#truly a perplexing watch

[continuousmeowing]

repo! the genetic opera sucks so bad…..i kind of love it.

[todayisafridaynight]

aren’t we getting kiwami 3 eventually? why are some people so upset? /gen

TECHNICALLY rgg just said they'd LIKE to make a YK3, they never said it's a definite plan or it'd happen anytime soon: it depends on if mine's voice actor can come back to reprise his role

as for why some people are upset ermmmmm good question!

[cosmicwavelengths]

staring problem

pairing: avenger! bucky barnes x physical therapist! reader summary: you’ve been working with sam, joaquin, and bucky for the past few months, and you couldn’t help but notice how bucky just… stares. (based off of dialogue from the falcon and the winter soldier: “does he always just stare like that?” “you get used to it.” and “you’re doing the staring thing again.” + more)

a/n: hello and welcome to my first one shot! i saw captain america: brave new world last week and it was tremendous! i went back and watched the falcon and the winter soldier and it inspired me to write this fic. i've been pretty excited to share this, so i hope you enjoy! likes and reblogs are always appreciated forehead kiss

comments/tags: ca:bnw (spoilers!), fluff, bucky barnes is a 106 year old grumpy ass, bucky has a staring problem (quite severely), physical therapist/trainer f! reader, sam wilson, joaquin torres, bucky doesn’t hate joaquin here but he has a youthful energy that old man barnes finds mildly exhausting (sometimes), there’s technically a girthy age gap between bucky and reader (probably 60-80 years) but bucky can’t help that so we will collectively ignore it, strangers-to-lovers except bucky is just Confused, no y/n use

cw: mentions of alcohol (drinking, reader getting drunk), sebastian stan’s intense glare (swoon), kissing, language (bucky has a potty mouth)

wc: 3.9k | masterlist | ao3 ────୨ৎ────

In his 106 or so years, you were the first person who Bucky Barnes met that genuinely perplexed  him. And he couldn’t exactly put his finger on why.

During his over-extended life, he prided himself on his ability to read people and understand their intentions almost immediately. Maybe he’s a cynic, but he finds it to be much easier to organize the recurring figures of his life into different areas of his mind. Of course, there’s the rare individual that Bucky genuinely likes, such as Sam. And with others he tolerates, like Joaquín. But you? He wasn’t exactly sure how he felt. And if Bucky was being honest with himself, it scares him.

Considering he already knows almost everything about you, it’s almost frustrating how little Bucky truly knows you. Sure, Joaquín sat you all down as a group to discuss their new physical therapist. Similar to Joaquín in age, graduated from college not too long ago,, has significant experience with working with service men. You’ve been working with them for nearly six months already, and Bucky has yet to properly assess where you sit in his brain.

Whenever you entered the room -- any room, you had a certain energy. Maybe it’s the way you carry yourself, but you seem to have this natural ability to alter the space around you in some way. Your teeth and eyes seemed to sparkle, the way they open up so wide to greet him and the others at the beginning of each training session.

“Does he always just stare like that?” you inquire quietly, leaning over to Sam as you create a hamstring out of a roll of kinesiology tape. You subtly nudge your arm in the general direction where Bucky stood next to the weight rack.

Sam chuckles, “You get used to it.” You shrug in response, putting your head down and continuing to wrap the tape around his calf. “He might be a bionic staring machine, but he’s been through a lot. It’s just how he is, I wouldn’t take it personally,” he smiles down at you. Making a quick glance in his direction, Bucky continues to stare pointedly, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. Intimidating. You suppose any regular person would be skeeved out under such intense pressure, but it makes you rather demure. Even though you’re looking in his direction, he continues to look at you with his intense eyes. You’d think that most people would stop after being noticed, especially since you’ve caught him staring at you more than twice, but he continues with his piercing gaze anyways. 

Since Sam had decided to rebuild the Avengers, you had been brought in as their physical therapist. If you were honest, you weren’t exactly sure why superheroes of all people needed physical therapy, with what cutting edge technology and medicine they have at their disposal, but it pays well and you can’t complain about that in this economy.. Since starting, you’ve already become relatively close with Sam and Joaquín. But Bucky…

…Well, judging by the way he’s practically staring through you, you’d be safe in assuming that he hates you or something. You’ve not really had a chance to have a full fledged conversation with him. You helped him stretch, applied kinesio tape when asked. Within your first few days here, you surmised that he was just a private person. But, you’ve seen the quick smiles he flashed at Sam and the occasional short conversation with Joaquín. You normally don’t take these things too personally, but the people pleaser side of you tends to rear its ugly head. Aside from that, there was something about Bucky that made you want him to like you at least a little bit. You’ve tried your best to be friendly to him during your brief interactions, but he didn’t seem to have much of an interest in conversing with you past exchanging pleasantries. Even though it hurts a little, it’s just how some of these jobs go, after all, you can’t expect to be friends with all your clients. But his nearly constant staring at you is… menacing.

“I just don’t think he’s taken to me that well,” you breathe, finishing the wrap on his quad and cutting away the excess tape with scissors. “He doesn’t seem to like talking to me… or like me, at all.”

“It’s not you,” Sam reassures gently. “Give him some time to open up.”

--

“Y’know, you probably scare her with how much you stare at her like that.”

Bucky re-racked the weights with much more force than he wanted, causing the weights to make a heavy clunk sound against the metal, making her and Sam’s heads snap over in their direction. Shit.

Bucky looks at Joaquín and frowns. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Dude, you have something of a staring problem,” says Joaquín. “Do you know that? It’s important to us that you know that. You have zero tact.”

Bucky grumbles under his breath in response, turning back to the weight rack to select a heavier dumbbell. “At least say something to her when we go out later? You can tell it bothers her,” Joaquín offers with a smile. Bucky steps back from the rack, preparing for his next set. “Stay out of my business, Torres.”

“This seems like a very unnatural problem for someone like you to have. Maybe we should call Wakanda, tell them that our cyborg puppet has stopped working and is in urgent need of recalibration.”

“Fuck off.”

--

The bar is loud. Far too loud for Bucky’s taste as he enters the establishment with Sam. Had it been up to him, he would have picked his usual quiet spot near his apartment. But, it is her six month anniversary of working with the guys, and Bucky wasn’t going to miss a chance to drink for free on Sam’s tab. Bucky stuffs his hands deeper into the pockets of his leather jacket, scanning the many faces around the room. Keep an eye out for any potential threats…

“Well?” Sam asks, turning to Bucky and breaking him out of his concentration. Bucky’s jaw tightens, “Don’t you and Torres know better than to be in my business?” he says, crabbily. Sam shrugs his shoulders, hands out in defense. “Hey! I just want you to be happy, man. Just think about what Torres said, maybe?” He steps back from Bucky with a smile, clapping his hand against Bucky’s shoulder before approaching Joaquín at the bar. And there you are, sitting next to Joaquín, shining like the stars and moon… yet unsteady. Your warm expression grows upon seeing Sam, pulling him into a tight hug. What the hell, sure, Bucky ponders briefly before stalking up to the only open space in the bar and ordering a beer.

“Sam!” you answer excitedly, throwing your arms around him in a warm hug. He reciprocates in kind, saying a quick greeting during the embrace. “Wo-oah there!” Sam teases, “Has Joaquín here been filling you up with drinks here?” He gestures to the glassware that you and Joaquín collected, lightly crowding the bar surface.

“Hey, look, it’s a cheat night for all of us, and more importantly, her six month work anniversary!” Joaquín reminds Sam with a laugh. “Yes, tonight is all about me, guys,” you tease, smiling lazily at them. You generally don’t make it a habit to engage with clients outside of the gym, but Sam and Joaquín had truly welcomed you to the team with open arms these last few months. It was truly kind of Sam to pick up the tab tonight, and you’d feel rude refusing.

You settle back into your barstool as Sam and Joaquín begin a conversation. You scan the many faces around the U-shaped bar until you notice Bucky standing there, waiting on his drink. He’s of average height, about six feet tall or so, yet he stands out among the others around him. He wears his infamous scowl as he toys with his leather gloves. You took care in noticing how the light of the bar catches his upper cheek bone and the top of his jawline by his ear. His brooding blue eyes as they scan the area round him. So intimidating… yet..

He glances up at you quickly, incidentally locking eyes with you across the bar. Your eyes grow wide, feeling smaller than you’ve ever felt before. It’s almost eerie the way he studies you, as if he is trying to memorize every atom and particle of your facial structure. You almost freeze under his watch, sobering up a little as you sit up straighter. Properly. You cast out your usual friendly gestures, an invitation -- a small smile and a shy wave of your finger tips. Maybe it’s your alcohol-muddled brain playing tricks on you, but you could’ve sworn that the corner of his lips turned ever so slightly upwards.

It felt like time stopped when Bucky noticed you. The small wisps of your hair caught by the lowlights above the bar, reaching to the bow of the lips that once held a grin. Your wide eyes holding a sparkle of light. How he can see the way your skin flushes due to your alcohol consumption. Bucky finds it adorable the way you lightly smile at him, waving your hand gently. He sees the way you’re a bit wobbly, having to lean against the bar to keep things steady. He couldn’t help but be amused. His attention is torn away by the bartender setting down the beer bottle in front of him. Bucky fishes for cash in his pocket, setting it in the man’s hand and finally approaching the group.

He stuffs his beer-less hand deep into his jacket pocket as he stops next to Sam. He claps his hand on Bucky’s shoulder in greeting, Bucky acknowledges him with a slight nod of his head. “Bucky!” Sam exclaims, gesturing to the group. “Welcome. We were wondering when you’d show up!” Bucky looks at him with a tired expression. “Lost track of time at the gym,” he mumbles. “Likely story,” Joaquín laughs, before being cut short by Bucky nudging him sharply with his flesh elbow, using a bit more force than necessary.

--

Minutes pass. Then an hour. Two hours. Rounds of drinks later, you all lapse into steady conversation telling lively stories of the past, previous jobs, missions, interactions with other superheroes. You and Joaquín chortle together loudly at Sam’s seemingly endless stream of stories and jokes, while Bucky resigns himself to polite nods as he sips on his beer. The initial lively crowd of the bar had died down to the regular crowd, who’d delegated themselves to chatting amongst themselves, playing darts and shooting pool.

Several vodka cranberries in, your face and hands feel oddly numb, and the room spins more than usual. Shame on you for thinking you can match Joaquín drink for drink. Sam and Joaquín throw back the last of their drinks before heading off to the pool tables. Bucky stares off at them as they apply blue chalk to the tips of their cue sticks, ready to begin a match.

Turning towards Bucky, you prop yourself up against the bar, cheek in hand. You attempt to mock the way he stares at you, to make him feel how you’ve felt all these months.

“So,” you hiccup, interrupting yourself with a shy giggle. “What’s your deal?” You mockingly raise an eyebrow. “What’s your damage, Bucky? What is it about me you don’t like?” It slips out so easily. You should be embarrassed, but you’re far too gone.

Bucky sits up straight, giving you an unsure glance. That’s new. “I’m not sure what you--.”

“And you’re doing that staring thing again, that thing you do with me,” you comment, words slurring slightly as you gesturing unsteadily in Sam and Joaquín’s direction. “When you look at me like that, I can’t tell if ‘ya like or hate me!”

“Y’know, maybe I’m a people pleaser or sumthin’, but I-I really want you to like me, I think,” you sigh. Shrugging comically, you throw back the rest of your drink sitting on the bar. Leaning over, you clap your hand over his large gloved one. Bucky freezes, suddenly being hyper aware of what you’re doing and how small your hand feels compared to his. “And y’know what else? I don’t even mind when you stare at me like that. It’s almost as hot as it is intimidating.”

Bucky was warm -- not from the alcohol. He knows he can’t really get drunk anymore due to the serum, but he still feels the sweat from his palms against the smooth leather interior of his padded globes. And again, he states. Wide eyed at the flushness that cascaded down her cheeks to her collar bones. She fully lost herself in a fit of uncontrollable giggles, leaning against the bar again, not even knowing what you’re doing to him.

He wants to look everywhere all at once, eyes darting. Your bright, round lips stained with cranberry juice and the remnants of your lip gloss. The small beads of sweat by your temples and the crown of your hair. Your smooth thighs, sparkling in certain spots from the cold  of your glass. Bucky was truly rendered speechless. Not that he usually speaks much. Not that he was able to get much of a word in with you beforehand. But this time, he feels truly stumped. So, naturally, he did what any former brainwashed assassin turned semi-normal guy would do. With every ounce of charisma and bravado that a man like him could gather, he took one last look at her and drank the last bit of his beer. “Excuse me,” he said with a voice he was unfamiliar with, and turned around to walk out of the bar. And kept walking. All the way home.

--

Sleep is elusive to Bucky, who had spent the previous night drifting in and out of light sleep. He usually takes this as a sign to get an early start of the day, maybe go for a long run or walk outside.

He rises, making his way to the bathroom.. Squeezing out toothpaste, Bucky couldn’t help but reflect upon the event of the previous night. The sound of your gleeful, drunken laugh. How the warmth radiated off of your body. He can just barely recall the ghostly weight of your hand on the back of his. Even through his thick gloves, you may as well have burned him.

As Bucky splashes water on his face, he concludes that maybe a run wasn’t what he needed. The subway station was right outside of the bar on East Houston Street, yet he elected to walk two hours back home to his apartment in Brooklyn instead. He’d hoped that walking over the Manhattan Bridge in the middle of the night would turn out to be somewhat therapeutic, yet he was still unable to shake the memory of you at the bar. 

Letting out a deep breath, he takes a moment to sit on the couch and put his boots on. Standing, he shrugs on his leather jacket and reaches for the gloves in his pocket. Gloves you touched, he recalls, feeling uncharacteristically giddy about it. Heading out the door, he hopes that this early morning workout will help him clear his head.

--

It is far too early to wake up today, especially after having a night out like that. You awake with a raging headache, an unsettled stomach, and an aggressive thought of what the fuck did you do. As you lie there, gazing at your slowly spinning ceiling fan, you start to feel each and every one of the drinks. Groaning, you sit up, clutching your stomach in an attempt to settle yourself and you are quickly reminded of the conversation you had with Bucky. At that, you shoot up far quicker than you should, running to the toilet to rid yourself of the contents of your stomach and regrets from last night. Sigh.

You couldn’t believe that you had said that, feeling waves of embarrassment. You normally wouldn’t push yourself that far with the drinks, much less with the boundaries of a client. Grimacing, you reach up to the counter, feeling for a towel to wipe your face of sweat and residual make-up. Turning on the faucet, you cup water into your hands to drink and splash your face with cold water. Approaching your closet, you preemptively mourn one of the best jobs you’ve ever had. Every fiber of your being begs you to return to bed and wallow in self pity, but you think it’s best that you get to the gym early for a quick workout. Sweat out the hangover, you think bitterly. Your head lightly pounds when you make a sudden movement. Bringing your hand to your forehead, you realize this is going to be one long day.

Entering the compound, you hear the sound of a treadmill running and rhythmic steps in accompaniment. It would be good to see Sam or Joaquín, figuring that one of them decided to work off the alcohol consumed last night. But since you are, evidently, not God’s favorite, running on the treadmill is someone you’d rather avoid right now. And there’s Bucky Barnes, shirtless and sweating as he jogs on the machine. Your eyes follow his dog tags dangling from his neck, bouncing rhythmically against his skin. He heaves gently, hair flopping with each step. 

Even though you stopped in your tracks, he had already felt your presence and began slowing down. Bucky steps off the treadmill, collecting his water and patting his forehead with a small towel he brought. You figure it’s best to just talk and not dance around the topic. He didn’t seem like the type to beat around the bush. You breathe shakily before approaching him.

“Hi, Bucky,” you say, tone laced with nerves.. “Look, about last night—”

“Hey, it’s fine.” he interjects accidentally, cutting you off. He raises a gentle hand of reassurance. “You don’t need to apologize for anything.”

Your shoulders relax a bit, knowing that there was maybe a small chance that he wouldn’t tell Sam or Joaquín about your interaction. “Thank you, it’s just that I rarely go out with clients like that, nor do I drink that heavily.” You shift lightly on your feet, fumbling with your water bottle. “I didn’t mean to be unprofessional or cross any boundaries. I just hope that we could maybe move past this, pretend like it didn’t happen?” Smiling, you look up at the taller man, eyes filled with hope. He himself shifts on his feet, “Oh, I didn’t realize we were just clients to you.” You look down with embarrassment, searching for a response. “Uh, I didn’t mean any offense—”

“I’m just teasin’, sweetheart,” the nickname rolling smoothly off his tongue with a smile. A smile. “Did you really mean what you said, though? About me staring?” Drunk words are sober thoughts, he recalls to himself, having learned the phrase from Torres. You flush, suddenly taking interest in the top of your water bottle rather than the man in front of you. Him speaking with you, much less jokingly is more than foreign territory for you. “I-I mean,” you sputter out, self consciousness taking charge. “I wouldn’t mind being friends with you, of course, I try my best to be friendly with the people I work with.” He takes a step closer. “Now, you and I both know that that’s not the part we are talking about.” Your breath hitches. You take in how you feel crowded by him. He’s not exactly within your personal space. Yet.

“Really, I’m the one that should be apologizing.” Bucky says, loosening up. With a sigh, he starts: “I’m sorry to have kept you at arms length all this time. It’s rather difficult for ‘someone like me,’” he dramatically emphasizes with air quotes, “to ‘nurture friendships.’” So says my therapist, he thinks with an internal eye roll. “What’s wrong with me isn’t your fault. I’m just old and cynical.” He pats the outside of your arm in reassurance. You smile, feeling the spot grow warm under his touch. “For the record, I don’t exactly mind that you called me hot, either,” he casually notes. “It’s certainly better than the other reactions I tend to get.” You didn’t think it was possible to blush harder, feeling the warmth creep down your chest. Fuck, you were hoping he wouldn’t mention that part specifically, but you can roll with it. “Well, I do pride myself on being honest, I guess,” you chuckle nervously trying to play it off as cool.

“Y’know, since I had met you, I had been so confused on what to think of you. In all my life, I had never met anyone that was able to do that to me.” His voice darkens. “Care to clue me in as to why?” You feel stuck again, just how you felt last night when he was staring you down at the bar. You attempt to nervously mutter out a response, which instead leaves your mouth gaping open. He closes in on your space, you can feel his body heat radiating off of him. He glances down at your curved lips, light pink and glistening, then back into your doe eyes. “Please, sweetheart, it drives me crazy when you look at me like that,” he uses the nickname again, making your mind spin and your knees a bit weak. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

His eyes drop to your lips again as you stand there, stupefied. His eyes drift downwards to your lips and you almost feel like crumbling under the sudden pressure. He closes in again, sneaking his hands around your waist to pull you in closer. You’re both suspended in silence for a beat, and you think your heart would stop until he continues. “I don’t mean to make things weird, but maybe I like the way you fluster when I look at you.  I’ve been alive for a long, long time, and you’re the first person I’ve met that’s made me feel this way.”

Before you were aware of his movements, he closed the distance. Your eyes flutter shut as you take in the softness of Bucky’s lips, moving slowly and calculating over your own. His grip tightens on your waist, and you feel how the tips of his fingers press into your skin, making your mind go white. You press your body closer to him, breathing heavily as you press your lips against his. He pulls away when he feels your knees buckle gently, chuckling. “Careful, doll. I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.” You shake your head in an effort to come to and give him a response. “N-no, It’s fine, you didn’t make me feel uncomfortable.” 

“Good,” he replies, voice darkening. He laughs again, causing you to giggle with him and lean in again.

“You do have a staring problem, though,” Sam chides through the speaker of Red Wing. Thecombat drone floats into your line of sight, hovering menacingly over Bucky’s shoulder. You jump back away from Bucky as if you were burned, feeling embarrassed. Bucky sighs exasperatedly, leaning against the treadmill and shaking his head. “By the way, thanks for finally taking our advice! I have all of that on camera, you know that, right?”

Bucky rolls his eyes with a huff. “Get out of my face, Sam, or I’ll break it.”

[mimikyusrealform]

globalization

Spencer Reid x Reader. Word Count: 3703. Summary: Three times you leave Spencer speechless, and one time he leaves you speechless. Notes and Warnings: Set during S1 at the beginning, and then at S2. Mention of Somebody's Watching and North Mammon. There's a misogynistic comment, but it's quickly dealt with.

1.

The rivalry started innocuous enough. Three months after Dr. Spencer Reid joined the BAU, you were recruited as well. Fresh out of the academy and without a prebuilt rapport with the rest of the team, you felt out of place. They listened to your suggestions, but after a week and a half, it was like they were still teaching you the ropes, coddling you. Hotch didn’t even let you go out in the field. This piling dissatisfaction reached its culmination without warning.

“C’mon now,” Morgan said one day. You didn’t even remember what led to the following statement, but you remembered the phrase that started the domino effect. “Robberies have been declining since last year.”

“The robbery rate declined last year,” you corrected him as you skimmed through your oddly small workload for the day. They weren’t working on any cases. “It’s been declining since 1986, but it’s possible that the rate will increase this year in comparison to last year’s, which was at an all-time low, at 137.”

“136.7,” Dr. Reid corrected you from his own desk. He had already finished half of his work. “That is given a population of 293,656,842.” He looked at you and Morgan. “Did you know that the U.S Census Bureau estimates the population as of July 1 for each year? Except when it's a decennial census count, like 2000.”

It took Dr. Reid a whole minute to notice your glare. What a genius. He looked as if he was panicking a bit, and his gaze drifted between you and Morgan. He seemed to be begging with his eyes for Morgan to, somehow, reveal to him the secrets of the universe and what he should do to stop your glaring. But Morgan was not a pious entity, and he turned around, suddenly blind. It took Dr. Reid another minute to figure out why you were killing him in your head.

“I—I mean, you round up from 5, so 137 is accurate,” he rectified, staring back at you, like you were the abyss and he, the hero who needed to face it.

You stayed silent for a while. And then, you said, “That's dumb. The rate was 136.7. Sigh. I thought you were a genius, Dr. Reid, how could you even suggest that the rate was 137? Maybe you should check if you need to reinstall the eidetic memory package.”

Morgan made a sound that was between a dog barking out a laugh and a dog choking on its bone. But it was Dr. Reid's perplexed expression what you burned in your memory.

It wasn't your fault, really, that your antagonistic nature decided to pursue a war with the resident genius of the team. If you were to bluff in case of being questioned why you were so adamant in aggravating Dr. Spencer Reid in any way you could, you would say, “complacency is the enemy of natural selection and I'm truly benevolent—so I'm making the Doctor a favor by keeping him on his toes.” The truth was, Dr. Spencer Reid's geeky enthusiasm and nerdy rambles had charmed you. While you weren't on the same level as him when it came to intelligence—your latest IQ test had put you around 137, and that was knowing the common patterns the test tended to use—you had a knack for deconstructing things. When you were 8, you couldn't finish a Rubik cube for the life of you, but when you broke it down to its simpler parts, you found a way to solve it after learning how the core mechanism worked.

Antagonizing was how you dealt with your crushes. All the crushes you ever had, you actively treated them as if they were your mortal enemies. In a sense, they were. Understandably, none of them ever liked you, and you couldn't blame them. But, for some reason, the idea of Dr. Spencer Reid not returning your affections was—troubling, to say the least. And that only made you pricklier.

2.

Lila Archer was not an enemy but a victim with very poor timing. You draped a towel around her febrile shoulders, and patted her back in an ode to comfort. Then, you went out of the house to deal with your real foe. Dr. Spencer Reid was still trying to dry himself with a pathetically small cloth. In another occasion, it would have made you laugh. But you were, at loss of a better word, jealous. How shameful was that? You hadn’t been jealous since Nathaniel Sterling, your crush in tenth grade, started dating Rose Harding, the cloistered girl who ruined your straight-A-record in Math because you were paired with her during one assignment.

You had the bad habit of swallowing the acid that dripped from your own soul and regurgitating it when you were alone. For now, you compartmentalized. Weirdly enough, you found yourself feeling tired, instead of murderous. You understood, then, how having a crush on someone didn’t compare to being in love.

A crush was a candle in the wind; being in love was a fire in a forest.

The color of the night sky, that reflected on the blue water, covered the world of depth and beyond all bounds. Even the air was blue; it bit your skin. Or maybe it was your own feelings that prickled down your spine. If porcupines did mate for life, they would be the most tender lovers in the world, you thought. The prickliest beings loved carefully and purposefully.

Only after Elle left his side, did you approach. Though the look she gave you was too perceptive for your liking. “I didn’t know kissing with the girl you’re supposed to be protecting from her stalker was part of the protocol. Please, forward me the exact article that describes the effectiveness of French kisses as a method of protection against erotomaniacs.”

He tried to ignore your wording, but his ears were red, and so were his cheeks, despite the fact the air had cooled the water clinging to his clothes. “I, uh, I fell in,” was all he could muster given the fact you had a gun, a motive and a cold heart.

“I see,” you nodded. “That’s what tends to happen when you pool your women.”

“I don’t pool my women! I-I don’t even—I don’t even have women.”

“Relax, Doctor, you won’t drown. If you know how to two-stroke, two-timing should come naturally to you.”

Dr. Reid made a pitiful sound when he realized there was no winning against you.

“She kissed me first,” he said.

“Maybe you deserved it.”

“Don’t make it sound like a punishment.”

“I’m not.” You were sincere.

3.

You were pretty good at remaining unmovable, and you were proud of that. But—this guy. This guy.

“All I did was show them who they really are,” he was saying with that stupid self-satisfied smile. “What they were truly capable of. People pretending to be decent. When it came down to it, they… They reacted just the way I knew they would.”

“Is that so,” you couldn’t help but interrupt his little monologue. Gideon looked at you from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t try to stop you. “Congratulations. Be proud of discovering the sky is blue for the rest of your life, I commiserate you; it must have been so hard for you. Do you really think you’re a mastermind for this?” His smile slowly disappeared, replaced by a glare directed towards you. “If you starve a dog, are you a genius for knowing the dog will end up becoming aggressive? But then, that’s a Nobel-worthy dissertation for someone so simpleminded like you.”

He started to say something, voice shaking from barely contained rage, but you were already leaving the basement. He yelled after you. You couldn’t hear him over the buzzing in your ears.

In the plane, you were shutting down the world around you by pretending to read a Russian Copy of The Brothers Karamazov. You didn’t speak Russian. That was—until Reid sat in front of you. He didn’t speak for a moment, just observed you. You flipped five pages before he finally said,

“Are you okay?”

“What an unpleasant question,” you replied. He kept looking at you, which annoyed you because it made your stomach twist. “I suppose. That guy got on my nerves.”

“I thought you didn’t have nerves,” he said. “I mean… you always act as if you’re untouched by the world.”

“I try my utmost not to be perceived. The world is a scary place, after all.”

“It is scary,” he agreed. “But, scary—how? How does someone like you find the world to be scary?”

You put your book down on your lap. “Full of people.” You twirled a strand of hair around your index finger. “And what I hate most are the people who lie to themselves. That guy—lied to himself that he was right. He decided to believe other people were his enemies instead of realizing… realizing he was his own worst enemy.”

It wasn’t without tact—though it startled you all the same—when he said, “Sounds a bit like you.”

“Oh, right.” You supposed it was a fair assessment; you never gave him any indication that you actually didn’t see him as enemy. You acted like you did, after all. Maybe he really believed you hated him. So, “I don’t hate you. If I was smart, I would go as far as to say that I like you.”

You watched him freeze for a split of a second before his face turned red, like a M-class star. It gave you terrible ideas and horrible impulses. You couldn’t help but reach for his glasses, and—gently push them up the bridge of his nose. Your index finger brushed against his skin. His face went a class up in the Morgan-Keenan classification.

“But you are smart,” he managed to choke out. “Very smart.”

“What are you implying?”

He couldn’t answer, and you returned to your book, a bit disappointed, maybe. You had thought he was ready to give in. You still couldn’t read a single word. Reid must have noticed because he ended up prying the book from your hands, and began reading out loud, just for you, just for your enjoyment. It was enough.

+1.

“Kid,” Morgan called as he slid in the seat next to him. “Seriously, when are you gonna ask her out? Save the rest of us from her pining.”

Spencer frowned. “Ask who out?”

He was only half listening, but when Morgan said your name, he spluttered. “What?!” He lowered his tone after that voice break. “Morgan, are you crazy? She hates my guts.”

Morgan looked incredibly amused. “No, she doesn't. She's just pulling your hair. And, if she actually hated you, well, I don't think I need to remind you what happened to Officer Harrison. I really wish I had been there to see it.”

Spencer almost smiled at the memory. A few months back, a case had brought them to Texas when the local police discovered two independent pairs of hands scattered across their state line. The second in command, Officer Harrison, had been a flagrant misogynistic and a stereotypical macho-man.

“But what does cutting the hands-off mean?” Officer Harrison had asked.

JJ, you and him were the only ones from the team still in the bullpen.

Hotch did trust you with fieldwork, but he found that you and Spencer were an especially good match, so he mostly paired the two of you together. You bounced off each other’s ideas with an uncanny synergy.

Before he could ramble off, you beat him to it, “The ancient Greek sometimes mutilated the body of their victim. There's a theory that says that the mutilation of the body corresponded to the mutilation of the soul, so that the shade, without limbs, couldn't enact vengeance over the killer. Maybe the Unsub’s superstitious and believes that by cutting off their hands he’s saving himself from their ghosts.”

Officer Harrison had looked at you, before dragging his gaze up and down your body. He had mainly interacted with Morgan and Hotch, sometimes himself; and almost none with you, JJ and Emily. Then, he whistled sarcastically. “That's very impressive, darlin'. I didn't take you for the smart type. No offense, but you don't look like it.”

Rage was born in the pit of the stomach, Spencer found out that day. It rendered him immobile for a moment, and before he could tell the officer off, you beat him to it, again. Intelligence wasn’t quantifiable, he knew this. But you always managed to prove it to him. Some tests might say he was several points smarter than you, but you were two steps ahead of him, every single time.

From the corner of his eye, he could see JJ’s appalled expression. He wondered how his own face looked.

“Oh,” you had said. “Looks can be deceiving. It's alright. No offense taken. I myself was deceived by your looks—I thought you were a conventionally ugly man, maybe even a rare ugliness, but you're actually a piece of shit in human form. Tell me, did the doctor perform a colonoscopy on your mother to find out if she was pregnant, as opposed to an ultrasound?”

JJ's lips were pulled inwards in a tight, flat grimace, as if she was trying and failing to stifle her laughter, and Spencer found himself playing side-eye ping-pong between you and Officer Harrison.

“Why, you bit—” Officer Harrison stammered, face growing a tint of red and fists comically clenched.

“Jonathan,” Sheriff Mendoza had interjected then, sternly. “Why don't you take a walk? Go on, get some air.”

Officer Harrison looked as if he was going to self-combust from how ruddy his face was and how sweat accrued on his temple. His shoulders were trembling when he attempted to storm out. He seemed ready to shoulder-check you, but you put a hand on his chest and held him in place.

“Officer Harrison. Harrison. Jonathan? Johnny? Johnny, by all means, please underestimate me again,” you told him lowly. “It'll make the look on your face when I ruin your life funnier.”

With that, you finally let him go, and he bulldozed his way out of the bullpen. You could practically hear his teeth grinding.

“... I'm sorry for him,” Sheriff Mendoza had offered awkwardly, a deep sigh pulled out of his chest.

You had shrugged. “Natural selection will do its work.”

Spencer thought you had never looked lovelier than in that moment.

He shook his head to clear the memory away. “Maybe she doesn't hate my guts,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I'm still his least favorite person here.”

“Wow,” Morgan said exaggeratedly. “For a genius, you can be stupid sometimes. She clearly likes you, man. Look, tell you what, the next time she picks up a fight with you, tell her this: ‘you are hot when you're talking about statistics’.” He was laughing by the end of it while Spencer choked with his own saliva. “She'll love it, I promise.”

“How can you be so sure?” he replied. “She's so emotionally repressed and so unapologetically herself, I don't think anything I do will ever get a real reaction out of her.”

“Trust me on this one, kid,” was all Morgan said with a pat to his back.

Spencer spent the rest of the day thinking about his words. When he first met you, you had offered him a handshake like most other people. He rambled his well-practiced explanation, “A study shows that the number of organisms, both pathogenic and non-pathogenic, that are passed during handshakes is staggering. Kissing is actually more sanitary than handshakes.” But instead of looking at him like he was a weirdo, you had stared at him, unshakeable, and replied,

“I can say ‘a study shows that shooting yourself in the head is an efficient way to de-stress’, but if I don't say what study it is, then does the study really exist?”

That was the first time his heart lurched in your presence. When he spoke again, his voice was a bit breathless, “Uh, it's a study published in The Public Health Journal, by H. W. Hill and Helen M. Matthews. Volume 17, number 7, July, 1927, I-I mean, 1926. It's titled Transfer of Infection by Handshakes. Pages 347 to 352. I-I can get you a copy of it.”

You blinked at him, but he didn't feel as if you thought he was a freak. He felt like you were amazed by him. It brought his heart to his throat.

“Is that so,” you had said. “Then, I expect it to be delivered at my doorstep at 5 o'clock sharp, tomorrow. Military time.”

He had been stunned into silence for a few seconds. “That's... unreasonable. I don't even know where you live.”

You said, “It's quite standard.”

“Then you have unreasonable standards.”

“I've been told.”

