can work in your dorm? Or- if that makes you uncomfortable I totally get it-“

A big breath, flushing further beneath you patient smile.

“And you don’t have to pay me,” These words are quieter, his eyes flitting over the web fluid formulas below. “I don’t mind.”

“Thank you, Jisung.”

Jisung.

He has to cough into his hand to keep from choking, screaming, leaping like a rabbit and shrieking with accomplishment. Mainly because you called him Jisung, and secondly due to the number in his phone, your number in his phone a few minutes afterward.

This is Jisung, hi. Comes out as the most suitable first text after around twenty minutes of hesitation.

Yet, despite his exhaustion that following morning from swinging around the majority of the night in some way of expressing his happiness, he still glows.

And.. freaks out Minho in the process. 

That isn’t new. 

“Ugh…”

The ring of his alarm earns a low moan of irritation, slinging an arm over his face in feeble avoidance. His muscles ache, head thrumming frustratingly hard. 

Then again, he still gets up, still makes breakfast and dresses—however long that took between trudging steps and obnoxiously long yawns.

Though, there’s a minuscule facet of motivation keeping his eyes bright, his actions swift and steady.

You. 

Tonight, you’ll tutor at the library. Chemical equations, something he luckily excels at.

Together.

Cupid’s bow had long-since struck, leaving Han Jisung to drift away into a love-stricken labyrinth he had no chance of escaping from. 

And gosh are you pretty, the boy swearing he ends up lost gazing at you too many times to count.

There are days he can tell you’re tired, days you drag yourself to tutoring amid a likely hectic schedule where he simply wants to give you the biggest hug possible.

He can’t say his schedule looks any better, but will admit making time to both tutor and hang out sits at the top of an endlessly accumulating list.

In which beckons small notes scribbled between the margins of your textbook, sticky-notes attached to your folder for the next day.

A little extra motivation within the: “You can do it!!” or the silly messages like: “Imagine Mr. Jang as a giraffe!” that he pumps his fist seeing you laugh at that following day.

From then, a routine starts. 

Someone bringing coffee one week, the next the other’s job. Studying that turns into conversation, turns into him relaxing around you, able to communicate without slipping over his words, where you pitch in and he does too. 

Jokes, idiotic ones, he adds in just to watch you smile. Silly remarks you both laugh over until your stomachs hurt.

Even if this labyrinth isn’t one he can escape from, he finds himself not minding.

“And it’s not like she knows I’m Spider-Man.”

“Are you Spider-Man?”

Those words echo in his head, practically a wicked enchantment on replay.

Fu—ck.

Of plenty tutoring sessions, it had to be now that things suddenly went to shit, huh?

With his head running a mile a minute and the sensible words leaving every ounce of headspace, the genius of a boy manages one sentence.

One. Stupid. Sentence.

“Spider-Man? Who’s that?”

Great going, jackass.

Your awkward chuckle makes him want to crawl into his own skin, makes him wish so terribly the library would eat him up, that he could dissipate out of sight.   

“I’m kidding, you know that, right?”

Oh. He’s saved. 

“I mean,” A pause, and for a split second Jisung’s heart plummets once more, feeling as if he’s trapped on a nonstop roller coaster and not a decrepit library chair instead.

Do you know? Did his roomie snitch?

No. Remember the dishes-for-a-week deal, he mentally reassures.

“Everybody wants to know, yeah? I think he’s pretty cool, actually,” Eyes flickering back to your book, his face pales.

A good kind of pale, if that exists.

Ah. 

A light at the end of the tunnel.

It must be some sort of miracle, because Han Jisung hasn’t felt this elated since being presented with a new bicycle for his birthday when he was seven.  

“Thank y— Oh! Yeah. He’s.. yep, cool. Really cool.”

Stammering. Han Jisung, the boy who made a pact to end each night with beer pong come his college days (something that likely won’t happen), who makes dirty jokes bad enough Minho snorts at them, stammering. 

It’s beyond embarrassing, but he’s never felt so alive. 

Nonetheless, his tutoring voyage continues (although almost painful with how often he savors watching your face light up upon getting a question right), compiled in chatter he somehow gets through and small jokes here and there you exchange as if you’d known each other forever. 

And somewhere in between the lines of Stats and multiple-choice-answer hell, he thinks about it. About asking you out, about the dance, about spilling it all right here and there—with your two coffee cups steaming warm tendrils and the quietness of surrounding bookshelves making everything feel safe, comfortable.

“Hey, would you,” He finds himself hesitating, finds your kind gaze flickering to him from the review paper in clutch.

Baby steps. 

“Would you want to do this again? Tomorrow? Like, maybe at a café? The one by campus? Or not, if you’re busy or, don’t want to or whatever-“

“Sure.”

Sure.

He wants to resent you for the relaxed nature you adjust to an atmosphere with, your natural ability to pull him closer and closer, to make his heart thump hard enough in his chest he fears it might burst.

Because you’re far too much for his heart, and he’s giving you a run for your money with those wide globes for eyes and round cheeks bunching up in focus when explaining a concept.

But that’s a secret that’ll remain untold.

For the most part.

“Okay.”

He tried replying with the same fashion of nonchalance, but the words come out shaky and nervous and he nearly winces.

Although, come the finale of this almost-disaster, you still said yes. And to his knowledge—however meager when it came to the matter of love—tomorrow you’d be going on a date. Technically a study-date. Even still, a date.

So predictably, as the semi-idiot he is, he spends his night swinging through Seoul once more and swimming in consequential drowsiness the following day.

Worth it.

Under-eye bags be damned, it seems the way Jisung nearly radiates energy so early in the morning unsettles more than motivates for a second time these past few weeks, understood in the grunted: “turn it down!” received from Minho in response to his music.

..In which he currently serenades an invisible audience using a spoon as a microphone in the kitchen.

A date a date a date a date. 

He keeps the anxiety from settling in for the time being, knowing his kryptonite would take domain the moment he allowed himself in his mind.

What should he wear? Should he style his hair differently? It’s Saturday, maybe he should wear something less school-oriented?

No. 

Enough. 

More serenading, more bad-singing mutes the chaos bouncing around his skull.

He’ll take what he can get.

.

.

.

Each passing minute edges closer to noon, his bag hauled over a shoulder and a mumbled pep-talk recited where he paces his room—the fretful introductions he goes over in the mirror falling short upon his overthinking becoming all too much, prompting him from the dorms for fresh air.

Just be natural.

He scoffs at the thought.

Yeah right. 

The flutter of birds soaring from overhanging trees captures his attention, then the rustle of leaves, then the distant shout of children squabbling over a ball. Peaceful, if only temporarily. 

Eventually, the quiet provokes a hand to reach for his phone, clicking on your number with a ruminative hum, head bobbing to the melody in his eardrums.

The Cure plays, Friday I’m in Love’s familiar beat soothing his indecisiveness while walking.

Tongue pressing to his cheek does the feeling grasp him almost instantly. Tight and inexorable, noise in his eardrum numbing to a buzz. 

The Jisung Tingle.

Chan’s words, not his. 

Too far for a regular person to hear, he discerns the shout of a woman, and Han’s already finding his trusty alley to both dump his bag and simultaneously change into his suit in before scaling the wall.

“Shoot, shoot, shoot!” Comes his hurried babbling, technologically adept sensors in the costume’s eye-divots adjusting to better locate the source of commotion, danger.

A bank robber about a hundred feet away catches his attention first, the idiot scrambling for as much cash as he can muster into an already pitifully minuscule bag.

This guy’s gonna ruin my date!

Ah yes Jisung, ever the optimist.

Skillful deployment of his webs sends him straight to the problem, checking his phone for half a second.

Eleven fifty-two, and eight minutes doesn’t sound like nearly enough time right about now to both apprehend a criminal and turn into an unsuspecting Jisung attending his first date with the girl he really, really likes.

“Y’know,” He shouts, a sharp kick to the back of the leg forcing the perpetrator on ground so harshly he even winces at it, muttering a “sorry!” he scolds himself over after restraining the man.

Reminder: don’t apologize to criminals.

“I’d give you the credit for trying this in broad daylight, but this bag man.. it’s tiny!” He can’t help but chuckle, placing his hands on his hips matter-of-a-fact-ly.

“Lemme guess, it’s your mom’s bag,” Leaning forward, he grants some leeway to crack funny comments.

Deadpool’s funny, right? Can’t he be like Deadpool? That’s okay, yeah? People like funny Superheroes.

The unimpressed scowl from the robber earns a sheepish, squeaky giggle, waving his hands frantically.

Gotcha. No funny Superheroes.

“Not that your mom’s bag’s ugly! I mean it’s just, kinda small. Wouldn’t you wanna use a big bag, like in the movies?”

Alright. No humor, period. Got it.

“Yeah Spider-Man!” Suddenly, a person’s voice resounds from the onlookers, eliciting following cheers he can’t help but preen at, mouth agape beneath his mask.

“I have fans! Oh my gosh I fa—“

Han Jisung has one minute until his perfect, amazing date.

The memorandum is abruptly voiced from his suit’s inner audio system, and he both thanks Mr. Stark for the high-tech features and curses his ability to get distracted. 

Additionally cursing the beyond-cheesy way he typed in that reminder, by the way.

What’s up with the “perfect, amazing date” part?

Moving on.

Unfortunately, the time crunch calls for his equally time-crunched behavior, calling out a: “call the police please!” to the amassing crowd and using his webs to keep the robber’s hands behind his back moments after propelling himself upwards.

You.

He can’t afford to be late, witness your disappointed face.

Han would rather take off the suit for good than have you think he stood you up.

Unbeknownst to the awkwardly redressing hero in his beloved alley, you’re also running late, a factor he remains oblivious to.

Until he doesn’t. 