Spencer had thought you and him would become something like best friends. For the first week and a half, you had been quite friendly with him, and often listened to his rambles. But then, then he had made the terrible mistake of correcting an innocuous error you made regarding a statistic, and the look you had shot at him could have curled water. From that point on, you seemed to have made it your life mission to fight him at any chance.

And yet—he never got the feeling you did it out of malice. He thought you did hate him on some level, but when you argued against his points during a case, there was a glint in your eye. Like you were still amazed by him. Sometimes, you even finished his rambles when he couldn't land them. Sometimes, you were the only one who listened to him when he sidetracked. To him, you defined the wonder of globalization. When you were there, it was like talking to the stars, and having the stars answering him back in perplexing, secret ways. He kind of figured this out when you smiled at his existentialist joke. You told him it wasn't funny, but your eyes were bright.

Maybe trying Morgan's advice wouldn't go so bad.

If only you weren’t so prickly. And clever and quick, he added in his head, just in case you were hearing his thoughts. He wouldn’t put it past your abilities. For three weeks, Spencer hadn’t managed yet to seize a situation in which Morgan’s advice worked at his favor. It wasn’t until the team, you and him included, obviously, went out for drinks that he finally got his chance.

“You aren’t drinking?” he asked you. You were cradling a Virgin Margarita in your hands, and for a moment he wished your fingers were curled around his own instead of the glass.

“No,” you said. “You’re clearly the best in the profiling game. Take pride on this display of your observational skills for the rest of your life.”

He sighed. You were impossible. Still, he couldn’t keep the fondness out of his voice when he said, “You don’t have to be so defensive with me.”

“You’re right,” you nodded, and he arched an eyebrow. “I have to be especially defensive with you.”

“That’s not… that’s not what I meant,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Why do you have to, uh, be ‘especially’ defensive with me?”

You didn’t answer him. But he knew you couldn’t go without having the last word, so he patiently waited for you to gather a satisfactorily poignant response. In the meantime, he took the time to examine your face; there was a quality to it he would never find a perfect word to describe it. Maybe it was your supraorbital ridge, or your posterior zygomatic arch, or even the vertical length of your forehead. He just knew you were lovely. He had never been comfortable with not knowing something, but with you, he didn’t need to know. He would rather discover you, if you would let him. If you were full of secrets, he would work them out; if he only found hatred for him, he would press his mouth to it and relish in it.

“Because you have a BA in Psychology,” you ended up saying, stoic as ever, “and I’m a soft girl with mental health issues.”

He laughed. It took him a lot of time to figure out that—the more matter-of-factly you said something, the less serious you were. Your lips quirked up in a little smile, and you sipped your drink. The rest of the team—besides Hotch—hadn’t yet realized your tell-tale sign.

The words escaped him before he could think them over, “You’re cute when you pretend to be emotionless.”

Your facial expression didn’t change, and that was alright, because when you turned your head to the side—he could clearly see the faint blush on your cheekbones. “Fool.”

Ah, he realized. I won. You were at a loss of words. Because of him.

“You know, the word ‘fool’ comes from Old French fol, which means ‘madman, insane person’ and ‘idiot, jester’, and fol is from Medieval Latin follus, adjective for ‘foolish’. The evolution of its meaning can probably be attributed to the use of follis in a sense of ‘empty-headed person’. The word was also used in Middle English for ‘sinner, rascal, impious person’. It actually must have been passed to the English language via its borrowing in the Scandinavian language of the Vikings. And did you know that the association between April 1 and foolishness in Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales could have been a copying error and...”

You didn’t look at him as he continued going on his tangent, but he knew that you were listening intently. Because your body was angled towards him, even if you kept your face away from his gaze, and when he took a pause to breathe, you hummed in acknowledgment only for his ears.

Globalization was saying hello and someone answering hola from miles away.

But you didn’t need to answer him for Spencer to understand you were in love with him and he was in love with you.

[halcyon-writings]

nav.

— In which Mydei for once approves of the old Castrum Kremnos tradition of gifting a weapon to the one you were courting.

Before you can say anything to him, Krateros gasps when he sees you. Your reaction is immediate, practically jumping in alarm, because a man like Krateros was never this frazzled, much less shown as much anyway.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” You ask, thinking that you must have something on your clothes, already patting at yourself with a confused concern.

Immediately the Kremnoan warrior begins to cough. Now it’s your turn to be worried. You could’ve sworn that the older man was turning an alarming shade of red. "Please, forgive my outburst," He says, voice slightly hoarse from his abrupt coughing fit.

Then he clears his throat again, eyes moving to your side once more. This time you turn your head as you follow his line of sight. For a moment you don't quite see what he's talking about, in fact. you're still as confused as ever. Then his gaze becomes a bit more pointed as he continues to stare. Slowly, it dawns upon you.

"Where did you acquire such a style of weapon?" Krateros asks.

You remove the bladed weapon from its sheath, admiring the work in the steel. After all, it was rare for any weapons to be forged in the style of Castrum Kremnos, aside from something speciality made, but those sort of weapons cost an arm and a leg since they needed to truly last with as many of the battles that would be witnessed..

"Ah, Mydeimos gave it to me," You say, a small smile on your face, "I was surprised to see him with a weapon when we were sent out to clear some of the black tide, but then my own weapon was unfortunately broken, luckily he offered me his."

If Krateros' jaw dropped any further, it would have already been on the floor by now.

You pause, noting his silence, "Is... is something the matter?"

He is quick to shake his head, "Not at all."

(Perhaps the first sign was the fact that you were one of the few who were allowed to refer to Mydei as Mydeimos at all, aside from someone such as Lady Aglaea or Lady Tribbie.)

You watch his retreating form, still a bit perplexed. But your eyes return to the blade in your hands. You hum as you give it a few light swings, noting the weight being nearly perfect, just requiring a bit of training to properly handle it. Hm, you truly were lucky that Mydei had a similar weapon you could use.

-

Mydei had been (dragged) asked to accompany Tribbie into the market as the older of the two had moved in a flutter of wings from stall to stall. Even if it was the same wares each day, the small demigod always had the time to admire each and every work of craftsmanship.

Tribbie had said nothing with how easily he agreed, in her words, "De seems really happy today."

He was, ecstatic even. As they passed Chartonus' forge, which he thanked the other for his work on such short notice. He pretends not to see Tribbie's knowing smile either. Simply, looking the other way, which also meant, he saw the approaching Krateros.

Trinnon and Trianne had flown off with a giggling Tribbie as Krateros approached, Mydei uncrossed his arms, tilting his head in a silent question.

"You saw," Mydei spoke, his tone even.

Krateros nods, and despite the more frantic aspect of his appearance, there was a... lightness to the old fighter. One that made the crease of the man's brow go away for just a moment.

"Do they even know the significance of recieving such a gift?" Krateros asked softly.

At this, the Prince shook his head, warmth blossoming in his chest and heat rising up his neck. "In the heat of the moment, maybe not yet. But I know they will understand."

The softening of the Prince's eyes made Krateros pause, before he too couldn't help but shake his head with a small chuckle; his own reservations forgotten. The youth these days, he thought.

It wasn't like Mydei was going to outright tell you that the weapon you currently wielded was all but a proposal gift. It was a longstanding tradition that for once, Mydei didn't scoff at. If he couldn't be at your side every battle, then the weapon you wielded would protect you in his stead.

(That and perhaps he wouldn't admit that he quite liked the sight of you wielding a weapon in the style of Castrum Kremnos. Perhaps he'd see if he could find armor that suited your style and that of Kremnos as well...)

When he sees you later, the knowing look in your eyes makes his heart skip a beat. There was no need to worry, after all.

[2b4st4r]

Could I request one piece villains (bartolomeo and Kidd included) with a soft kind reader? Like he's a monster and the reader is a literary a flower (gn reader pls) hope it's not much!

SOFT HEARTED

GN!Reader x One Piece villains (+ Kid and Bartolomeo)

(I hope I included everyone you would want)

Warnings: toxic/abusive relationships, violence/cruelty, manipulation, power imbalance, dark themes, cruelty, self-sacrifice, arranged marriage, possible sensitive family dynamics

──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !!

DOFLOMINGOᯓ★

A Kindred Spirit in a Cruel World (3,176 words)

The salt-laced wind whipped strands of hair across your face as you gazed out at the endless expanse of the Grand Line. A gentle smile touched your lips, a familiar expression that rarely left your features. You were a soul of unwavering kindness, a beacon of warmth in a world often cloaked in shadows. For you, true joy came from the simple act of giving – a piece of candied fruit to a child with wide, hopeful eyes, a comforting word to a stranger in distress, or even, if the need arose, a selfless offering of yourself, an organ donated without a second thought to save a life. Your compassion was boundless, your empathy a deep well from which you drew strength and offered solace.

People often wondered how someone like you, so inherently good and giving, found yourself entangled with a man like Donquixote Doflamingo. He was everything you weren't – a force of nature driven by a chilling cruelty, a man who reveled in the suffering of others, who twisted lives for his own amusement. His laughter, a harsh, cackling sound, often sent shivers down the spines of even the bravest pirates, yet to you, it was merely the echo of a different kind of storm. You saw the broken boy beneath the flamboyant exterior, the scarred past that molded him into the monster he had become. And despite the vast chasm between your natures, a strange, undeniable bond had formed, pulling you deeper into his dangerous, unpredictable world. You were the sun to his moon, the calm to his chaos, a tender hand reaching out to touch the untouchable. But how long could such a fragile connection endure in the tumultuous currents of the New World, especially when one heart beat with boundless love and the other pulsed with unyielding darkness?

You were excellent at seeing. Not just with your eyes, but with your entire being. You saw the flicker of doubt behind a braggart's grin, the tremor in a bully's hand, the silent plea in a hardened criminal's eyes. This wasn't a skill you honed; it was an inherent part of you, a profound capacity for empathy that allowed you to connect with the raw, often hidden, core of another being. And it was this very quality, your boundless compassion, that had first snagged Doflamingo's attention, drawing him in like a moth to a dangerously bright flame.

He remembered the first time he truly saw it, or rather, felt it. It was on some forgotten island, a backwater where his crew had just finished asserting their dominance. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and fear, the usual aftermath of their arrival. Doflamingo was striding through the chaos, a predatory smirk plastered on his face, when he stopped. Not because he wanted to, but because you had. You were kneeling by a collapsed stall, not tending to a fallen comrade or assessing damage, but gently stroking the ruffled feathers of a terrified pigeon, murmuring soft, comforting words. A silly, insignificant bird, in the grand scheme of his brutal world, yet you treated it with a tenderness that defied the very atmosphere he cultivated. He watched, utterly perplexed, as you then offered a small, broken piece of bread to the creature, your eyes shining with a pure, unadulterated kindness that seemed to pierce through his carefully constructed armor of indifference.

It was infuriating. It was fascinating. It was, he grudgingly admitted to himself, captivating. Your inherent goodness was a stark contrast to the ugliness he embodied, and for a time, that contrast intrigued him. He found himself drawn to it, to the way your empathy softened the sharp edges of his world, to the bizarre comfort of your compassion, even when he pretended to scorn it. He’d test it, push against it, only to find it unyielding, unwavering. And a strange, possessive feeling began to fester within him – a desire to keep that purity close, to have it reflect back at him, a twisted mirror to his own depravity.

But now, that same boundless empathy, that unending compassion, was a festering wound, a constant, irritating reminder of everything he wasn’t and everything he refused to be. Your ability to see past the facade, to offer understanding where he craved fear, to forgive where he delighted in vengeance, had curdled into a bitter resentment. It was a weakness he couldn't tolerate, a light that burned too brightly in his shadowed existence, threatening to expose the very depths of his cruelty. It was what he loved and loathed, the very essence of you that both bound him and drove him to the brink of fury.

He remembered it like it was yesterday, the memory vivid and biting. It was Baby 5. She’d been careless, as usual, taking a hit during a skirmish that was meant for someone else, her body crumpling in a most un-Doflamingo-like display of vulnerability. The sight of her, pale and bleeding on the grimy deck of their ship, usually elicited nothing more than a disgusted sneer from him. A weakness. A liability.

But then you were there.

You moved with a quiet urgency he found both perplexing and infuriating. Your hands, usually so gentle, were surprisingly steady as you knelt beside Baby 5, ignoring the blood that stained your clothes. Your touch wasn't clinical or detached; it was infused with that damned, unwavering compassion that burned him. You didn't just tend to the wound; you murmured soft reassurances, your voice a soothing balm against the harsh reality of their world. He watched, transfixed, as you pushed strands of hair from Baby 5's tear-streaked face, your eyes filled with an unbearable, soft sorrow for her pain.

He saw the way Baby 5, usually so desperate for validation, melted into your touch, her rigid posture softening, her sobs subsiding into quiet whimpers. You treated her not as a tool, or a subordinate, or a nuisance, but as a person, a fragile being in need of comfort. It was a scene that twisted something cold and hard in his gut. A part of him, the part he brutally suppressed, wanted to reach out, to understand that profound connection you effortlessly forged. But another, larger part, the one that governed his entire existence, raged.

Weakness. That’s all he saw. Your empathy was a gaping hole, a vulnerability he couldn't comprehend, let alone tolerate. It was a stark reminder of the sentimentality he'd long ago excised from his own being, a betrayal of everything he stood for. And in that moment, watching you pour your boundless kindness into someone he considered expendable, the first tendrils of that bitter, simmering hatred began to wrap around his twisted heart. It was a contradiction, a paradox he couldn't reconcile: the very thing that drew him to you, the very thing he secretly craved, was also the most potent source of his disdain.

God, you were the source of his anger, the very wellspring from which his fury flowed. Your existence was a constant, irritating contradiction to his own. It wasn't just your kindness in general, but your courage to openly display empathy and compassion right there, in front of him, that truly set his teeth on edge. It was a defiance, a silent rebellion against the cruel world he'd so painstakingly built around himself. He’d watch you, offering a gentle hand to a whimpering child, speaking softly to a terrified subordinate, or even, once, just gazing with a profound, aching sorrow at the destruction he’d wrought, and a cold, sharp rage would coil in his gut.

He hated you for it. Hated the way your inherent goodness shone, unbidden and untamed, like a defiant sunbeam piercing through his carefully constructed darkness. He hated that you saw beyond the monster, that you refused to cower, that your compassion was so absolute it made his own barren existence feel even colder. It was a mirror reflecting his own twisted soul, showing him everything he'd lost, everything he'd sacrificed, everything he’d brutally suppressed to become the man he was.

Yet, it was the same damned thing that had drawn him to you in the first place. Like a moth to a flame, he'd been inexplicably pulled into your orbit. Your unwavering kindness, your fearless empathy – it was an anomaly he couldn't comprehend, a challenge he couldn't resist. He’d wanted to possess it, perhaps even to corrupt it, to see if he could break that unbreakable spirit. He’d wanted to understand it, to tear apart the enigma of your compassion, to find its weakness, its breaking point. But you never broke. You simply continued to be you, radiating that infuriating, mesmerizing warmth, a constant thorn in his side and a strange, undeniable anchor in his chaotic world. It was a maddening paradox: the thing he despised most about you was also the very thing that had, against all reason, brought him to his knees.

The air in the opulent, yet often chilling, halls of Doflamingo's palace crackled with an unspoken tension. You had been tending to one of his crew, a low-ranking grunt who'd caught a nasty fever, and your quiet ministrations had, as always, drawn Doflamingo's gaze. He watched from the shadows, a familiar knot of conflicting emotions tightening in his chest. Your effortless kindness, your pure, unadulterated compassion – it was a constant affront to his very being, a soft hand gently pressing against the jagged edges of his soul.

When you finally straightened up, he was there, blocking your path. His usual predatory smirk was replaced by something colder, more volatile. "Fufufu... still playing the innocent healer, are we?" His voice was a low growl, laced with a familiar mockery.

You met his gaze, your own eyes unwavering. "Someone needed help, Doffy."

"Help?" he scoffed, taking a step closer, his tall frame looming over yours. "Such a pathetic sentiment. Don't you see, little dove? This world doesn't reward kindness. It devours it. And you... you practically bleed it." His hand, usually so quick to unleash devastating strings, reached out, not to strike, but to brush a lock of hair from your face. The touch was feather-light, yet it felt charged with an unbearable weight. "It infuriates me."

A beat of silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken truths. You knew what he meant. You always did. Your empathy, the very core of your being, was a constant challenge to his cruel philosophy.

"It infuriates me," he repeated, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "how you can look at the ugliness of this world, at me, and still find... something. How you can offer that soft hand, that gentle gaze, when all I've ever known is taking and destroying." His eyes, usually hidden behind his sunglasses, were now piercing, raw, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something akin to vulnerability, a deep-seated confusion that warred with his inherent cruelty. "I hate it."

The words were harsh, blunt, an honest confession of his bitter resentment. And yet, in that moment, the raw honesty of it was almost disarming. You didn't flinch. You didn't argue. You simply stood there, your compassion a silent, unyielding force against his venom.

Then, just as the anger seemed to reach its peak, a different kind of storm brewed in his eyes. His gaze dropped from yours to your lips, a sudden, almost desperate hunger replacing the fury. He leaned in, slowly, deliberately, his breath ghosting across your face.

"I hate you for it," he rasped, his voice rough with an emotion you couldn't quite name, "but I can't... I can't stay away."

And then, before you could even process the words, his lips were on yours. It wasn't gentle. It was possessive, almost violent in its intensity, a desperate claim. It was the kiss of a man consumed by a maddening contradiction, a torrent of anger and a desperate, undeniable yearning, all tangled up in the paradox of his twisted heart and your unwavering, infuriating kindness. In that kiss, the love and the hatred, the fascination and the revulsion, all collided, binding you to him in a dangerous, undeniable embrace.

The kiss had been a jarring shift, a violent tenderness that left you both reeling. Afterwards, Doflamingo had pulled away, his face a mask of conflict, and stalked off without another word, leaving you alone in the silent, echoing hall. This was the pattern of your relationship with him – intense bursts of raw emotion, followed by a tense, often suffocating silence.

You were his, in his own twisted sense of the word. He introduced you as such, a subtle possessiveness in his tone that brooked no argument. You were a permanent fixture in his life, a strange, soft anomaly in the Donquixote Family’s brutal hierarchy. The crew, hardened by years of Doflamingo's rule, regarded you with a mixture of confusion and cautious respect. They’d witnessed his volatile rages, his chilling indifference, yet you were the one person who could, at times, evoke something else from him – a flicker of something akin to worry, a strange, almost gentle touch, or even a fleeting, unguarded expression that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

For your part, you navigated his volatile nature with a blend of unwavering patience and quiet defiance. You wouldn't change who you were for him, and he, in turn, seemed to begrudgingly accept that. He’d yell, he’d rage, he’d mock your bleeding-heart tendencies, but you would simply meet his tirades with a calm gaze, a soft rebuttal, or even, occasionally, a pointed silence that infuriated him more than any argument. He’d test your compassion, presenting you with situations designed to break your spirit, to force you to acknowledge the "reality" of his world. He’d make you witness acts of cruelty, hoping to see the idealism shatter in your eyes. But it never did. Instead, you'd find small, subversive ways to mitigate the damage, a whispered word of comfort, a hidden act of kindness, an almost imperceptible gesture of solace.

This constant push and pull was the core of your existence together. He thrived on power, on control, on instilling fear. You, on the other hand, sought to soothe, to understand, to alleviate suffering. It was a clash of fundamental forces, a storm and a calm, perpetually locked in a dangerous dance.

There were moments, rare and fleeting, when the "love" part of their relationship, however twisted, would surface. He would watch you as you slept, a strange, almost tender expression softening his usually sharp features. He'd pull you closer during a storm, the rough expanse of his arm a surprising comfort. He'd bring you rare trinkets, not as gifts of affection, but as tokens of possession, yet the act itself held a bizarre, almost endearing sincerity. And you, in turn, found yourself drawn to the wounded boy beneath the tyrannical facade, to the flicker of humanity he so desperately tried to extinguish. You loved him, not for what he was, but for what you believed he could be, for the glimpse of a tortured soul you occasionally saw in his eyes.

But then, just as quickly, the mask would snap back into place. The cruelty would resurface, the mocking laughter would echo, and the cold, hard reality of who Doflamingo truly was would assert itself. And in those moments, the hatred he held for your inherent goodness would flare anew, a constant reminder of the chasm between you. You were his greatest weakness and his most coveted possession, a constant source of both agonizing frustration and undeniable fascination. It was a love built on paradox, sustained by conflict, and perpetually teetering on the brink of beautiful destruction.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of violent orange and bruised purple, a fitting backdrop for the paradoxical life you shared with Doflamingo. Years had passed, marked by countless clashes of will, by his bouts of cruel amusement and your unwavering, stubborn kindness. Their relationship wasn't a fairytale, nor was it a conventional romance. It was a testament to the fact that sometimes, in the most unlikely of pairings, two vastly different individuals could, against all odds, find a way to make things work.

It wasn't that the toxicity vanished; it simply became a part of the air you breathed, a constant, low hum beneath the surface of your shared existence. Doflamingo still reveled in chaos, still inflicted pain, and still, at times, openly disdained your empathy. You, in turn, never stopped offering comfort, never stopped seeing the lost boy beneath the Celestial Dragon's veneer. But something had shifted, solidified into a bizarre, unspoken agreement.

He had learned, in his own twisted way, to tolerate your goodness. More than that, he had come to rely on it, though he would sooner tear out his own throat than admit it. Your presence was a grounding force, a silent barometer that measured his own volatile temper. When his fury threatened to consume everything, your calm presence, your steady gaze, was often the only thing that could anchor him, if only for a fleeting moment. He might scoff at your compassion, but he knew, deep down, that you were the only one who could truly see him, the only one who didn't fear him unconditionally, and perhaps, the only one who didn't want anything from him other than his flawed self.

And you? You had come to understand that Doflamingo's love was not a soft, gentle thing, but a fierce, possessive grip. It was in the way his hand would linger on your arm for a fraction too long, in the way he'd dismiss a threat against you with a chilling finality, or the almost imperceptible softening of his voice when you were truly distressed. You accepted that his world was one of shadows and blood, and you chose to illuminate your own small corner of it, a quiet defiance that he, surprisingly, came to respect. You weren't changing him, not fundamentally, but you were undeniably influencing him, softening the edges of his brutal regime in ways no one else ever could.

Their life together was a constant tightrope walk, a delicate balance between destruction and a strange, profound connection. There were no grand declarations of love, no idyllic moments under starry skies. Instead, it was in the shared silences, in the way he'd instinctively reach for your hand during a tense standoff, in the fierce protectiveness he unconsciously displayed. You were the quiet anchor to his storm, the gentle touch to his hardened cruelty, and in that complex interplay, you found your own unconventional version of forever.

The world might call your relationship toxic, and perhaps it was. But in the volatile, unforgiving expanse of the Grand Line, you and Doflamingo had forged a bond that, against all logic, endured. It was a love born of contradiction, sustained by unwavering acceptance, and ultimately, a testament to the fact that even the most disparate souls could find a way to fit, imperfectly but inextricably, together.

CROCODILE ❀.ೃ࿔*

Where kindness meet cruelty (2,431)

You always saw the good in people, even when no one else did. Your heart was an open book, filled with empathy and a boundless capacity for kindness. You were the one who'd offer a comforting embrace to a weeping stranger, whispering words of encouragement until their tears subsided. Sacrificing your own well-being for another's happiness was simply second nature to you, a quiet act of devotion that defined who you were. In a world often steeped in cynicism, you were a beacon of unwavering compassion, a gentle soul whose presence brought warmth to even the coldest corners.

And then there was Crocodile. Your lover, and the jarring counterpoint to your own gentle nature. Where you offered solace, he dispensed harsh truths. Where you sought understanding, he wielded anger like a weapon. He was the shifting sands of a desert storm, unpredictable and unforgiving, a stark contrast to your own steady, calming presence. You, the compassionate secretary of the Cross Guild, found yourself drawn to the very man who embodied everything you weren't. It was a paradox, a love story etched in opposing shades, and yet, it was undeniably yours.

The docks of Nanohana were a chaotic symphony of shouts, creaking wood, and the salty tang of the sea. A young street urchin, no older than ten, stumbled, sending a cascade of oranges tumbling from their overloaded basket. The fruit rolled across the cobblestones, some squashed underfoot by hurried passersby. The child's lip trembled, tears welling in their eyes, a whimper escaping their throat.

You, ever the first to react, were already moving. Your steps were swift and light as you knelt beside the distraught child. "Oh, you poor thing," you murmured, your voice a soothing balm amidst the din. You began to gather the remaining oranges, carefully brushing off the dirt before placing them back in the basket. "It's alright, we'll get these picked up. Don't you worry." You even pulled a small, pristine handkerchief from your pocket, gently dabbing at the child's tear-streaked face. You'd likely offer to buy them a new batch of oranges, or at the very least, share some of your own rations. You wouldn't just fix the problem; you'd mend the child's spirit.

Meanwhile, Crocodile would observe the scene from a short distance, a scowl deepening on his scarred face. His eyes, sharp and calculating, would assess the situation not with pity, but with a cold, almost detached analysis. He wouldn't lift a finger to help. Instead, he'd bark, "Get up, you sniveling brat! Crying won't put those oranges back in the basket. Learn to hold onto your belongings, or you'll starve." He might even kick a stray orange further away, not out of maliciousness, but as a twisted form of tough love, a brutal lesson in self-reliance. For him, the child's misfortune wasn't an opportunity for kindness, but a chance for a harsh, unforgettable lesson about the unforgiving nature of the world. He'd tell you later that coddling only bred weakness, that true strength came from enduring hardship alone.

The docks incident was a stark, undeniable fissure in their shared reality. It was a clear line drawn in the sand, illustrating precisely where your unwavering empathy diverged from Crocodile's unyielding pragmatism. You'd spent the rest of that afternoon ensuring the child was truly alright, even managing to convince a local vendor to give them a few extra oranges, while Crocodile watched, his arms crossed, a silent, disapproving observer.

Yet, despite these glaring differences, you made it work. It wasn't always easy, and there were countless silent battles fought in the space between your intertwined fingers. But moments of unexpected tenderness, like scattered desert blooms, punctuated their harsh landscape.

You remember one particularly rough night in Alabasta, the wind howling like a banshee through the desert, whipping sand against their temporary shelter. You were shivering, despite the worn blanket wrapped tightly around you. Crocodile, ever alert, seemed to sense your discomfort without a word passing between them. He didn't offer a platitude, or even a direct question. Instead, he simply shifted closer, his large frame radiating a surprising amount of warmth. He draped his own heavy cloak over your shoulders, its rough fabric a stark contrast to the softness of his subtle gesture. He never acknowledged it, never mentioned it the next day, but the quiet act spoke volumes. It was in these small, unspoken gestures that his version of affection manifested—a protective instinct, a silent acknowledgment of your presence and comfort, even if it was buried beneath layers of gruffness.

Another time, after a particularly grueling Cross Guild meeting, you found yourself overwhelmed by the endless paperwork and the constant tension that simmered between the members. You were slumped over your desk, a headache throbbing behind your eyes. Crocodile entered, a cloud of cigar smoke preceding him. He usually had a biting comment or a new demand. But that day, he simply pulled up a chair opposite you. He didn't speak. He just sat there, meticulously cleaning his hook, the rhythmic scrape of metal against leather the only sound in the room. You didn't realize how much you needed that quiet, undemanding presence until he was there. It wasn't comfort in the traditional sense, but it was his comfort—a shared silence that somehow eased the pressure in your head and the weight on your shoulders. It was in these moments that you truly understood how deeply intertwined your lives had become, a testament to a bond forged not in similarity, but in the acceptance of profound differences.

The quiet moments, the ones where the world's chaos faded into the background, became the bedrock of your relationship. You learned to read the subtle shifts in Crocodile's demeanor, the slight tightening around his eyes that signaled a flicker of concern, or the rare, almost imperceptible softening of his jaw when he genuinely approved of something you'd done. And he, in his own gruff way, came to rely on your presence, on the gentle order you brought to the tumultuous operations of the Cross Guild, and perhaps, to his own turbulent mind.

You often found yourself sifting through stacks of bounty posters in his office, organizing the chaos of wanted criminals and their ever-increasing prices. He'd be hunched over his own desk, a plume of cigar smoke curling around his head, ostensibly engrossed in a map or a strategy document. But you knew he was aware of your every movement, the soft rustle of paper, the quiet hum you sometimes made when you were deeply focused. He’d never admit it, but your steady, calming presence was a quiet anchor in his storm-tossed life.

One evening, a fierce storm raged outside, rattling the windows of their temporary headquarters. Rain lashed down in sheets, and the wind howled like a hungry beast. The power flickered, plunging the room into momentary darkness before sputtering back to life. You jumped, startled, a small gasp escaping your lips. Crocodile, who had been observing the storm with an almost casual indifference, turned his head. He didn't say anything, but his gaze lingered on you for a beat longer than usual. Then, almost imperceptibly, he reached out and flicked a switch on a small, oil-burning lantern he kept on his desk, its warm, steady glow pushing back against the encroaching shadows. It was a simple act, yet it spoke volumes. It was his way of saying, "I'm here. You're safe."

You smiled then, a soft, genuine smile that reached your eyes. He didn't return it, of course, but you saw the briefest flicker in his own, a hint of something unreadable, perhaps even content. In that shared, silent moment, amidst the raging storm and the world's cruel indifference, you knew, unequivocally, that your contrasting souls had found an unlikely, yet unbreakable, harmony. You were the light, he was the shadow, and together, you cast a unique silhouette against the vast, unforgiving expanse of the Grand Line.

Crocodile would never admit it, not even to himself, but your relentless kindness was a persistent, inconvenient anomaly in his carefully constructed world of cynicism. He viewed emotions as weaknesses, vulnerabilities to be exploited, yet your boundless empathy chipped away at his hardened resolve in ways he couldn't comprehend, let alone control. It was like a constant, gentle pressure against a rock, slowly, imperceptibly eroding its sharp edges.

He'd often scoff at your bleeding-heart tendencies, muttering about sentimentality being a burden in the Grand Line. He'd witness you offering a stray dog a portion of your own meal, or patiently listening to a tearful merchant lamenting their losses, and a muscle in his jaw would tick. It wasn't anger, not precisely. It was… disquiet. Your actions defied his every belief about survival, about the ruthless efficiency required to thrive in a world that devoured the weak.

One blistering afternoon in Alabasta, you both found yourselves navigating the dusty streets of a small desert town, en route to a discreet meeting. The air was thick with the scent of spices and the distant sound of a bazaar. As you passed a narrow alley, a faint, mewling sound caught your ear. Tucked away in the shadows, a tiny kitten, no bigger than your palm, lay curled on the grimy sand, its fur matted, its ribs starkly visible. It was shivering, despite the heat.

Without a moment's hesitation, you knelt, extending a gentle hand. The kitten, wary, flattened itself further, but you remained still, your voice a soft, reassuring murmur. "Hey there, little one," you cooed, your fingers slowly, carefully reaching out to stroke its head. It flinched, then, surprisingly, leaned into your touch, letting out a weak purr.

Crocodile stopped, his shadow falling over you both. He watched, his golden eyes narrowed, a mixture of disdain and something unreadable in their depths. He half-expected you to leave it, to continue on your way. Instead, you carefully scooped up the trembling creature, cradling it against your chest.

"We can't just leave it, Crocodile," you said, your voice quiet but firm, not even looking at him as you began to gently clean the kitten's matted fur with a damp cloth you always carried. "It's starving. It won't last the night."

He let out a low, exasperated grunt. "It's a stray, Y/N. This isn't a charity mission. We have business." His words were sharp, cutting, but you noticed he didn't move to stop you. He merely stood there, a formidable, unyielding presence, observing your tender ministrations.

You didn't argue. You simply continued to comfort the kitten, your fingers stroking its tiny head until its purrs grew stronger. You knew he wouldn't outright forbid it, not when you looked at him with that earnest, unwavering gaze. He'd grouse, he'd mock, but he wouldn't force you to abandon it.

Later, back at your temporary lodgings, you found a small, chipped bowl on the floor, filled with water and a few scraps of dried meat. The kitten, now somewhat revived, was cautiously lapping at the water. Crocodile was nowhere to be seen, but the message was clear. He hadn't asked about the kitten, hadn't acknowledged its presence beyond his initial protests. Yet, the bowl was there, a silent, grudging concession to your persistent heart. It was a vexing, illogical feeling for him, this involuntary response to your empathy. He understood power, control, ambition. But your quiet, unwavering kindness? That was an enigma he was still, against his will, trying to decipher.

Years passed, measured not by calendars, but by the relentless pursuit of power, the fleeting alliances, and the dust of countless islands. The Cross Guild grew, its influence spreading like a desert storm, and through it all, you remained at Crocodile's side, the unwavering constant in his tumultuous existence. The kitten, long grown into a sleek, healthy cat, often curled on your desk, a silent, furry testament to that long-ago moment in Alabasta and to Crocodile's begrudging, unspoken tolerance.

He never softened, not in the way one might expect. The scowl rarely left his face, his words remained sharp, and his ambition burned as fiercely as ever. But something shifted. The exasperated grunts became less frequent, the cynical remarks sometimes carried a faint, almost imperceptible hint of dry amusement. He still chastised you for your "naiveté," but the bite in his voice was tempered by a strange, almost possessive undertone.