It’s true, time and time again, that a person’s instinctively compelled in locating the person they favor in a crowd. That even when hundreds of bodies surround, one’s eyes travel solely to their special person.

His special person, whom he involuntarily lands in front of without a single thought in mind. 

Great job, dude.

“Hey, um-“

No wait, he can’t just start a conversation like this. You don’t know he’s Spider-Man.

Right.

Deepening his voice (rather horribly), he waves a hand about, summoning this painfully fake, certainly-not-teenage impression. 

“You seem lost, ma’am. I could, y’know, give you a ride? I’m a very classical gentleman-“

Yikes, the voice crack. 

“..Alright?”

The way you tilt your head, the way your hair cascades around your face like a perfect frame.

Oh my gosh you’re pretty.

How many times has he thought that now? 

Heck, not just Jisung, but Spider-Man has to take a deep breath, more so when you loop an arm around his shoulders and he both struggles (and excels) at avoiding touching your bum, simultaneously pretending to be oblivious about your destination in mind.

As if he wasn’t just rushing there moments prior. 

Although it’s easy grinning at the mixture of screams and laughter bubbling from your lips with each practiced extension of his webs, savoring the manner you cling close while he bounds overtop Seoul’s cityscape, expression transforming into that of excitement after the first few nerve-wracking seconds. 

Alive.

He knows the feeling, the freedom coming with being above the crowd. 

The other thing he’s come to know the feeling of? The panic upon arriving at the café, followed by another bout of panic trying to subtly change in the tiny bathroom without making a racket.

Slightly sweaty, but durable. 

No less, crazily enough, the date goes well. You continue to look darling from your spot across from him, he rushes to behave the most manly he can, and the both of you merely.. talk.

About anything, everything. Plans for tomorrow, for next year. Family, friends, pets. Bbama (his dog) and how much he misses him, and quips he prides himself in earning your laugh at, progressively mellowing out.

Understandably, you’ve both long since abandoned the aim of “studying” in this excused study-date.

Then again, there are the moments. The brief notions where you're both out of breath, whether it be from laughter or hurried conversation altogether that he swears if he asked that perilous question you’d say yes. 

Want to go to the dance with me?

Or maybe that’s too laxed.

Gone just as fast as the chance arrives, he’s alternatively left trying to play off spacing out, flushing in response to bemused laughter.

Easy.

You’ve always made it easy.

This time, it’s his turn to level out the playing ground.

And while you’re effectively charmed by his antics, a little boy a few tables over wonders why he’s catching glimpses of Spider-Man’s suit beneath a high-school boy’s pants leg.

In all the years of Han Jisung’s life, he never pictured himself as a taxi service.

And no, not working for a taxi service, but being a taxi service.

You heard that right, yes.

So it’s a “new kind of whipped” (according to Chan) that more often than not he’s slinging himself over to your dorm after some not-so “coincidences” in which he ran into you on the street, eventually pretending to learn the whereabouts of your dorm.

“Sour gummy worms orrr— Sour Patch Kids?” 

Which leads to very intelligent conversations.

Obviously.

The Jisung less than a month ago would’ve screamed himself silly if he saw him now, currently combing his fingers through your hair where you sit leant against the side of the bed, popping a gummy worm in your mouth before lifting the bag to share.

Recently, most of his nights have been spent lingering around here after tutoring, the matter ignorant to you that the same boy in his glasses and flannel shirt minutes earlier now stood as Spider-Man.

Expectedly, you talk. And talk and talk and talk until he knows a curfew officer would knock him out cold if he was found sneaking from your dorm, till you forget about time altogether.

Of your many conversations, the ones where you end up crying are his least favorite. 

To say it broke his heart the first time he watched you break down in front of him was a severe understatement, thanking the courage his hero-identity provided him with to usher you into a hug he never wished to let go of.

And he didn’t, not until those sniffles subsided, those glossy eyes lost their heart-wrenching factor.

A week from the dance, you fell asleep in his arms for the first time since these meet-ups, the boy barely sneaking through the window before you came barreling him over in a hug.

He had an inkling you weren’t feeling up to tutoring that night from the start, the failure to focus not going unnoticed.

Of course, with being able to provide you security as Spider-Man, so came the insecurity as Han Jisung.

Was it this version of him you wanted? The strong, capable soon-to-be-eighteen-year-old known as Seoul’s helpful vigilante? A hero?

Was Han Jisung not enough?

However much the doubt struck him electrified, for now he’d savor being able to be your consolation, your confidant. To hold you close when you needed to feel something, someone, for his head to rest in your lap when his own day sucked.

Someone to rely on, so this world wouldn’t seem so lonely. If only for a little while.

.

.

.

Still, the downsides had to persevere.

That night’s headline was definitely a downside, more humiliating than anything.

Spider-Man’s clumsy apprehension of Chang-dong bank robber.

The knowing snicker he can practically hear from Minho’s dorm followed by an assumed-to-be equally smug text from Chan lighting up his phone is returned by a childish whine.

Yeah. Not proud of that.

“I’m going to file a stalker report, y’know.”

Four days from the dance, he decides his nightly escapades could use a bump up, lowering himself upside down with his webs where you passed by a crevice of two buildings.

A little scare wouldn’t hurt, right?

…Right?

Number one? Don’t do that, he learned. Number two? Your smacks really hurt.

“Jerk!” Irritated in manner, it’s the small grin tugging at the corner of your lips giving away your true feelings, a matter Han can’t help but giggle cheerily at despite the stinging of his cheek.

Ouch.

It has his head going for a loop both hanging upside down generally and acknowledging the fact you still look good from this odd angle altogether, head tilting quizzically.

“Actually, I think I deserve a thank you,” His haughty reply, channeling your earlier accusatory energy, beckons a laugh.

“Don’t you know it’s dangerous out late? Gotta have Spidey here to keep the creeps away.”

“My hero,” Comes your own haughty reply, placing a dramatic hand to your chest before dissolving into shared smiles.

A pause interrupting the flow of speech, he fills in the blanks searching your face for any indication of the thoughts swirling in that head of yours to no avail.

“Well I’ve got to reward you in some way, yeah? You’ve given me free rides,” Arrives your too-sweet of a response, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

That perfect knit between your brows.

Cute.

“Say, ‘been thinking you sound similar to somebody I know. We study together.”

Oh. 

Whoops.

If his eyes were visible, you’d watch them grow the size of saucers, his mouth gaping.

“Ah, just a thought.” 

And with a wave of your hand do you dismiss an upcoming heart attack, only to stir up yet another upon reaching for his mask, earning what meager observation would conclude as a squeal.

“Wait- wait! Wait!” 

Thankfully, you do in fact wait, and Han Jisung, with only his mouth bared, breathes a sigh of relief.

“Please don’t take it off.”

For a moment, the man sounds remarkably like Han Jisung, but you shake the thought as soon as it passes. 

“Okay,” It’s a whisper, but heard nonetheless, the appearance of storm clouds bathing the alleyway an even darker shade, clouding your vision to the mere white of his teeth, the parting of soft lips when he speaks, breathes. 

“I dunno I just- I thought between you in my dorm and the way we- I thought it’d be-“

This time you’re stammering, something he’d initially be starstruck regarding if not for the guilt gnawing at his chest. 

Understandable.

Friends don’t just cuddle at night, visit each other just to be held.

Not the way you two do.

“Would a kiss work? For a ‘thank you’, I mean.”

Somewhere in between, you saw Han Jisung in this stranger, this hero.

Whether it turned out as him or not, a part of you wished when you closed your eyes, that sweet, studious boy would be there when you opened them. 

A little inkling in your gut tells you more than you catch onto.

The bob of his throat beckons a small snort of sheepish, pained laugh on your end, the boy fearing he may suffer a head rush the longer he dangles upside down.

“I’m sorry— that was too forward, right?”

A beat of silence ensues. More stifling than ever.

Though it’s the precious manner your lips wind tight, expression filling with hesitation compared to a previous playfulness that has him speaking before you say something along the lines of “forget it” and leave the seemingly invincible Spider-Man to cry in this horrific-smelling alleyway like a child.

“No! No. That’s- yeah. That would be okay.”

Again, he scolds the wobbliness of his tone, schooling it into that playful cadence his identity as a hero calls for instead.

Because he’d be a liar first off saying he didn’t ache for more, and an ever bigger liar denying himself from your kiss after such arduous pining. 

“Just one though, can’t have too many, alright?”

Liar, for a second time. 

You could kiss him till he passed out and he’d wake up grateful. 

But the ego’s got to be kept up, right?

Yet, before another sly quip can fall from his tongue he’s nearly spellbound, your lips finding his shutting off both all brainpower and erasing the retort he’d planned to fill the quietness. 

And oh if Jisung doesn’t just melt, chasing after your lips instinctively, savoring the silly bump of your nose against his chin from upside down. The laughter between too-short of contact, the warm touch of your fingers against his cheeks as cold rain pelts the city from above, droplets tickling his skin.

Pulling away, he finds his hands instinctively reaching out, tenderly smoothing away strands of hair stubbornly sticking to your forehead just like what he’d do to soothe when you’d cry—giggling at the messy mascara tracks scoring your cheeks upon detaching his webs, suit-clad feet thumping on the sidewalk below.

Alas, right side up.

“Hey, don’t make the people think I made you cry, hm?” He cracks a smile, adjusting his mask back over his face. 

Well, that’s seconds from coming to understand the price of the rain, the effect of the rain in drenching your t-shirt see-through.

Oh how fast that smug facade vanishes, Han’s palm jutting out to shield both you and his eyes. 

“Your- I’ll be right back- I’m not looking!”

Because beneath the hero-suit, he’s only a teenager. 

And a gentleman, he prides himself in believing himself to be.

Luckily, this just so happened to be the alley he’d ditched his initial clothing in, exchanging for his suit moments prior. 