It was during a tense standoff with a rival crew on a remote, rain-swept island. A young, inexperienced crew member, overwhelmed by the sudden violence, froze, directly in the path of an incoming attack. Your eyes widened in alarm, and without thinking, you moved. Not to fight, but to push the young man out of harm's way, leaving yourself momentarily exposed.

Time seemed to slow. Crocodile, already engaged with the opposing captain, saw it all. His golden eyes, usually cold and calculating, flashed with something akin to raw, visceral panic. For a fraction of a second, his guard wavered, a dangerous lapse. But before he could curse, before he could intervene, you had already completed your selfless act, tumbling to the ground with the crew member, both of you narrowly avoiding a devastating blow.

The fight raged on, but the brief, unguarded look on Crocodile's face spoke volumes. It was not anger at your recklessness, not disdain for your perceived weakness. It was a fleeting, terrifying glimpse of fear – fear for you.

Later, when the dust settled and the enemy lay defeated, you stood a little shaken, but unharmed. Crocodile approached, his cloak billowing around him, a silent, imposing figure. He didn't ask if you were hurt. He didn't offer praise. He simply reached out, his hook glinting, and with surprising gentleness, he nudged a stray strand of hair from your face. His eyes, devoid of their usual malice, met yours. For a long moment, an eternity in their complex dynamic, there was no anger, no judgment, only a quiet, profound understanding.

He might never articulate it, but in that silent gesture, in the way he allowed your kindness to exist unfettered in his brutal world, was his ultimate acceptance. You were the anomaly, the inconvenient truth, the softest edge to his sharpest ambition. You were the one who saw the flickering good in a heart he insisted was barren. And perhaps, in a way he would never acknowledge, you were the only one who could truly anchor the shifting sands of Sir Crocodile. You were his balance, his contradiction, and his most fiercely, silently guarded treasure. Their story wasn't one of change, but of profound, unwavering acceptance of each other's unchanging, contrasting natures.

KATAKURI 𐙚 ˚🍰 ⋆

The flutter and the stone (2,593 words)

A warmth emanated from you, a silent, comforting glow that drew people in like moths to a flame. You were the kind of soul who’d offer a gentle hand to someone stumbling, not just to pick them up, but to steady them until they found their footing again. Sacrifice wasn’t a foreign concept to you; it was a quiet understanding, a willingness to put another’s well-being above your own, even if it meant hardship for yourself. You were truly one of the best, a beacon of empathy in a world that often felt devoid of it.

But then there was Katakuri. He was a stark contrast to your vibrant spirit, a calm and serious presence, his emotions carefully guarded behind an impenetrable facade. An arranged engagement by Big Mom herself had sealed your fate, weaving your compassionate nature into the fabric of his stoic world. Now, you found yourself living alongside him on Whole Cake Island, the sweet, saccharine air a strange accompaniment to the quiet, almost detached reality you shared. You, a soul brimming with kindness, and he, a man of unwavering composure, were bound together in an intricate dance orchestrated by a Yonko.

He'd expected a hindrance, a constant, buzzing annoyance orchestrated by his mother. That's what most of these arranged marriages were: a liability, a weakness he'd have to account for. He'd envisioned someone fragile, prone to tears and dramatics, clinging to him for protection, constantly seeking attention he had no desire to give. He'd braced himself for endless chatter, for a person who would disrupt the rigid order he'd meticulously crafted in his life. The idea of sharing his space, his very existence, with someone so utterly out of sync with his own stoic nature had been, frankly, irritating. He’d prepared for the worst, for a constant drain on his already limited patience, a shadow of inconvenience following him everywhere.

But you… you were different. You were a quiet warmth, not a demanding heat. You didn't cling; you simply existed, a gentle presence that somehow softened the edges of his perpetually sharp world. The "endless chatter" he'd anticipated never materialized. Instead, you offered thoughtful observations, quiet support, or sometimes, just a comfortable silence. He’d found you, more than once, tending to a wounded crewmate with a tenderness that made even the gruffest pirates soften. You'd share your meals, offer comfort without being asked, and your eyes held a depth of understanding that surprised him. You didn't demand his attention, but your quiet acts of kindness drew it anyway.

You didn't just shine; you fluttered. You were a vibrant, living thing, a soft current of light that seemed to effortlessly navigate the harsh realities of Whole Cake Island. He found himself, against his better judgment, observing you. How you'd hum a soft tune while organizing supplies, how your laughter, soft and genuine, could cut through the usual cacophony of the island. He’d catch himself, on rare occasions, feeling a faint, unfamiliar stir in his chest when you’d offer a gentle smile his way. He'd expected a burden, a heavy weight to bear. What he got was… something akin to light. A light he hadn't known he needed, but now, he found himself, in his own silent way, watching, almost waiting, for its gentle, steady glow.

You had an uncanny knack for anticipating needs, a quiet magic that hummed beneath your gentle demeanor. Katakuri would find his favorite tea brewed just so in the mornings, a small, thoughtful gesture. Or, on days he was particularly swamped, he'd discover a meticulously packed lunch waiting for him – often including those subtly sweet mochi he favored, even though you’d never seen him eat them openly. It wasn't just for him, though. Your kindness was a boundless well. You'd often prepare extra portions, enough for his siblings, even a specially made sweet for Big Mom herself, always left in a place where it would be easily found, without any fanfare or expectation of thanks. You simply did.

One sweltering afternoon, a sudden, torrential downpour erupted over Whole Cake Island. Katakuri had been in a particularly intense training session, his usual stoicism even more pronounced as he pushed himself. He’d barely paused for breath, let alone considered the oppressive heat or the sudden chill the rain brought. His siblings, too, were scattered across the sprawling complex, many caught off guard by the unexpected shift in weather.

As he finally wrapped up, Mochi sticking to his skin from the exertion, he started towards his usual post. But when he arrived, there was a small, steaming cup waiting. Not just for him, but several, strategically placed for others who would soon be arriving. It was a ginger-lemon tea, perfectly warm, with a subtle sweetness that cut through the humidity and offered a comforting heat against the sudden dampness. Beside it, a stack of freshly folded, dry towels.

You weren't there, of course. You never were, not to receive praise or acknowledgment. But the faint scent of ginger and lemon lingered, a silent testament to your presence, your unwavering thoughtfulness. Katakuri picked up the mug, the warmth seeping into his calloused hands. He took a slow sip, and for a fleeting moment, a faint, almost imperceptible easing of his perpetually tense shoulders could be observed. You just… knew. And you acted, a quiet force of nature, making the world around you a little bit softer, a little bit kinder, without ever being asked.

You continued to weave your quiet magic into the fabric of Whole Cake Island life, a gentle counterpoint to its often chaotic rhythms. Katakuri, for his part, found himself in uncharted territory. He was accustomed to calculating, to predicting, to controlling. But you, with your unassuming kindness and innate ability to simply be, defied all his expectations. He couldn't quite categorize you, couldn't fit you into any of his established frameworks. It was unsettling, yet… not entirely unpleasant.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of territory patrols and dealing with a new batch of unruly subordinates, Katakuri returned to his private quarters. The air was heavy, the usual tension in his shoulders even more pronounced. He expected the familiar silence, the solitary decompression he always sought. Instead, the soft glow of a single lamp illuminated the room, and the scent of freshly brewed herbal tea, a blend he recognized as one that aided relaxation, wafted gently towards him.

You were there, of course, perched on a plush cushion, a book open in your lap. You looked up as he entered, your eyes, usually bright with warmth, holding a quiet understanding. You didn't speak, didn't offer effusive greetings or pointed questions about his day. You simply gestured to the steaming mug on his small table, then to another cushion opposite you.

He hesitated for a moment, an almost imperceptible flicker of surprise crossing his face. He'd never truly shared this space with anyone, not in this way. But the subtle invitation, devoid of any demand, was strangely compelling. He settled onto the cushion, his imposing form making the furniture seem almost fragile. He picked up the mug, the warmth a welcome contrast to the cold calculation that had dominated his day.

You returned to your book, yet your presence was anything but distant. It was a comfortable, silent companionship, a soothing balm to the weary edges of his mind. He found himself, for the first time in a long time, truly relaxing. The tension in his jaw eased, his shoulders lowered almost imperceptibly. He didn't know what to call this feeling, this quiet sense of calm that settled over him. But as he sipped his tea, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you read, a thought, foreign and unexpected, drifted through his mind: perhaps this arranged marriage wasn't a burden after all. Perhaps it was… something else entirely. Something he was only just beginning to understand.

The silent tea-drinking evenings became a quiet ritual, a comfortable pause in the ceaseless rhythm of Whole Cake Island. Katakuri found himself anticipating them, the subtle shift in his mood almost imperceptible even to him. He’d never craved companionship, never sought it out, but your presence was different. It wasn’t a demand, but an invitation, a soft echo that resonated within his usually unyielding self.

The little interactions began to accumulate, tiny threads weaving a tapestry of connection. One blustery morning, you found him meticulously patching a tear in his scarf, a rare moment of vulnerability in his otherwise flawless exterior. You didn’t comment, didn’t pry, but simply offered a spool of stronger thread from your own sewing kit. He grunted in acknowledgment, a sound that in anyone else might have been dismissive, but from him, it was a quiet acceptance. Later, he noticed the mend was virtually invisible, stronger than before.

Another time, during a particularly chaotic family meeting, a flurry of paper charts went tumbling, scattering across the floor. Before anyone else could react, you were already gathering them, your movements swift and efficient, organizing them back into their proper order without a single word of complaint or even a look for approval. Katakuri, observing from the corner, found a flicker of something akin to admiration stir within him. You weren’t just kind; you were competent, resourceful, and utterly unassuming in your helpfulness.

He even started to notice your preferences. The way you always took your tea with a dash of honey, not sugar. The quiet smile that played on your lips when you managed to coax a wilting plant back to life. He’d find himself leaving a small, perfectly ripe fruit on your table, or ensuring a particularly comfortable blanket was draped over your favored reading chair. These were not grand gestures, not yet. They were quiet acknowledgments, a recognition of your unique presence, and a subtle, almost unconscious desire to contribute to your comfort, just as you so readily contributed to the comfort of everyone around you.

This wasn't just an arranged marriage anymore. The rigid lines of their initial agreement were blurring, softening with each shared silence, each unspoken understanding. It was becoming something else, something real and unexpected. A quiet, blossoming partnership rooted not in duty, but in a burgeoning, unfamiliar warmth.

The shift was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone but Katakuri himself. His siblings, accustomed to his imposing, unyielding presence, might have noticed a slight softening around his eyes when you were near, a less rigid set to his shoulders. But for him, it was a profound internal reordering. The quiet comfort you brought wasn't just a pleasant diversion; it was becoming an essential anchor in his turbulent world.

One afternoon, a squall of minor, yet persistent, issues arose across the island. A supply shipment was delayed, a kitchen pipe burst, and two of his younger siblings were squabbling over a prized confection. Katakuri moved with his usual efficiency, dispatching orders, making calls, his mind a whirl of solutions. Yet, a low thrum of irritation persisted beneath his calm exterior. He found himself, almost unconsciously, seeking you out.

You were in the vast, labyrinthine library, meticulously cataloging old maps. The scent of aged paper and faint cinnamon clung to the air around you. You looked up as he entered, your eyes, as always, holding a quiet, welcoming light. You didn't ask what was wrong, didn't demand explanations. Instead, you simply offered a small, freshly baked cookie from a plate beside you. "They just came out of the oven," you said softly, a gentle invitation in your voice.

He took it, the warm, slightly crisp cookie a surprising comfort in his large hand. He ate it in two bites, the familiar sweetness a momentary balm. He then, to his own surprise, found himself recounting the day's minor frustrations, not in detail, but in a series of clipped, gruff sentences. You listened, truly listened, your gaze unwavering, a silent well of understanding. You didn't offer advice, didn't try to fix anything. You just were.

And in that quiet acceptance, the knot of irritation in his chest began to loosen. The problems hadn't vanished, but his perspective on them had shifted. He felt a quiet sense of calm, a subtle centering that he hadn't realized he craved until you provided it. When he finally rose to leave, the silence between you wasn't empty; it was full, a testament to the unspoken bond that was solidifying between you. He paused at the door, turning his head slightly. "Thank you," he rumbled, the words rough but sincere. It was a rare, almost unprecedented admission from him, a testament to how deeply your quiet presence had begun to affect him. The arranged marriage had indeed become something else entirely. It was becoming a haven.

The "thank you" had been a tremor, a subtle shift in the carefully constructed facade Katakuri presented to the world. For you, it was a confirmation, a quiet acknowledgment that the seed of connection you had diligently, patiently sown was beginning to take root. You didn't press, didn't exploit the rare moment of vulnerability. You simply offered a small, gentle smile, a warmth that resonated with the burgeoning shift within him.

The silent tea rituals evolved. Sometimes, you would softly read aloud from your book, your voice a calm murmur against the backdrop of the bustling island. Katakuri, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts, would often find himself listening, the words weaving through the usual strategic calculations in his mind. He even began to notice the stories you favored – tales of quiet heroism, of small acts of courage, of unexpected tenderness in harsh worlds. These were the stories that mirrored the silent strength he was coming to see in you.

One particularly stormy night, the type of tempest that rattled the very foundations of Whole Cake Chateau, the power flickered and died. The usual emergency lights clicked on, but the vast, opulent halls felt eerily dark and unsettling. Katakuri, ever vigilant, was already moving to check on security and his siblings. As he passed his quarters, however, a soft light caught his eye.

You were there, not with a flashlight, but with a collection of small, flickering candles, strategically placed to cast a warm, comforting glow. You were not fearful, not flustered. Instead, you were humming a soft tune, carefully placing more candles, your movements calm and deliberate. When he entered, you simply looked up, your eyes reflecting the candlelight, making them seem even brighter.

"It's easier to see," you murmured, "and… it's warmer."

He stood there for a moment, the usual tension in his shoulders finally loosening. The storm raged outside, the world felt chaotic, but in this small pocket of warmth and soft light, with you, there was an inexplicable sense of peace. He found himself, for the first time, simply existing in your presence, without needing to calculate, without needing to guard.

He sat on his usual cushion, and for the first time, you leaned in, gently resting your head against his arm as you continued your quiet work with the candles. He didn't flinch, didn't stiffen. Instead, a warmth, far deeper than the flickering candlelight, spread through him. It was a warmth that settled into his very core, chasing away the lingering chill of the storm and the ever-present weight of his duties. This wasn't just an arranged marriage, a duty to be performed. This was… home. And in that quiet, candlelit room, surrounded by the soft flutter of your presence, Katakuri, the unbreakable warrior, finally understood. This was real. And against all odds, it was beautiful.

BUGGY THE CLOWN ༘⋆𖦹 🎪 🎈

The Compassionate Heart and the Clowns Love (2,145 words)

The salt-laced wind whipped your (Y/N)'s hair across your face as you gazed out at the endless expanse of the Grand Line. A gentle smile touched your lips, a familiar warmth blooming in your chest. You were a beacon of kindness in a world often consumed by chaos and cruelty. Where others saw danger, you sought understanding. Where despair festered, you offered a comforting hand. You were the one who'd sit with someone through their darkest hours, patiently listening, offering words of encouragement, and lifting them back onto their feet. The thought of sacrificing your own well-being for another's safety wasn't a burden; it was simply who you were. You were a good soul, pure and unwavering, a testament to the best of humanity.

And then there was Buggy. He stood beside you on the ship's deck, his signature red nose twitching slightly in the breeze. He was a whirlwind of contradictions, a walking, talking paradox to your own serene nature. Where you were selfless, he was self-serving. Where you were gentle, he was… well, he was Buggy. Loud, theatrical, and prone to dramatic outbursts, he was the kind of person who'd trip over his own feet and then blame the ship for moving. He was undeniably chaotic, a clashing cymbal to your quiet melody. Yet, he was your best friend, a bond forged in the crucible of shared adventures and countless debates. What you didn't know, however, was that beneath all his bluster and clownish antics, Buggy held a secret close to his heart – a fervent, almost obsessive adoration for you. You, the kindest soul he’d ever met, the person who made his chaotic world just a little bit brighter.

You'd often find yourself tending to the small, potted tangerine tree you kept on deck, a splash of vibrant green against the endless blue. Each leaf was carefully inspected, every nascent fruit admired with a quiet joy. Buggy, ever the lurker, would pretend to be polishing his cannons nearby, his gaze, however, was fixed on you. He’d watch as your fingers, so gentle and sure, brushed away a stray speck of dust or tested the soil's moisture. A tiny, almost imperceptible sigh would escape his lips as he saw the soft, contented smile that graced your face. "What a weirdo," he’d grumble to himself, but the words lacked any real bite. Instead, a familiar warmth would spread through his chest, a feeling he refused to name but cherished all the same.

One blustery afternoon, a new recruit, still green and seasick, stumbled against the mast, dropping a tray of freshly baked bread. The loaves, a rare and cherished treat, scattered across the grimy deck. The recruit's face crumpled, tears welling in their eyes, anticipating a harsh reprimand. Before Buggy could unleash one of his famously theatrical tirades, you were there. You knelt, not to scold, but to gather the ruined bread, your voice a soothing balm. "It's alright," you murmured, your hand gently resting on the recruit's shaking shoulder. "Accidents happen. We'll just bake more." You even managed a small, reassuring smile, and the recruit's tears slowly subsided. Buggy, his mouth agape, watched the entire exchange. His planned tirade died on his tongue, replaced by a strange, almost painful ache in his chest. He'd never seen anyone react with such pure, unadulterated compassion. It was in moments like these, witnessing your boundless empathy, that Buggy felt himself tumbling further, irrevocably, in love with you.

You knew Buggy's temper was as short as his stature, and often as explosive as his Buggy Balls. There were countless times his face would contort into a mask of fury, his voice rising to a theatrical roar, usually over something trivial like a misplaced map or a particularly unflattering comment about his nose. Most of the crew would scatter, wisely giving him a wide berth. But not you.

One sweltering afternoon, a clumsy crewmate tripped, sending a precarious stack of Buggy's meticulously polished cannonballs clattering across the deck. The sound of metallic chaos was immediately followed by Buggy's indignant shriek. "You imbecile! Do you know how long it takes to buff these beauties?! They're practically jewels! I'll chop you into a hundred pieces and feed you to the Sea Kings!" His body began to separate, his disembodied hands already twitching with menace.

The poor crewmate, pale and trembling, braced for impact. But then, a calm, steady hand rested on Buggy's arm. It was yours. "Buggy," you said softly, your voice cutting through his enraged bellow like a soothing breeze. "It was an accident. Look, no real harm done. We can gather them up, and I'll even help you polish them again. We have plenty of time."

Buggy's separated limbs paused, his furious eyes blinking. He looked from the scattered cannonballs to your gentle face, then back again. His anger, so quickly ignited, seemed to deflate under your unwavering calm. He let out a dramatic huff, reassembling himself with a flourish. "Hmph! Fine! But only because you asked, (Y/N)! And you'd better polish them until they gleam like my magnificent nose!" He still grumbled, but the genuine threat had vanished, replaced by a theatrical show of lingering annoyance. You simply smiled, already kneeling to pick up the cannonballs, and Buggy, despite himself, found his heart doing a strange little flutter.

Another time, during a particularly frustrating negotiation with a shady merchant, Buggy found himself completely outmaneuvered, his grand plans unraveling before his very eyes. He'd stormed back to the ship, red-faced and fuming, kicking at anything that dared to be in his path. He paced the deck, muttering curses and slamming his fist into his palm. "That conniving weasel! How dare he! He'll regret this! I'll send a Buggy Bomb right through his wretched shop!"

The crew kept their distance, knowing better than to interrupt a Buggy tantrum. You, however, approached him, a mug of steaming tea in your hands. "Buggy," you said, offering it to him. "You look like you could use this."

He glared at the mug, then at you. "What do I need tea for, (Y/N)?! I need revenge! I need to show that miserable flea who he's messing with!"

You gently pressed the warm mug into his hands. "Sometimes," you said, your voice soft and understanding, "a moment of calm can help you think clearer. Besides, you're the greatest captain on the Grand Line. You'll figure out a way to get what you want, without resorting to blowing up perfectly good shops."

Buggy stared at the tea, then at your encouraging expression. The rigid tension in his shoulders seemed to ease, almost imperceptibly. He took a hesitant sip of the tea, then another. He still looked disgruntled, but the wild anger in his eyes had softened into a frustrated pout. "Hmph. Fine," he mumbled, taking another gulp of tea. "But I'm still getting my revenge. Just… after this." He never did end up blowing up the shop that day. And as he watched you walk away, a faint, almost imperceptible blush crept onto his painted cheeks. Every time you treated him with such quiet understanding, such unwavering belief, he felt a pull, a warmth that had nothing to do with the Grand Line's sun, and everything to do with you. He was, completely, hopelessly, madly in love.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. A gentle breeze rustled the ship's sails, carrying the scent of salt and adventure. You were sitting by the railing, gazing at the glittering expanse of the sea, a quiet contentment settling over you.

Buggy, however, was a whirlwind of nervous energy. He paced the deck, his shadow stretching long and distorted in the fading light. His mind was a battlefield, warring between his usual theatrical bluster and a sudden, crippling shyness. He'd rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head, each version more dramatic and magnificent than the last. But now, with you so close, so calm and effortlessly kind, all his carefully constructed speeches dissolved into a jumbled mess.

He stopped abruptly, facing away from you, his hands clenched at his sides. "Y-Y-You know, (Y/N)!" he blurted out, his voice cracking slightly. "I... I'm the greatest pirate captain on the Grand Line! The magnificent Buggy! No one can compare to my genius, my charisma, my... my incredible nose!" He gestured wildly to his face, but his usual confidence was noticeably absent.

You turned, a small, amused smile playing on your lips. "Of course, Buggy," you said, your voice soft and patient. "No one doubts your magnificent qualities."

His shoulders sagged slightly at your gentle tone. This wasn't going as planned. He spun around, his face a dramatic mask of internal turmoil, his cheeks a surprising shade of crimson beneath his make-up. "B-But... but there's something else! Something... something even more magnificent than my incredible powers and my vast treasure!" He took a shaky breath, his eyes darting to yours, then quickly away. "It's... it's you! You're... you're the most amazing, kindest, most infuriatingly selfless person I've ever met! You make my heart feel all... all weird and tingly! Like a hundred tiny explosions going off at once!"

He finally looked at you, his normally boastful eyes wide with a raw, uncharacteristic vulnerability. "I... I think I'm in love with you, (Y/N)! Madly, completely, utterly in love!" The words tumbled out in a rush, leaving him breathless. He stood there, frozen, waiting for your reaction, his painted smile feeling incredibly stiff. The silence stretched, filled only by the gentle lapping of waves against the hull, and the frantic pounding of Buggy's own heart.

The silence that followed Buggy's confession hung heavy in the air, broken only by the rhythmic lapping of the waves against the ship. Buggy, for once in his life, was utterly still, his eyes wide and vulnerable, fixed on your face. He braced himself for a laugh, a bewildered stare, anything but what came next.

A soft, genuine smile bloomed on your face, a warmth that seemed to banish the last vestiges of twilight from the deck. You stepped closer, your hand gently reaching out to touch his arm. "Buggy," you said, your voice a calm, steady melody that quieted the frantic beating of his heart. "You really are something else."

His breath hitched, and he stared at you, waiting.

You chuckled softly, a sound that sent a strange, delightful shiver down his spine. "Those 'weird and tingly' feelings? I get them too, with you." Your gaze, so open and honest, met his, and he felt a jolt, like a tiny electric current passing between you. "And yes, Buggy. A thousand times yes."

Buggy's jaw dropped. His eyes, usually so expressive in their theatrical fury, were now wide with pure, unadulterated shock. "Y-Y-You... you mean it?" he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "You're... you're not just being kind?"

You laughed again, a fuller, more joyful sound this time. "No, Buggy," you affirmed, your grip on his arm firm and reassuring. "I'm not just being kind. I really do feel something for you. All of you. Even your magnificent nose." You squeezed his arm gently, your eyes sparkling with affection.

A colossal grin, wider and more genuine than any of his usual theatrical displays, spread across Buggy's face. He let out a whoop of pure delight, so loud it probably echoed across the silent ocean. In a flash of spontaneous joy, he found himself doing something utterly uncharacteristic: he pulled you into a surprisingly gentle, yet firm, hug. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, and for a moment, the notorious Pirate Captain Buggy, the loud and bombastic clown, was simply Buggy, a man completely, blissfully, and truly in love.

The news spread through the crew like wildfire. Initially, there were whispers, then outright disbelief. "Captain Buggy? In love? With (Y/N)?" But as days turned into weeks, the evidence was undeniable. Buggy, while still prone to his dramatic outbursts, seemed to have a new spring in his step. His threats of dismemberment were often softened by a glance in your direction, and he'd even been caught, on more than one occasion, looking at you with an expression so ridiculously fond it made the crewmates snicker.

You, meanwhile, remained your steadfast, compassionate self, but now there was an added layer of warmth, a quiet joy that resonated with Buggy's newfound, if still chaotic, happiness. You'd still calm his tantrums, still offer gentle guidance, but now, there was an unspoken understanding, a shared tenderness that had blossomed between the kindest soul on the Grand Line and its most theatrical pirate captain. Their journey continued, but now, it was a journey shared, two vastly different individuals sailing under the same flag, bound by a love as unexpected and vibrant as the Grand Line itself.

ROB LUCCI 𓇢𓆸

Kind Soul, Cold Hearted Love (2,158)

A salty breeze ruffled your hair, carrying the scent of the sea and distant islands. It was a familiar comfort, one that always managed to soothe the edges of your heart, no matter the turmoil within. And there was often turmoil. Not from your own spirit, which was a wellspring of empathy and unwavering support, but from the stark contrast of the world around you, and more acutely, the man by your side.

You, dear soul, were a beacon of warmth in a world often shrouded in shadow. You were the soft hand that cradled a weeping friend, the gentle voice that whispered encouragement when hope seemed lost, the unwavering presence that offered solace even at the cost of your own comfort. You would readily throw yourself into harm's way for a stranger, your kindness an almost tangible force, a quiet strength that made you truly one of a kind. You loved with a fierce, unconditional devotion, and that love was currently anchored to a man who embodied everything you weren't.

Rob Lucci. His presence was as cool and unyielding as the deepest ocean, his gaze often distant, calculated. He moved with a predatory grace, his actions driven by a harsh, singular vision of “justice” that frequently left collateral damage in its wake. There was an edge to him, a contained aggression that simmered beneath his composed exterior, a coldness that could send shivers down the spine of even the bravest marine. You were a vibrant bloom, and he, a jagged, beautiful shard of ice. How could two such disparate souls find their way to each other? And more importantly, how could a heart as open as yours navigate the guarded complexities of his? This was the story of your love, a testament to the fact that even the coldest hearts can be touched by the purest kindness, and perhaps, even find a strange, unsettling warmth.

It wasn't a grand, sweeping gesture that drew Rob Lucci to you, but rather a slow, insidious erosion of his carefully constructed indifference. He had always seen the world in stark black and white, good and evil, with himself as the unwavering instrument of the latter's eradication. Emotion was a weakness, compassion a luxury he could not afford in his pursuit of "Absolute Justice." Yet, you, with your boundless capacity for kindness, began to chip away at that hardened resolve.

He first observed it during a mission – a tense standoff in a bustling port town. A stray shot had sent a wooden crate tumbling, threatening to crush a small, frightened child. Before anyone else could react, before even he, with his heightened senses and lightning reflexes, could fully process the danger, you were there. You didn't hesitate, didn't flinch. You simply threw yourself forward, shielding the child with your own body as the heavy wood splintered against your back. A gasp rippled through the crowd, quickly followed by a collective sigh of relief. You, however, merely offered a wobbly smile to the child, brushing dust from their hair as if nothing untoward had happened.

Lucci, perched silently on a rooftop, had watched it all, his eyes narrowed. He processed the data: illogical, inefficient, entirely self-sacrificing for no strategic gain. And yet... the genuine relief on the child's face, the murmurs of gratitude from the onlookers, the soft, unburdened light in your eyes. It was utterly alien to his understanding of the world.

Later, he found you tending to a wounded Marine soldier, your brow furrowed with concern as you carefully bandaged his arm. The soldier, usually gruff and stoic, was speaking softly to you, a rare vulnerability in his voice. You listened, truly listened, offering quiet words of comfort that seemed to possess a strange, healing quality. Lucci felt a peculiar flicker in his own chest, an unfamiliar sensation. He dismissed it as an anomaly, a momentary distraction.

But the anomalies continued. You were always there, a quiet presence of solace amidst the chaos. You offered a drink of water to a tired guard, shared your meager rations with a hungry street urchin, even risked admonishment to gently correct a superior who was being unnecessarily harsh to a subordinate. Each act, small and seemingly insignificant, was a direct contradiction to the ruthless efficiency he embodied.

He started finding excuses to be near you. Not overtly, of course. He would be "observing" a sector you were in, or "analyzing" the crowd near your position. He'd catch glimpses of you, sometimes smiling, sometimes serious, but always radiating that same unwavering warmth. He noticed the way people gravitated towards you, drawn by your innate goodness. He saw how even hardened criminals, when faced with your unvarnished compassion, would sometimes falter, a flicker of something human crossing their eyes.

One evening, under the pale glow of a distant moon, you found him alone, perched on a deserted dock, Hattori nestled on his shoulder. You didn't question his solitude or his presence. Instead, you simply sat a respectful distance away, drawing your knees to your chest, and looked out at the tranquil water. After a long silence, you spoke, your voice soft as the lapping waves. "Sometimes," you murmured, "even the strongest need a moment to just... be."

He didn't reply, didn't even turn his head. But Hattori, his ever-present companion, ruffled his feathers and cooed, a soft, approving sound. You didn't press him, just continued to sit, a silent, comforting presence. It was in that quiet, unassuming moment, amidst the salty air and the vast, indifferent ocean, that something shifted within Rob Lucci. It wasn't a sudden burst of emotion, but a slow, almost imperceptible thaw around the edges of his frozen heart. He didn't understand it, couldn't categorize it, but he knew, with a chilling certainty, that he wanted you near. He wanted that inexplicable warmth to continue to exist in his desolate world, even if he couldn't yet comprehend why. And that, for a man like Rob Lucci, was the beginning of everything.

The stark contrast between you and Lucci was a chasm you, in your boundless optimism, barely perceived. You saw the flicker of something in his eyes, the almost imperceptible softening of his posture when you were near, and mistook it for burgeoning tenderness. You were a creature of pure, unadulterated light, and to you, everyone possessed a spark of that same light, even if it was buried deep. Lucci, however, saw the truth with chilling clarity. He was a predator, a tool forged in the fires of ruthless efficiency, and he knew, with every fiber of his being, that he didn't deserve your softness.

He'd watch you sometimes, when you thought he wasn't looking. You'd be helping a junior agent untangle a complicated knot, your brow furrowed in concentration, a gentle smile playing on your lips when they finally succeeded. Or you'd hum softly to yourself while mending a torn piece of equipment, your movements deliberate and caring. You saw worth in everything, from the smallest insect to the most hardened criminal. Your compassion was a balm that seemed to soothe the raw edges of the world, and it infuriated him, even as it drew him in.

He’d tested it, subtly at first. He'd purposely use a harsher tone with a subordinate in your presence, expecting your gentle rebuke, perhaps even a look of disapproval. Instead, you'd simply offer a quiet suggestion for a more efficient, less confrontational approach, your gaze unwavering, devoid of judgment. It was like trying to chip away at a cloud with a hammer; your kindness simply absorbed the impact, leaving him bewildered.

There was one incident that truly solidified his internal conflict. A subordinate, terrified of Lucci's notoriously short temper, had botched a critical task, leading to a minor but irritating setback. Lucci's gaze had sharpened, his usual calm replaced by a cold fury that promised severe repercussions. The subordinate visibly trembled, bracing for the inevitable. You, however, had stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on the man's arm.

"It was an honest mistake, Lucci," you'd said, your voice surprisingly firm, "and easily remedied. Perhaps if we approach it from this angle..." You then calmly outlined a solution, one that was both effective and avoided any further humiliation for the blundering agent. Lucci had simply stared at you, his internal algorithms struggling to process this anomaly. You had, without even realizing it, diffused a volatile situation, protected someone from his wrath, and offered a better path forward – all with a simple, genuine act of kindness. He'd dismissed the subordinate with a terse nod, but his eyes remained fixed on you, a strange mix of grudging admiration and self-loathing swirling within their depths.

He knew he was cold. He knew he was aggressive. He had seen the fear in people’s eyes when he entered a room, the way they instinctively recoiled from his presence. And he had accepted it, even cultivated it, as a necessary shield in his brutal world. But you… you saw past the shield. You saw something he himself barely recognized, a glimmer of humanity he had long since suppressed. And the terrifying part was, your gentle touch was starting to make him feel it too. He didn’t deserve it. He was a monster, a weapon, and you were everything good and pure. The thought of tainting you, of dragging you into his darkness, was a stark reality he grappled with every waking moment. Yet, the thought of letting you go, of existing in a world without your unwavering light, was far more unbearable.

The quiet moments became more frequent, the unspoken understanding between you and Lucci deepening with each passing day. Your love didn't burst forth like a supernova; instead, it bloomed slowly, like a desert flower coaxed open by persistent, gentle rain. It was built on the small, almost imperceptible acts of kindness you showered upon him, acts that, to anyone else, might seem trivial, but to Lucci, were profound in their foreignness.

He'd often find a small, meticulously folded napkin tucked into his coat pocket, a fresh fruit or a precisely cut piece of meat wrapped inside – a quiet acknowledgment of his often forgotten meals amidst the chaos of his duties. You never made a show of it, never asked if he’d eaten it. You simply left it, a silent offering of care that gnawed at the edges of his rigid self-sufficiency.

There was the time he'd returned from a particularly brutal mission, his clothes torn and stained, his usual impassive demeanor betraying a hint of weariness. You didn't question, didn't pry. Instead, you simply set out a basin of warm water and a clean cloth, and without a word, began to gently tend to a superficial cut on his arm. Your touch was feather-light, your gaze soft and unwavering. He'd stood there, utterly still, a strange vulnerability washing over him as your fingers, so utterly unlike his own calloused ones, cleaned and bandaged his wound. He couldn't remember anyone ever tending to him with such tender care.

You also had an uncanny knack for anticipating his needs, even before he recognized them himself. If he’d been hunched over mission reports for hours, a slight tension in his shoulders, you’d appear with a steaming mug of tea, or a quiet suggestion for a brief walk. You never demanded, never insisted. It was always a gentle offer, a soft invitation to ease the burden he so stubbornly carried. He'd find himself accepting these small gestures, a foreign warmth spreading through him each time, even as his logical mind struggled to reconcile it with the cold, hard reality of his existence.

One evening, after a particularly grueling assignment, he found you waiting for him in his dimly lit quarters. You weren't imposing or loud; you were simply there, a quiet anchor in his turbulent world. You had a book in your hands, not reading, but simply holding it, your presence a soft counterpoint to the harsh silence. When he entered, you merely offered a small, knowing smile. You knew he needed to decompress, to shed the day's brutality, and you instinctively understood that your quiet, non-demanding presence was exactly what he needed. He didn't speak, nor did you. He simply sat, and for the first time in a long time, the ever-present tension in his jaw began to ease.

These small, constant acts of profound kindness, delivered without expectation or judgment, began to chip away at the fortress he had built around his heart. He saw the world through your eyes, if only for fleeting moments, and in those moments, it didn't seem so bleak, so entirely unforgiving. He knew he was undeserving of such grace, that his darkness could easily eclipse your light. Yet, the thought of your unwavering goodness, of your gentle touch, had become a silent, undeniable craving. He wasn't sure what this unfamiliar feeling was, but every fiber of his being now yearned for the quiet solace you brought.

KID જ⁀➴

Kind Soul, Ruthless Pirate (2,040 words)

The salty spray of the Grand Line was a familiar kiss on your cheek, the chaotic symphony of the waves a lullaby you’d grown to love. You were, by all accounts, a beacon of warmth in a world often consumed by darkness. If someone stumbled, you were the first to offer a steadying hand; if tears fell, your shoulder was a ready haven. You’d sacrifice your own comfort, even your safety, without a second thought if it meant easing another's burden. Your heart, a vast and boundless ocean of kindness, was truly one of the greatest treasures on these seas.

And then there was Eustass Kid. The man who stood at the helm of the Kid Pirates, his crimson coat a stark contrast to your gentle spirit. He was a supernova, a name whispered with a mixture of fear and awe. Cruel, aggressive, and utterly ruthless, he was everything you weren’t. The world often wondered how someone like you could ever find solace, let alone love, with a man like him. Yet, beneath the clanging metal and the fiery glares, there was a different kind of connection—a silent understanding that defied logic. You were the calm to his storm, the quiet anchor that kept him from drifting too far into the abyss. It was a bizarre, beautiful dance, and somehow, it worked. You loved him, and in his own fiercely protective way, he loved you too.

The scent of ozone always clung to Kid, a mix of his devil fruit and the sheer force of his presence. You’d often find yourself unconsciously leaning into it, even when he was grumbling about some perceived slight from Killer or the stupidity of a Marine patrol. One afternoon, you were patching up Heat's torn jacket, a task you'd taken on countless times for the crew. The needle was finicky, and you let out a soft sigh of frustration. Without a word, a large, calloused hand, usually reserved for crushing metal or enemies, reached over and deftly threaded the needle for you. He didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but the small gesture, the unexpected tenderness in his rough movements, spoke volumes.

Later, as the sun dipped below the waves, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples, you sat on the ship's railing, watching the endless expanse of the sea. Kid, usually pacing or shouting orders, found his way beside you. He didn’t say anything, just leaned against the railing, his arm brushing yours. The silence between you two was never awkward, but comfortable, filled with an unspoken understanding. You traced patterns on the weathered wood, and then, almost imperceptibly, his pinky finger hooked around yours, a silent anchor in the vastness of the ocean. He'd never admit to such a soft gesture, but you felt the gentle pressure, a quiet affirmation of his presence.

And then there were the nights after a particularly brutal encounter, when the ship was still humming with the aftermath of battle. You’d be tending to the wounded, your hands steady and soft, your voice a soothing balm. Kid, covered in grime and dried blood, would always find you. He wouldn't ask for help, or even acknowledge your efforts directly. Instead, he’d simply plant himself nearby, leaning against a bulkhead, his good eye fixed on you. Sometimes, he’d just watch, a silent, almost possessive vigil. Other times, he’d gruffly shove a mug of hot tea into your hands, or a piece of scavenged fruit, his way of making sure you were taken care of, even as he was still dripping with the fight. Those were the moments that reminded you, and everyone on the crew, that beneath the rage and the metal, there was a fierce, unwavering devotion that only you could truly see.

You knew the signs. The clenching of his jaw, the subtle tremor in his metal arm, the way his voice would drop, becoming a dangerous rumble just before the explosion. It usually started with a trivial insult from a rival captain, a faulty navigational chart, or even just a particularly stubborn knot in a rope. Whatever it was, when Kid's temper flared, the entire crew braced themselves. But you didn't brace; you moved.

One blustery afternoon, a smaller pirate crew dared to challenge Kid's authority, their captain spewing arrogant taunts across the choppy waves. Kid’s hand immediately shot to his hilt, his muscles coiling, the air around him crackling with suppressed magnetism. Before he could make a move, you were there, your hand gently but firmly placed on his bicep. Your touch was like a cool stream against hot iron.

"Kid," you said, your voice soft but clear, cutting through the rising tension. Your eyes met his, and for a fleeting moment, the raw fury in his gaze softened, just for you. "They're not worth it. Let them learn their lesson another day, in a way that doesn't stain your coat." You offered a small, almost imperceptible shake of your head. He glared at the retreating ship, his chest still heaving, but he didn't move. He simply growled, a low, frustrated sound, and the crew collectively exhaled.

Later, after a particularly brutal clash with a Marine patrol, Kid was pacing the deck, the adrenaline still coursing through him. He was muttering darkly, kicking at stray debris, his good eye gleaming with a restless energy that bordered on destructive. The crew gave him a wide berth, understanding the danger. You, however, approached without hesitation.

"You're going to wear a hole in the deck," you remarked, a hint of playful exasperation in your tone.

He stopped, turning his furious gaze on you. "They almost got Killer! And they dared to call us rabid dogs!"

You walked closer, reaching up to gently cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over the rough stubble. His skin was warm, flushed with anger. "And you showed them they were wrong, didn't you?" you soothed, your voice a calm melody. "You protected your crew, like always. You were incredible out there." You could feel the tension slowly drain from his body under your touch. He leaned into your palm almost imperceptibly, his rage slowly dissipating into a simmering warmth. He wouldn't admit it, but your praise, your unwavering belief in him, was the only thing that could truly rein him in.

There were countless other moments, small and significant. A whispered word when he was about to rip someone’s head off for a minor infraction, a steadying hand on his arm when his temper threatened to consume him. You were his anchor, his quiet strength, the one person who could calm the raging storm that was Eustass Kid. And in return, he was fiercely, undeniably yours.

Life on the Grand Line, even with your calming presence, was relentlessly harsh. There were days the storms were less about the weather and more about the weariness that settled deep in your bones. After a particularly harrowing escape from a tenacious Marine Vice Admiral, the entire crew was exhausted, you most of all. You’d spent hours tending to the wounded, your energy completely drained.

You finally collapsed onto a coil of rope, too tired to even make it to your hammock. The salt-laced wind was biting, and you shivered, pulling your worn jacket tighter. Just as you were about to drift into a restless sleep, a large, heavy mass was draped over you. It was Kid’s signature crimson coat, still smelling faintly of ozone and his unique, metallic scent. You opened your eyes to see him standing over you, his back to the railing, seemingly engrossed in the churning waves. He didn't say a word, didn't even look at you, but the warmth of his coat was immediate and comforting, a silent acknowledgment of your fatigue. It was a gesture so unlike his usual aggressive demeanor that it spoke volumes.

Another time, a small, intricate wooden bird carving you'd been working on for weeks—a gift for a tiny, shy islander you’d befriended—slipped from your grasp during a sudden lurch of the ship. It skittered across the deck, heading straight for the churning sea. Your heart leaped into your throat. Before you could even react, Kid's metal arm shot out with lightning speed, snatching the delicate carving mere inches from the edge.

He retrieved it, his fingers, usually so destructive, surprisingly gentle as he held the tiny bird. He squinted at it, a flicker of something akin to curiosity in his eye, before he simply placed it back in your hand. He didn’t comment on your relief, didn't tease you for your clumsiness. He just averted his gaze, as if catching himself in a moment of unexpected tenderness. The crew who witnessed it pretended not to see, a silent testament to the rarity of such a display from their captain.

And then there were the nights when nightmares, remnants of past dangers or the ever-present threats of the sea, would steal your peace. You’d wake with a gasp, heart pounding, the phantom chill of a near-death experience clinging to you. You’d try to calm yourself, but sometimes the fear was too overwhelming. It was during one such night that you felt the gentle dip in the hammock beside yours, and then, a warm, heavy weight settle over your hand. Kid, ever the light sleeper, had noticed your distress. He didn't speak, didn't try to comfort you with words. Instead, he simply stayed there, his large hand enveloping yours, his presence a silent, immovable anchor against the tide of your fears. In those moments, his rough exterior melted away, revealing the unwavering support of the man who, despite all odds, was undeniably there for you.

Their relationship wasn't a grand, sweeping romance, filled with dramatic declarations or public displays of affection. It was built in the small, almost imperceptible moments that stitched their vastly different worlds together.

You often found yourself sketching, capturing the fleeting beauty of the Grand Line on whatever scrap paper you could find. One lazy afternoon, while you were engrossed in drawing a particularly striking sunset, Kid approached. Instead of his usual booming voice, he merely grunted, pulling up a barrel to sit beside you. You braced yourself for a critique, perhaps even a sarcastic jab about your "childish hobbies." Instead, he simply watched, his single eye surprisingly intent on your work. When you finished, he reached out, not to grab, but to gently tap the drawing with a metal finger. "Good," he grunted, a rare, genuine compliment. It was a small word, but from Kid, it felt like a symphony.

Food was another surprising avenue for their connection. While Kid was a notoriously unpicky eater, devouring anything put in front of him with aggressive efficiency, you knew his quiet preferences. If there was a specific, less common fruit scavenged from an island, you'd make sure a portion was always set aside for him, even if it meant foregoing your own. He'd never acknowledge it with words, but you'd catch him sometimes, a fleeting glance in your direction, a tiny, almost imperceptible nod of thanks as he devoured his share.

One chilly evening, after a particularly rough storm, you were bundled up on deck, shivering despite your layers. Kid, who rarely seemed affected by the elements, walked by, then paused. He disappeared for a moment, only to return with two steaming mugs of heavily sweetened tea, a rarity on the ship. He handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours, a silent warmth passing between you. He then settled down beside you, not too close, but close enough that the heat radiating from his large frame offered extra comfort. You drank your tea in comfortable silence, the quiet companionship a testament to the deep, unspoken affection that thrived between you both.

These were the moments that defined your love for Kid: the unexpected acts of consideration, the silent understandings, the unwavering presence. You were his gentle compass in the storm, and he, in his own gruff, powerful way, was your steadfast anchor. It was a love forged not in commonality, but in the profound acceptance of each other's contrasting natures, a testament to the idea that even the fiercest of flames could find solace in the kindest of breezes.

BARTOLOMEO ༉‧₊˚.

Gentle Soul, Boisterous fanboy. (1,925 words)

A soft breeze ruffled your hair as you looked out over the sparkling expanse of the Grand Line. You were a gentle soul, known across islands not for grand feats of strength, but for the quiet power of your compassion. When someone stumbled, you were the first to offer a steadying hand. When tears fell, your embrace was a comforting harbor. You'd willingly stand in harm's way if it meant another's safety, a quiet guardian in a chaotic world.

And then there was Bartolomeo. Your Barty. He was… different. Where you were a gentle ripple, he was a crashing wave, all boisterous declarations and unwavering devotion, particularly when it came to the Straw Hats. His love for Luffy and his crew was a force of nature, often expressed with a protective snarl towards anyone who dared disrespect his idols. He was loud, he was brash, and sometimes, he was absolutely infuriating. Yet, beneath the thorny exterior of the Straw Hat fanboy, you knew there was a fierce loyalty and a heart, however uniquely expressed, that beat just for you. It was a strange harmony, your quiet grace and his roaring passion, but somehow, it worked.

The first time Bartolomeo saw you gently coaxing a frightened stray dog out from under a market stall with soft whispers and a piece of your lunch, he stopped dead in his tracks. He’d been in the middle of a rather loud, one-sided argument with a street vendor who’d dared to suggest "Straw Hat Luffy was just a pirate." His own booming voice had faltered, his eyes fixed on your serene face as the dog, tail wagging, licked your outstretched hand. He felt a strange lurch in his chest, something entirely unfamiliar to the usual surge of fanboy rage.

"Oi, what're you doing with that mutt?" he'd gruffed later, sidling up to you as you shared your water with the now calm animal.

You’d simply smiled, your eyes crinkling at the corners. "He was scared, Bartolomeo. He just needed a little kindness."

He'd grunted, shuffling his feet. Kindness wasn't exactly in his usual repertoire, especially not towards a mangy street dog. But watching you, it seemed… right. Later that day, you found a surprisingly fresh, if slightly squashed, fish left discreetly beside the dog you’d befriended. You knew exactly who it was from, even if he'd never admit it.

One blustery afternoon, a new recruit to Bartolomeo's crew, overwhelmed by the sheer, unadulterated chaos that often followed in the wake of the Straw Hat Fan Club, broke down. He was curled up in a corner, sobbing quietly, convinced he wasn't cut out for pirate life. Bartolomeo, for all his bluster, looked genuinely perplexed, his usual bravado deflating slightly. He just stood there, hands on his hips, completely unsure how to handle a crying man.

You, on the other hand, moved without hesitation. You knelt beside the man, your hand gently resting on his shoulder. "It's alright," you murmured, your voice a soothing balm. "It's a lot to take in at first, isn't it? But you're stronger than you think. We're all here to help each other."

You stayed with him, talking softly, until his sobs subsided and he looked up with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Bartolomeo, watching from a distance, felt that familiar, strange lurch again. You had a way of seeing past the surface, of finding the vulnerable core that he, with all his walls and his loud exterior, often missed. He might not have understood how you did it, but he knew he was endlessly grateful that you did.

The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea and the screech of gulls as your small ship, the Kind Heart, bobbed gently on the waves. Bartolomeo, as usual, was perched on the figurehead – a surprisingly well-carved depiction of a smiling sheep – his green hair whipping in the wind. He was excitedly pointing towards a hazy island on the horizon, a place rumored to hold a legendary, incredibly rare type of cola that even the Straw Hats hadn't tasted.

"Y/N! Look! That's gotta be it! The Isle of Fizz! I can just imagine how stoked Boss Luffy will be when I tell him I found cola even he's never had!" Bartolomeo's voice boomed across the deck, his enthusiasm infectious despite its volume.

You chuckled, adjusting the worn map in your hands. "The legends also say it's guarded by some rather… enthusiastic creatures, Barty."

He scoffed, slamming a fist into his chest, a green barrier momentarily flickering around it. "Hmph! What kind of weaklings could stand against the great Bartolomeo?!"

You smiled softly. His confidence, though often over the top, was also strangely reassuring. You knew that beneath the bravado, he would always have your back.

As you drew closer to the island, the lush green foliage gave way to towering, oddly shaped rock formations that seemed to bubble and fizz at their peaks. The air grew sweeter, carrying a faint, almost sugary aroma. Suddenly, a volley of sticky, brown projectiles rained down on your ship.

"Cola bombs!" Bartolomeo roared, deflecting the sticky globs with his Barrier-Barrier Fruit. "See, Y/N? I told you there'd be a challenge!" He actually seemed thrilled.

You, however, were more concerned about the creatures launching the attack. They were small, furry beings with large, bulging eyes and what appeared to be miniature cola bottles attached to their backs. They chittered and screeched, their tiny hands furiously squeezing more cola bombs.

"They seem more scared than aggressive," you observed, noticing how they retreated slightly whenever Bartolomeo's barrier appeared. "Maybe we should try talking to them?"

Bartolomeo stared at you like you'd grown a second head. "Talking? To fizzy furballs that are trying to glue us to the deck?"

"Well, fighting them doesn't seem to be getting us any closer to the cola, does it?" you pointed out gently.

With a dramatic sigh and a roll of his eyes, Bartolomeo relented. "Fine, fine. But if they try anything, they're getting a face full of barrier!"

You carefully approached the edge of the ship, offering a piece of the sweet bread you'd baked that morning. "Hello there," you called out softly. "We just want to see the cola. We won't hurt you."

The furry creatures paused their attack, their large eyes blinking curiously at the bread. One particularly bold one crept closer, sniffing cautiously. You held your breath as it tentatively nibbled at the offering. Soon, others followed suit, their chittering softening into more curious sounds.

Bartolomeo watched the scene unfold, his usual boisterousness replaced with a quiet fascination. He saw how your gentle demeanor and genuine kindness were having a far greater effect than any display of strength could.

Eventually, one of the creatures, seemingly the leader, gestured with a tiny paw towards a path leading into the island's interior. It made a series of bubbling noises, and you had a feeling it was inviting you to follow.

"Well, Barty," you said, turning to him with a smile. "Looks like they're willing to show us the way."

He grunted, but there was a hint of admiration in his eyes. "Hmph. Guess being nice ain't always a bad strategy, huh?" He still looked ready to deploy his barriers at a moment's notice, but for now, he followed you onto the Isle of Fizz, a strange blend of gentle diplomacy and impenetrable defense venturing into the unknown.

You lay on the makeshift cot in your ship's infirmary, a bandage wrapped around your arm. The scent of medicinal herbs filled the small space, a stark contrast to the sweet, fizzy aroma of the Isle of Fizz that still clung faintly to your clothes. Bartolomeo paced back and forth in the cramped room, his usual swagger replaced by a tight furrow in his brow.

"I just… I don't understand, Y/N!" he exclaimed, his voice rough with a mixture of worry and exasperation. "Those cola geysers were strong! One wrong step, and – and you just jumped in front of that little fur ball! Why would you do that?!"

You offered him a weak smile. "He looked so scared, Barty. And he was just trying to protect his home, just like we would."

"Protect his home?!" Bartolomeo threw his hands up in exasperation, his green hair swaying wildly. "Y/N, you could have been seriously hurt! That cola could have burned you something awful! And for what? Some… some fizzing rat!"

"They weren't rats, Barty," you said gently, wincing slightly as you shifted. "They were just trying to defend their treasure. Besides," you added, your gaze softening as you looked at him, "you were right behind me. I knew you'd protect me."

Bartolomeo stopped pacing, his face softening slightly, though a hint of his frustration remained. "That's not the point! I shouldn't have to protect you from your own… your own selflessness! You can't just keep throwing yourself into danger like that!"

He knelt beside your cot, his large hands hovering awkwardly above yours, as if unsure whether to touch you. "You're… you're too kind, Y/N. Too good for this world sometimes. And it scares me." His voice was softer now, the booming edge gone. "What if I wasn't fast enough? What if my barrier didn't hold? What would I do then?"

You reached out, your uninjured hand finding his. His fingers were rough, calloused from years of fighting, but his grip was surprisingly gentle. "You would have found a way, Barty. You always do. And besides," you squeezed his hand reassuringly, "I know my limits. I wouldn't do anything truly reckless."

He looked down at your hand in his, a conflicted expression on his face. He knew your heart was pure, that your every action was guided by an innate desire to help others. It was one of the things he loved most about you, this unwavering compassion. But it also terrified him. The Grand Line was a dangerous place, and your tendency to put others before yourself was a constant source of worry.

"Just… just be more careful, okay?" he mumbled, his gaze still fixed on your hand. "Think about yourself sometimes too. You're important, Y/N. More important than any fizzy cola or scared little creature in the world."

You smiled, your heart swelling at his words. For all his bluster and obsession with the Straw Hats, Bartolomeo cared deeply. In his own loud, protective way, he loved you fiercely. "I will try, Barty. I promise. But you have to promise me something too."

He looked up, his green eyes questioning. "What's that?"

"Promise me you'll never stop being you," you said softly. "Your strength, your loyalty… even your crazy fanboy moments. That's all part of why I love you."

A faint blush crept onto Bartolomeo's cheeks, and he looked away, a rare moment of bashfulness. "Tch. Of course not. Who else would protect Boss Luffy's honor with such… enthusiasm?"

But as he looked back at you, a genuine, heartfelt smile touched his lips. He squeezed your hand gently. "Just… try not to give me so many scares, alright?"

You chuckled, a warm feeling spreading through you despite the ache in your arm. "I'll do my best, you big softie."

He scoffed, puffing out his chest. "Softie?! I am the great Bartolomeo!" But the grin on his face betrayed him. In the aftermath of the cola geyser and your selfless act, a deeper understanding had settled between you, a quiet acknowledgment of the contrasting forces that somehow, beautifully, held you together.

[willowpains]

Latina actress!reader doing the “I can’t pay the mortgage this month” prank on Drew !!

can’t pay the rent

drew starkey x latina actress reader!

You walk into the kitchen of your apartment with Drew, as he stands there with his back to you, as he finishes doing dishes in the sink.

Without making any noise, you place your phone that’s recording next to the microwave, kinda hidden so your boyfriend wouldn’t notice it.

You were about to prank him with a trend going online, where girls told their boyfriends how they couldn’t pay their apartment rent that month, even though they never did just to get their reactions.

Curiosity got the best of you, because you were about to prank Drew to see how he would react.

You never paid your apartment rent, he was the one who insisted on doing it, ever since you both had decided to move in together, he refused to let you pay rent or any bills in general.

He was a pretty big gentleman and liked to cover all those payments for the both of you, even though you always tried to fight him off in trying to pay something.

You walked closer to him, leaning on the kitchen countertop, facing him, as he was lost in his activity.

“Amor, I need to tell you something” you said with a serious face, immediately clocking into character.

Drew turned to look at you attentively.

“Everything ok doll?” he asked, a bit worried at your demeanor.

You sighed, looking at the floor for a moment, trying to be dramatic, before meeting his eyes again.

“I’m so sorry I…” you pause, holding the bridge of your nose, stressed. “I can’t pay their rent this month”.

Drew’s brows furrowed in confusion as he looked at you.

He was not understanding what you were saying.

“What?” he asked, wondering if he might’ve heard wrong.

You covered your face between your hands before speaking again.

“I can’t pay the rent this month” you say, meeting his still confused eyes. “I lent Lacie some money and I’m not gonna be able to afford it” you finish, your stressed look not wavering.

Your boyfriend had a feeling this was all a joke.

He knew you didn’t pay the rent, he did.

But he also knew you were stubborn, and you were looking seriously stressed.

He was confused, had you found a way to pay for rent without him knowing?

“Baby you don’t pay the rent, I do” he said, his brows still furrowed, as he turned to face you completely.

You shaked your head at him.

“I’m sorry I can’t pay it this month” you let out, trying your hardest not to break at seeing him truly baffled.

Drew opened his mouth to speak before closing it, not even knowing what to say.

“Love, I pay our landlord directly each month, what do you mean?” he asks, crossing his arms in front of him, full dad mode.

A groan escapes your lips as you take a step closer to him, giving him your best puppy eyes.

“I can’t pay it this month I’m so sorry” you say before resting your head in his chest, in a defeated way.

He stands there for a second without moving, perplexed at what was happening in front of him.

“Are you pranking me?” he suddenly asks, looking around the kitchen, as if trying to find the hidden camera.

You move back, scoffing, acting offended.

And in that moment, Drew notices your phone filming.

“I knew it” he says, pointing to your phone, as he looks at you accusingly. “It made no sense!”

You start laughing as you crouch down, holding your stomach letting out everything you were holding back.

“You looked so confused mi amor” you say, standing back up, as you look at him with tears in your eyes from laughter.

He shakes his head at you.

“I was starting to believe it, I was wondering if you had found a way to pay instead of me, but I was like, where’s the money I’ve been paying this dude for a year?” he says, watching you continue to laugh at him.

You walk to him as you wrap your arms around his waist, looking up at him.

“I’m sorryyyyy” you let out, pouting at him. “I just couldn’t resist”.

Drew lets out a chuckle at your way of apologizing, as he moves a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’re evil” he says, looking down at you.

You lean to peck his chest, as you look up at him through your lashes.

“You love me though” you say, smiling softly at him.

He suddenly pulls away, before picking you up between his arms, making you scream and wrap your legs around him.

“You’re gonna pay for this” he says, walking out of the kitchen with you, towards the bedroom.

You let out a squeal in surprise, your hands on his shoulders for support.

“Drew my phone is still recording!” you say, looking back at the kitchen knowing your phone was still filming and needed to pause the video.

He snickers at your words.

“I guess it’s gonna keep filming for a while then doll” he says as he throws you on the bed, smirking down at you.

You giggle at his words.

You loved pranking him.

And you knew he loved it too.

*

thank you so much for your request! sorry it took me a little bit to get it out, I haven’t been motivated enough

I hope you like it though<3

thanks to everyone that’s been commenting, liking and reposting my stuff, means so much to me that you like latina actress reader as much as I do! as always, if there’s something about her you wanna know, see or read let me know!

[htaesan]

　ᅠ ✿　ᅠ MEDICINE　　────　ᅠ ( han taesan )

𝓹recis ⠀ : ⠀your boyfriend, han dongmin, isn’t the biggest fan of public displays of affection, preferring to maintain his nonchalant image. however, when you come home with a sore throat, his inner romantic pops out instantly.

　　　ᅠ 한태산 ⠀⠀◜◡◝ ⠀⠀𝒇 reader ⠀wc 1.2k ⠀ genre fluff established relationship ⠀ contains mentions of food skinship pet names sickness (sore throat) ⠀ note i’m sorry LOLZ this is suuuuper self-indulgent coz. i am unfortunately Sick ⠀ tagging @a-dream-bookmark ,@/k-labels , @k-nets , @k-films , @sgz-net , @onedoornet

　　　ᅠ ＞︿ 　　please leave feedbacks 　　& 　　reblog

Dongmin knew, from the moment you stepped into the house, that there was something wrong with you. 

“Welcome home, baby,” he says the second he hears the door open. He’s sitting in the living room, brainstorming some ideas for his upcoming song. He looks up to you, eyebrows furrowing immediately after seeing a blank look on your face. 

The only response he gets from you is a hum. You huffily open your shoes, setting your coat aside, and walk into the bedroom you share with Dongmin. 

Dongmin watches in pure silence as you do all this, concern clouding his thoughts. He knows, immediately, that you’re feeling off—you didn’t run straight into his arms after coming home from your work shift. 

“Y/N? Darling?” he calls, pausing to hear for any replies. 

And after a few minutes of getting silence as your response, Dongmin grunts and jumps off the couch. He tosses his notebook aside, bolting towards your shared bedroom. He stops his momentum as he bumps against the doorframe, a little perplexed seeing you plopped on the bed, face flat down, still in your work clothes. 

The unusual change in your usual behaviour irks him. 

“Baby,” he says softly, “are you mad at me?”

Dongmin asks cautiously, remembering that he didn’t pick you up from work today due to a meeting with the band he’s producing songs for. It’s part of the way Dongmin shows his love for you—he’ll spend extra money on bus tickets just to accompany you on the way to work, even though your workplace is the opposite of his own. 

“No…” he catches a muffled reply from you, weak and tired. Dongmin takes this as a chance—he steps closer to you. His steps are swift yet quiet, and once he’s by the edge of the bed, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants. He isn’t used to being the one offering physical affection, so he’s a little unsure of the next move he should be making. 

“Then… What’s the matter, baby?”

Dongmin has his eyes trained on you, quick to catch any kind of response from you. He’s immensely worried—you’re not usually like this. On normal days, you’d spend your evenings talking about your day, telling him about the little things that made you smile today as the two of you take the bus to go home. Usually, Dongmin would enjoy the view of the sun setting into the horizon with you on his lap, taking a nap to recharge after a long day. 

You sluggishly turn, whining. “I don’t know…”

“You don’t feel good?” Dongmin asks, sitting next to you. Still laying down, you nod.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat immediately after. You pout, inching closer to Dongmin. Noticing your actions, Dongmin adjusts his sitting position to let you lay your head on his lap. You settle yourself comfortably, melting into his warmth.

“This feels so much better,” you murmur. 

“Yeah?” he breathes, smiling softly. 

The two of you spend quite some time together—Dongmin stroking your head gently as you close your eyes for a few moments. He’s not a big fan of grandly expressing his love for you—he prefers loving you in the little, simple things in life. But today, he just feels like it—it’s quite tiring pretending to be so nonchalant when all he and the biggest romantic side of him wants is to pepper you in his affection. 

Dongmin is lost in thought as he’s gazing upon you—how gentle and beautiful you look even when your eyes are closed, and how lucky he truly is to have you as the love of his life. He leans down, kissing your forehead, and is surprised at how abnormally warm your skin feels. 

Dongmin places a hand on your forehead. Warm. He frowns, placing his hand on your neck and face. Still warm. 

“Darling,” he calls, his voice gentle as his kiss on your nose. Your eyes flutter open, and he holds your gaze. “Are you sick?”

You clear your throat, clearly uncomfortable as you do so. “Am I?”

Dongmin opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by a fit of coughs from you. Both of you widen your eyes, and you immediately sit up. 

“I’m sorry for that–”

“You’re sick.”

You blink profusely, confused. “What?”

“You’re sick,” Dongmin says, matter-of-factly. Without missing a beat, he rushes to the closet and comes back a quick second later with his hoodie—your favourite one to steal from his wardrobe. He hands it to you, his brows crossed in a serious expression. 

“Here,” he says. 

You take it from his hand. “What are you–”

“Go change—” he says, quickly kissing your cheek before darting out of the room. “—I’ll be back!”

You oblige to his words, changing into the Dongmin’s hoodie and some comfortable pants. You walk out of the bedroom, hating how you’re coughing every two minutes. A sweet, tangy smell attacks your nose, and you dash to the kitchen, seeing Dongmin cutting up a pineapple. You can’t fight the smile that immediately erupts on your face, finding his focused expression adorable. 

You cough again, breaking the comfortable silence in the apartment. Dongmin looks up at you, and his eyes instantly light up at the sight of you. He smiles, a kind of fuzzy feeling filling up his chest seeing you comfortable in his clothes.

“What are you doing there? Go rest,” he says, using his head to signal to the direction of the bedroom. 

You purse your lips. He’s right, but you just wanna stand there and watch him do his thing—remembering the tiny details about you, effortlessly doing them for you. Dongmin is cutting pineapples, meticulously picking out the spiky leaves out of the sweet fruit’s flesh—all because he knows that you love eating pineapples whenever you have a sore throat.  

“Where did you get the pineapple?” you ask, approaching him. 

Dongmin scoops the cut-up fruit from the cutting board and into a bowl. “I happened to have one,” he answers, flashing you an ‘innocent’ smile that you know is hiding mischief behind it. 

“You ordered it, didn’t you?” you question, narrowing your eyes at him. Dongmin snickers, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Now, my dearest darling,” Dongmin says, the bowl of pineapple in one hand and another on your back. He guides you to the bedroom, grinning widely. “Let’s cosy up, shoo the sore throat away with some pineapples and a good kdrama?”

Your face lights up with the mention of Dongmin’s brilliant idea. “But you don’t like watching dramas,” you point out as you climb onto bed. 

Dongmin, the stupidly handsome grin still on his face, replies cheekily. “Well, I’ll watch them for you.”

“Why?” you ask, suspiciously glancing at him. 

“Because I love you,” Dongmin says in a sing-song tone, leaning in to give you a swift kiss. 

You giggle into the kiss, already a pink mess. You bury yourself into Dongmin’s hoodie, letting his familiar and comforting scent engulf you as you wait for him to settle next to you. 

You then wrap your arms around Dongmin’s waist, head snugly against his chest. You spend the rest of the night binge-watching a comfort show that you’ve seen multiple times—letting yourself rest, already feeling better with Dongmin feeding you pineapples, knowing that he’s secretly enjoying being the openly affectionate one. Your heartbeats align with one another, and you slowly drift to sleep in peace, forgetting about the annoying feeling of a sore throat. 

Honestly, any pain is tolerable when you’re with Dongmin—his presence is already enough of a medicine for you. 