Gotta love his trusty alley.

Thanking whomever above, an extra “Stark Industries” t-shirt of his suffices in calming the situation at hand.

Trust, Jisung wants to groan with the sight of you in his t-shirt, one he assures you can keep for as long as you need on the ride back.

Ride, as in, web-slinging, an occasion definitely not as fun beneath the downpour of thunder and rain.

Ensuring you get back safely, he practically catapults himself into his own dorm, running to the shower like a wet rat seeking shelter.

Yep. It’s a great look.

But gosh does that shower feel like a slice of heaven.

Though not as heavenly as your kiss.

From inside the shower, a loud scream of realization rings out, previous events raining down on him like the warm water sifting through his hair.

Seems it sunk in.

.

.

.

“So.. what should I do if I see a girl's bra?”

Fairly normal conversation between him and Minho, per usual.

“..Did you sleep with someone?”

“Wha- no! It was an accident!”

“An accident that you slept with someone?”

This is going nowhere.

“No! An accident where I saw her b-“

“Then congrats.”

Congrats.

“What am I supposed to do, celebrate?” Han demands incredulously, giving his roommate a nonsensical stare.

“.. Butter chicken?”

Unfortunately, his stomach argues against any more squabbling, voice like that of a mouse.

“Yes, please.”

And the two enjoy their butter chicken in relatively harmless terms, The Bachelor playing on the TV, Minho taking the floor with his sparkling cider while Jisung occupies the couch above, notebook in hand.

In less than three day, I went on my first date and kissed the girl I’m in love with. Except, she doesn’t know who I am, he writes, hand stopping after that final period before closing the forbidden contents away with a loud exhale, head tipping back to rest against the couch.

One thought failed to be written down? A little extra something, bouncing around in his skull.

I want to tell her the truth.

This is met with another sigh.

What a day.

“Who knew I’d be hanging around thee Spider-Man. Or that he kissed me.”

The last sentence is barely audible, but Jisung catches it all the same, a lopsided grin nudging at his cheeks. 

From your view on the rooftop, the sunset illuminates her waning rays, painting the sky an effortless canvas of crimson and amber hues. Your feet dangle aimlessly from the edge, an action you would be horrified of if not for the man’s presence beside you.

Han’s presence, though you didn’t know that just yet.

All you’ve gathered of his identity were the momentary occasions he’d roll up his mask, like now, where the superhero gnaws at a granola bar, seated beside you. 

“I’m pretty normal though,” Comes his reply, a lilt in the last word hinting at his confusion. 

“Pfft- normal? You’re Spider-Man! Everyone in a quarter radius of Seoul City wants to know your identity. Either that or they run some secret fan account for you.”

A pause before his masked-face slowly swivels to you.

“..Do you run a fan acco—“

Jisung’s pondering was quick to be choked upon (literally) when you smack his back, provoking a chaste gagging fit on his granola bar. 

Yeesh your smacks hurt.

“No! I was just giving an example!”

He finds himself laughing anyway despite the dull throb of his shoulder, feigning a pout whilst rubbing over the skin in feigned hurt. 

It’s nice, he thinks. To be sharing this little corner of the world with you. Away from the hustle and bustle of life. 

Most days he’d swing his way here for a late dinner, peeling layers of tin-foil from his wrapped burrito, legs swinging over the edge, headphones blaring some slow tune while watching the moon make its entrance past a setting sun.

For once, his world as Spider-Man isn’t so.. isolated. 

Dangerous, risky with the prospect of you discovering his identity, but for now he’ll embrace the possibility, embrace your presence beside him.

He doesn’t care if it’s momentary, fleeting. 

Being a Spider-Man, having these abilities, this random probability in a billion of becoming a hero, has taught him to hold onto each opportunity with both hands.

Without a chance of letting go.

And somewhere during those consistent weeks of tutoring, you join each other on the dorms’ rooftop on random occasions when he can’t slip into your dorm undetected. 

Him under the ecstatic impression he gets to see you again outside of the library, you believing the boy from tutoring had gone back to his dorm, now meeting a totally-separate, definitely-not-Han-Jisung Spider-Man.

Or so he thought.

Frequency, predictably, beckons familiarity. Opening leeway to deeper, more meaningful conversations within those nights more than ever before, the uncovering of sensitive, intimate layers that almost provoke Han to speak, to reveal himself.

Guilt, ever so slightly, in regards to your obliviousness to the truth.

A guilt unnecessary, he had yet to know of. Because you’ve come to notice that, when rolling his mask up just enough whenever eating, a chocolate-chip looking mole rests on his cheek, one oh so signature to yet another person.

Two strangers, turned friends, turned kiss-don’t-tell, turned foolish secret-keepers chasing each other’s tails after a love requited all along.

As for tonight, his hands brace himself upon rigid brick, the month and a half span of adapting to your companionship enabling him to not freak out (unlike the first time it happened) when you rest your head against his shoulder. 

One earbud in his ear, the other in yours.

DEAN plays, the title “Half Moon” quite befitting for that same moon rising above two high schoolers. One hopelessly having fallen first, the other finding themself falling harder.

“Can this be our song?” His whisper’s barely divisible against a gust of wind, but you hear it anyway.

“Mhm.”

The nod against his shoulder is enough.

.

.

.

“Alright, it’s about time I head out, hm? Got homework to do.”

It’s a small peck, one placed chaste and tidy against his cheek. However, no matter the size, Han transforms into a tomato beneath his mask, ever so grateful for the coverage provided.

“Just one, you said. Wouldn’t want it to be too much.”

Cruel, he thinks, watching you go, watching that teasing smile on your face.

Using my words against me.

“If a weird guy shows up, tell them Spider-Man will hunt them down!”

Per a greater confidence beneath the mask, he felt obligated in getting the last laugh, chuckling at the dismissive wave of your hand before you disappear down the stairs, the roof’s access hatch clunking closed behind you.

Following your absence, a glance at the sky and its brilliant stars elicit a weighted breath in response. 

Two days from the dance, proposals having started up left and right in the halls, the classrooms.

Ah, this is getting bad.

Who knew love could be so troublesome?

But then again, the intervention of hesitation snakes its way between the lines, and Han Jisung finds himself cast-away to a deserted island within his head during the one class he’s usually most attentive in, Biophysics. Too busy thinking of you, of the “something more”.

Because what if who you kissed that night, Spider-Man, was who you were into? What if the Han Jisung beneath the suit wasn’t what you wanted, but the hero, with his brave facade and unbreakable spirit?

And Han Jisung was just a nerdy high schooler. 

A hard shake of his head futilely tries discarding the gray clouds of worry, appearing incessantly come this past week. 

Foot tapping against the tile floor, he jams the endlessly clicking tip of his pen against an unfitting, empty notebook.

You deserve the hero.

The thought, somehow, makes his heart break a bit. Sends his mind into a frenzy of existential questioning.

Was Han Jisung Spider-Man? Or simply the man behind the suit? Two lives, completely different and yet all the same coming down to the person responsible.  

Is he that hero? 

That night, he lets people down.

He doesn’t respond to his call from Mr. Stark (and the following one from Happy), disappears from his dorm, and fails to show up for tutoring and his daily drop-in to your dorm.

Han Jisung can’t be perfect, can’t live up to every expectation, every stereotype a hero is portrayed as.

There are lives that’re going to be lost with or without his interference, people he can’t save, circumstances he can’t change no matter how hard he tries.

But today is now. Nothing will change unless he changes it.

Spider-Man can’t be without Jisung, yet, Jisung needs to be able to be without Spider-Man. 

There is no sacrifice if it all relies on the suit, no heroics. 

Just a scared little boy hiding behind fancy technology, behind a confident facade unable to be replicated without a media-ridden title attached to it, a suit to cover himself with.

The boy that kissed you? That was Jisung. Jisung’s voice, lips, laugh. His nervousness, his cockiness. 

It’s always been him.

Just Han Jisung.

And he’s okay with that.

Because if he can’t be without the suit, what is there to be?

Texts left unread, it’s one pebble knocking, then another against your window at 6am the day of the dance that alerts you from your sleep, cursing under your breath as you make for the window—left without a trace of the sender other than a sticky note smack-dab in the middle of the panel.

No other could’ve left that than him.

The reasoning earns your sigh of disbelief.

Climb to the rooftop, please.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he prays you’ll comply.

It’d make plenty of sense, your pensiveness. He let you down, held you to a predictable standard left unpredictable after oh so long.

However, feelings always have a way of choosing things before the mind can, and even your spitefulness works futile against the two feet guiding you up the stairwell.

What awaits you leaves every ounce of anger simmering into nothingness, because the familiar sight of Mapo Bridge miles off says something.

A sharp inhale.

Intertwined across the arch and guardrails, webs spell out such a peculiar assortment of words.

I love you.

A smaller writing off to the side.

I’m sorry.

Oh he makes you angry.

Angry thanks to this boy throwing your life for a loop, angry thanks to the foolishness this love seems to have infected the both of you with.

The ignorance, the insecurity, the childishness. All so messy.

What a fool you were to stay quiet about the truth, to pretend these feelings weren’t to be acted upon.

And from his place seated atop the bridge’s arc, the shout of yours faintly reaches his ears, the words sounding remarkably like “I love you.”

He doesn’t return until later that night, watching parents drop off their kids, couples gliding up the stairs in throes of laughter, hand in hand.

Suit-adorned legs dangle from the streetlight a block or so away, chewing at his lip in thought.

Until his thought is abruptly interrupted by the clearing of a throat, your throat, he verifies upon turning around to look, significantly paling.

“Fess up, loser.”

Oh you’re mad.

Dressed up all pretty for the dance and yet fuming.

…Why is it hot?

Quit that, he internally berates, slow to hop down to ground level.