― © htaesan, 2025.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀want more like this? check out the 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

[differenteagletragedy]

Part four of Price being your neighbor who is not so secretly in love with you even though you have a booooyfriend

Part One — Part Two — Part Three

John is a man who thrives on routine. He has a certain way of doing things, and a certain time frame in which he does them. The fact that he's doing laundry on a Sunday night just to spend time with you says more about his feelings for you than he's said in words, at least so far.

But there he is, 6:45 on Sunday evening, basket in tow as he stands in the small little laundry room in the basement of your apartment building. You'd agreed to meet at 7:00 when you texted earlier, and he's a firm believer in being punctual.

(There's also a part of him that believes you've already done enough waiting for each other, but he doesn't need to voice that just yet.)

He didn't expect you to be as early as he was, but he is a bit surprised when 7:00 rolls around and you don't show. By ten after, he's a little perplexed, but when he sees you're 20 minutes late, he feels a pang of concern.

So he texts you. No answer.

His mind races, trying to form the best plan of action, but soon you’re walking through the door, cheeks flushed and your own laundry basket in your arms. You offer him an apologetic look before dropping your eyes back down to the ground, setting your basket on a nearby machine.

“You all right, sweetheart?” he asks, studying your expression. By now, he knows you just well enough to see that something’s wrong.

“Yeah, fine. I just thought it would be nice to … I don’t know, after yesterday. To hang out for a bit.”

"I'm not talking about that, love."

He watches you bite your lip, eyes still down, before you say it.

"He went through my phone and saw our texts, then got all ... well, we had an argument."

John raises his eyebrows, his lips a tight line and his mind playing through worst case scenarios, but he pushes them aside to focus on you.

"Truly, you all right?"

You nod, but he can see the tension in your shoulders and the slight shake of your hands as you start shoving clothes in one of the machines. Not for the first time since he's had the displeasure of meeting your boyfriend, he's torn between the primal urge to tear the man limb from limb and the softer but no less urgent instinct to tend to you.

And not for the first time, he chooses you.

"There was nothing wrong with our texts," you say after a beat. "He just thinks there's ... I don't know, something between us. Which I told him was silly."

"Is it though?"

"John ..."

He drops all pretenses of doing laundry and steps next to you, pulling a shirt from your hands and taking them both in his.

"Let's speak frankly, you and I. Can we do that, sweetheart?"

Another nod, and he smiles approvingly, his thumbs stroking the tops of your hands.

"Yesterday ... we shared a moment, didn't we?" he asks, his voice a low murmur. "You let me hold you. I would have kissed you, and I think you would have let me. Do you think you would have?"

"I ... yes."

He smirks, not in an unkind way, and squeezes your hands.

"Seems like there may just be something between us then, don't you think, pet?"

When you agree this time, your voice so soft and hesitant, he guides your hands to his shoulders, placing them there before, like yesterday, moving his hands to your waist. When you don't pull away, he looks at you, wanting to make sure you're still listening before he continues.

"You deserve better than this. Better than some small man who brings you down, and better than a man like me who's selfish enough to steal moments like this."

He sees the furrow in your brow, your fingers moving to the short hairs on the back of his neck, and you ask, "Then what do I deserve?"

"Everything, love. More than what I could give you, but I'd never stop trying."

He’s not sure who starts it, if he leans down or you reach up, but a split second later, he’s finally kissing you. And it’s not a gentle first kiss, some storybook thing with tender touches and a slow build. It’s hot and heavy from the start, but still, John wants more.

“I can’t,” you tell him as he begins moving his kisses along your jawline, down toward your neck.

But you can — you are. You can leave your boyfriend, get out of the relationship that’s no good for you, you can be with him. He meant what he said yesterday, all you had to do was make the step, take the chance. The second you take the leap, he’ll be there to catch you, and he’ll hold you for as long as you need. As long as you’ll let him.

He also meant what he said just now: you deserve the best. Much better than a heated moment in a basement laundry room. With some difficulty, he pulls back, giving you a small, warm smile.

“If you only let me, sweetheart, I’ll give you everything,” he says. “But you’ve got to trust me, you’ve got to let me do it.”

A beat passes, and he can almost see the wheels turning in your mind.

“I’m just scared,” you finally admit. “I’ve been with him for so long, it’s like … I don’t know. Like I don’t know who I am without him.”

“He doesn’t define you, love. It’s all right to be scared, but I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. You trust me?”

You consider the question for a minute, then there it is: a small, tentative smile. A confirmation.

Something he can work with.

[smuttysabina]

Motherly Impregnations with Yiren

(Male Reader x Yiren/Jihyo(short), 4.3k words) Tags: More mommy time, You don't need massive tits to be a mommy, Slight incest, Stern mothering, Oral and vaginal sex, Erotic dancing, Disappointing sex, Premature ejaculation, Impregnation, Setup chapter for the tropical incest bonanza

Previous Chapter

You had always had Mommy issues, though to be fair, you had recently acquired more than a few "Mommies", who were more than willing to scratch that particular itch. As it turned out, your dear cousin Jihyo had a plethora of fellow idols who were only too happy to help satisfy your lack of motherly attention; in a manner that usually left you emotionally fulfilled, while testicularly drained. Even Jihyo herself had joined in on the fun, though she had coyly forbidden you from penetrative sex, her hands, thighs, and breasts had milked you multiple times over the months; and it had left you even further enthralled by her than you had been before Gahyun had popped your cherry. Now your cousin dragged you along to all sorts of events, and sometimes you didn't end up getting pampered by some amorous idol and drained of your seed simply for being Jihyo's relative. So that was how you found yourself backstage at a recital, while a beautiful vixen salaciously danced in front of you, her every movement an advertisement in lust; you quite honestly had not expected you would be getting fucked tonight, but Yiren seemed intent on making it happen.

Like most evenings these days, Jihyo had arrived after the sun had set, and cheerfully told you what you both would be doing this evening. Ordinarily you would have chafed at such tight control over your social life, but so you had grown so obsessed in your quest to fuck your cousin that you readily agreed to her every whim if it got you one step closer to that goal. Of course, Jihyo knew what you wanted, but was more that willing to use your arousal to mold you into the kind of man she wanted you to be; and it wasn't as if she was ignoring your sexual needs. Why, just last night... You moan pitifully as Jihyo's soft lips slowly move down your shaft, kissing every inch of your length until your tip is drooling precum. Your cousin smiles knowingly while she continues to stroke your cock, evidently you would not be lasting long enough for her to need to use her breasts, let alone her thighs, to bring you to orgasm. She still opens her mouth in pretend shock though when your load erupts all over her face, "Oh! Good boy..." she coos as she licks up the mess she made on your manhood... Next thing you knew you had been bundled into a car with the heavily pregnant Jihyo and driven to a nearby theatre, where an idol from a group you were not very familiar with was putting on a performance of sorts.

Jihyo had never been very close with the idols of Everglow, even if she had been extremely keen on assisting them with matters regarding... breeding. So you had been somewhat perplexed when she announced during the ride to the venue that Yiren had been practicing for a show of sorts, and had wanted to test her abilities in front of a live audience of discerning skill; which obviously meant Jihyo. Still, your cousin was usually far too busy with normal idol tasks for such a trivial request, and not from one of her favorites no less, so something about Yiren's offer must have caught her attention. You had never even met the girl before, and most of what you knew about her had come from watching a video of her and the other members of Everglow getting bred by some guy with a truly monstrous cock. Yiren had been quite dignified, and had indeed mounted it first, arrogant even while her belly was bulging obscenely and she looked on the verge of passing out. As for the rest of the girls, well, watching a girl so short you could rest you arm on her head taking a dick as long as her torso to the hilt had been... an experience to say the least. Even Jihyo had seemed somewhat queasy at the frantic glee those perverts had shown when stretching their bodies far past the breaking point.

So it was a touch awkward when you finally meet Yiren in person, after she effusively greets Jihyo, she turns her attention towards you; and it felt embarrassing to give her a polite hug after having watched her getting violated in such a visceral fashion. But she seemed none the worse for wear as she guides you through the modest venue and into the familiar surroundings of a practice room. Her attendants pull up comfortable chairs for you to sit in while you wait, as Yiren bows in gratitude before hurriedly leaving to get changed for you two; it seems like you and Jihyo would be getting a private performance of sorts before the main event began. The pair of you settle in, chatting idly like normal cousins would, though Jihyo's hand seemed oddly intent on stroking your thigh from time to time. The minutes swing by, until the idol's phone starts buzzing energetically, she idly answers it, her eyebrows narrowing as she glances intently to the side, before sighing and simply saying, "On my way," she pats your leg apologetically, "Sorry dear, Yeji broke into the intern pens again, so I'll have to go handle that, be a good boy and stay for me, okay? I'll be back once I get things settled down back at the office" Jihyo, kisses you on the forehead before marching out of the room, annoyance clearly written on her features as she waddles out; graceful even with a massive belly. Leaving you to enjoy the coming performance alone.

Yiren looks miffed when she waltzes back into the room and finds her feted spectator missing, looking accusingly at you as if you were the one who caused her to leave. Her fury only makes her look all the more attractive though, displeasure looks good on her, and her elegantly applied makeup only heightens the effect. Yiren was dressed like a courtesan of old, her taut stomach on display while her breasts were demurely pushed up, and her limber legs obscured by a tasseled dress. It made you feel as if you were in one of those period dramas, a nobleman indulgently allowing some peasant to dance for him only for her to catch his interest, as well as his seed later that night. In those shows though, the dancer tended to be humble and kindly compared to her competition while Yiren was... "Oh that fucking slut is at it again? Typical, she never could control herself," Yiren sniffs pointedly, as if she had never enjoyed sexual relations with several fans at once. And to be fair to her, you had also been shocked that the bumbling and cheerful Yeji harbored nigh sociopathic levels of nymphomania; her fear of Jihyo's displeasure was likely the only thing that stopped you from being ravaged long before those two Mommies ushered you into manhood.

With a resigned sigh, Yiren puts her hands on her hips and appraises you more closely, though judging by her raised eyebrow she was none too impressed by what she was seeing, "You are... Jihyo's cousin, aren't you?" she muses upon this, before nodding with slight satisfaction, her complex hairdo bobbing slightly atop her head, "Very well, I had wanted her feedback on my dance, but you will have to do. The show officially starts in an hour, so we have more than enough time," Yiren claps her hands to catch her attendant's attention, and they scurry to ignite scented braziers and lower the overhead lights to set the proper ambiance. A low, warbling undertone starts up from speakers bolted to the ceiling, tickling your eardrums in a not entirely unpleasant fashion, as Yiren leans down over you. She smiles as you awkwardly shift in your seat, "Don't worry, I won't bite, just... relax," she affectionately pats your cheek before whirling about and sauntering back to the center of the room. Yiren smoothly twists and bows towards you, her long, red armbands dangling as she demurely supplicates herself; giving you the barest peak of her modest cleavage before she sweeps back into an upright stance. The performance, had begun.

Yiren moves in long, languid movements, unhurriedly showing off her lithe body, wordlessly introducing herself to you as she glides around the floor. A slow, pounding drumbeat accentuates her every step, her hips swaying from side to side in time with it, her skirt rustling tantalizingly, emphasizing her slightest motion. The beat suddenly increases, and Yiren's dress swirls about her as she spins, her leg lifting up to briefly reveal a hint of pinkish skin amidst the roiling folds of her outfit before it is hidden once more as her leg lowers. You lean forward, your interest piqued by that flash of glistening flesh... Yiren, a light smile gracing her elegant features, returns to her sensually lazy movements; but now that you were fully acquainted with her body, she shows what she is going to do with it. The drums pound once more as the idol prances lasciviously about the floor, her limber legs swinging wildly as she draws ever closer to where you are sitting. You are dumbstruck as her skirts ride gradually higher on her hips, pushed upwards by her violent movements, giving you ever more glimpses of that unmistakable slash between her thighs. Your heart slams in your chest in primal sympathy with the beat, and you are utterly enthralled by Yiren, addicted to every seductive flourish of her legs. Your brain is fogged by desire that you do not notice how close she is until her foot sails over your head, granting you an unobstructed view for the first time, as well as the heady scent of a woman in heat. Yiren turns the motion into a spin, smoothly flicking her skirt about herself to reveal her bare bottom before ending in an arched pose; her arms above her head, with one leg raised just enough to, finally, show you what you hungered for.

You are almost drooling as you drink in the sight of Yiren's perfectly formed pussy. Her delicate clit heralding the smoothest set of lips you had ever seen, her modest folds demanding to be pampered and worshipped before you could even consider entering them. Yiren stares down at you, her chest heaving as she lowers her arms, "I take it... you enjoyed... my performance?" she glances pointedly down at the conspicuous bulge in your pants, a weary smile upon her face. Your manhood is all the response she needs, but you are still unable to stop yourself from moaning an affirmative. Yiren cocks her head as she slips into your lap, her arms draping themselves around the back of your chair, "Mommy?" she inquires, "Your mother is far from here, but I would be... happy to take her place," she slides a hand across your shoulders and down your chest, "Now then, Mommy needs something from you, do try and not disappoint, hm?" The strain in your pants grows even greater in response, and she steps back, hands on hips, "Well? Pants off. Now." You shakily shove your pants down your legs, your cock springing energetically as it tastes the humid air of the room. You both look awkwardly at one another for several breaths, before Yiren sighs once more, "I see, I had hoped the father of my first child would have a little more... gumption to him. I suppose I will be on top then."

You attempt to get up out of your seat in protest, but Yiren's hand firmly stops you before you can rise, "Oh, stop. You forfeited your chance to breed me in a dignified fashion the moment you did not fall to your knees and prepare me like a proper man would. So sit back, shut up, and let Mommy do all the work, since apparently you can't." You stammer out a question as she sits upon your lap once more, and Yiren frowns, "What do you mean, 'Already pregnant'? Why would- Oh. There was a video, wasn't there?" You nod shyly, causing the idol to roll her eyes, "Please, as if I would let a fucking peasant like that impregnate me? I had E:U clean me out afterwards, my womb deserves the seed of... worthy men," Yiren pats your cheek, "But you'll do," She smirks haughtily, clearly reveling in her superiority over you, but it wasn't as if you could do anything about; after all, your cock cared little about your wounded pride. Her hand grasps your now thoroughly erect member, orienting it towards her slick entrance, "Feel free to finish whenever you'd like," Yiren informs you, "But do try and impress me..."

Muggy warmth engulfs your cock as Yiren sits on it, her pampered pussy devouring your length, causing you to groan plaintively as you struggle to hold on. She politely pauses when she reaches your hilt, allowing you to collect yourself before she starts moving again, a slow grind that morphs into a languid bounce. Yiren skirt rasps against your legs as she arrogantly rides your dick, displaying not even an ounce of pleasure as she methodically fucks you. Her face remains serene as her folds clench tightly around your shaft, and only when you start to moan for her does a half-smile graces her lips, "Is Mommy too tight for you? I can feel your balls pulsating, are you going to let go? Go on," Yiren purrs, "Disappoint me..." You shudder as you feel yourself giving in, you were so used to being showered with praise during sex, but being sternly scolded was surprisingly arousing; and your traitorous testicles seemed more than eager to fill this fertile princess... Yiren plants herself firmly against you when you creampie her, callously ruining your orgasm to produce the largest load possible, your semen flooding her pussy as you twitch beneath her., "My," Yiren smirks as she strokes your face, "I had low expectations, but you truly managed to reach even those. Surely this wasn't your first time? Whatever," Yiren places her finger on your lips to forestall any protests, "Now hush, Mommy needs to open her cervix."

Yiren breathes deeply, concentrating upon her body's little used muscles, and flexing her exposed core muscles rhythmically until she lets out the softest of moans, "I can feel it..." she kisses your sweaty forehead, "Congratulations, you're going to be a parent, I imagine Jihyo will be pleased," With that she gracefully unmounts you, allowing your excess cum to drip down her slender thighs, and glances at the clock on the wall, and lets out an unlady-like snort, "It seems we are blessed with a surfeit of time, at this rate we will be able to fit several rounds in with ease," she glances at you, "Well? Get it up again. You might have impregnated me, but I will be damned if I let the father of my child be such an embarrassment in bed," You blush brightly from her scornful words, it was hardly your fault that Mommy's pussy had been so breedable... But Yiren's tongue lashing made not only your cheeks flush with blood, as your manhood rises once more to the challenge, still slick with her juices and slathered with your own. The idol nods in satisfaction, "Well, at least you still have your youthful vigor," she stalks over to the abandoned chair and bends over it, sweeping her skirt up over the side of her hip to give you an unobscured view of her perky rear, "Pleasure your Mommy. I am curious to see how you perform with a bit more stamina in you."

Filled with fresh determination, you approach Yiren eager to prove her wrong with a more forceful showing. Her pussy was on clear display between her petite cheeks, its delicate lips already glistening from your earlier sex, primly shut once more as it awaits your member. With one hand on her hip, you press your cock against Yiren's slit, attempting to find her entrance, until a resigned sigh halts your efforts. Yiren looks back at you, "Oh. It's worse than I thought, Jihyo truly has been indulging you hasn't she?" Your face crumples in confusion, causing Yiren to roll her eyes, "Let me guess, whenever you're with a 'Mommy' you grope them for a time, they touch you a little, then they guide you between their thighs, and after a few pumps you fill them, and they tell you what a 'good boy' you are for not just fucking exploding on them before entering?" Your embarrassed silence is all the answer Yiren needs, "Has Jihyo not trained you at all?" she asks in exasperation, "You would think she would want her cousin to at least be serviceable between the sheets..." you mumble a pitiful response, "Oh, she hasn't let you fuck her yet? I'm honestly surprised," Yiren shrugs and waves her hand dismissively, "Whatever, it's time for you to learn how to pleasure a woman, dear."

"My pussy," Yiren lectures, "Is more than just some rude hole for you to shove your sweaty meat into. Rub it, spank it, poke at it with your cock, if you do not make me feel good, then I will simply ruin your next orgasm onto the floor," With that stern warning in mind, you do as she says, brushing your cockhead against her slit, relishing in the way it gushes juices around it as you stroke your tip up and down her lower lips. Yiren lets out a speculative noise, "Hmm, decent enough I suppose, now penetrate me, slowly this time. You are not pounding away at some cheap fleshlight, you are having sex with a lady, do try to treat me like one." Blushing, you try and do as she instructed, and having spent the last several minutes exploring her folds with your dick, you have a much better idea where you are supposed to insert it. The angle is still poor though, and Yiren eventually has to help guide you inside of her, the heat of her pussy welcoming your tip back into it. It is all you can do to stop yourself from immediately shoving yourself balls-deep inside of your Mommy, and you manage to push into her gradually. Yiren lets out a pleased sigh, "Very good, now begin thrusting, also if you finish inside of me before I let you, Mommy will be very displeased, understand? Good, now fuck me."

With your hands wrapped around Yiren's tiny waist, you do your best to please her. Her tiny ass barely even squishes against your crotch as you thrust into her, and the easy view of your cock filling her modestly sized pussy drives you wild; it looks as if you were impaling her with every pump. Your Mommy seems unperturbed by your efforts however, and her folds grip tightly around your shaft, the pink flesh of her sex dragging along it whenever you pull back. Much like a courtesan of old, Yiren's pussy is supremely skilled at pleasuring cocks, and soon you are once more on the edge, and are forced to slow down. Yiren giggles demurely, "Well, at least you learned to control yourself somewhat. Now then, angle your penis downwards, and hit my sensitive spot when you thrust," She obligingly lowers her butt to make things easier for you, but it still takes a few minutes of ineffectual thrusting before you are finally able to get it right. But of course, a few minutes fucking an idol's sublime pussy was enough to once more have you leaking precum inside of Yiren. Who clucks in annoyance when you slow down once more, "Again? Pity, it was actually starting to feel a touch pleasant," Yiren's surprising approval is enough to cause another welter of watery fluid to gush into her, and she sighs indulgently, "Oh very well, I suppose it is too much to hope you would actually become competent in bed so quickly," she slaps your hand, "Pull out, now. I have a reward for you..."

Following your Mommy's instructions, you stand awkwardly against the chair while she gracefully settles herself in front of you. Yiren stares up at you with that familiar half-smile of hers, no doubt amused by your obvious hesitation, her delicate makeup still immaculate even after her exhausting performance, as well as her less intensive sex with you. With seductive laziness, she pulls down her top, revealing her perky breasts, her smirk widening as you hump the air; they might be of modest size, but the sight of any Mommy's breasts was enough to excite you. Yiren languidly places her hand onto your cock, causing you to shiver, her nimble fingers wrapping themselves around your slick skin. Without warning she jerks you off, skillfully stroking your dick while maintaining stern eye contact with you. You gasp, pant, whine, shuddering from the intense stimulation of your Mommy's hand squeezing your cock mercilessly as she works your load out; it was all too much, you were going to get ruined on the floor for being a bad boy! But Yiren had other plans for your load, as she brings her face close to your oozing tip, "Cum for me. Now," she demands, and you blissfully comply.

Yiren's refined makeup, an entire hour of the beautician's hard work, is obliterated as vast ropes of steaming semen spew all over the idol's face. She purrs with pleasure as her face is inundated with jizz, her eyes drowning in it, her patrician nose covered in it, her elegant hairdo soaked in it, and all the while she continues to work your shaft until the final trickles of sludge burble out of your reddened tip and into her mouth. Yiren lets out a pleased noise as she cleans your cockhead with her tongue, "Impressive, your stamina might be lacking, but at least your loads are pleasantly sized," You beam at her praise, but her grip remains tight upon your manhood when you try and move back, "Did I say I was finished, that was not your reward, this is," and Yiren promptly puts it in her mouth. Your cock was still sensitive from its recent climax, so the stimulation from the idol's blowjob was enough to have you gibbering with pleasure. You write against the chair as Yiren expertly sucks you off, your seed drying upon her face even as she salaciously works yet more out of you. Her tongue swirls around your shaft while her head bobs up and down your length, her lips locked tightly around it even as her hands massage your balls and press against your taint. Not even a minute after your last orgasm, your next load is already spraying directly into Yiren's stomach; and being a dignified lady, she swallows every last drop without even a cough.

When Yiren finally releases you from her clutches, you collapse back into the chair, utterly exhausted even though you had really not put all that much work in. Your balls ached horribly, and your manhood was stained red with her lipstick, "You have been marked," your Mommy explains, "So when Jihyo spots it she will know it was me..." Yiren snorts at your confusion, "I'm teasing, she'll smell my pussy on you, and know exactly just who you've been inside." She lithely gets back onto her feet, clapping her hands for her attendants once more; honestly, you had not even noticed they had left. You scramble to cover yourself as the girls rush inside, adjusting the idol's outfit, but abstaining from cleaning off the jizz coating the various parts of her body. Noting your curiosity, Yiren explains, "It is an old custom for courtesans to receive their lover's last load upon their faces, both as evidence of their sexual prowess, as well as their lover's virility. I shall wear yours in celebration of my impregnation. Stand proud dear, I wouldn't let any common dross breed me." And with that, Yiren sweeps out of the room, trailing her attendants like a comet's tail behind her as she hurries to the stage. If her performance was anything like your private one, then the reception would be a rather sticky one.

Left to your own devices, your pull your clothes back on, but before you can leave, your cousin bustles through the door, no doubt out of breath from hurrying back from the company building. She pouts as she notices that you are alone, "Aw, did I miss it? Why did they leave you here..." Jihyo sniffs the air, her eyes narrowing, before looking pointedly at you, "I see, so you enjoyed yourself then?" You nod shyly, unsure as to what her reaction would be, but she nods in satisfaction, "Good, I was worried she wouldn't get knocked up from a few weeks ago, she always has been a prissy little bitch." Jihyo pats your head endearingly, "Well done, I'm proud of you, good boy!" You blush with pleasure as your cousin leads you back out to the car, passing by various finely dressed people as they hurry to reach their seats in time. Most of them stop to stare at the obviously pregnant and deliciously voluptuous idol as she saunters by, causing the slightest stirrings of jealousy in you. Jihyo allows your hands to roam where they should not during the car ride back, but she gently pries them off of her when they attempt to slip down her pants, "Patience, dear," she reassures you, "I'm due in a few weeks, and then after that we have our trip with Lisa and some other girls. Don't look so glum! Momo will be staying over to help with things while I'm busy pushing the baby out, and you know how much she enjoys pampering you..."

It was to your surprise, later that night when showering off, that you were unable to remove Yiren's lipstick from around your shaft; it seems like she had not been teasing after all about marking you...

[cuteandhughesy]

Crawling Back To You ╰┈➤ MK23

summary: the 5 stages of realizing you're falling in love with your boyfriend’s best friend (college!au).

[word count] 19.9k (…whoops)

warnings: MATURE! enemies to lovers | the slowest of slow burns. like seriously buckle up | emotional cheating? kinda not really? | thoughts of infidelity | drinking | intense make out scene | kind of a unfinished ending (sorry in advance) | suggestive scenes and dialogue | read at your own discretion

a/n: this idea randomly popped into my head before bed a few weeks ago and I immediately knew I had to write it. this is for the knies girlies (like yours truly) who can’t help themselves but fantasizing about him—I see you and I got you.

🎵 do I wanna know? by hozier (cover), every breath you take (i'll be watching you) by the police, pushing it down and praying by lizzy mcalpine, wrong by zayn, your needs, my needs by noah kahan, each time you fall in love by cigarettes after sex, if I can't be with you by olivia obrien, + I would by one direction

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Prologue

lucas' arm around your hips is a firm pressure, guiding you through the crowded frat house like he's done many times before. you let him easily, smiling at friends as you pass by them.

your boyfriend doesn't really notice anybody else—too busy looking for his friends in the chaotic crowd. his fingers flex around the dip of your hip, squeezing you reassuringly. "you look nice babe."

he's told you that already tonight—when you'd showed up to his door so you could walk to the frat party together—which, is only down the hall from your door—regardless though, it's nice to hear. you tilt you head back to look at him, eyes lingering over his too-sharp jaw and icy gaze. "thanks lucas."

he hums softly, not looking at you as he continues to make way through the sea of sweat covered bodies. you sigh gently, gnawing on your gloss coated bottom lip, gaze flickering away from your boyfriend.

you and lucas have been dating for almost half a year—which in hindsight isn't that long, but when you're in university and spending every waking minute with a person, it soon feels like a lifetime. you met him in the mailroom of your shared apartment complex during the beginning of last term, and hit it off almost immediately.

lucas was flirty, and so sweet that it felt like your teeth were decaying. he was smart and played on the universities hockey team—it was hard not to fall for him. but as your brief honeymoon phase came to a close, lucas started to get a little...dull.

he doesn't make your heart race, and he doesn't  have your stomach swooping with his stare or touch, and most of the time it feels like he doesn't have the time for you. but it's fine, because he's your boyfriend, and you care for him. it's just a bit...boring, and unfulfilling.

"babe." he starts again, glancing down at you. "were you able to book off that shift? the one during next game day?"

you frown, stopping in your shuffling steps. "lucas, I already told you that I couldn't."

your boyfriend stops as well, turning towards you with deeply furrowed eyebrows. "you did?"

you sigh, a bubble of irritation rising in your chest. "yes. this morning before class."

"seriously?" he all but huffs, dropping his hands from your waist. "I wanted you there."

"and like I told you this morning, there's nothing I can do about it." you've flushed with annoyance, looking at your boyfriend with a perplexed expression. it feels like you've been going in circles about this damn shift for days—and somehow everytime, lucas makes you feel like an asshole about it. you literally work at the arena, and as only 1 of 3 staff members for the concession stand, getting your shift covered was practically impossible.

his eyes flash with something similar to annoyance. "it feels like you don't even want to watch me play, y/n."

your eyes quickly dart around the room, gulping gently as you make sure nobody is watching the exchange between you and lucas—one that feels like it's on the tipping point of turning heated. your gaze flickers back to his, crossing your arms defensively. "are you seriously going to start this here? in front of everyone?"

despite your words, nobody is paying attention to the two of you—too drunk or high or both to have the awareness they needed to realize what's going on between you and the hockey teams assistant captain.

lucas sighs gently, eyes softening as he takes in your closed off, hard expression. "look," lucas grabs the sides of your face, holding you in place. "i'm sorry, okay?" your eyes drop, mind still reeling with annoyance about the whole situation. lucas thumb runs along your cheek, "we can talk about it later."

there's nothing to talk about, you think. i've already told you.

he leans in, searching for a kiss, but you turn your head just before your lips connect—lucas planting an unexpected peck to your cheek.

from a room over, matthew knies takes a sip of his beer, a smile pulling at his lips as his teammate loudly tells the group about his latest tinder date adventure—new flash, it went horrible. his teammate, gabe, wasn't the kind of guy you wanted to date, and after hearing all these different stories about how his dates went, matthew can't help but feel sorry for these girls.

sean, another member of the minnesota hockey team, nudges his elbow into matthew's side, subtly pulling his attention away from gabe and his loud mouth and comical expression—currently acting out how he'd opened the car door during said tinder date.

matthew's brows raise, looking at the tan complexion of his friend. "what's up?"

"looks like there's some trouble in paradise, huh?" sean then shifts his eyes out of the room, down into the even more crowded foyer and kitchen. matthew's eyes can't help but follow, landing upon his roommate, and another teammate of his, lucas.

but he's not alone—you're with him. matthew swallows roughly, eyes narrowing at the sight of you. he watches as lucas grabs your face, stroking the highest part of your cheek with his calloused thumb. there's a few rushed words exchanged between you, ones that matthew has no chance of hearing over the bustling party.

sean continues, rubbing his hand over his stubble. "what do you think they're fighting about?"

matthew watches as you dodge his friends kiss, your expression full of exhaustion and annoyance. he looks away from you, eyes finding sean's deep chocolate ones  "probably something lucas started."

sean snorts. "probably—dude doesn't know what he's got."

matthew hums dismissively, taking an aggressive sip from his beer bottle. the tangy liquid fizzles against his tastebuds, the alcohol already making him feel lighter. he can't help the way his eyes find you again, watching the tail end of whatever argument you'd been in the midst of.

lucas pulls off you, a tiny roll of his eyes. but he wraps his arm around you again, pulling you further into the house and in the direction of the living room.

at the sight of lucas, a few of the guys get distracted, attention pulled from gabe and his ridiculous performance—all of them hollering in the blondes direction. the smile comes easy, and he releases you in favour of greeting everyone, bringing them into a side hug before slapping the muscle on their back.

you do your best to plaster on a smile as a couple of the guys girlfriends greet you warmly—madison, you closest WAG friend squeezes your arm from the couch beside you. you briefly wonder if she's seen the tiff you've just had with lucas.

but no, you can't think like that, if you do it'll just make you more anxious than usual. you gently shake your head, snapping yourself out of your own pity. you stand awkwardly beside the couch while lucas completely disappears into his friends, cheering and laughing as they all talk about their latest win. you blink again, this time to hold back unshed tears.

"hey girl, you wanna sit down?" another one of the wags asks you, her gentle, honey laced voice filtering through the noisy room. "you look a little out of it."

you laugh gently, blinking rapidly. "I don't think there's anywhere to sit." your words stem from truth, and as you glance around the collection of mangled, worn leather couches and stained lazy boys, the space is limited. you desperately wish lucas was a doting boyfriend—pulling you into his lap and pressing a reassuring kiss against the junction of your neck.

"you can sit here." his voice cuts through the air like a knife, sending a usual shiver through your body. you hadn't even realized matthew knies was here—but you should've suspected it when you didn't hear his usual rerun of new girl in his and lucas' shared apartment.

your eyes flicker to his, and then towards the sliver of space between him and sean. the couch is most definitely sticky, and the foam is practically spilling out the cushion—the sight has you squirming. parties have never been your thing, and you've never been one to be overly social—much preferring the silence and comfortability of your own space. if you were to go out on your own terms, you'd often opt for local bars or eateries, which usually provide a more relaxed and tone downed party atmosphere.

but lucas likes frats—so here you are. your eyes find matthew's again, and immediately you're feeling a familiar pull in your chest—one that always seems to tug in the presence of your boyfriends best friend. it's not that you hated matthew knies...it's just....he is one of your least favourite people to be around.

you're not sure when it started, but the combination of his cocky attitude and the way he seemed to always be pushing your buttons with that stupid smirk on his face, just has your blood boiling.

and you really try your best to ignore him, but as soon as his pestering starts, you just can't help but bite back.

he's looking at you with that slinky pull to his plump lips, likes he's expecting you to decline his offer and just turn tail and leave—which you are desperately trying not to do.

matthew's one eyebrow raises, almost like a challenge. "you scared or somethin', y/l/n?" he takes a slow sip of his beer, adam's apple bobbing roughly under his clean shaven throat. he licks his lips, catching the lingering liquid. "I dont bite."

the use of your last name—how it so easily slips through his lips like a song—has you biting down, your teeth practically cracking under the intense pressure. all your earlier irritation has been quickly redirected to matthew, and you eye him pointedly. "doubtful."

his smirk widens.

you shoot a glance towards lucas, but to your disappointment he still hasn't realized you're standing alone—sitting comfortably between teammates and sipping from a mysterious seltzer can. slowly, you look back towards matthew, who's grin has yet to falter.

he pats the space between himself and sean, two slaps against the leather as he wordlessly invites you over.

you can't help the way your eyes roll.

sean watches the entire ordeal like a damn soap-opera, eyes darting between you and his friend next to him—hiding his amused smile behind the neck of his beer bottle.

with a gentle sigh, you make your way towards them, wordlessly taking a seat between the two athletes with an awkward cough. immediately you're warm, the combination of the crowded house and being squished between two large men sending you into a heat flash.

although, matthew may be more of a boy than a man, but you digress.