“Look, I can-“

“No you can’t! You- you what, randomly decide “oh I’m just gonna go off the grid for two days, let’s not notify anybody and everything will be alright”? Huh? You don’t respond to anyone’s texts, calls, the school couldn’t even find you!”

Furious steps stomp forward, feebly pounding your fists against his chest.

Shaky hands find your wrists to hold, his breathing nearly painful to listen to within his mask. Stifled, shuddering. 

And he can tell, oh he can tell. You’re going to cry.

He’s just made you cry.

There’s never been a moment Jisung hated himself more.

“Hey hey hey- no no don’t- don’t cry-“

Another scream of yours makes him wince, makes his hands originally reaching for your face to cradle flinch back.

“I hate- I hate this! I hate that I’ve let you worm your way into my heart and- and that you tell me you loved me and-“

A sputtering breath before his mask is not-so gently hoisted up to catch onto the hook of his nose and he’s dragged into your kiss by the collar, dissolving into mumbled “I’m sorry”’s repeated into your lips before you pull away, out of breath.

“You scared me half to death,” Scolding, one hand comes to brush off your clothing after letting go, impressively calmed after such a whirlwind of emotions, or maybe he’s simply reading it wrong.

“I forgive you.”

This mumble is much softer, muttered beneath your breath. 

Sometimes you truly do behave like a child.

A tiny quirk of his lips betrays his fondness.

“Just.. don’t ever do that again, okay? Or I’m breaking up with you.”

The threat is feeble and certainly not sounding sure enough to believe, your brows furrowed in conviction the only remnant of insistence he’d chuckle at if not for the lingering fear of being yelled at again.

A fair yelling, he’d admit.

“Wait.”

On his part, a delay.

“We were dating? I thought we..”

“I mean we kissed but would you count that as…?”

High schoolers, to the core.

Sort of funny, actually, trying to uncover a label.

For a moment your attention flickers to the dance-attending students, retreating back to Jisung in response to his heavy sigh, the seriousness returning.

Merciless, it is.

The truth.

“I can’t be there for you how I want to be, you know that. My life.. as Spider-Man, I mean, it’s too unpredictable. Risky. I can’t make promises. A life at risk isn’t scheduled, arranged. I’d put you in danger and let you down and—“

“I know what I’m getting myself into, okay?”

Easy, you always make it.

This time, he’s grateful.

“I love you, and I think you heard it.”

Synonymously, he scorns the gradual wobbliness of his lip, the tremble in his hands returning full-force, breaking any earlier pretense of strength put up.

No barriers, you both know this.

Not anymore.

“I’ll um,” His voice cracks, but he doesn’t wince, turning his back to you as if to slip away. “I’ll come by your dorm tonight. Dance your heart out, okay?”

He nods to the auditorium, flashing lights and blaring music echoing from the closed doors.

Shifting from foot to foot, it takes every ounce of willpower to speak, to keep him from drifting off once more.

“Well if Spider-Man can’t go to the dance.. Can Jisung?”

To say his jaw dropped would be an understatement, each muscle in his body turning into stone, as if having gazed at Medusa herself.

“I knew you were.. you for a while now.”

Your voice, awkwardly explaining, aids in the wild gesturing of hands, admiring his messy hair where the mask is pulled off the entire way, unveiling a rather shell-shocked Han Jisung underneath. 

“It’s your mole um, right here?” Pointing to his left cheek, a small smile tugs at your lips. “I saw it one time when you were eating that granola bar on the roof. Kinda just.. put two and two together-“

“Why didn’t you say something!”

Now it’s Han’s turn to sound like a petulant child, causing you to bite back with the same kind of vigor.

“I was nervous, idiot!”

Hurried gasps for air fill the empty street, catching your breath after screaming at each other from mere feet apart.

Couldn’t get more mature than that. 

Observing his face, you find it only a matter of time before whatever frothing idea brewing past curly hair becomes audible.

“C’mon.”

“Wha- WHAT?!”

Swept off your feet where Han runs to scoop you up, it’s oddly difficult in whacking his shoulder from so much laughing, whisked away to somewhere you couldn’t name.

Fools.

And now, having understood this idea of his to be on your ordinated rooftop, you simply take to watching from afar as he flits around, having disappeared for a few minutes before returning back with what eerily appeared to be a speaker hidden behind an arm.

Before you can inquire, the melody of a song begins to strum.

Your song, together.

Half Moon, by DEAN.

Han pretends to know how to dance and you pretend to take him seriously, extending a hand your way where he waltzes over with clumsy steps.

The silliness earns a giggle, hand reaching for his hand anyway.

And beneath the stars, your own Valentines dance comes alive.

This stage is made for two.

Fools.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[ellewritesx]

please me slowly

(part three of the teach me slowly series)

Summary: Before he teaches you how to take him, he teaches you how to taste him.

Warnings: early stages of a relationship, age gap, lots of talk about virginity and sex, handjob, oral (m!receiving), brief accidental facefucking, gagging, praise kink, size kink

Based on: this ask!

A/N: part three is here who else cheered!!! lmk if you like this one, i get so happy when i hear from you guys :) also is this a safe space to say i used the my policeman bj scene for my descriptions..? omg who said that! enjoy lovelies x

Word Count: 4,633

...

Your breathing is finally beginning to level out, though your chest still rises and falls a little faster than usual. The air in the bedroom is warm and hushed, the only sound the soft whirr of the fan in the corner and the faint rustling of sheets as Harry shifts beside you.

One of his hands is resting on your back, rubbing lazy circles above the waistband of your shorts, his other arm curled beneath his head. He's quiet. So are you. It's not an uncomfortable silence, but it's loaded. Heavy with something unspoken.

You glance over at him, but he's already looking at you.

His eyes seem darker in the dim light, half-lidded and a little glazed over. His lips are pink and parted, and he looks utterly undone, his curls sticking out at odd angles, jaw shadowed with stubble, a flush blooming across his cheekbones. And yet, he's watching you like you're the most breathtaking thing he's ever seen.

That's when he says it.

''I think I'm in love with you.''

It's quiet. Barely more than a whisper, but the words hit you like a collision anyway, like falling into deep water. You don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. You feel the air between you tighten, like the universe itself is waiting for your reply.

He doesn't take it back. Doesn't panic or fill the space with anything else. He just stays silent, his thumb grazing your hip, waiting.

Your entire body goes still at the weight of those words, heart thudding wildly. The tenderness of them. How they sound in his voice, low and scratchy and still heavy with pleasure. You don't know what to say. You hadn't expected it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But as you lay there, staring at him, at his furrowed brows and the nervous twitch of his lips, you realize you've felt it for a while, too, your love for him blossoming with every day spent together.

You felt it the night he walked you home after your first date and respectfully kissed the corner of your mouth before stepping away, cheeks pink like he'd been psyching himself up for this moment since you left the botanical garden, hands shyly intertwined.

You felt it the time he picked you up for dinner, the sleeves of his blouse pushed up to his elbows and his hair a mess, like he'd brushed his hands through it too many times before knocking on your door. He handed you a bouquet of tulips and smiled nervously, dimples exposed; ''You said you liked the tulips in the garden on our first date.'' You blushed the entire drive to the restaurant.

You felt it the day you got sick out of nowhere, body aching, head spinning, tears on your cheeks from how miserable you felt. You'd called Harry to cancel your date, voice hoarse, nose stuffy, words interrupted by a constant stream of sniffles and sneezes.

He didn't hesitate.

He drove across the city with two bags of medication and your favourite snacks and let himself into your place with the spare key hidden under the doormat. When he stepped into your bedroom and saw your form tucked under the blankets, empty boxes of tissues surrounding you, he took a seat on your bed and brushed the sweaty hair from your forehead, startling you from your light slumber.

''Is this a fever dream?'' you'd asked timidly when you recognized his figure, making him snort softly. You scooted over on the mattress, and he pulled you into his chest. He picked up the book you had left on your nightstand and read to you until you fell asleep mid-sentence. You woke up hours later with his hand still stroking your hair.

You feel it in the little things. The way he presses a kiss to your temple when he slings his arm around your shoulders, making a soft 'mwah' sound every time. The way he puts his hand on the small of your back in crowded places because he knows they make you anxious.

The way he notices when you're quiet and asks questions, but never presses when you don't want to talk about it. The way he remembers how you take your coffee, the lyrics to all your favourite songs, the stories you tell when nobody seems to be listening.

But he always is.

You love him.

You're not even sure when it happened. It's like the tide, it snuck in slowly, pulling at your ankles, your knees, your ribs. And now it's pulling you under, and you can't do anything but drown in it.

Your voice wobbles when you speak, barely a whisper against his skin. ''I think I'm in love with you, too.''

His chest lifts under you. You feel it before you see it, the relief, the joy, the way his breath finally rushes out of him like he's been holding it since the moment he spoke. You lift your head, meet his eyes in the dim light. They're wide and hopeful. Happy.

''Yeah?'' he asks softly, grinning.

''Yeah. I really do.''

His lips brush yours, once, twice, before settling in, and you hum into it, curling your fingers against his collarbone. He kisses you, not with urgency, not with hunger, but with adoration. It's not just a kiss, it's a promise. A seal on something you both just admitted out loud.

You curl into him again, feeling the shift like sunlight through a window. This love is still new, still blooming, but it's real. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, smiling to yourself.

But now that your love has been laid bare between you, something else simmers beneath the warmth. You can feel the tension still in his body: how his breathing hasn't quite returned to normal, how his arm flexes just a little when you curl further into him. You're still basking in the lingering euphoria of your first orgasm, your limbs heavy and your skin tingling where he touched you.

It's only when you shift slightly against his body that you feel it, feel him. Hard against the soft cotton of his sweatpants, thick and hot, the outline unmistakable even under the fabric.

He spent tonight making sure you felt good, and he hadn't asked for anything in return. Hadn't even hinted.

You move your hand just enough to curiously brush across the outline of him. He tenses, not sharply, but noticeably, and when you glance up at him, his eyes have fluttered closed. He huffs a small breath out through his nose, like he's trying to collect himself, but there's still that same softness lingering in his expression.

"You're still…" you trail off, suddenly shy, like acknowledging it out loud makes it taboo somehow. Your palm stays right where it is, hovering close. His eyes open slowly.

"Still hard?" he supplies, voice low and amused, but not mocking. His thumb brushes lightly over the back of your hand. "I know, baby."

The words go straight to your stomach. You swallow, gathering the nerve, the question sitting heavy on your tongue.

''Does that make you uncomfortable? Sorry,'' he murmurs, brushing his lips over your temple. ''I've been trying to will it away, but...''

Your heart skips. The fact that he's still turned on after everything, still aching like that, makes something twist low in your belly, and as the haze of pleasure settles and the emotional weight of the night begins to anchor you back into your body, the thought forms, clear and certain. You want to make him feel good, too.

''Harry?''

He hums, the sound low in his chest. ''Mm?''

Your fingers trace a faint line along the waistband of his sweats, not quite bold enough to dip beneath it. ''Can I… I mean, would you teach me how to…?'' you trail off, unsure how to phrase it without sounding ridiculous. You huff out a soft laugh, flustered. ''I want to make you feel good. I just don't really know how.''

His eyes sharpen at that. He pushes himself up on one elbow, his hand moving to cup your cheek quickly.

"Hey, no, no, no. You don't have to do that, love," he rushes, and the tenderness in his voice is so immediate, so sincere, it almost makes you want to cry. "Not tonight. It's been an intense couple of hours."

You shake your head, leaning into his touch. "I know I don't have to, Harry. I want to. I want to learn. I want you to teach me."

He watches you for a long moment, searching your face for any sign of doubt, any trace of unease. But you hold his gaze. You know you want this. Want him. You've never felt more sure.

Harry exhales hard, eyes closing for a moment like he's trying to keep himself in check. When they open again, they're darker than before, lust pooling in his irises, but his tone stays gentle.

''You have no idea how badly I want to say yes right now,'' he assures you, voice strained. ''But only if you're certain.''

You nod shyly. His thumb traces the edge of your lip, and for a second, he just stares at you.

''Promise me something,'' he says.

You blink. ''Okay.''

''If you ever feel uncomfortable, or like you're doing it just because you think you have to… I want you to stop. Just tell me. I'll listen.''

Your heart squeezes. ''I promise.''

He smiles softly. ''God, you're perfect,'' he murmurs, more to himself than to you. Then his voice drops. ''Fuck, I can't lie to you, baby. I've been dreaming about this. About your hands on me. Your mouth. Do you know how many cold showers I've had to take since meeting you? My water bill's gone through the roof,'' he groans.

You snort. ''You're ridiculous.''

''I'm serious!'' he insists, chuckling. ''You really don't know what you do to me, do you?''

You laugh again, your face heating, but something in about his honesty disarms you, makes you feel a little bolder. You shift closer, resting your hand gently on his bare chest, over the tattooed swallows and the nervous thud of his heart.

''Then maybe you should teach me,'' you say softly, looking up at him through your lashes. ''So I can help you the next time you've got... a problem, hm? Save some water.''

Harry groans again, dramatically, and rolls halfway onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow. ''You'll be the death of me.''

But when he looks at you again, there's something tender in his eyes. Adoration. Pride. And just a flicker of hunger that makes your stomach flutter in anticipation.

''Alright,'' he says, voice a little rough. ''I'll teach you.''

You nod, anticipation humming low in your belly as he leans in and kisses you, soft and slow, soothing your nerves. Your breath is already shallow when Harry gets comfortable against the pillows, the soft cotton of his sweatpants stretched, tented, and you can see now just how hard he is, thick, long, and straining beneath the fabric.

You glance at his face, and he's watching you. Patiently, eyes half-lidded but full of warmth. ''C'mere,'' he encourages quietly, and reaches for your hand, guiding it to rest over him again.

You tilt your head questioningly, and he nods briefly. ''Just here,'' he instructs, his voice scratchy with restraint. ''You feel me?''

You nod, lips parted in awe. You do feel him, all of him, heavy and hard under the soft cotton. Your fingers twitch slightly, instinctively curling, and the quiet, shaky breath that leaves him is nothing short of ruined. His eyes flutter closed for a second.

''Start slow,'' he whispers, tilting his head to look down until his forehead brushes your temple. ''Just… cup me. Like that, yeah.''

You do as he says, more confident now that his hand stays with yours. Your fingers adjust and you cradle him through the fabric, the shape of him unmistakable now. You don't know what you expected, but this is… a lot. He's so warm even through the clothes, and so hard that it makes your stomach flutter in ways you've never felt before.

''Good girl,'' he says absentmindedly, and a shiver runs down your spine at the praise, but if Harry notices, he doesn't comment on it. ''Slow, baby. Light pressure. Move your hand like this.''

His hand moves yours, showing you a rhythm, the kind of touch that makes his jaw clench and his hips twitch upward. Your body is laid sideways next to his, and when you glance up at him, his lips are parted and his chest is rising and falling faster, tattoos stretching with every breath. You feel your cheeks heat. You've never made anyone feel like this before. You've never had this kind of power.

''Does that feel okay?'' you ask softly.

His breath hitches. ''More than okay,'' he rasps. ''Fucking incredible.''

The way he says it makes you press your thighs together instinctively. You keep stroking him the way he taught you, watching the way his eyes darken, how the crease between his brows deepens, the way his mouth tugs downward in that desperate kind of pleasure.

You feel pride bloom in your chest. Maybe you don't know exactly what you're doing, but he seems to be falling apart anyway.

It's your hand, but it barely feels like yours with how new this is, how electrifying. You cup him gently, and he exhales hard through his nose. The heat of him seeps through the layers, pulsing, and your fingers twitch, trying to figure out what he reacts to best.

''Shit,'' he breathes, hips tipping up just a little. ''That feel okay for you, baby?''

You nod, too breathless to speak.

It's intoxicating, the way his cock twitches under your palm, responding to the smallest movement, the way his muscles go taut beneath the surface of his skin. You drag your hand along the ridge of him, slow and curious, and it pulls another sound from his chest, a low, breathy groan that settles deep in your spine.

And then his hand slips back over yours, guiding you over the fabric. ''Try this,'' he murmurs. ''Not too hard, yeah? Just enough to tease.''

You do as he says, moving a little slower now, more deliberately. He twitches in your hand again and curses under his breath. ''That's it. You're doin' so good, baby.''

His praise makes you feel warmer than anything else. You hadn't realized how badly you wanted to be good at this until now. You want to be good for him. The idea that you can make him feel this way, that you're the one unraveling him, it's heady, addictive.

He watches you for another beat. Then, gently, he brings your hand to the waistband of his sweatpants.

''Can I…?'' he asks.

You swallow hard. ''Yeah. Okay.''

He nods once, giving you a reassuring smile, and then carefully slides your hand underneath. The moment your fingers brush hot skin, your breath catches. There's no fabric separating you now, just burning heat and firm skin beneath your palm. He groans, biting down on his bottom lip like he's trying to keep it together, but his hips stutter and rise to meet your touch anyway, like he can't help it.

''Oh my god,'' you whisper.

When you finally wrap your fingers around him, skin to skin, it feels like the air leaves both your lungs at once. He lets out a moan, low and guttural, his head tipping back against the pillow. ''Fuck, baby…'' His chest heaves, muscles flexing. His lips part around a soft moan and then he throws his arm over his face, overwhelmed.

It's the sexiest thing you've ever seen.

''You're doing so good,'' he mumbles into the crook of his elbow. ''So fucking good for me.''

The praise hits you hard. You keep your strokes slow and steady, adjusting your hand the way he guides you, your movements growing more natural, more confident with every second. He's warm and heavy in your palm, and you can feel every subtle pulse, every twitch under your touch. He's so responsive to you. It's intoxicating. You can't help but wonder what he looks like underneath the fabric.

His arm slips away from his face, and he looks at you again, searching to make sure you're still okay. But when he just sees curiosity burning in your eyes, he chuckles softly. ''Want me to take them off, love?''

You nod bashfully.

Slowly, he shifts his hips, hooking his thumbs into his waistband, and pulls his sweatpants down just far enough to free himself. You freeze.

Your mouth goes dry. ''Jesus,'' you whisper, stunned. ''How is that supposed to fit inside of me?''

That gets a huff of laughter from him, but when you glance up, he's biting down on the inside of his cheek, like he's trying not to smirk.

''Thanks, baby. Y'alright? We can stop if this makes you uneasy, love,'' he says with an amused smile.

''No! No,'' you say quickly, though your face is still burning. ''I'm just… surprised, is all. And maybe a little intimidated. You're...'' you trail off pointedly, biting your lip in embarrassment.

Harry's face splits into a grin so smug it borders on cocky, and his chest puffs out slightly. You see it, the pride, but he reins it in immediately, choosing instead to cup your cheek.

''We'll figure it out together when we get there,'' he promises, his voice velvet and reassuring. ''We've got time. No rush.''

You nod, eyes wide as you look down again. His hand returns to yours, helping you find the right rhythm again, the right amount of pressure. He's a mess for you in seconds, breath stuttering, eyes squeezed shut. His fingers flex in the sheets beside him.

''Fuck, baby,'' he groans. ''Don't stop. You're doing so fucking good. Look at you.''

You can't look away from his face, his flushed cheeks, the shine on his collarbone, the way his Adam's apple bobs with every desperate breath. He's beautiful like this. Raw. Real.

And the fact that you're the one making him fall apart makes something fierce bloom in your chest.