"want a drink?" he asks you—the smirk evident simply in his tone. your eyes dart to the side, finding his flushed face.

"of what?" you question sharply.

his brows raise in amusement. "anything you want." matthew laughs once, a breathy sound that has you squinting. "there's lots of options—this is a party, y/l/n."

there's that nickname again—the condescending tone dripping from his tongue as he calls you by your last name. you grit your teeth, "that's not my name."

"I mean...It is." his eyes flicker with something you don't recognize, lip twitching as his smile widens. "you're always so wound up."

you stiffen, and you can hear sean hiss quietly beside you. matthew's looking as smug as ever, fiddling with the damp, shredded label of his drink. you let out a scoff, "no i'm not—you're just annoying."

"sure." he nods condescendingly just as he lifts the neck of his bottle back towards his mouth, plump lips expertly caressing the opening and tipping the liquid into his mouth.

you watch him move—your bubbling annoyance clear. you watch behind the rim of the bottle as his smirk returns, and that has you blinking, quickly averting your gaze. "don't you have other people to bother?"

you hear his beer hit the table as he places it down, clearly done with it. "am I bothering you?" matthew chooses to avoid your question, like usual, which has you rolling your eyes for the umpteenth time.

"I personally find this really entertaining." sean interrupts, leaning closer towards you. a half smile takes over his dark complexion, and he gets further into your space, wide, amused eyes dancing between his teammate and you. "you guys fight like you're a married couple."

you head snaps his his direction so fast you neck muscles tighten up. "what does that mean?"

matthew snickers, which immediately has you attention again. "seriously, have a drink or something — you fucking need one."

"excuse me?" your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but you're too far gone to care. you're really not in the mood to deal with your boyfriends best friends cocky personality, or his infuriating mannerisms and ridiculous smirk. "literally what makes you think you can say things like that to me? god, what's crawled up your ass."

"alright, alright," he interrupts, one of his large hands raised in a mock surrender. "just chill out, I'm not trying to ruin your night."

without knowing what else to say in that moment, you look away—eyes pinched and lips held together tightly. you grab sean's half full can of cherry liquor—right out of his loose grip—and down the rest of it.

he makes a noise of protest, but you don't even care. the alcohol already has you feeling better, the affects settling deep in your belly and further warming your exposed skin—you've always been a light weight. you cringe at the flavour, letting the last sip linger on your tastebuds before fully swallowing.

"fuckin jesus, y/n." sean grumbles like he's annoyed, but his eyes tell a different story. "that rilled up huh?"

you turn your back towards matthew, facing sean and his girlfriend completely. the latter is talking intently with another one of the girls—completely oblivious to the tension brewing next her.

matthew's eyes linger on your exposed back, your cream silky top dipping low enough to expose the base of your spine. he tongues his cheek to mask the grin, slowly trailing his eyes back upwards. "you're such a baby." he says knowingly, leaning in close enough that his words tickle your neck. "turnin' your back to me."

without looking at him, you huff. "you're so insufferable." you break composure, turning back in his direction. your irritated expression is still lingering, looking at matthew like you're trying to incinerate him with your eyes. "you suddenly care about me or something?"

"you wish." his response is quick—teasing.

sean snorts, clearly enjoying this much more than you could ever.

"do you seriously think you have that much of an impact on my life?"

"I know I do." matthew laughs. "you're really cranky today."

"and you need to shut the fuck up-"

"alright, you two." sean speaks again, looking almost scared as he eyes the both of you curiously. "better stop before people start getting the wrong idea."

you don't even have the brain capacity to think about what he could mean with that insinuation. you shoot off the couch, "i'm done here anyway." you mumble hastily, immediately making your way across the small living room. you weave your way through the few people standing in the middle of the space, lingering and chatting too enthusiastically for your liking.

the other couch comes into view quickly, and you spot lucas just as fast. your arms are crossed as you walk up to your boyfriend, lips already pulling in a irritated pout. the silk of your top suddenly feels too cold—too exposing—and you just want to go.

"lucas." you get his attention, "I'm going home."

his attention is pulled away from his teammates, eyes flickering over your figure once. "you okay?"

"ask your roommate." you spit. "he's fucking infuriating."

lucas grin, rolling his eyes. "you are so dramatic, babe. just come sit with me."

a couple of his teammates snicker at his words, attempting to cover their amused smirks behind their drinks—but you catch them.

"i'm not dramatic." you start, exasperated. "and no, I'm going home."

he runs a hand over his face. "kay, i'll see you later."

"whatever." you grumble, turning away from your boyfriend. you make your way back through the sticky frat house, narrowly missing the beer spilling over solo cups as drunk university students slosh around, smashing drinks together in cheers.

the early spring chill sends you into a shivering state almost instantly—the night cold stinging your skin harshly. it's only when the noise and echoing bass fade into a dull hum that you start to cry, sluggishly walking down the sidewalk as you continue the short walk to your apartment complex.

thoughts of matthew's snarky remarks and stupid smirk are plaguing your mind—sending you into a flurry of anger and vexation. replaying the interaction in your head has you scoffing out loud, muttering irritatedly like a clinically insane person.

and then there's lucas and his rude dismissal of you—his girlfriend for fucks sake. that and the way his teammates snickered at the brief moment of bickering between you just has you spiraling even deeper.

you close your apartment door louder than you intended, kicking off your shoes quickly.

your roommate, cora, looks up from her spot on the kitchen barstool, slowly slurping her mouthful of cheap ramen noodles with her brows raised in concern. "how was the party?"

all you can muster is a growl, opening to cupboard above the sink in search of a glass. your grab the first one you see, immediately filling it up with absurd flavoured tap water.

she snorts into her bowl, shoving some more noodles into her mouth. "what happened?" she questions between her chews.

you finish the water with a loud gulp, placing the empty glassware on the counter. "matthew happened."

his name alone makes cora roll her eyes, but there's a tiny grin that she can't even hide. your roommate is well used to the hostility that lingers between you and your down the hall neighbour. "just ignore him."

it's something that's been said by cora hundreds of times—it seems that anytime you're with lucas, you're coming back with a scowl and a new story about his roommate instead. "you know he only messes with you because you give him a good reaction."

you huff, stealing the fork out of cora's bowl and serving yourself a bite of her beef favoured noodles. they're not long made, and the heat slightly burns your tongue. you hiss through your teeth, "he's hard to ignore when he's up my ass whispering in my ear about how i'm 'such a baby'" you attempt at lowering you voice to mimick the athletes, and that has her grinning, taking back her fork for another bite.

"you two are so weird." she slurps a noddle noisily, "like there's some weird sexual tension or something."

"cora!" you huff, eyes comically wide as you look at her with nothing short of perplexity.

"what?" she laughs, all but innocent. "he's hot!"

"I have a boyfriend." snatching the utensil again, you twirl the prongs through the lingering food. your face begins to heat up, something that feels like embarrassment crawling at your chest. you clear your throat, praying that cora doesn't catch your burning cheeks as you chew some more food. "besides, even If I was single i'd never date someone so...arrogant."

"whatever you say." cora teases further, tucking herself further under her extra large hoodie. you know your friend is only playing around, and there's no malicious intent with her digs—so you let it slide, even though the mere thought of dating matthew knies has your stomach dropping, making you feel nothing less than nauseous. 

"I need to take these jeans off before I explode." you whine, quickly changing the subject. you already start unbuttoning the denim as you make your way down the hall, rounding into your warmly lit bedroom in search of your favourite pyjamas.

you soon swap your party, beer smelling attire for an oversized, stained hoodie and sleep shorts—throwing your hair back and popping your glasses on. already, you're feeling much more relaxed than when you first got home. "wanna watch an episode of stranger things?" you call through the apartment, already grabbing your throw blanket.

"yeah!" cora calls back, "can you bring me the niall horan blanket from your room?"

you snort a laugh, doubling back to your bed and pulling the fuzzy, 2011 one direction throw into your arms. it's been a staple piece ever since you met cora in your freshman dorm, and you learned your new roommate from wisconsin was just as obsessed with the former boyband as you are.

you make your way back into the living area of the small student apartment, your slippers slapping the floor obnoxiously as you do. "can you grab me a coke?" you ask cora as you pass the kitchen nook.

two knocks interrupt you, the sound echoing through the wooden door that separates your apartment from the hall. you jump slightly, the unexpecting thumping catching you off guard and making your heart leap.

cora eyes the clock—almost 1 a.m. her gaze skips back to you, frozen in place with the fridge wide open. "are you expecting anyone?"

"no." you swallow, making you way to the door. "are you?"

she almost snorts. "definitely not."

skeptical, but curious, you grasp the chipping bronze handle. you're hoping it's lucas—lucas who has hopefully come to his senses and has left the party in favour of giving you an apology. with a gentle shrug, you turn the handle and pull the door open in one swift motion.

matthew is there, leaning against the door frame in all his smug, infuriating glory. at the sight of you opening the door, a small smirk grows on his face, and in that moment you think the universe must be against you—because what the actual fuck.

"hey." he says simply, his stupid smirk growing impossibly wide. "glad to see you're not dead in a ditch." your brows begin to furrow, and he continues — much to your dismay. "saw you leave the party all stompy."

you're almost speechless, at a loss for words as you blink up at him. "it's almost 1."

"very good." he snickers, like he's congratulating you for knowing the time. you want to punch him in the mouth and get rid of that insufferable grin.

"can I like, help you or something?" you question roughly, crossing your arms over your hoodie. it's a bit awkward considering the mountain of blankets in your arms, but you manage. "i'm kind of busy."

matthew peers behind you, looking into your very much empty apartment. he sees cora, still lingering in the kitchen—watching the exchange like it's a SNL skit with a tiny, amused smile on her face.

he meets your hard eyes one again. "I don't think you are, actually." he licks his bottom lip slowly, an action that seems instinctual. "are you going to be neighborly and invite me in? or just keep standing and staring."

a scoff leaves your mouth, but before you can protest, cora speaks up, her cheery voice making your heart drop. "come on in, matthew—don't mind the mess." she kicks some loose shoes out of the way, subtly pushing you to the side as well.

matthew smirks at you again, stepping into the small foyer of your apartment. you tear your gaze away from the tall boy, sending your roommate a slightly panicked look.

she just shrugs, looking back at matthew quickly. "i'll let you two chat—i've gotta get the pillows..and...stuff, from my room."

pillows and stuff? her excuse is just sad, but before you can stop her, cora is turning on her heels, practically skipping down the hall and into her messy bedroom.

now alone, you look back at your boyfriend's friend with raised brows. "so? what is it?"

something flickers across his face, and before you can register it, he sighs. "listen, i've come to say i'm sorry for tonight. I was an asshole."

"an asshole is one way of putting it." you scoff, arms crossing tighter. you pause, eyeing his seemingly sincere expression. with a sigh, you falter slightly, "but thanks."

his smirk is back. "welcome." the formality is mumbled through his plump lips, and you swallow roughly at the lazy grin.

"anything else?" you hum pointedly.

matthew shakes his head. "nope." he reaches behind his broad back, grabbing the doorknob and turning it. "i'll be seeing you around i'm sure."

you watch as he opens the door, the fluorescent lights of the hallway illuminating your dim apartment. you kiss your teeth, a reluctant nod following suit. "oh, i'm sure."

he snickers. "goodnight, y/l/n."

your face falls—a bubble of irritation quickly rising once again. you don't say anything, watching through the corner of your eyes as matthew walks down the hall to his and lucas' shared apartment.

he shoves the key in the lock, and just before he walks inside, matthew shoots you one more stupid smirk that sends your head reeling.

you click your apartment door shut, and as soon as it does, your forehead hits the flat surface, an angry groan leaving your chest.

STAGE 1: Confusion

"can I get three tequila sunrises, please?"

the burly bartender behind the counter sends you a curt nod, turning on his heels as he grabs three empty glasses to begin making your drinks.

the bar is crowded, more crowded than your usual visits, but it is a saturday night and this is the closest place to drink from campus—so it’s business doesn’t come as a shock. you look around the room, eyeing the sea of students and young adults alike—all smiling and dancing together as they down shots and sip their respective drinks.

your eyes find your small table, seeing cora chat happily with your mutual friend, rachel. you'd all been in a deep conversation about your psychology midterm results when you'd slurped up the last bit of your drink—cora already fiddling with the ice cubes at the bottom of her glass.

with a pout from rachel and a plea from your roommate, you slid off the high stool and begin sneaking your way through the bar. you sigh gently, turning your attention back to the busy bar, watching as the bartender works around his co-workers in their hectic environment.

"hey." his voice has you stiffening. slowly, your gaze flickers to your right and that's where you see matthew, leaning against the sticky bar top in his usual stupid way.

you frown, glancing over your opposite shoulder to see if he's talking to somebody that's not you—maybe a teammate or your boyfriend who has magically decided to show up tonight.

matthew snickers. "yeah. i'm talking to you."

you look back at him sharply. "why?"

he shrugs, his index finger tracing one of the raised splits on the wooden bar top. "just saying hi to a friend."

"a friend?" you question, one breathy laugh passing through your stained lips. your gaze turns pointed, looking at matthew with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. "we're not friends."

"no?" he hums lightly.

you shake your head once, firmly. "I think you're forgetting how you know me."

"we live in the same apartment complex." his smile has returned at full strength, sending your chest contorting in a way that makes you angry. he's trying to rile you up, you know that by now, and even if you didn't, that grin on his stupid chiseled face gives him away—he's up to no good.

you make a face of faux innocent, mouth falling open to form a small, perfected 'o'. "oh, so that's how you know me?" your face falls, and you grab your wallet off the bar top. your hands are slightly shaky, and definitely clammy due to the adrenaline and irritation running through your veins—it's all so infuriating.

you turn to leave, but matthew's hand encloses around your wrist, stopping you. your head snaps back so fast that for a moment your vision blurs—and you have to blink quickly to clear it.

"c'mon, y/l/n, i'm trying to play nice." his grin falters slightly, looking down at you with a gentle expression.

it makes you even angrier. "well, I don't want you to play nice."

matthew squints playfully, leaning further down into your space. "kinky."

your eyes widen to unfathomable size, and your skin flushes all over. it's exactly the reaction matthew wanted to pull from you, and his eyes twinkle with amusement as he watches your face further contort into an expression of disbelief and frustration.

you take a few shaky, shallow breathes, trying your best to not yank your hand away and high tail out of the bar completely. "I have a boyfriend." despite the firm town of your voice, your words are quiet, only for the two of you to hear.

matthew's brows shoot up. "okay, I don't know how stupid you think I am, but I know you have a boyfriend—I live with him. i'm just being a dick."

you can't help the way your eyes roll. no shit. it's like matthew finally realizes the gentle grip he's still got around your wrist, and he drops your arm rather quickly upon realization. matthew brings his hand back to his side, fingers flexing as he tries to shake off the unknowing sensation. he clears his throat, eyes not leaving yours as he continues. "speaking of, where is lucas? thought you'd be up his ass tonight."

you hesitantly tuck your wallet under your arm, holding it to your side. after all, you're still waiting for drinks, and you're not going to let matthew drive you out of the bar before you can deliver them. "like you said," you huff, "you live with him, so you should've noticed he was home tonight."

matthew's lips drop in a small frown at your words, because no, he doesn't remember seeing lucas after they passed each other on the way to the bathroom that morning.

the tattooed arm of the bartender comes back into your peripheral vision, and he slides theee glasses in your direction. "here's your drinks."

you quickly menover your black wallet back into your hands, pulling out a $20 bill and passing it to the rather attractive tender. "thanks." he nods, tucking the money into his waist apron before turning away, attending to one of the many awaiting customers.

you look back towards the athlete at your side, who still hasn't taken his gaze off of you, and send him a sarcastic smirk. "wish I could say it was nice seeing you matthew, but i've never been a liar." you grab two of the glasses, frowning gently as you realize you can't quite grip the third. you place them down, attempting another time.

"oh wow good one, y/l/n." matthew laughs breathily, watching as you continue to struggle with three, condensation coated glasses. "are you going to ask for help now?"

you snort, "i'd rather eat glass than ask for your help."

you look like a lost puppy—one of the glasses pressed between your arm and boob, and the other one clutched awkwardly in your hand. your fingers barley reach around it, and it looks like a disaster waiting to happen.

"jesus christ, just—" matthew mumbles, reaching towards you and taking both glasses from you. and because he's annoying and has the hands of a giant, he scoops the third glass off the bar, holding the three together.

he looks at you triumphantly, which makes you want to kick him. "must you be so proud?"

"I must." he chimes. matthew finally looks away from you, which has you letting out a breath you hadn't realized you've been harbouring. his eyes filter through the crowd, brows pinched together. "where's your table?"

on cue, cora's distinctive laughter fills the room. "never mind I can hear your roommate." he begins walking in the direction of the table, maneuvering through the room like he owns it—which induces an annoyed eye roll from you. watching the crowd practically part as they see him coming through is even more infuriating.

you follow behind him, trying your best to keep up with his long strides. "her mouth is almost as loud as yours!" you smile with faux enjoyment, looking up at his side.

you merely miss getting bumped by some hammered frat guy, too busy yelling and terribly singing along to the shitty (but addictive) pop music. you miss the glare matthew sends the strangers way before he looks down at you, a smirk on his face. "seems like a match made in heaven then."

"or hell." you hum.

he laughs tauntingly. "don't be jealous."

"why would I be jealous?"

"took you long enough!" cora shouts, teetering on hammered—she's been pregaming since 5.

you watch rachel's eyes trail to your side, and immediately she's lighting up. "oh and you've brought a friend."

"not a friend—just a nuisance."

matthew laughs, too loudly for your liking, brushing past you to step onto the platform where your friends sit. "think that's the nicest thing you've said about me, y/l/n."

if your eyes roll one more time tonight they're surely to get stuck. "don't you have something else to do, knies?"

cora takes the glass from matthew's large hand, batting her lashes up at him like a damn cartoon character. she immediately takes the straw into her mouth, chewing on the plastic. "thank you matthew."

he turns back to you with a smug expression. "see, y/l/n, that's how you're supposed to respond when someone does something nice for you."

"oh well— I can't wait for the day you do something nice for me!" you clap your hands together like an exaggerated cheer, stepping up the the platform as well. you almost bump into his chest, underestimating just how close matthew was.

he just smirks, eyes slowly flickering down your body.

you swallow. "okay, you can go now."

"anything else?" matthew questions, brows raised expectantly.

"what?" you breathe through your teeth.

his smirk grows. "i'm waiting for a thank you."

you exhale through your nose, eyes briefly flickering closed for a passing moment. when they re-open, matthew doesn't falter, if anything he looks even more cheerful. "thanks." you grit out.

"you're so welcome." he shoots you a quick wink, waving goodbye to your friends before he steps off the platform, making his way back to whichever group of loud cronies he'd been with before he started pestering you.

"you two are so ridiculous." rachel laughs into her glass before taking a hearty sip—her eyes not once leaving you.

you whine, taking your original seat next to cora. "i'm one more interaction away from transferring schools."

cora groans loudly. "oh my god."

the conversation thankfully shifts after your dramatic remark, and the rest of the night seemingly goes by in a flash. you actually end up dancing for most of the evening, sandwiched between cora and rachel as you all scream song lyrics and laugh with one another. it's nice and refreshing—thankfully taking your mind of him.

you end up feeling more tired than you expected soon after, the combination of drinking, dancing and being at school since 10 that morning is taking its toll on you. "i'm gunna head out." you tell cora, leaning in close so she can hear you over the bassy one direction throwback.

"what?" she pouts, her hazy eyes wide. "I don't want you to go!"

you laugh gently, accepting the hug as she throws herself at you—stumbling over her own two feet in the process. "i'm tired." you admit. "do you and rachel wanna come with me?"

"no! the night is still young." cora looks at you like you're crazy for even suggesting that.

"okay party animals." you bid another goodbye to both of your friends, ordering and uber for yourself before stepping outside. you're hoping the chilled air will sober you up a little bit—because the last thing you need is to fall asleep in an uber, or worse, get sick.

you sigh gently, swaying on your feet as you stand outside the bustling bar. strangers and traffic are steady, providing a surprisingly comforting atmosphere.

the door creaks open behind you, the inside chaos growing louder for a split second until the threshold is closed once more. instinctively, you glance over your shoulder, and the sight has you groaning. the universe must be praying on your downfall, because there he is. "seriously? are you stalking me or something?"

matthew's brows raise, his hands shoved in his jean pockets as he walks towards you. "that doesn't even make sense—you've already seen me tonight…”

his words have you scoffing, and you turn your head away from him as you grumble frustratedly. "fucking...whatever."

he doesn't respond immediately, and the night life is the only sounds heard. ever impatiently, you check the uber app again, praying your ride is almost here—but they're still 5 minutes out.

"where are your friends?" matthew's voice interrupts your peace.

"why?" you question with hesitance, your glare pointed as you look towards him.

he laughs briefly, although it sounds more like a scoff. "god, you're so tightly wound! i'm just trying to make conversation."

you're taken aback for a moment, blinking quickly as you take in his words. with a quiet, irritated sigh, you look away from him once again. "you really don't need to."

you peer down the road, praying you see the uber that somehow has magically sped through time. matthew scoffs again. "why don't you like me?"

"besides the obvious?" you question condescendingly, eyes not leaving the road in front of you.

"sure, besides the obvious."

you spin on your heels, which in hindsight isn't the smartest decision because your stumbling dangerously. matthew's eyes widen in concern for a moment, but you catch yourself before he has the chance to reach out. you eye his flexing hands with anger, a grumble leaving your stained lips. "you're just, ugh! insufferable."

his brows raise. "i'm insufferable?"

you nod. "yes."

"really?"

"yes, matthew! god this, what you're doing right now is quite literally the definition of insufferable. like, if you looked up the definition a video of this interaction would play." you breathe roughly, gesturing between the two of you like a crazy person. at some point during your rant, you'd stepped closer to him—close enough that you have to tilt your head back to properly look at him.

matthew's lips slowly contorts into a smirk, one that sends your blood boiling. "you're such a nerd ."

you laugh in disbelief. "que the insults!"

his eyes change then, his smirk dissolving as a more serious and intense expression takes over his face. matthew licks onto his bottom lip, gaze pointed. "it's wasn't an insult."

your breath hitches, catching in your throat as you watch him…watch you. before you can say anything—do anything—the sound of tires screeching to the curb has you pulling away.

the passenger window rolls down, and a middle aged man come into sight. "uber for y/n?"

"yeah, that's me." you say quickly, walking away from matthew as fast as your feet allow you, and practically jumping into the running car, as soon as the seatbelt is clicked into place, the uber is moving, sending you falling back against the seat.

you watch through the window as matthew looks at the retreating car—not talking his eyes off the vehicle until you're nothing but a set of break lights in the distance. you swallow roughly, blinking away the flurry of emotions pulling and pushing at your chest.

STAGE 2: Shifting

almost a week has passed since your...interesting? annoying? pointless? conversation with matthew outside the bar, and you thankfully haven't seen him since.

which is surprising considering you've been at his apartment almost every night with lucas. as much as you hate to admit it, and as much as it makes you angry, you were curious about his whereabouts. anytime you'd been cuddling with lucas on the couch, watching some shitty show he liked—your mind would wander, and anytime there'd be any noise in the hall, you'd wonder if it was him.

where was he? what's was he doing? is he avoiding you? but no, because matthew loves pissing you off too much to just avoid you...right?

you curse yourself everytime matthew pops into your mind, quickly distracting yourself with whatever task you could get your hands on. like right now, ruffling through the snack display on top of the counter at work.

the arena is extra cold today, and as your arms touch the metal basket containing the various chips and crackers, you shiver—not even the team branded zip up around your torso is helping.

"y/n," the floor manager, jason pops into the booth. "we need some more pineapple. can you get some from the players kitchen please? just the frozen stuff for smoothies." his voice is hopeful, looking at you with a playful glint in his eyes.

you sigh gently, kissing your teeth as you turn to look at him. "sure."

he smiles in your direction, but just before he leaves, jason doubles back. "oh! and a few protein bars, i'm starving."

"sure." you nod curtly.

"and while you're there, grab me a green juice?" this time at least jason manages to look somewhat guilty, his grin almost doubtful.

you almost find it amusing, and you raise your brows as so. "why not."

jason cheers. "you're the best."

with that you make your way out of the room, not fully shutting the door behind yourself as you know your arms will be too full to use a handle when you come back. the walk to the players section of the facility isn't a long one, and it's only a few minutes until you're entering the 'smoothie room' — as you like to call it.

it's always in pristine condition, and you almost feel guilty for simply breathing in there. quickly, you grab everything you need from the room, including the bag you'd filled with frozen pineapple and some nasty smelling green drink for jason.

with your arms full, you leave the room and begin making your way back to the snack bar. you round the corner into the most open part of the corridor, expect this time it's not empty, and around 10 of the guys have started kicking the ball around—a pre-game warmup that a lot of them liked to participate in.

you plan to just sneak through, keep your head down and try to not too badly interrupt the ritual—for lack of a better word. timidly, you begin making your way towards the rowdy group, eyes focused as their voices get closer and closer.

the sound of the soccer ball smacking against the wall has you freezing, and before you know it the inflated ball is soaring towards you. you don’t have a chance to react, and it hits you right in the chest, sending everything you'd been previously holding scattering to the floor.

embarrassed and irritated, you sigh, crouching down as you begin to attempt and salvage the mess at your feet. an all too familiar pair of running shoes appear in your vision, coming to a squeaky stop as they approach. "damn, you alright?"

you look up, squinting from the glow of the fluorescent lights lining the corridors. like you thought, it's matthew. his expression almost resembles one of concern, which has you pulling a disgruntled face.

he's slightly breathless, running around and kicking a soccer ball at you must be the cause. he's alive, you think reluctantly.

you look away from him, grabbing the two bottles of green juice and tucking them under your arm. thankfully, neither plastic bottle cracked when they hit the tile.

he sighs roughly, and you can practically hear the roll of his eyes. matthew slowly bends down as well, grabbing the astray protein bars from the ground. "good talk." he mutters condescendingly.

your eyes dart up, a scoff tumbling past your lips. the audacity of matthew to be annoyed with you is just beyond comprehension. "sorry i'm not in the mood for small talk with you matthew after you just kicked the ball at my chest—i'm going to have to throw this fruit out now, thanks."

the pineapple is a wet, spilled mess across the floor. the bag had split when it dropped, and the ball has smooshed the fruit as it fell with it. you're not even sure what to do about the mess—looking at it hopelessly.

"I didn't kick anything at you, but sure it's my fault." he grumbles, looking at you once again.

"really? then who did?" you tone is dripping with doubt, looking at matthew with nothing but exasperation.

"ask your perfect little boyfriend." matthew immediately looks like he regrets his words, eyes widening momentarily before his gaze darts away from your face.

"my perfect little boyfriend who's also your friend?" you scoff.  "god, touch some grass matthew." you know it's a terrible rebuke, and the way matthew smirks in disbelief following your insult has you feeling even more irritated with your choice of comeback.

you don't dwell on it much longer as the sound of somebody else approaching you both captures your attention. you look up just as lucas joins you, standing behind matthew with a tiny grin. "hey! babe you okay?"

you stand up, clutching the drinks to your chest. "fine." you nod.

lucas smiles again, moving to wrap you in a hug. it’s awkward, with your arms pushed against your chest and the green juice pressing into your boob uncomfortably. he kisses your head quickly. "sorry, we were all just messing around and I didn't see you."

your face falls, and you pull back from your boyfriend. "it was you?"

"yeah." he repeats, looking anything but guilty. "said I was sorry."

you unwrap yourself from his hug, stepping back. the whole conversation with your boyfriend has rubbed you the wrong way, and even if he didn't mean to kick you with the ball, his apology wasn't enough of a sincere gesture as you would expect from someone who supposedly loves you.

"I gotta get back." you say quietly, eyes downcast as you further back away from your boyfriend. instinctively, your eyes flicker towards matthew's tall stature. you both hold eye contact for a moment, unknown words lingering in the air between you.

you blink, picking up pace as you walk through the hall.

jason beams as he spots the pile of protein bars in your hands, taking two along with his green juice before skipping out the room. trying to shake off the weird feeling from the interaction with matthew in the corridor, you get back to work, organizing the fridge in preparation for tonight's game—you know how much the minnesota students love their alanis, and you need to make sure that fridge is fully stalked.

there's a good 5 minutes of silence, nothing but you, your thoughts and the loading of the fridge—until there's a knock at the open door.

you look over you shoulder, and there matthew is again. you don't know what to say because you don't know why he's here or what he wants. is he here to gloat? to apologize? to taunt?

matthew takes your silence as an invitation, stepping into the snack booth with a neutral expression. he's still dressed in his sports clothes—a team branded sweatshirt with matching shorts overtop compression pants, completed with his backward basball cap. it oddly suits him, and your stomach drops at the realization of what you've just done.

you kinda sorta checked him out.

"here." matthew interrupts your thoughts, clearly unaware of your wandering eyes and the inner turmoil happening in your brain. he walks further into the room, and that's when you see it—a bag of pineapple clutched in his hand.

in your rush to leave the corridor, you'd completely forgotten to run back and get more fruit.

"where do you want me to put it?" he questions.

"uh," you hum lightly, eyes moving around the room for some available space. it's kind of a mess in here, and you really need to get your shit together before you open. "just beside the coffee machine for now."

matthew does what you ask, putting the frozen ziploc beside the kureig on the side counter. he doesn't say anything else, and walks out the room without so much a second glance in your direction.

you bite your inner lip, knawing the soft skin as you blink furiously— trying to collect your whirlwind of thoughts. above all, you're angry. angry that you were hit with a ball, angry that matthew was right about who kicked it, angry that lucas gave you a shit apology, and that matthew didn't even attempt to annoy you when he'd brought you the pineapple.

—

lucas presses a chaste kiss to your mouth, pulling you into his chest on the outskirts of the lit up courtyard. around you is busy, lingering students and staff members alike chat and walk through the space with an upbeat pace.

every year since you've been attending the university of minnesota, the hockey team and staff members would host a barbecue and movie night in the schools courtyard. it was always an amazing turnout, and for only $5 dollars to get in and get something to eat and watch a throwback film (this year being freaky friday), it was quite the rage. plus, the money went to a fundraiser that helped public schools in the area have breakfast. so it’s a win win.

so not only do you go with the intent of supporting the youth of neighbouring schools, but your boyfriend is one of the co-organizers of the event. so of course you show your face.

which brings you back to the current moment, pouting up at lucas with the best puppy-dog eyes you can manage. lucas sighs gently, running his hands over your jean jacket covered arms. "don't give me that look."

you don't let up, but your lips begin to form into a grin. "what look?"

"the look you're doing right now." he laughs once, squeezing your biceps tightly. "you know I have to be all over the place, babe. I can't just stand with you."

your exaggerated, playful pout quickly changes into a real frown—even though you don't want to show that emotion. because lucas is one of the co-organizers of the event, he's got lots of duties to attend to while the event is happening. so although you're technically here to spend time with your boyfriend, you'll barley get to see him.

plus, cora is sick and had no choice but to stay back at the apartment and watch re-runs of friends, and rachel wouldn't be able to come until the movie starts—coinciding with when her shift at work ends.

"I know but..." you trial off, taking your bottom lip into your mouth anxiously. you've never been a huge fan of crowds—especially when it's tightly gathered in a confined space—and the idea of having to be alone right now is rather daunting. "can't I just help you? like just go with you?"

lucas sighs again, eyes flickering out to the crowd around you. the smell of cheap burgers and hotdogs are already filtering through the air, providing the most perfect early spring atmosphere for the evening. he meets your eyes once more, "it just won't work like that. hey, you'll be okay."

he kisses your cheek, doing his best to reassure you, but you still feel down. "right, okay."

"get yourself a drink and just chill—i'll find you when I can, okay?"

you send him a closed mouth smile, breathing through your nose in a gentle exhale. "okay."

with that he turns away, quickly moving through the lingering crowd as he makes his way into the courtyard. you huff lightly, looking around the sea of people to see if you recognize anyone—literally anyone you can stick with until rachel gets there. but nobody is there.

you eventually follow the crowd, entering the lit-up courtyard. it's decorated in various streamers and balloons representing school colours, along with a spread of beanbags and camping chairs set up for the movie. it looks really good, and even though it's not the warmest temperature due to the night sky, the collection of bodies and decor have the place feeling cozy.

you spot a long table through students, full of what seems to be drinks—various waters, juice and sodas lining the gray fold away surface. you sneak your way through, eyeing the options before inevitably deciding on water. caffeine will just make you anxious, and your favourite juice flavour wasn't an option.

in your peripheral vision, you see a member of the hockey team standing on the other side the table—presumably keeping track of beverages and taking payments. without properly looking up you begin shuffling through your clutch, "how much for the water?"

"it's free."

the all too familiar and cocky voice of matthew knies has you freezing. slowly, your eyes creep upwards, only to be met with the light eyes of his. he'd been the hockey player in your peripheral, and you curse yourself for not noticing sooner.

his brows raise, anticipating a snarky remark. but much to his dismay you turn away, walking back through the crowd and away from him.

he turns to mitchell, one of his teammates, patting his shoulder quickly. "mind watching the table for a sec—gotta do something." matthew doesn't even wait for a response before he's following you, easily making his way between the bodies crowded around.

matthew catches sight of you off to the side, seemingly unaware that he’s hot on your trail. he approaches you swiftly, getting your attention as he speaks. "you're like really bad at the whole socialization thing."

your eyes widen briefly, watching as he casually leans against the nearest table.