You look down. He's so much bigger than you expected. Thick and long and hot in your hand, silky-soft skin over rock-hard muscle, and the size of him alone has your brain reeling. You blink a few times, watching your hand slowly move over him. It's almost hypnotic.

He notices your gaze and strains to lift his head, a choked moan escaping his parted lips at the sight below him. His brows pinch together as he watches the way you please him. When you speed up slightly, he presses a quick, appreciative kiss to your temple before dropping back into the pillows with a loud groan.

''That's good, baby,'' he breathes. ''So good. Keep goin' like that, just—yeah, there.''

He's a mess already, sweating lightly, those gorgeous tattoos of his rising and falling with every breath. His abs contract every time you stroke a little tighter, a little faster.

''God, you've got no idea what you do to me,'' he curses.

You glance up, heart stuttering at the sight of him. His head is tipped back, exposing his sharp jawline, one hand resting on his chest, the other gripping the bedsheets, knuckles white. His breath is ragged, little hitches in his throat every time you stroke down to the base. You can't stop looking at him. He's everything at once: powerful and undone, masculine and gentle, controlled and unraveling.

All because of you. And that knowledge makes you bolder.

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his chest, right over the butterfly tattoo. His breath catches, then spills out in a broken ''Jesus.''

You smile against his skin.

He drops one hand to your wrist, not to stop you, just to slow you down, to anchor himself. His eyes open again, and when they find yours, there's something unspoken there. Gratitude. Awe. Maybe a little disbelief, too, like he still can't believe you're real and not a fantasy he's made up in his mind on a lonely night.

''Just... just need to catch my breath. You okay?'' he asks carefully, barely above a whisper.

You nod, biting your lip, fingers still moving steadily. ''You?''

''On the edge,'' he says with a chuckle that bleeds into a moan when you squeeze him gently. ''Shit. I'm close. I don't want to... I don't want this to be over yet. Wanna stay in this moment forever,'' he rambles.

You press your forehead lightly to his shoulder, overwhelmed in the best way. You never thought giving could feel like this.

You've slowed down your movements at his instruction, your hand loose and wet around him, dragging in slow strokes that let him breathe again, let him hold on just a little longer.

One of his arms is slung across his face, mouth open with a shaky breath, and every now and then, when you hit a rhythm or twist your wrist the way he likes, a curse slips from his lips.

You watch him like he's art, tattoos shifting over his skin with every inhale, that crease between his brows digging in deeper. He's beautiful like this, and you don't want it to end either.

But curiosity burns through your chest like a forest fire, and he had told you that you could ask him anything you wanted to know. You shift closer, eyes flicking up to his face. ''Harry?''

His arm slides off his face immediately, revealing flushed cheeks and soft, concerned eyes. ''Yeah, baby?''

You hesitate. ''Does it… feel good when someone uses their mouth?''

The question makes his eyebrows jump, and for a second he just blinks at you, dazed. ''You mean a blowjob?''

You nod shyly, heart pounding.

''Yeah,'' he says slowly, cautiously. ''Yeah, they can feel really good. Why do you ask?''

''I've seen it in movies. Guys always seem to really like it.'' You glance at him, cheeks warm in the dim light. ''Do you?''

He exhales slowly, gaze drifting upward to the ceiling, as though considering how to answer honestly without overwhelming you. ''Yeah. It's… it's really nice.''

''I wanna try,'' you admit, barely above a whisper. ''Will you teach me?''

Harry sits up straighter, instantly more alert. ''Love. You don't have to. Seriously.'' His hand finds your wrist, and gently stills it. ''You've already done so much tonight. We don't have to rush anything.''

''I know,'' you tell him, and you do. ''But I want to. I just… I keep thinking about it. I want to know what it's like.''

He watches you for a long beat, breathing hard, like he's trying to gauge if this is really what you want or if you're just trying to be generous. ''You sure?''

You nod. ''I trust you.''

That makes something flicker in his expression.

Still, he hesitates. ''Alright, but we're going to take it slow. You tell me if anything feels wrong or uncomfortable, yeah? Just squeeze my thigh, or say you want to stop, and I'll back off.''

''Okay,'' you whisper, shifting onto your knees, your palms braced beside his thighs.

''Can I hold your hair back?' he asks for your permission. ''Just to keep it out of your face, baby.''

You nod again, and he reaches forward to delicately gather it into a loose ponytail in his hand. It's surprisingly tender, the way he gathers your strands, thumb brushing the back of your neck. It makes your stomach flip, nerves flaring.

''Start with your hand again,'' he instructs softly. ''Nice and easy, like before.''

You wrap your hand around him again, fingers trembling a little, but he's already twitching against your palm. You glance up at him for reassurance, and he gives you the softest smile, nodding once.

''Just lick the tip first,'' he tells you, voice gone hoarse.

You close the gap and drag your lips along the underside in a soft, feather-light kiss at first. Your cheeks are warm with nerves, but Harry's encouraging grunt makes your confidence grow.

''That's it… good girl.''

The words hit something in your chest. You lean back in, tongue flicking experimentally over the head of him, tasting salt and skin and something deeper. It's strange, but not bad. He groans, hips shifting subtly beneath you, and you feel the tremor run through his thighs. You keep going, tentative licks and kisses, building your confidence as he murmurs encouragements, his voice wrecked and reverent.

''You're doing so good,'' he breathes. ''Feels fucking incredible, angel.''

You wrap your lips around him slowly, taking him shallow at first, cheeks hollowed. It's more than you expected, thick and heavy on your tongue, but you take your time, getting used to the new sensation. Harry's breathing gets rougher, his hand tightening ever so slightly in your hair. He's not pushing, not guiding, just grounding himself. You like knowing you have that kind of effect on him.

But then, as you grow bolder and take him a little deeper, his hips buck at the sudden pleasure. You gag, eyes watering instantly as you pull back with a surprised sound, coughing lightly.

''Fuck! Fuck, I'm sorry,” Harry blurts, immediately sitting up and reaching for you, his face filled with panic. ''I didn't mean to. I swear, baby. Are you okay?''

You nod, eyes still watering, hand on your chest as you catch your breath. He's already brushing your hair out of your face, kissing your forehead, his whole body practically vibrating with guilt.

''That was too much,'' he says, clearly shaken. ''Let's stop. You've done enough for today.''

But you grab his wrist. ''No,'' you say, voice soft but steady. ''I want to keep going. Let me try again.''

He stares at you suspicious, brows lifting. ''You sure?''

''Mhm. Just maybe don't shove it down my throat this time?'' you joke, trying to lift the mood.

A beat of silence, then a laugh slips out of him. ''Duly noted.''

You grin, leaning back in, and this time it's smoother. You find a rhythm, guided by the whimpered moans and muttered praises leaving his lips. His hand stays in your hair, occasionally brushing the back of your neck or guiding you just a little. You feel powerful, beautiful, despite how new it all is.

At one point, his free hand covers his eyes again, and his stomach flexes so hard you have a feeling he'll be sore tomorrow morning. He mutters your name like a prayer, hips subtly rocking into your mouth. ''So good,'' he pants. ''Fuck, darlin', you're so good at this. Can't believe this is your first time. You're a natural, love.''

You hum around him, and the vibration from the sound makes him curse under his breath.

He's breathing hard, thighs tense under your hands, and then he gasps. ''Gonna come, baby, get off if you don't wanna—''

But you don't move. You look up at him with wide, determined eyes, and keep going.

''Shit,'' he curses under his breath when you look up at him through your lashes. ''You're so fucking stubborn—''

He breaks with a sound that wrecks you, long and guttural. His hand tightens in your hair, his whole body shuddering as he spills into your mouth, and you do your best, swallowing carefully, surprised by the heat and taste. You pull off when he hisses from the overstimulation, and he falls back against the pillows like he's been hit by lightning, chest rising and falling in deep, ragged breaths.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and crawl up next to him, shy again, suddenly unsure. ''Was that… okay?''

''Baby, I think I saw heaven.''

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

general tag list

@2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera @prettygurl-2009 @violinheartxx @gotthecinema @ghstyles @triski73

teach me slowly series tag list

@maddiesalvatore1839 @mleestiles @imaginexxharry @litlmisss @billweasleyswife @rockmelikeahurricaneee @nikkihs

...

[wilwheaton]

Trump won, we remind you, by a mere 1.5 percentage points, and he failed to reach the 50% threshold in the popular vote – in other words, more people voted for Harris and the other candidates (50.2%) than Trump (49.8%). It is utterly breathtaking to imagine that Trump is trying to reinvent America based on a 1.5-percentage point win that hinged on high prices and a weak Democratic ticket in a stub campaign. It takes a titanic ego, unhinged from political reality, to believe he has a “mandate” to attempt such a sweeping inversion of our national identity. This is simply not what Americans voted for.

BTRTN: Trump at 50 Days – America is Unhappy, and Increasingly So

I mean, we told the dumb fucks who voted for this criminal fascist that this would happen, and they mocked us. So.

[ama3003]

hi! is there any way you can write a pt 2 of a pawn once more? maybe turn it into a series? i just read it and LOVED it, your writing is beautiful!

Ask and you shall receive!!!!!

A Pawn Once More (2)

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: Sorta??? Lol I've been seeing all the love it's been getting.

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: You're trying to figure out if you should listen to your heart or follow your head.

Part 1: Here

Part 3: Here

A.N: I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader. Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)

I honestly wasn’t expecting this to get so much love — thank you all so much! I've seen a lot of people asking for it to become a series, and the truth is, I actually started this one-shot right in the middle of everything. There’s so much more I can write — backstory, missing context, and I could even take it all the way through Mockingjay Part 2 and beyond.

Let me know what you want to see, and I’ll gladly make it happen!

My inbox is always open and y'all I love your comments! Soooo please comment!!!!!!

You couldn’t breathe.

It wasn’t just the bodysuit—though it clung too tightly to your ribs—but the panic.

The cold, creeping panic of being back. The fear you thought you'd buried, the ghosts you thought you'd left behind—they were all clawing their way back to the surface.

How unlucky were you, really? To be given a second round of memories. A cruel encore.

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe." The words barely made it past your lips, more breath than voice, a desperate mantra as you stepped into the Chariot Staging Area.

You just needed to find Haymitch.

If you could hear his voice, meet his eyes, feel his presence—maybe then the terror would loosen its grip. Maybe then you could breathe.

“You look stunning!” your stylist chirped, smoothing your hair and flicking back a few stubborn flyaways. Her hands were quick, practiced, and utterly unaware of the storm brewing inside you.

You were dressed in a sleek black bodysuit, tailored like a second skin. Woven into the fabric were delicate fiber-optic threads that pulsed in slow, elegant waves, mimicking lightning bolts across your body. A walking storm.

“This beautiful number responds to movement,” she said proudly. “The lights will shift and pulse with every gesture. I’ll be operating the pattern controls—you just need to wave and look pretty.”

You nodded absently, your attention already drifting, eyes scanning the room like sonar.

You needed to find him.

“Little bird looking for me?” You turned, and there he was—Gloss, standing with that signature smirk, arms crossed like he owned the room.

“You look breathtaking,” he said, eyeing the suit with an appreciative nod. “I swear, you’ve got enough power in you to light up all of Panem.”

A genuine laugh escaped you, small but real, and you stepped forward to pull him into a hug. “Flattery will get you nowhere,” you said, voice lighter. “But it’s good to see you, Glossy. Where’s Cash?”

“Here I am!” a familiar voice called.

You turned to see Cash striding over, flanked by Enobaria and Brutus. A wave of warmth surged through your chest. You moved quickly, gathering them all into a hug.

These weren’t just allies. These were your people. Friends who understood the weight behind your eyes. The ache in your chest. The blood on your hands. Because they were the exact same way. As broken as you were.

Once, when you were young, it seemed impossible to be asked to kill strangers. And now? Now you were being asked to kill your friends.

“How are you all?” you asked, voice soft. “I’m sorry I missed the last hangout. I had food poisoning. And I’m even sorrier that this is how we’re seeing each other again.”

You gave them a sad smile. The kind that meant more than words ever could.

“This was definitely a turn of events,” Enobaria muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Never thought I’d have to set foot back here as a tribute,” Cash added, shaking her head.

Everyone nodded grimly. You all had the same unspoken thought: peace was promised. And then peace was stolen.

Brutus looked across the room, tipping his chin toward the group. “So? Should we expect you and Mason to join us?” You raised an eyebrow. He went on.“I doubt we’ll offer that to District 4. I love Mags, but this isn’t about friendship. It’s about survival. Or are you planning to side with the newbies for your husband’s sake?”

You met his gaze, firm and unflinching. “You already know the answer to that, Brutus. Those kids? They’re basically his. Which means… they’re mine, too.”

Enobaria let out a slow sigh, stepping closer. “Just don’t put their lives above your own. And don’t forget about Mason. You have to think about him. Plust those kids…” Her next words hit harder than you were ready for. “--they’re the reason we’re here. If just one of them had died... we wouldn’t be back in this arena and we all know it. And look at us we’re stuck here once again and now we have to kill each other.”

The silence was immediate and suffocating.

No one spoke.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

It was the truth everyone avoided speaking out loud—but now that it hung in the air, you all had to face it.

Bitterness curled in your stomach, uninvited but undeniable. You hated feeling it. Hated that it made sense.

“Hey,” Cash cut in sharply, eyes narrowing at Enobaria. “Stop. Whatever happens, happens. We keep it fast. We keep it painless. Right?”

Everyone nodded. Even Enobaria.

Then Cash turned to you, her voice lowering.

“I would really love for District 5 to join us,” she said. “We love you. And we love Mason. But I get it. You’re looking out for your husband. That’s not cowardice—that’s loyalty. It’s love. Just… if anything changes, you’re always welcome here.”

She gave you a tight hug and stepped away. Gloss winked and followed. Enobaria gave you a rare side hug. Brutus patted your shoulder, rough and sincere, before the group slipped into the crowd.

And then you were alone again. Not alone in the room—but alone in the way that mattered.

Your eyes scanned once more, heart pounding harder now.

For him.

And then you saw her—Katniss. Standing with Peeta. Not speaking. Not blinking. Just... watching.

You hadn’t spoken yet. You and Haymitch had always kept your relationship quiet, tucked away where the Capitol couldn't twist it. Mentors by day. Lovers by night. The other victors knew. Your families knew. But to the Capitol?

It had to stay hidden.

Some things were too sacred to put on display.

Last night had nearly shattered that wall. You’d broken down behind a closed door, only to feel their eyes on you through the crack—Katniss, Peeta, and even Effie.

But Haymitch had pulled you away, shielding you from their stares. From their pity.

And now, Katniss was watching again.

You met her gaze, steady and calm, and offered a soft smile. A small nod.

She mattered. They both did.

You needed her to trust you.

Because Haymitch did. And you saw it—how he cared for them. The soft way he spoke to them. The cracks in his armor, carefully hidden but real. He was letting himself feel again.

He was learning to love. Openly. Fiercely. Just like you had always wished he would. And because of that, you would do whatever it took to protect them. By your life… or by your death.

Katniss gave you the smallest of nods. Then turned away.

You exhaled—slowly, shakily.

A small victory.

Maybe the only kind left.

A warm hand caught your arm. Mason.

“You ready for this?” he asked, helping you up into the carriage.

You nodded. “Smile and wave,” you said softly.

The chariots began to roll and the sound hit like thunder. A roar of applause, cheers, screams. Your lungs tightened. The noise pressed in from every side. Your hands trembled. Sweat gathered along your brow. You felt like you were drowning in the sound.

Mason’s grip on your hand tightened. He could feel your fear. But he wasn’t the one you needed.

You needed Haymitch.

His voice. His eyes. His strength.

You scanned the audience, heart hammering wildly. Too many faces. Too much light. Too much noise.

And then—there.

You found him.

He stood behind the others, half-hidden, quiet as always. But his eyes were on you.

Only you.

You felt your shoulders drop. Your breath returned. You smiled softly

And he winked.

Just like that, the panic loosened. The thunder of the Capitol became background noise. The trembling in your fingers eased.

You could do this.

You could finish the parade.

Because he saw you. Because he was there.

And that was enough.

*******

You hated looking at yourself in the mirror. You always had. Especially after the Games.

Back then, at sixteen, you’d stare at your reflection and search for something—someone—you recognized. But all you ever saw were the eyes of the people you killed, their final moments etched behind your own. 

You didn’t see a girl. You didn’t see a victor. You saw a murderer.

And now, nearly a decade later, here you were—twenty-five years old, staring into the same damn mirror, in the same damn room, waiting to face the same horrors.

Except this time, you weren’t naïve enough to believe you’d make it out.

You knew the moment you volunteered.

This was your end.

A knock at the door snapped you out of your thoughts. “Darling, we need to go,” Mason’s voice called gently from the hall. “We need all the training we can get.”

You looked at yourself one last time.

A murderer. A lunatic. A dead man walking.

You blinked away the tears, jaw tightening. Then you tied your ponytail higher—tighter—like it might hold you together a little longer.

You stepped out to meet Mason.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice laced with that familiar worry. He always worried. Especially about you. You were the little sister he never had—and now the two of you were walking into hell all over again.

“Well enough,” you replied, offering him a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “But it’s fine.”

He didn’t believe you. But he nodded.

You were grateful, at least, that you’d never really stopped training after your Games. You were constantly on edge, and staying active had become your only way to keep the nightmares at bay. The gym had always felt more familiar than your own home.

The Training Center was exactly how you remembered it: the scent of metal, sweat, and Capitol sterilization. Clean and gleaming, like death dressed up in a ballgown. Everything here looked expensive. Perfect. Soulless.

You and Mason stood shoulder to shoulder on the rising platform. The doors opened, revealing the training floor—wide, cold, and humming with tension.

Tributes filled the space, moving like restless ghosts. Silent, watchful, already assessing one another like it was the arena.

You tensed immediately. The smell. The sound. The weight in the air. It all pulled you backward, to the first time. The fear. The blood. The moment everything changed.

You scanned the floor, searching for him. For Haymitch.

But he wasn’t here.

Mason nudged you gently. “He’s probably hungover. He’ll be down in a minute.”

You nodded, but your mind was still spinning. You didn’t want to be here. Not really. You didn’t want to spar or strategize or throw knives at holograms. You wanted to find Haymitch. You wanted to hold his hand and talk about nothing. You wanted to remember what it felt like to be alive before the arena took everything again.

But the odds were never in your favor.

“I say we stick with the Careers,” Mason murmured, arms crossed over his chest as he nodded toward the familiar pack from Districts 1, 2, and 4. “They’ve got numbers. They’re predictable. We know how they move, how they think. We get in, stay close, bail when it gets ugly. And hey—if we do die, at least it'll be quick and painless.”

You didn’t respond immediately.

Your eyes drifted across the floor, landing on Katniss and Peeta as they entered the room. Their posture was stiff. Guarded. Haymitch still nowhere in sight.

You sighed. “We can’t.”

Mason’s brow furrowed. “We can’t what?”

“We can’t team up with the Careers.”

You turned to him fully, voice steady, even as your heart pounded. “We need to stick with District 12. With them.”

He stared at you like you’d lost your mind. “Are you serious? Y/N, come on. They’re kids. They won out of dumb luck.”

You met his stare. “We all won out of luck.”

“You know what I mean.” He stepped closer, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “Everyone here won. They’re strong. Dangerous. But you want to team up with the wide-eyed girl and her boy toy? Compared to the Careers? Darling, please.”