"maybe I just don't want to socialize with you." you retort, eyeing him pointedly before taking a slow sip from your water bottle.

matthew smirks. "that's mean."

"don't care." you answer, looking back out into the yard.

a beat passes. "you come alone?" matthew questions, seemingly curious.

you cross your arms. "sort of."

"sort of?" matthew parrots, eyes briefly scanning the crowd. "what's does sort of mean?"

you look at him again. "well I came with lucas, but he's busy so now i'm here...with you." the last part has you pulling a face, scrunching your noise is displeasure.

he snorts. "don't pretend like you don't enjoy my company."

"enjoying isn't quite the word i'd use to describe how I feel about you and your company." you retort lightly, brows pulling tightly.

matthew sucks his bottom lip, containing his grin. "okay, so why aren't you mingling? this is supposed to be a event of socializing."

"I'm not a fan of mingling." you tell him earnestly, clearing your throat in a moment of venerability. "or crowds. besides the fundraiser, I only come for lucas."

"yeah crowds aren't for everyone." matthew's genuine tone has you taken back, and you eye with an almost shock like gaze. "sorry that you're dealing with it alone."

you feel weird—why does the sincerity in his voice make you tingly? "well," you begin. "i'm not alone because you've insisted on coming over here to annoy me."

his smirk is back. "it is my specialty."

you laugh a real laugh, a very brief moment of quiet joy that takes you by surprise. the way his eyes twinkle and smirk widens at the sound of your giggle goes unnoticed by you.

"babe." lucas voice calls out, jogging up to you and matthew. "hey." he greets, pulling you into his side and kissing your temple. "I got a minute, thought i'd see what you were up to." his eyes flicker to matthew's. "see you've found a friend."

matthew's eyes don't leave you, waiting and watching for your reaction to your boyfriends words. you swallow gently, "he was just keeping me company."

"she's not a fan of crowds—thought i'd take a few minutes from work to make sure she's settled." this time when matthew speaks, he's only looking at lucas, and you don't miss the underlying message in his words.

lucas seems oblivious to the hostility underlying his teammates admission, a smile overtaking his face. "anyways, I gotta get back. gunner was telling me about this new club out on main—i'll catch you guys later."

as soon as your boyfriend is out of ear shot, you send matthew a furious glare. "what was that?"

"what was what?" he questions innocently, eyes yet to meet yours again.

"i'm not stupid, matthew, you were trying to..I don't know? like one up lucas by insinuating he's a bad boyfriend for not spending time with me. what the fuck." you spit angrily, gaze tinted with fury.

"I'm not insinuating anything, i'm simply just calling it as I see it." matthew retorts.

you breath a shocked laugh. "what the fuck is wrong with you? you're lucky he didn't catch on to your stupid little coded message." you take a breath, arms tightening over your chest. "he's your friend—why are you trying to ruin that?"

matthew takes a step towards you. "like I said, i'm just calling it as I see it."

"bullshit." you chime. "what's it to you that lucas is busy tonight and he's not able to spend time with me? seriously."

his brows raise, an amused expression on his face. he knows he shouldn’t argue with you, especially when what he wants to say will only further upset you—but he can’t help himself. "he's too busy to spend time with you, yeah? but tell me why we're in the same job position and I haven't left your side since I saw you. so call whatever you want bullshit, but the real bullshit is the guy standing next to his teammate doing absolutely nothing but making you look stupid."

matthew's words have you pulling back, face faltering. you feel emotion clawing at your chest, flushing your skin a rosey pink as the embarrassment and anger about the situation hits you all at once.

his face flashes with remorse, looking down at you with a lingering guilty gaze. his mouth opens slightly, as if to speak—but nothing comes out.

"fuck you." you hiss quietly before turning on your heels and leaving. everything in your body feels like it's on fire, walking through the courtyard with a determination you didn't even realized you had. you can feel matthew's eyes boring into your retreating figure, but you don't dare turn around and look.

he's right—god, he's fucking right. matthew not only calling out your boyfriends shitty behaviour but your obliviousness to the truth about the situation, stings you hard, and you didn't know what else to say or how to react besides the way you did.

you’re even angrier about the fact that even within the little attention matthew had given you tonight, was more than lucas had all day—and the time matthew spent at your side in the bustling courtyard, had your anxiety about the crowds fizzling.

STAGE 3: Denial

the sound of basketball shoes squeaking against the polished wood of a court has always been one of your least favourite things. it's a high pitched, constant sound that has you cringing every time.

you eyes flicker up towards the scoreboard—it's almost half time. it's a relief, and you are almost giddy at the fact that the stupid squeaking while be on a momentary pause.

lucas squeezes your thigh, right over your jeans. you look over at his gently, met with the sight of his curious grin. "what's up babe?"

you shrug, "just watching the timberdogs!"

"it's the timberwolves." he corrects you, eyes twinkling with amusement. you laugh it off, looking back out into the basketball court, eyes following the players as they zip back and forth on the length of the floor.

lucas' dad has always been super into basketball—like more that the average person. he's got a room in his childhood home that's designed to resemble the minnesota timberwolves court, as well as a plethora of jerseys and seasons tickets for every year.

you're not sure why his dad couldn't make it to this game—lucas had told you in the car on the way to the game but you'd been too distracted with everything else going on inside the vehicle to truly pay attention. maybe he was sick? it also could've had something to do with his car breaking down? you don't recall—but regardless, the tickets weren't being used, and they were offered to lucas.

you assumed it was just two—because lucas didn't have any siblings, and you would think it was just his parents attending these games. but no, there's four tickets, because it was always a group of 50 year old men attending together.

so what you hoped was a date night between you quickly turned into a little group outing with your respective roommates. which wouldn't of been such a problem if you weren't still reeling about the last conversation you had with matthew—in the courtyard when he practically called out your entire relationship.

the reminder makes you shift in your chair, angling yourself away from matthew even further. you can hear him sigh to himself, and out of the corner of your eye you watch as his leg bounces up and down with a feverish pace.

it's annoying—more than the shoes on the court. you huff, turning to look at him. "can you stop moving, it's distracting."

he turns to his head. "how is it distracting?"

"i'm trying to watch the game." you retort.

matthew's brows raise incredulously. "you've been watching anything but the game since it started."

"that's not true." it is true, and his call out has you feeling even more infuriated than when you first got to the arena. "I love basketball."

"sure you do." he nods, unconvinced. "instead of watching me then, get back to watching your timberdogs." matthew messes up the name of the NBA team on purpose, teasing you with your own fuck-up.

you huff. "you are so-" the sound of the buzzer echoing loudly throughout the court silences you, whatever insult you'd been conjuring up dying on your tongue. the players begin filling off the court as halftime begins, leaving the crowd to begin freely moving and walking throughout the stands and hallways—replenishing snacks and/or drinks.

on the opposite side of matthew, cora leans forward, looking at you with wide eyes. "hey! i'm going to get another coke. do you want one?" her voice is loud, and even still it's barley heard over the rowdy crowd.

"yes please." you smile. your roommate nods in understanding before getting up, making her way down the row of seats before disappearing out of sight—leaving you with only lucas and matthew.

matthew snickers—mostly to himself—eyes downcast as he fiddles with a loose thread on the knee rip of his jeans. "didn't think you were capable of such manners."

"didn't think you were capable of such big words! woah, i'm impressed." your face falls, words dripping with sarcasm as your annoyance builds higher and higher.

you shoot a look towards lucas, but are only met with the sight of him engaged in his phone—playing fucking candy crush of all things—completely unaware of the tension rising between you and his friend.

"of course your impressed." matthew insists, "everything I do impresses you."

the lingering crowd around you seems even more roudy than before, but your too enthralled with matthew to even look away and glance around. despite the noise, you can hear him fine—too fine, if you're getting specific. 

your mouth drops, a tiny puff of disbelieved laughter leaving you. "oh so we're back on the 'y/n is obsessed with matthew train.'"

matthew slowly leans closer to you, his elbow nudging yours on the tiny shared armrest between your seats. his cologne invades your space—something clean like fresh laundry mixed with a spicy cinnamon. it's almost intoxicating, and you're left frozen in place.

"we never got off that train." his words are dripping with a teasing undertone, licking his bottom lip slowly.

a hand nudges matthew shoulder from the row of seats behind yours—gathering his attention. curious, you turn as well, finding a guy seemingly only a few years older than you, looking down at you both with a sheepish grin. "you guys are on the jumbotron."

both your heads whip back around, darting up towards the jumbotron hanging from the exposed ceiling of the court. much to your horror, you and matthew are on the screen—the image framed in a heart filter with 'kiss cam' scribbled across the bottom.

you and matthew both flush—although your heat is definitely more visible, trailing down your neck and appearing in splotches over your exposed chest. "no." you say, making a cut off motion beside your neck with your perfectly manicured nails. "we're not together."

it's no use— the jumbotron can't hear your pleas. matthew shakes his head, joining in on your attempt to get the camera off you both. through the screen you see matthew shift his attention to you, which has you whipping around to look at him. his gaze is almost soft—curious, maybe.

suddenly the crowd gets louder, their unison chants echoing through the building. "kiss kiss kiss!"

the commotion finally has lucas looking away from his phone, and at the sight of what's happening in front of him—his face falls. his brows furrow slightly, gaze switching between the jumbotron and the both of you—staring at one another.

lucas quickly grabs your face, turning you away from his roommate and planting a messy kiss on your lips. your eyes widen slightly, but eventually flutter closed—allowing your boyfriend to move his lips along yours.

matthew swallows roughly, looking away and back towards the screen. the camera has since shifted, showcasing you and lucas in the last lingering moments of the bruising kiss. the crowd cheers, but as soon as you pull away from him, the couple on the jumbotron changes.

lucas expression shifts, lips pulling into a frown as he pulls away from you—his hand quickly retreating back into his lap. "why didn't you nudge me?"

your mouth open and closed quickly, "I-I don't know."

"you don't know?" lucas's tone is quite, but firm, clearly unhappy with the situation that just transpired—even though nothing really happened.

you shrug, and blush once again, but this time is purely from embarrassment about the scolding from your boyfriend. "no, the crowd was looking and I just, I tried to say no but the camera wasn't hearing me. are you seriously mad at me?"

your eyes quickly flicker around the immediate area, making sure nobody is outwardly eavesdropping on your hushed argument.

"should I be?" lucas retorts, pulling your attention back to him. he's looking at you curiously, tinged with something that seems like hope as he waits for your response.

you swallow roughly, once shake of your head following. "no."

lucas exhales shakily, the corner of his mouth sliding into a grin. "okay," he mumbles, throwing his arm over your shoulders. "then i'm not mad."

you allow yourself lean into him easily, but your mind is a whirlwind of confusion and a million unknown feelings, and when you try and even begin to understand them, you're just left more confused.

the crowd begins filtering back into the arena, finding their original seats as the halftime clock begins winding down—the third quarter approaching quickly. cora comes back down the isle, squeezing past outstretched legs as small apologies spew past her lips.

you catch her eye, and her smile grows. "a coke for you." the posh, royal tone she often uses comes to a slow halt, passing you your drink as she eyes your somber expression.

you take the plastic cup. "thanks."

cora gives you a knowing look—one that says your sudden shift in mood will be discussed later in the comfort of your shared apartment. you're not sure why you're dreading that so much.

just as the buzzer sounds throughout the arena again, signaling the resumption of the game, your eyes flicker back towards matthew again. his jaw is tight, and you can see the tendons moving under his skin as he grinds his teeth together. matthew's leg is bouncing again, faster than before—his gaze locked on the court.

it's a longer glance than you intended, but you can't help yourself—something inside you is unwilling to look away.

that dreadful noise of shoes on the polished floor pulls you away, your nose scrunching as you inwardly cringe at the sound.

quickly, matthew's eyes flicker to you—only to be met with the side of your face. he watches gently as your face drops from the previous tight pull, your smooth skin stretching over your perfectly shaped nose.

the puffiness of your lips and the lingering blush on your cheeks, and the way your hair cascades down your back in the most delicate blowout...matthew can't help the way the faintest grin ghosts over his face.

the rest of the game thankfully goes by quickly, and before you know it you're all back in lucas’ car, making the drive back to your apartment located near campus. thankfully cora and lucas fill the lingering silence with pointless conversation—you and matthew only chiming in when necessary.

you don't know what exactly happened, but you know something has shifted. you don't know what it means, or what will happen because of it—and that has you feeling really weird.

as soon as you're back in the comfort of your own apartment, cora smacks her purse down on the counter, gathering your attention with the harsh sound. "what's going on with you?"

your shoulder deflate. "I don't know."

she frowns, walking further into the apartment where you've decided to flop dramatically on the couch. your pants pull uncomfortably around your waist, and the button is digging into your belly pouch like nobodies business.

cora sits down beside you, facing you with curious eyes. "did something happen at the game? it felt like when I went to get the drinks, I missed something."

"I was on the kiss cam." you breathe.

"okay?"

"with matthew."

"oh." she is momentarily taken back, blinking three times quick as she digests your words. cora is very much used to your and matthew's supposed hatred for one another, even though she's never believed it. but the look on your face at the game isn't adding up to just 'being on the kiss cam with matthew'.

cora's brows pull tightly, creating a deep wrinkle between them. "what else happened?"

"I think," you start, voice dropping as if you weren't the only two people in the room. "I think matthew wanted to kiss me."

her eyes widen to an unfathomable size. "what?! how do you know?"

your mouth opens, a sharp breath passing through your lips. "I just....I don't know, there was something about the way he looked at me. am I being crazy?"

instantly cora shakes her head, a gentle frown on her face. "no. the eyes never lie."

your expression droops in a mixture of confusion and fear, eyes beginning to glaze with emotion as you look at cora.

she continues, "and if he tried to kiss you, what would you have done?"

"I don't know." you exhale shakily.

you hear your roommate coo gently, wrapping her arms around you in a much needed hug. your eyes pinch shut, holding onto cora's arm as you continue the embrace.

you are so screwed.

—

how lucas managed to drag you to another loud and obnoxious frat party is honestly beyond you, but there you were—doing your best at mingling and letting loose while lucas was off doing god knows what with his teammates.

rachel thankfully ended up being at the party, and as soon as she ran up to you and made herself known—you didn't leave her side. which in hindsight maybe wasn't the best idea.

you love rachel, truly, but she's never been the best influence—especially when alcohol is involved. one minute your sipping your first seltzer, and the next you're stumbling over, 10 drinks in and screaming chappell roan lyrics like nobodies business.

which means right now you're hammered, sluggishly walking through the busy frat house as you attempt in finding your boyfriend. because drunk you is clingy—and a little horny—and all you want is the warm touch and attention of a man.

unaware, drunk bodies bump into from both sides—too caught up in the party atmosphere to even notice you. it makes the journey a bit harder, but somehow you haven't managed to fall on your ass, so you'll count that as a win.

"y/n?"

the sound of your name has you blinking, looking around the room until you locate the culprit. matthew's hand touches your exposed shoulder, grabbing your attention. his brows pull together, and he bends his knees slightly so he's able to properly look into your eyes. "hey are you with me?"

you blink. "your eyes are like really pretty." a fit of giggles follows your slurred admission, tumbling forward slightly as you clutch your belly.

matthew's hands steady you easily. the combination of your shitty balance and surprisingly playful and kind words tells him all he needs to know about your current state—you're drunk.

"where's lucas?" he asks you, beer can abandoned on a side table beside one of the terribly stained couches lining the makeshift sitting area. matthew eyes you again, "or did you come with cora?"

you shake your head. "cora's a loser and had to work—so here I am."

he can barley understand you due to the slurred, sluggish string of words, but he catches the jist of it. "so you're alone."

"no..." you retort, huffing like you're annoyed. "lucas is here. wait! have you seen him?"

"not for hours." matthew tells you. "I think you need to go home though."

you whine a protest, shaking off the hand he'd still had on your shoulder. matthew isn't having it, and before you can register what's going on, he's grabbing the meat of your biceps, guiding you to the couch before sitting you down.

"hey!" you huff, falling back against the cushions—wow, for a frat couch it's really comfortable.

"i'm going to find lucas, okay? stay here." matthew tells you firmly before walking back into the heart of the crowd, on a mission to find your boyfriend. it's actually not a hard task, and he's only looking for a minute or two before he spots lucas—in the back corner with a couple guys from the team and some mystery girls, all laughing and passing around a joint.

"hey," matthew starts firmly, grabbing the groups attention. lucas brows pull, taking a slow drag from the joint resting between two loose fingers.

"lucas man, y/n needs to go home—she's practically black out."

lucas groans, passing off the joint to the blonde girl closest to matthew—the same girl who's been eyeing him since he walked up to the group a few moments ago.

"fuck, man. I forgot she was here."

his word have matthew's jaw ticking, eyes squinting pointedly. "you forgot your girlfriend was here?"

lucas, ever oblivious, doesn't catch the irritation lacing his roommates words, and he only shrugs nonchalantly before taking a hearty sip of beer. he looks at matthew, a hopeful glimmer in his eyes. "listen, I'm still having a good time. can you like, take her home?"

matthew can barley hold back a scoff. "seriously?"

"i'd really appreciate it." lucas says. "I can trust you, right?"

that really rubs matthew the wrong way, because what the actual fuck is he even trying to insinuate with that comment. before he can bite his tongue, matthew's anger comes boiling to a point. "yeah, because i'm not some no good boyfriend who's spending his time doing drugs and flirting with 18 year olds while my girlfriend is alone and vulnerable."

lucas blinks, taken back—but matthew doesn't care. matthew sends one more harsh glare towards him before leaving the area, weaving back through the party.

when he reaches you again you're practically sleeping, holding your knees to your chest and using them as a pillow. your face is squished, your blinks slow.

"we're going." matthew tells you, gently nudging your knee.

you groan, lifting your head. "where's lucas?"

"he's not coming."

"oh." you sigh, blinking with unshed emotion. your hair is wild, like you've been sweating and running your fingers through it all night—which you have. and if matthew wasn't so frustrated with his roommate right now, he'd probably tease you about it.

matthew helps you off the couch, wrapping his arm around your waist to provide you with some stability as he guides you both outside.

the fresh air is shocking, sending you into a fit of shivers almost immediately—despite the mid may warmth. thankfully it's not a long walk back to the apartment, and matthew only has to stop with you twice because you claim you're going to throw up—spoiler alert, you don't.

you stumble out the elevator, tripping over your own two feet. matthew grabs the back of your tank top, halting you back up. "okay, slow down."

"but i'm tired." you whine, head falling back dramatically.

"you're gunna be real tired when you smack your face off the ground and end up in the ER." matthew let's go of your shirt, but takes ahold of your wrist, practically pulling you down the hall towards your apartment door.

"I don't want to go to the ER." you tell him, eyes widening with panic.

matthew's almost amused, sending you a small smirk over his shoulder. "okay, then let's get you inside."

"okay." you nod in agreement. thankfully the door is unlocked, because matthew didn't even want to start asking you about the whereabouts of your keys while you're this obliterated.

you sigh happily, kicking off your shoes messily before stumbling through your dark apartment. blindly, matthew finds the switch beside the door, flickering on the overhead light.

as soon as the room becomes illuminated he located you again, lounging half on the couch. he moves towards you, his smirk growing. "that's not your bed."

"it's not?"

he stifles a laugh. "no."

you whine again, head lolling to the side dramatically. "can you take me there?" your arms extend out towards him, resembling a mummy. "please. don't be mean."

matthew gulps gently, but takes ahold of your hands, pulling you back into unstable feet. "i'm not mean." he tells you, letting go of your hands. it proves to be a mistake because your immediately falling backwards.

matthew curses, grabbing you before you hit the couch and pulling you back up. you laugh, feeling very much like a ragdoll. you look up into his eyes, "you are too."

"you're mean too." he says, wrapping an arm around your hips and looping his fingers through your belt loop. he begins walking you both down the hall, "you're the one who calls me names."

you gawk loudly. "i'm only defending myself, matthew."

"whatever you say, y/n." he hums playfully. "which room is yours?"

you tell him that it's the room at the end of the hall, and allow matthew to continue guiding you to your bedroom. he nudges the half open door with hip, opening the threshold completely.

he drops you to the bed, and you go easily, falling against the unmade pile of blankets with a smile on your face. "where are your pyjamas?"

you lazily point towards the tall dresser next to the door. "top drawer."

matthew nods, pulling it open and immediately stifling through the jam packed drawer. he manages to pull out a t-shirt and plaid pants—ones he's seen you wearing at his place before. he tosses the items beside you. "think you can manage that?"

you sit up quickly, a lazy scoff falling past your lips. "yes." you grab onto the pyjamas, and before anything else your eyes widen, glancing back to matthew. "turn around."

matthew snickers at your tone—obviously he was going to turn around, but seeing you get so worked up over it has him left amused. he turns on his feet, broad back facing you as he looks into the dark hallway—patiently waiting for you to change.

you begin taking off your tight, alcohol sticky clothes, desperate to get into something comfortable and climb under the blankets. you lift your shirt over your head, and the momentary lack of vision has you stumbling, falling into the chair beside your vanity.

you hear matthew's quiet snicker. "shut up." you grumble, pulling on the pyjama shirt.

"didn't say anything."

"you thought it." you retort. eventually you get into the pants as well, and immediately climb into your bed. the sound of your delightful sigh and ruffling sheets have matthew peeking over his shoulder, making sure you were decent.

once he sees that you are in fact dressed, he faces you again. "do you need to be sick?"

you pause, is if you were assessing yourself to find an answer. a beat passes, "don't think so."

he hums doubtfully, walking towards your vanity and taking ahold of your tiny trash bin sitting underneath. you'd emptied it that morning, so there was nothing but a makeup wipe and a few q-tips in the bottom from when you'd gotten ready. matthew puts it beside your bed. "just in case you're lying."

"excuse me," you huff, squinting pointedly. "I don't lie."

he ignores you, picking up the stuffed zebra sitting on your bed, wedged between the pillow and the headboard. matthew snorts, examining the matted fur and scratched button eyes of your most prized possession. "awh, who's this little guy?"

you push up, snatching your zebra from his hands and bringing it to your chest. "don't touch ross with your filthy hands."

"his name is ross?" matthew snickers as you cuddle the stuffed animal, rubbing your cheek against the top of its head.

you nod. "yes."

"cute." he hums.

your eyes feel heavy with sleep, and it has you falling back towards the pillows, your beloved ross smooshed against your face. matthew swallows gently, watching the way your breath begins to even out and your blinks become slower.

"goodnight, y/n." he whispers.

matthew walks out your room, slowly shutting the door behind him—but just before the latch click, you mumble his name. it has him pausing, slowly pushing the door open once more.

you're looking towards the door lazily. "can you stay with me.”

matthew's face falls, swallowing roughly at the sight of you—laid out on your bed, completely relaxed and pretty. you don't even know what you do to him, and it drives him insane. he sighs. "no. I can't."

you pout, a breathy wind blowing past your dry lips. "pleaseee...lucas never stays with me."

the mention of your boyfriend has matthew scoffing, the conversation they'd had earlier coming back to him in a angry wave. "lucas is a dick."

he's expecting your to scold him, so matthew is surprised when your gentle giggles float through the room. "such a dick." you slur in agreement.

a moment passes, and your quiet giggles slowly die. wordlessly, your hand comes out fromunder the covers and pats the spot beside you—inviting him on your bed.

matthew's breath hitches, but he doesn't walk away. matthew softly shuts the door before walking back through your room, stepping over stray shoes and your discarded party clothes on the way to your bed.

"I don't bite." you grin teasingly.

matthew can't help the smirk that makes its way onto his face. "doubt it."

your smile mimics his, and that has matthew getting onto your bed, sitting atop the covers and leaning his upper body against your plush headboard.

it's only a few more minutes before your gentle snoring is heard throughout the room, a tell tale sign that you've fallen into a deep sleep. matthew watches you for a moment, letting the peace linger between you—a peace that has never been between you before.

matthew's eyes begin to feel heavy, and before he knows it, your soft snores are lulling him to sleep.

STAGE 4: Ignorance

when you woke up the following morning, you were in a state of confusion, still dealing with the lingering affects of alcohol and trying to re-collect your memories from the night before.

with a groan, you got out of bed, shuffling down the hall and into the living room. thankfully, cora is still sleeping after he late night shift—so you're in complete silence as you pour yourself a hefty glass of ice water.

it comes back to you in flashes, each blurry memory worse than the last—rachel convincing you to have another drink, followed by another, the loosing rachel at the party and having to walk through the house while hammered. then matthew is bringing you home, without lucas for a reason you don't recall—matthew in your room, changing behind his back, him touching ross...you pleading for him to stay.

your breath hitches—a mixture of embarrassment and hangxiety hitting you at full force. then you feel yourself panic, your stomach dropping. had you even checked beside you this morning? was your boyfriends best friend still in your bed?

you quickly—much quicker than you should be moving when you're that hungover—make your way back down the wall, sheepishly peeking into your bedroom.

he's gone. and that makes you feel worse than before.

you don't see him for the whole day, and then the next day comes and you still don't run into matthew knies. not in the hallway of your apartment building, and certainly not in the elevator. you don't see him at school, or even at the hockey rink. the one time you spend the night at your boyfriends, matthew is nowhere to be found. almost two weeks pass, and you haven't seen him at all.

it's making you anxious, and not only can cora tell—sending you looks of pity anytime you're making dinner together—but lucas can tell something is up with you too.

anytime he'd ask, you'd brush it off with a easy excuse—you're tired, or you have a headache—but it was never believable, and it was becoming repetitive.

did you say something to him? did you do something to him? you're reeling with possibilities of what could've happened between you and matthew knies to have him actively avoiding you.

but honestly, you're no better, and after a few days the anxiety of it all was getting to you—and you begin actively avoiding him as well. you  call in sick to work anytime your shift is during a game, and you've only spent time with lucas if it's at your apartment. you leave early for class with the hopes of avoiding running into him, and you stay behind late for the same reason.

it was exhausting but you couldn't help it.

so when cora texted you this afternoon about meeting up for lunch between her classes, you easily agreed. wednesday's were your free days, with no classes to take up your schedule—moping around your apartment while dealing with the mess of emotions in your head wasn't your most ideal choice of productivity.

so with only an hour until cora's lunch gap, you strip out of your pyjamas, tossing on your robe before making your way to the bathroom. you throw your hair up, only intending to wash your body and hopefully clean off any lingering lazy and anxious energy from your skin.

you sigh, pulling back the floral printed shower curtain. immediately, you scream, jumping backwards as the sight of a large, brown spider that greets you—scurrying up the walls before slipping back down.

your eyes begin welling up with tears as dry sobs rack your body—of course there's a fucking gigantic spider in your bathtub.

you rush out the bathroom and make a beeline for the front door, pulling it open with the upmost urgency. you don't even close it, speed walking down the dimly lit hallway until you're at your boyfriends apartment.

your knocks are frantic, perfectly capturing the emotions your feeling. thankfully it's only a few moments of your panic stricken knocking before the handle turns, the door opening to reveal not lucas.

matthew's taken back at the sight of you—hair piled on top of your head with a makeup stained robe around you, bare feet on display. quickly, his eyes land upon your face, and the sight of your tears and pale skin has him faltering. "what's wrong?"

you swallow roughly, a few tears trailing down your blotchy cheeks. "I went to take a shower, and there's a huge fucking spider and i'm so scared of bugs—I don't know what to do, I need help." you're a babbling, sniffling mess, eyes darting between matthew and back down the hall.

"it's okay." he says quickly, stepping out into the hallway. "i'll kill it, okay?"

you nod, blowing out a shaky breath. "okay." for as long as you can remember you've had a crippling fear of any and all creepy, crawly insects. something about the way they scurry around quickly, unable to know what it's thinking and what it's planning to do to you, never fails to leave you shaking.

your fear has completely taken over your body, and it's the only reason you're able to speak to matthew knies without remembering the past few weeks between you—or rather, the lack there of.

you follow him back to your apartment timidly, trialing behind his broad shoulders like a lost puppy. he breathes gently as he enters, grabbing one of the extra shoes at the front door—the spider killing weapon of choice, clearly.

"it's in the tub." you mutter, eyes darting down the hall. matthew nods, walking towards the bathroom like he's not about to battle the eight legged beast residing in there.

he pulls back the shower curtain further, and you peek around his bicep—locking eyes with the creature. you shiver, a disgruntled moan leaving your mouth. matthew looks back at you. "sure you wanna watch?"

in all seriousness, you nod. "I need to know it's dead."

"okay," he hums, grip tightening around your floppy, strappy sandal. the spider is still crawling around, attempting to escape over the lip of the bathtub but inevitably falling back down.

it's definitely not as big as you described it, but matthew doesn't even dare bring that up. at least, he won't until the spider is gone and you're returning back to a normal heart rate. he brings the shoe up before quickly bringing it back down, but before it can be smooshed, the spider scurries away.

you squeal once again, eyes filling with salty tears as you grip matthew's arm—hiding your face is the soft material of his sweater. "its moving!"

he has a hard time stifling his laugh, looking down at you with an amused expression. "why are you cryin?"

"i'm scared." you mutter, fingers digging into his arm muscle. "hurry up and kill it—oh my god, i'm going to be sick."

matthew rolls his eyes, the action laced with fondness rather than irritation. "well I can't kill it if you're holding onto me for dear life." he watches the way your eyes dart towards the grip on his bicep, and you quickly release him, taking a small step backwards.

now with his arm free, he approaches the tub again, and this time when he brings the sandal down, it finds the spider, smacking the unwanted insect with a sickening plat.

you practically gag, wringing out your hands in disgust at the sound.

matthew looks at you again. "you good?"

hesitantly, you nod. "yeah."

thankfully matthew cleans up the remnants of the spider from your white tub with some toilet paper, eliminating any disturbing evidence of its existence.

as he does, and your frantic state comes back down to normal, you come to the shuddering realization of what's happening—matthew, the man you haven't since since your impromptu sleepover, is standing in your bathroom—all while you cry and stand naked under a robe.

he flushes the paper down your toilet, the hallow flush echoing through your ears. matthew turns back to you, sending you a closed mouth, awkward smile.

you hate this—this isn't the matthew you know. you hadn’t realized how much you missed his annoying remarks and infuriating smirk until you no longer had them. you're panicking again, expect this time it's because you don't want him to leave and you never see him again.

you clear your throat, stepping in his path. "I haven't seen you."

his brows pull tightly, eyeing you up and down curiously. "what do you mean?"

"you've been avoiding me." you huff, nerves settling low in your belly. you’re not even worried about how desperate you sound, and you play with the string of your robe with nervous, trembling hands.

"only because you've been avoiding me." he retorts firmly.

"what?" you breathe roughly—exasperated. even though you so badly want to say that you haven't, it would be a lie. you have been avoiding him, and clearly he's caught onto the fact. so you decide to play coy, and somewhat petty, crossing your arms. "i'm literally with you right now."

matthew snickers. "not by choice."

"and since when have I ever spent time with you by choice?" you question lightly.

matthew's almost playful expression falters, and a more serious look blossoms over his features. he swallows gently, adam’s apple bobbing prominently. "since you've never decided to walk away."

your mouth opens, nothing but a hitched breath coming out. you blink once, and then again, feeling nothing less than speechless from matthew's words.

his eyes dart over your face, taking in your seemingly surprised reaction. he too blinks roughly, shaking his head slightly as if he didn't mean to say that aloud. matthew clears his throat once, "i'm sorry for being all weird these past couple weeks," he pauses, eyes finding yours, "I just didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

you frown. "you didn't." a gentle, shaky laugh leaves you, "if I'm remembering correctly, I begged you to stay."

his lips quirk upwards in a smile, "more like pleaded."

"okay!" you laugh in amused disbelief, covering your eyes with a still shaking hand. "don't remind me."

"but you see, this reaction is going to make me remind you at every possible opportunity." matthew teases, reaching towards you until his fingers gently brush yours, moving your hand away from your blushing face.

your eyes flicker back to his, smile falling as you blink up at him. you gulp gently, feeling your stomach swoop with a combination of emotions—nerves, confusion, fear, denial...need.

matthew's eyes slowly trace over you face, lingering on your damp lips before reluctantly tearing his gaze away. but he can't help but to drink you in further, admiring your exposed neck and collarbones—the fuzzy peach housecoat and the crazy hair—the silver initial necklace hanging around you, dangling above your sternum like the perfect accessory. it's all so new and so you.

your gazes meet again, and this time you sigh, a breathy noise that shoots right through matthew.

you blink, and without knowing what to do, you look away, back towards the shower. "how do you know there's no more spiders?" you question timidly, an awkward, unsure laugh following.

matthew holds onto his sigh, turning back to the bathtub. he puts his hands on his hips, stepping closer. "hello? anybody here?" he directs into the shower, looking around the porcelain white walls comically.

you smile fondly just as he looks back to you. "no more spiders."

something is seriously changing between you and matthew, and that makes you feel even more anxious than before. as you finally shower—speedily because you're still scared of the possibility of more creatures—and get ready for lunch, you can't help but wonder.

the what ifs and possibilities all involving your boyfriends roommate are very prevalent in your head, even as you begin to walk to a local campus cafe. as soon as you sit down, you're spilling your guts to cora.

no, you think, you can't like matthew because it's wrong—it's crazy. you're in a relationship, and a few months ago you hated him...at least, you thought you hated him.

and as you expressed it all to your friend, she listened with nothing but love and understanding. when you eventually stop your panicked ramble, cora sighs, looking at you like she just knows.

in that moment you know—the eyes never lie.