“I’m not asking you,” you said quietly. The edge in your voice cut sharper than you meant it to. “I’m telling you. I’m staying with them. You can make your own call.”

There was a pause. Not anger—just tension. Thick with history. With grief.

Mason’s jaw clenched. “This isn’t like last time, Y/N. This isn’t your Games. This isn’t about heart or honor or—whatever the hell you and Haymitch have going on now. This is survival.”

You looked him straight in the eye. “Exactly. And it’s their survival I’m fighting for.”

His voice dropped. “And what about you?”

You hesitated, but he caught it. Your silence was louder than any answer.

“Look,” you began, softer now, “I’m not asking you to follow me—”

But he cut you off, stepping closer.

“You don’t have to! We’re partners. I’m sticking by you. I always have.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “I just want you to think. Really think, before you throw yourself into a losing bet. There’s a smarter play here. You know that.”

“I do,” you said. “But sometimes the smart play isn’t the right one.”

He exhaled harshly and scrubbed a hand over his face. “You want to help Haymitch. I get that. I do. But we both know it was luck that those two made it out. Pure, stupid luck. But you. You can win. You can make it back to your family. I’ll help you get there.”

You were about to say something to Mason—something half-formed and already losing shape in your mouth—when you heard his voice.

“Y/N! Mason!”

Your head turned faster than your heart could catch up. And there he was.

Your husband.

That familiar flutter of your heart. Like it always did. You hadn’t seen him in a day? But even now, with him just a few feet away, it felt like a lifetime had passed. You missed him deeply.

Trailing behind him were Katniss and Peeta.

“I want to formally introduce you to my victors,” Haymitch said, stopping in front of you. “Katniss and Peeta. Guys, this is Y/N and Mason. District 5.”

“Hey,” Mason said, flashing that strained, too-polished smile he always wore around new people. He gave your shoulder a quick pat. “I’m gonna go see what Gloss and Brutus are up to. Grab me when you’re done.”

Then he leaned in, low enough for only you to hear. “Please… think about what I said.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice. He gave you a look—worried, conflicted—and walked off.

You turned back to the trio.“Sorry about him,” you said with a soft exhale. “He’s… under pressure…but aren’t we all?”

Your gaze lingered on Haymitch for half a second longer than it should’ve. You didn’t need to explain more. He already knew.

Then you looked at Katniss and Peeta, offered a small smile, and reached out your hand. “I’m Y/N. I’ve heard a lot about you both. What you did—how you handled everything—it was impressive.”

Peeta was the first to move. His handshake was firm, warm. His eyes kind. “It’s good to meet you. We, uh… we watched your Games last night.” He hesitated, then smiled a little. “You were incredible. And also… slightly terrifying.”

You actually laughed. “Don’t worry,” you said. “If things go well, you won’t have to be scared of me.”

Haymitch cleared his throat, arms crossed, already watching the storm gather in Katniss’s face. “I was telling them you and Mason would be good allies. They seemed open to it.”

Katniss turned sharply toward him. “No, we didn’t.”

You blinked, trying to keep your expression neutral, but her words stung.

She folded her arms, looking you up and down like she was trying to see beneath your skin. “How are we supposed to trust you if you’re still with him? He clearly wants nothing to do with us.”

Your voice was quiet but steady. “I can handle Mason. He’ll follow my lead. He won’t be a threat.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, turning away, “I don’t trust you either.” And just like that, she was gone. Peeta followed, his face apologetic but silent.

You stood there for a beat too long, your hand still halfway raised before you let it fall.

Haymitch ran a hand down his face. “She’s scared,” he muttered. “She’s trying to protect him. She’s paranoid—on edge.”

You shook your head, arms wrapping around your chest like armor. “I get it. I really do. But if she won’t trust me, Mason’s going to dig in even harder. He’s already eyeing the Careers, and they really want us. They’re not taking District 4.”

Haymitch glanced toward where Mason was sparring with Brutus, the clang of metal echoing through the air like thunder. He winced.

“You thinking of going with them?”

You turned back to him slowly, locking eyes. “You really asking me that?”

Silence.

“I’m here,” you said. “With Twelve. With you. That’s not changing.”

He nodded, but you could see it—the guilt. The weight of what he was asking from you. Of what he couldn’t promise in return.

“I’ll talk to her,” he said finally. “I’ll get her to see reason. But you’ve gotta keep Mason from jumping ship. We don’t win this if he flips.”

You followed his gaze. Mason was grinning now, laughing at something Brutus said. “He can go if he wants,” you said quietly. “I told him. But my alliance is here. I made that choice.”

For you. You didn’t say it out loud. But Haymitch knew.

The noise of training continued around you—grunts, shouts, weapons clashing—but for a second, it all felt muffled. The pressure building behind your ribs was harder to ignore by the minute.

You looked at Haymitch again and tried not to let the fear show. But he saw it. He always saw it.

And that was part of what made this so unbearable.

“How are you feeling?”  He asks the question softly, like it’s the only one that matters. You know his eyes are tracing the lines of your face, trying to read the answer that you’re not saying out loud. The panic attack you’d had with him still lingers in his mind — a tightness in his chest he can’t shake. He’s scared, just like you are. The separation, even this small distance between you, feels like a raw wound. Every second without you feels like it’s eating at him from the inside out.

You shrug, doing your best to sound nonchalant. “I’m fine enough. Haven’t had another panic attack... yet. But it gets close sometimes.” You try to offer a half-smile, but it’s hollow. You can feel it — the weight of everything about to happen. And it’s suffocating.

His fingers twitch, almost as if he’s reaching for you before realizing he can’t. The frustration is written all over him. He needs to touch you. Needs to hold you, but everything feels like it’s out of his reach.

“You’ve only got a few days left until—” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to. You both know what’s coming. The suffocating fear. The arena. The uncertainty. But for a second, you don’t want to hear it. Not from him.

“I walk into my death?” You let out a shaky laugh, trying to break the tension with humor that doesn’t quite land. “I promise to make it as epic as possible.”

You turn to look at him, but his eyes are hard, like he’s trying to hold it all together, and he doesn’t like what you’re saying.

“What?” you ask, but you already know.

“Don’t say that.” His voice is low, urgent. His brow furrows as he steps closer, his gaze sharp. “Never say that.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, a dull pain spreading through you. “I’m sorry.” The words fall out before you can stop them, but it feels too late to take them back.

“I need you out of that arena.” His voice is raw, like it’s the one thing he can cling to. “I don’t know what I’d do if you don’t.”

You know that’s the truth. You can see it in his eyes, that quiet desperation. He’s already lost so much. He can’t lose you too. But you’re not sure how to make him understand that you’ve already made peace with the reality.

You turn your body toward him, not daring to reach out because of the eyes on you both. But this — this moment — this conversation, it’s just between the two of you. You need him to see you, to know you’re still there, even when it feels like everything is about to come crashing down.

“Haymitch,” your voice is softer now, the lump in your throat growing. “We’re going to be fine. No matter what happens, okay? In sickness and in health. In better or for worse. Death won’t do us part.” Your breath hitches, and you try to hold back the tears, but they spill anyway. “I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

There’s a tremor in his eyes, like he’s holding something back. But it’s his voice that cracks this time, just a little. “And I love you,” he says, his words lingering between you both. “Which is why I don’t like that you sound so defeated.” His voice is a whisper now, almost lost in the space between you.

It’s true. He’s only seen you three times. And all those times, you’ve looked at him like you’ve already accepted your fate. And that’s the part he can’t handle. The part that tears at him in a way he’ll never be able to explain.

“It’s not defeat.” Your voice is stronger now, though it still trembles. “I’ve accepted it. I won’t be as lucky as I was the first time around. And honestly, I don’t think I want to be. Not with them.” You gesture to the others around you — the tributes who would be in the arena with you. “And definitely not if it’s against your kids.”

He bristles at the mention of them, his expression hardening in that way you’ve come to know well. “They’re not my kids.” His tone is sharp, defensive.

You roll your eyes, though the sadness creeps back in. “You’re letting them into your heart, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.” You smile, but it’s bittersweet. “It’s such an honor seeing the light shine back into your eyes.”

His gaze softens, but his voice drops, rough and honest. “I’ve had light from the moment we kissed. You are my light. And that’s why I need you to stop talking like you’ve already lost.” He steps closer, his hand hovering like he wants to touch you but is afraid to. His breath is ragged. “The Abernathy’s don’t give up.” He’s trying, trying so hard to convince you both. But the truth is, you’ve already decided.

“They don’t.” You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “And that’s why, whatever happens, I’m going to need you to remember that.”

How could you still try to take care of him when you were the one who needed the comfort? You were supposed to be the one being held, not the other way around. But he was still trying to do it — trying to take care of you in whatever broken way he could.

“I’ll figure something out,” he says, his eyes burning with determination. “Trust me, okay? I’ll figure something out. And both you and the kids... you’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.” He reaches for your hand quickly, squeezing it tight. You can feel the heat of his palm, the raw, frantic pulse beneath his skin. His eyes meet yours for just a second, and he gives you a wink, a shaky attempt at something like normal. “Now, I have to go find where that girl ran off to. I swear, she’s becoming more of a pain in my ass this time around. And Peeta’s following her like a lost puppy.”

You chuckle softly, the sound breaking the tension between you both. “But you love them.” You smile up at him.

He shakes his head, his smile small but real. “But I love you more.”

And in that moment, you know he means it. Even if you’re both standing on the edge of an abyss. Even if you don’t know how you’ll survive the next few days, or if you’ll survive at all. Haymitch’s love is the only thing in this world that feels like it might be enough to hold you together.

But you can’t say that. You can’t say anything. Because the truth is, you’re terrified.

And you’re not sure you can be brave enough for both of you.

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