STAGE 5: Breaking

you scan the page of your textbook carefully, reading the history material in the hopes of applying it to your research assignment—but your mind is in a million other places.

since you've come to the realization 3 days ago that you have some sort of feelings for matthew, you haven't stopped thinking about him. you're still not sure what it is exactly you feel, so in all honesty you don't feel guilty about it—at least, not yet.

you blink, focusing your eyes as you attempt at reading the same paragraph again. the library is thankfully empty, meaning there's nobody to provide any type of distraction—the last thing you need is another distraction.

well, you're not completely alone, lucas is sitting across from you, typing away on his laptop as he attempts at starting his assignment that was due tomorrow. god, just thinking about that stresses you out. his legs stretch out underneath the table, invading your space, as well as his things spread across the tabletop—providing little to no breathing room.

all day there's been a lingering, awkward energy between you and lucas. he's been unusually quiet, and anytime he did talk to you it was quick and uninterested. unfortunately you've been too busy within your own head to notice the sharp glances he's been sending you, and the way his lips pull into a frown anytime you'd make a sigh of frustration or worry.

it was constant—and lucas was at his breaking point. as you have to restart the scentence again, a tiny huff leaving your lips, he shuts his laptop, the heavy click echoing throughout the library.

you look up quickly, brows pulled together as you eye him. "you okay?"

he huffs in disbelief, "your mind is like somewhere else recently—it feels like you're just a host of a body. it's like you don't even want to be with me." lucas tone is dripping with frustration, sounding nothing less then condescending and irritated.

you blink quickly, taken back from his sudden outburst. slowly, you put down the pen you'd been using to follow along with the words, eyeing lucas with a confusing tilt. is he joking? the last person who should be complaining about anything like this is lucas.

his face stays stern—looking at you like he's just watched you kill his dog. he's not joking.

you scoff quietly, but the disgusted tone is more than prevalent. "seriously? that's rich coming from you lucas. it feels like you haven't wanted to spend time with me for the past three months."

"that's not true." he retorts quickly, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

"is it not?" you question sarcastically.

"no!" lucas practically shouts, leaning on the table as he eyes you wildly. "you sound stupid right now."

the remark that you had dies on your tongue, mouth snapping shut. your jaw clicks as it tightens, anger coursing through you at lucas' insult. "how come you didn't take me home at that party a few weeks ago?" you question softly, a knowing look in your pointed gaze.

he wasn't expecting that, and it has him flattering slightly, leaning back as he blinks two quick times. lucas runs a hand through his unruly, light hair, tugging at the root in frustration—trying to think of answer.

"I don't know...fucking seemed like matthew had it under control." he swallows, pausing for a moment. "why does it matter?"

his admission give you confirmation you hadn't realized you'd been looking for. you laugh in disbelief, "yeah, well it seems like matthew is the only one who cares about me."

it was a low blow, one that has lucas' anger rising rapidly—but it was your truth, and you know that now.

"yeah too fucking much." he snarls.

"sorry that he cares about me—unlike you."

lucas jaw tightens, eyeing your face with a look you've never seen before. "we need to break up."

you look at him with disbelief and disappointment, your lip beginning to quiver. "so you're not even going to deny it? not even going to try and fight for me?"

this conversation has taken a turning point you weren't expecting—at least not today. there's nothing but anger between you, but yet you're not upset about being broken with. you're upset because you feel stupid, and everything you've feared about your relationship is true. lucas may love you, but he doesn't care about you.

his eyes flicker with something unknown, and he sighs, "I don't think you want me to."

you close your textbook and shove it into your bag, pushing off the table as you hastily get to your feet. "you're a dick." you don't wait for his response, leaving the library with your heart in your hands.

you push open the grand doors, and immediately you're enveloped in rain. you curse, tightening the hold on your book bag as you begin speed walking in the direction of your apartment. it seems that the rain only gets harder as you go, pelting against your skin like mini bullets and completely soaking you.

it's the cherry on top of everything, and you can't wait to get home, strip completely naked and cry in bed.

the sigh of relief is loud as you finally get back to the apartment building, walking into the lobby like a wet dog. you make a b-line to the elevators, not making your usual stop in the mail room—something that was habit anytime you'd come home.

you wring your hair out between your hands, the water hitting the elevator carpet with a small plopping noise. thankfully, it doesn't stop and you make it up to your door without any interruptions.

you sniffle away the emotion creeping up your chest, stepping out into the dimly lit hallway. you only make it a few steps before a door is opening, distracting you.

it's lucas and matthew's apartment, and our steps the latter, gym bag slung over his shoulder. you come to a slow stop without meaning to, looking at him with a soft, yet curious gaze.

his eyes dart to you, but as soon as he sees the state your in he's moving, stepping closer to you with a worried expression. "woah...you okay?"

just the caring tone of his question has you welling up with tears, and it feels like everything is crashing down on you all at once. the confusion, the anger, the heartbreak, the lust, the curiosity...it's all there, drowning you.

you shake your head, mouth opening and closing unsurely. "I-I don't...i'm so." your voice is shaking, and you're borderline hyperventilating as you attempt at getting a coherent sentence out.

matthew lets his gym bag slip off his shoulder, hitting the ground with a hard thud. he takes ahold of your biceps, squeezing the fleshiest part firmly. "take a fucking breath, y/n, you're gunna make yourself sick."

closing your eyes, you take a few deep breaths, attempting to calm yourself down from the sudden emotional attack set upon yourself. it takes a minute, but eventually you feel yourself begin to relax, your heart rate slowly creeping back down.

you let your eyes flutter back open, meeting the concerned ones of matthew. your brows pull tightly, a nervous gulp following. "why are you looking at me like that, matthew?" your question is barley above a whisper, as if you were almost scared of the response.

"like what?" he breathes, not once breaking eye contact.

it's almost intimidating, but it's also confirming of so many things. but of course, you're hesitant—heck you're scared and nervous and so unsure about what's going on between you. your brows are still drawn together, creating a tiny indent in the middle of your forehead.

matthew has to fight every urge in his body to not run his thumb over the indent to smooth it out.

"like...like you fucking care about me. like you want me." you answer firmly, eyes frantically moving around matthew's face as you attempt at gauging his reaction.

he doesn't release the hold on your biceps, his gaze turning completely soft. "y/n." he says your name knowingly, fingers gently running up your arms. that’s his answer.

"matthew." you exhale shakily, distracted by the gentle pressure of his fingers on your skin. "you're making me all..."

"all...what?"

"confused." you say honestly, looking up at him with the most vulnerable expression he's seen.

matthew swallows roughly, jerking his hands off your body like you just told him that's he's burning you. "i'm sorry"

the soft, hopeful look on his face doesn't falter, and if anything it increases. "no," you shake your head, "stop."

"what? stop apologizing?" he questions with a frown.

"no," you repeat, "stop looking at me like that."

a moment passes before he speaks again, his words laced with desire— stressing his words. "I can't."

another beat of silence, nothing but the hitching breath of both and you matthew to be heard. you lick onto your bottom lip, "lucas and I...we broke up."

"you did?"

you only get one nod out before matthew rushes forward, grasping your face like he's been waiting for the opportunity since he was put onto the earth. you tilt your head back instinctively, and it's just timed as matthew leans down to kiss you.

the kiss is instantly desperate, the clashing of lips and teeth alluding to so. your tongues glide across each others like second nature, elevating the kiss to a higher, more intense level. it's exhilarating—it's right.

you sigh into his mouth, trembling hands reaching up and grabbing onto matthew's wrists—keeping him against you. you've completely forgotten that you're soaked from head to toe, and how you've just had a fight with lucas that lead to a break up...it's all lost in matthew.

his hands slide farther back, fingers intertwining with your wet strands of hair. it's a gentle and welcoming pull, and you can't help but sigh in pleasure.

matthew follows suit, groaning into your messy kiss. it's been months and months of tip-toeing around one another, too scared to admit the truth in fear of ruining everything and everyone else along the way. but now it's just you two, and matthew can't help but moan at the thought.

the elevator doors slide open, and you’re both pulling apart instinctively at the sound.

but as lucas stands there, jaw ticking with anger as he stares at you—you know it's too late, and he's just seen you making out with his friend. or better yet, he's seen his friend making out with his newley ex-girlfriend.

"are you two fucking serious?"

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. it looks bad, you know it it does—mostly because it is bad. you've been thinking about matthew for much longer than you care to admit, and the first thing you did after getting broken up with is run into his arms—letting matthew kiss you like you're both horny teenagers.

"lucas..." matthew trails off, turning to his roommate with a guilty laced hesitation.

but lucas is only looking at you, that same disgusted smirk on his face from the library. "can't even remember the last time you kissed me, but yet the first thing you did after leaving the library was make out with my roommate. I didn't realize you were such a slut."

you inhale sharply, tears quickly welling up in your eyes.

matthew rushes forward, and before he can logically think of the consequences of his actions, he punches lucas square across the face.

"matthew!" you gasp, moving towards the two men with concern pulling at your face. "no."

he doesn't hear you, looking at lucas as he clutches his jaw. matthew's gaze narrows, shaking out his hand. "don't fucking talk to her like that."

your ex-boyfriend laughs in a mixture of shock and disbelief, stretching his jaw out before he looks back at you. lucas doesn't say anything else, turning and leaving down the buildings stair well.

you're shocked, embarrassed and guilt ridden—your watery gaze locked on the empty space lucas was only moments ago occupying.

"y/n?" matthew questions gently, snapping you out of your own head.

you blink hard, shaking your head. "i'm sorry, I just need some space." you turn away from matthew before he has the chance to answer—mostly because you're too scared that if he begins to speak you'll crawl right back into his arms.

matthew watches you walk away, and all he can do is stand there, focused on your fleeting figure as he slip into your apartment—your lip trembling without another glance in his direction.

his face is contorted, not in anger, but in a look of concern. guilt flashes across his features, and he can't help but groan, running a palm over his face in frustration. did he just loose you for good?

you shut the apartment door behind you, and the tears begin falling down your face at a rapid pace. your lips tug into a frown, a sob wracking through you as you lean back against the door.

cora rounds the corner at the sound, her eyebrows pulled in concern. "what's wrong?" she breathes, rushing towards you.

"I did something terrible." you admit through your stuttering gasps, looking at your roommate with a million different emotions.

"honey..." she coos, wrapping you in a hug. your tears intensify as cora squeezes you in the embrace, and you bury your face in her shoulder to mask your desperate cry.

Epilogue

“god miller! just kiss me already!”

“no, not like this!”

you groan, falling into the couch cushions. the scene on the tv illuminates the room, the late afternoon sun hidden behind the blackout curtains you’ve had drawn since this morning.

nick and jess from new girl have not only been giving you entertainment all day while you mope around, but they’ve also been stupid cute and in love—it makes you want to die.

you’ve only been two places since the chaotic ending to last night; your bed which you cried in all night, and the couch which obviously you also cried on. you keep running through the events of yesterday—the breakup with lucas, finding matthew in the hallway, borderline confessing your feelings to him…kissing him. it felt good—so so good.

but just like that it was snatched from you, and the guilt riddling your body is just nerve wracking and wrenching. while you were kissing matthew, the last thing you were thinking about was lucas, and the possibility of him finding you both like that wasn’t even in your mind. but it happened and now everything feels like a mess—and you feel like an awful person.

you’ve clearly hurt lucas—that much was evident in the awful things he said to you. when you told cora everything last night, eyes stinging with tears and snot dribbling from your nose, she was quick to remind you that lucas never treated you good, and that no matter what he shouldn’t of said that to you.

your phone buzzes against your thigh, making you sit up—brows furrowed in question.

lucas

are you home?

you pause the tv quickly, all while reading the text over and over again as you try and make sense of it. what does he need? does he want to talk? is he going to yell at you? is he simply just curious? does he want to fix your relationship?

you hold your breath as you shakily type your reply.

y/n

yea

you exhale as it goes through, and in habit you bring your thumb to your lips, nerves consuming you as you begin gnawing on the skin around your nail.

your phone buzzes with an incoming message again.

lucas

can I come talk?

you swallow, sitting up straighter as you read his message. this can’t be good, you think—you’ve done nothing positive in the last twenty four hours that warrants a civil talk with your ex. you desperately want to ignore him—throw your phone across the room and get back to new girl on the tv.

a show that you only started watching because it’s matthew favourite—your brain reminds you. you look down at your phone again, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as you contemplate.

you deserve not only closure, but happiness—not matter what.

y/n

sure

you barley have a minute of speed running the apartment, picking up the empty tub of ice cream and what feels like hundreds on snotty tissues from your crying, before there’s a knock at your door.

even if you didn’t know he was coming over, would could tell it was lucas by the weight of the knock. it was soft, almost hesitant—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to actually be at your door. it always sounded like that.

before you back out, you pull open the door, revealing yourself to a deadpanned face lucas who’s standing with his hands shoved in his pockets. he gulps, eyeing your figure briefly. “can I come in.”

you nod reluctantly, stepping to the side to create enough room for him to slip inside your apartment. lucas sends you a forced smile as he enters, moving through your place like he’s done many times before.

the door shuts with a gentle click, but the room is so tense and quiet it sounds like a bomb. you follow suit, walking into the living room where lucas stands stagnant—eyeing around the apartment with an unsure expression. suddenly his eyes meet yours, “did you cheat on me?”

“no.” you tell him. “I would never cheat…on anybody.”

he sniffs, the sound annoying and disgusting—it’s like he’s trying to stay calm. “but you like him, right? you like matthew?”

you’re so used to trying to please him that you want to stay quiet—because you know if you admit your feelings for his friend, everything is going to completely change…more than it already has. and as lucas looks at you now, his gaze nothing but knowing, you decide you’re done trying to hide from him.

“I do.” you confirm. “but nothing ever happens, and…I didn’t even know when these feelings started. i’ve been so confused for the longest time, and I was scared because I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.” you pause, wringing out your trembling fingers as you collect your next thoughts. “but i’m sick of doing things for everyone else…and I need to let myself be happy—whatever that ends up being.”

lucas stay silent for a moment, but you can see his mind running a mile a minute. his eyes dart all over you, analyzing your face and body language—you’ve never seen him look at you so intently, and it has you wanting to shy away.

he sighs, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m sorry, y/n—for everything.”

your shoulders deflate, and you feel the emotion you’ve been suppressing since lucas texted you coming back to the surface. “thank you. i’m sorry too.”

“can I give you a hug?” his hesitance is evident, looking at you like he’s unsure of your response—how you’ll react. looking at him right now, you can’t be mad at him. not about your relationship, the breakup or the name he called you in his rage. lucas is a good guy, you know that—he’s just not the guy for you.

“yeah.” you breathe. “i’d like that.”

lucas takes the three steps of distance between you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as he brings you into his chest. your hands find place around his waist, holding him against you in a wordless goodbye. his cheek rests on the top of your head, a comforting gesture that has your eyes flickering shut.

he takes a deep breath—his words quiet as he speaks. “I think we met for a reason, y/n. and that reason is matthew.” you feel lucas swallow against you, like he knows what he just said is the final nail in the coffin—everything starts now. “have you noticed how he looks at you?”

you pull back, and watch as the corner of his lips begin to turn upwards—the faintest smile growing. lucas may not like it, but he’s accepted it, and it’s feels better than anything you could imagine. your own smile begins to show, and you nod. “I have.”

matthew knies was an enigma—a giant, infuriating mystery that you never expected to entangle yourself in. but if there’s one thing you’ve learned in the past few months, it’s that you’re easily intrigued, especially when the enigma has always cared for you, no matter how rude and stupid you acted towards him.

perhaps you never hated matthew, but rather the way he made you feel. you hated the idea of being in love with him because you had a boyfriend, so you'd turn into an easily irritated girl, who secretly wanted nothing more then the attention of the boy down the hall. the boy who was more of a boyfriend than lucas could ever be. the boy who you don't hate, but love.

of course, there’s still the lingering feelings of confusion and nervousness—because you don’t know where you and matthew will go from here.

but later in the day, on you way back from your evening class, as the elevator doors open to your floor and matthew stands there—a grin growing on both your faces at the mere sight of one another…you think you have an answer.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

[alexiroflife]

“a bird’s song”

satoru gojo x reader

Synopsis: you are satoru’s entire world, having redefined what it means to live. losing you is the last thing he ever wants to do

to sum it up: you’re satoru’s soulmate and a life without you is inconceivable

WC: 5,255

Warning(s): lots of angst, mentions of death/reader death, i cried writing this oops

Why are the birds still chirping?

Satoru remembers the first time he became aware of the melodious sound fluttering through the cloudless sky above, when he first lay eyes on you. Somehow, the world doused itself into vibrant color right then and there, stroking the trees, the ground, and your stunning face with the brush of a paint, revealing a reality to him that he hadn’t believed to exist before you. 

He is ten years old, peering over at you from his seat on the park bench. He isn’t allowed to wander off on his own, protected heavily by the members of his clan everywhere he goes. He withholds a sense of entitlement, harbored at such a young, ripe age, and he scowls at all the children that skip along the pavement, screeching in ignorant delight, but then there’s you. With a laugh louder than all the rest and a smile brighter than the glaring beam of the sun overhead, your round (e/c) eyes connect with his from where you sit atop the slide. You sit down, gripping the ledges in preparation to fly downward, yet you stop yourself when you see him. 

You blink curiously, then beam and wave, seeking to make a new friend with that blush that sprouts over your already flushed cheeks. 

Satoru Gojo has only seen his world through a gray lens, despite the vibrance of his eyes. Burdened by a title, defined by his birthright, pressured by the realities of a world beyond even the ordinary adult imagination before he’s even reached double digits. Everything is cold, because he is the only one of himself in this world, and yet there you are. 

The moment your hand reaches the air, color bursts from your palm and sprouts through your fingertips, seeping into the atmosphere and drenching a dull universe in childlike wonder. Satoru, numbed by any and all around him, apathetic to the inferiority of the surrounding society, finds his lips parting slightly and his periwinkle irises flickering with a glint of perplexed inquisition. 

His ears ring, and suddenly… have the birds always sung so loud? Has the breeze always tickled his nose and tousled through his locks? Has the sun always illuminated the planet with a golden haze? 

His arm is snatched by his maid moments following the interaction, and he is tugged away, back to the cold. Satoru never bothered to look anyone in the eye before, if not to enlighten them of their unshakable weakness in comparison to him, but that day, he finds himself watching over his shoulder as the vision of you shrinks and the patter of his boyish heart matches the hastiness of the steps pulling him off. 

He can hear them still… they won’t stop singing.

Three years later, Satoru happens upon you again. Somehow, he is worse than before. More arrogant, older, intent on the idea of knowing everything that can not be debauched by the authority of an adult, because in truth, he does know more. He knows all. He sees all. He sees the fear in the eyes of those who protect him, the weakness of the masses, the strength of his mind that could grow to wipe them all out one day if he truly desires so. 

He still thinks about you. Your face flickers through his mind every day, and he doesn’t understand why. Since he saw you, his world is louder, but you are nowhere in sight. 

Until one day, he’s walking by a middle school, hands tucked in his pockets as he treks out to the ice cream shop he’s grown to favor over the years thanks to his sweet tooth. He keeps his gaze down, an expression of agitation gracing his features. He’s taller now, allowing him to look further down on those nearby. 

He grows weary of his beauty when girls whisper as he walks by. He knows he is not ordinary, and at times, it makes him laugh dryly. These pathetic school girls could never possibly aim to even speak with someone like him. He’s better. He’s the best. He’s a fabrication of their childish dreams and fantasies that will never find the light of reality. 

Satoru is lost in his head when he swings the door open to the shop, eyes ghosting over the array of flavors until they accidentally snap to the back of your head. He looks away at first, then does a double take when a strange, familiar tightness grips his chest. That hair, that (s/c) skin, that posture radiating warmth and strength bursting with a rainbow of hues are things Satoru has only seen once, and with his keen six eyes, he recognizes you instantly before you turn around with a vanilla cone in your hand.

You meet his eyes in an instant, and both of you stop. Satoru thinks he can hear a songbird whistle from down the road as his grip on the door releases and the two of you stare at each other with wide eyes. He thinks you recognize him, by the way your brows raise and those unmistakable (e/c) eyes of yours sparkle with something he has never seen before. 

You look the same, only a bit older. You’ve grown taller, your eyes the slightest bit more mature, but it’s you. That girl who unveiled color to Satoru years prior. He has only seen you in his head, but now you stand before him, real, bright, and… pretty.

He doesn’t know what to say. Satoru has never taken interest in girls or boys romantically, especially those who ogle at him like he is a pet to tame and withhold, but your gaze on him is different. You’re different. The white haired boy feels his heart hammer into his chest, a foreign feeling that he has only felt once before in your presence. He’s overcome with nostalgia, and dare he say, anxiety. Who are you? What is this you make him feel?

Your lips part and you take a breath, doe eyes glassy as though having had life sparked into them. Satoru imagines he looks the same, his sapphire hues gleaming with the stun of seeing you again. 

“Hey,” you call out gently, voice wrapped in a light amiability, a familiarity that Satoru is unaccustomed with. He’s never had friends his age. He’s never had someone look at him the way you do, seeking out to communicate with him at a basic human level. “Do I know you…?”

Suddenly, Satoru’s astonishment is bombarded by irritation. No one has ever tried to speak to him at a basic human level, he recalls, so why are you? Why do you believe you’re special enough to talk to him? He doesn’t know you, not any more than by first glance. 

You have some audacity to approach him, to open your mouth to talk to him as if you could ever be at the same level as him. You’re just a girl despite the flutter in his heart you inspire and the brightness that you exude. A girl who can never be his friend.

His brows angle and his hands shove stubbornly into his pockets. Teenage arrogance is a monster, but, harbored by a thirteen year old Satoru Gojo, is perilous.

“No,” he tells you coldly, watching the hope drain from your face and the light in your eye dim. “Why would you?”

You visibly retract from the snippiness of his voice, having mistaken his appearance for that of a friendly boy. You know exactly who he is. You aren’t dumb. You’ve never seen anyone like him before, not since that day at the park. Those eyes, that hair, that presence. He’s one of a kind, but he isn’t ten anymore. He’s meaner. Less innocent, you can tell.

“Oh,” you say, dejected. Two other girls come behind you, chattering loudly, and usher you away. They sneak glances at Satoru as they giggle, and he hears them ask you who the cute boy you were looking at was.

His heart lurches when you tell them it was no one.

He regrets that day. He regrets stripping that excitement from you. He has spent his entire life reminding people of where they stand with a simple look, but the second he did it to you, it didn’t feel right. He thinks maybe he should have been kinder. He thinks maybe he wanted to speak with you, but didn’t know how. He thinks maybe you’re the one person he could have tried to get to know, to help him ease away from his loneliness.

Maybe. Maybe he could have known you, but that was only a silly dream. 

It's five in the morning… they won’t stop singing so close to his window.

Two more years later, Satoru finds you again in the last place he would have expected to see you. 

It’s his first day at Tokyo Jujutsu High, and he’s wandering the campus after having moved into his dorm when he sees you by the vending machines speaking with a black haired boy in baggy pants.

His heart drops. His ears ring. His chest tightens, and god damn, why are those birds perched on the telephone wire so loud?

Satoru is fifteen, and he is no less cocky, but he finds himself a bit more spirited, more lighthearted, seeking humor in the drab doom of the world he inhabits. He pokes fun rather than instantly berating. He sparks banter rather than immediately pushing others away. He laughs, not scowls, at the sheer difference in strength between himself and others, and he never thought he would see the day where he would find you again… and here, of all places, in his world. 

What is the universe telling him? Why are you ingrained into his life’s path when everyone else comes and goes?

His first instinct is to approach you, but what should he say? He pretended not to know you the last time your paths crossed… maybe you forgot? Maybe he could start over?

Somehow, however, he knows that is not possible. He knows you anywhere, your aura, your vibrance. He knows you despite the very brief and distanced interactions he has had with you in the past. He would recognize you anywhere, he fears, and something tells him as he walks over that you will too. 

“You guys my classmates?” he asks cheekily, a smug smile gracing his face once he is before the two of you, interrupting your conversation.

The dark haired boy looks at him first with an expression of confused contempt, and then you turn, and Satoru almost loses his breath.

You’re gorgeous, he thinks. Your lips are glossed, your eyes are coated in gentle strokes of mascara, and your facial structure has matured. The school uniform graces your body regally, your navy skirt revealing the smoothness of your legs and your knee highs reaching to cut it off. He’s never seen a girl so pretty in his life, save from the two instances in which he has seen you. 

Your face contorts immediately into shock when you see him, and he grins. “Do I know you?” he mimics your words from the past, and your shoulders tense before your eyes slim.

“You,” you gasp, a hint of suspicion laced in your voice which, in turn, has matured as well. 

Satoru smirks, heart brimming with anticipation. “Me?” he nods, hand over his hip. 

“You two know each other?” the hazel eyed stranger with odd bangs questions, looking between the two of you oddly. Only then do you realize that you have been staring at each other.

You snap your face back over to him and curl your lips. “Not really…” you say.

“What? You’re such a liar!” Satoru accuses, leading you to glare at him, flabbergasted by his forwardness. “We’ve met before.”

“Hardly. And the last time I saw you, you were pretending like you didn’t know who I was.”

“That was forever ago! Are you really gonna hold onto a grudge from when I was thirteen?” he cocks a playful brow, those sapphire eyes of his blazing with brazen jest. 

“Yes,” you nod. “You seemed like an asshole.”

“I’m sure that hasn’t changed,” the boy murmurs, and Satoru pouts, unimpressed. 

“And who are you?”

“Geto Suguru. Grade one,” he answers almost judgmentally, and Satoru scoffs a laugh.

“Grade one, huh?”

“...Yes? Why, what grade are you?”

Satoru’s grin brightens. “Special grade.”

Both you and Suguru reel at the news, and Satoru revels in the shock. “How the hell are you special grade already?” you ask.

Gojo shrugs, poking his tongue out. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he tells you vaguely, though it’s clear on his face that he is itching to shout it from the rooftops.

Satoru doesn’t muster up the courage to ask you what your name or grade is, and you read his failure to do so as a sign that he does not care. His sight allows him to detect that you are a grade three, but beyond that, your name remains a mystery until Geto addresses you by it when he’s talking. 

(L/n) (Y/n). 

The name is burned into his brain from that point on.

You grow weary of Satoru Gojo the longer you know him. He starts to cling to you and Suguru, as well as the last first year named Ieiri, like you all have known each other all your lives, but he isn’t kind to you. He’s rather mean in the sense that he is constantly trying to gauge a reaction out of you. He’s picking on you, calling you weak, poking fun, invading your privacy, intruding on your personal space, and you think he hates you but it’s just the opposite.

He feels like he has known you since the day he was born. There is something so familiar about you, so comforting about you that he can not begin to understand. He wants to think it’s because of the first time he laid eyes on you, but it feels like it goes deeper than that. Like your fates are intertwined, like you are doomed to encounter one another in this reality and the next and so on. 

He watches you grow. He watches you curl away from his presence. He watches you strengthen yourself and your bonds with the rest of them. He watches you blossom, and when he first sees you in action on the training field, his heart beams with pride.

You’re weak, but you improve. You climb the ranks in a frantic attempt to catch up to Satoru and Suguru, and though you still fall behind, you don’t falter. You don’t give up, and Satoru is so proud of you despite the short amount of time you have known each other. 

Satoru finds himself changing along with his environment. He comes out of his shell, branching out into a social horror as he grows more and more comfortable in your presence. His arrogance remains, but his words are less harsh, his eyes carry less heaviness, and his posture is broader. He feels lighter somehow, surrounded by you, surrounded by love, and he is grounded. 

Your suspicion of him shifts into the same familiarity that he feels for you, and you grow accustomed to his behavior just as much as Suguru and Shoko have, if not more. You cling to Satoru in return when he glues himself to you, teasing him and poking fun, engaging in ridiculous banter that brings Suguru’s hands over his ears as he begs some higher power for more peaceful company. 

Your heart bursts under Satoru’s gaze, your smile brightening his existence, and the two of you become inseparable. To be parted from your best friend is to be tortured, and the thought of losing you brings Satoru to the brink of insanity. 

There is no longer a you without him, nor a him without you, and everyone knows. Everyone sees the unbreakable strength of your bond. 

“Satoru,” you mumble one afternoon. He hums, looking down at your face as he cradles your head in his lap. The two of you are sixteen, now, lounging in Suguru’s dorm as the dark haired man works on an assignment. You and Satoru lay on his carpet, scrolling through your phones and doing everything but the assignment you are supposed to be completing.

He blinks down at you, bright eyes isolate you in his gaze. You smile lightly, seeing the ten year old at the park that threw his head over his shoulder to capture the sight of you as he walked away. “What’s up?”

“...Do you think we’re soulmates?”

The blue eyed boy’s heart jumps as he looks down at you with a soft smile. “What a question to ask,” he marvels. “You finally falling in love with me, sunshine?”

Sunshine.

He had begun calling you that a few months into knowing each other during your first year. You had asked him why, and he responded that everything you touched sprouted into color just like the nip of the sun’s rays. You told him that he was stupid and nudged his head away with a laugh.

“You wish,” you roll your eyes, and Satoru chuckles. Your foot dangles over your crossed legs and your lips pucker in thought. Satoru watches every movement your body takes, studying you like the piece of art he believes you to be. “I’m only asking because… I don’t know, like, we met those two times when we were kids, and now we’re here. And even before that, it felt like I was waiting for something to come around… and then there you were.”

You look into his eyes as he leans over and traces your brow with his finger. “So what I’m hearing is that you were waiting your entire life to be graced by my presence.”

“Shut uppp, you know what I mean, don’t you?”

He smiles, tilting his head. “Yeah, I actually do.”

“Like, what do you think would happen if we grew apart someday?”

“Well, that would never happen,” Satoru says. “Even if you got tired of me and tried to get away, I’d find you.”

“Creepy. That must have been what you did before high school, you stalker.”

“For the last time, I didn’t stalk you,” he rolls his eyes, poking into your cheek. “If anyone stalked anyone, it was you stalking me.”

“Nuh-uh. There’s no way I could have, especially since you’re the one with the six eyes. You’re the one with the stalking ability.”

You reach up your index finger to press into his forehead. 

“Stop trying to slander my name like this,” Satoru sighs dramatically. “I’m a perfect gentleman. If I were to stalk you, I'd at least give you a heads up.”

“Wow. How generous of you, you fucking weirdo.”

“A weirdo who’s your soulmate,” he sings. “So that would technically makes you a weirdo too.”

“Nah, you’re still weirder. Right Suguru?”

“Yes,” he calls out, though not at all sure of what the two of you could have possibly been discussing.

Satoru groans. “Don’t take her side, Suguru, what the hell?!”

“I take the side of whoever gets on my nerves less. Today, it’s (Y/n).”

You scrunch your face. “The hell do you mean today? I’m always delightful.”

“That’s not true, and you’d be more delightful if you let me do my work.”

You turn up to Satoru and make a grumpy face, moving your lips around to mimic an exaggerated impersonation of Suguru scolding you. Satoru snorts as he tries his best to hold in his laughter. 

“Whatever you’re doing, quit it,” Suguru says.

“Ugh. He’s so bossy,” Satoru shakes his head. 

“Quiet before he comes over here and beats our asses.”

“He’d never, he loves us too much.”

Just then, a pencil is tossed at Satoru’s head that is deflected by his quickness to equip infinity. He snickers and releases it once the pencil drops to the floor. 

The white haired teenager sighs heavily, gathering your cheeks in his hand as he squishes obnoxiously. You glare at him, dropping your hand to the floor. “Guess it’s just you and me, then,” he murmurs. 

“F’rthe rest ‘f’our lives, hm?” you ask, voice muffled by Satoru’s hand. He chuckles, releasing you and leaning back on his hands. He gazes at you tenderly.

“For the rest of our lives. Suguru can visit on weekends.”

Satoru knows he’s fallen in love with you very early on. He knows that it’s always been you, that you’re the only person he could ever devote his entire being to. He knows that you’re the only person he could ever love more than he selfishly loves himself, more than his life, more than the lives of others. 

You show him a world of color before he can sink further into his disdain. You show him what it means to be supported, to not be lonely, to be consumed by fondness and friendship along with Suguru and Shoko. You show him humility, you show him comfort, you show him a life that he never would have believed he could live.

The sky is a brilliant blue in your wake, the birds chipper and melodic, the grass a lively green, and the world a canvas that you guide his hand to paint along with him.

A year later, losing Suguru takes an immense toll on the both of you. His loss stays with you for ten years, bleeding into your adulthood then resurfacing during and after his attack on the high school, soaking into your lives after his forced execution at his best friend’s hand.

Suguru’s death brings the two of you impossibly closer somehow. Now that you’re older, well into your late twenties and professors at the same school you attended in your earlier years, your lives mold into one another as the same. 

Satoru protects you with his soul, horrified that you will one day slip from his fingers like Suguru did. He can’t stand the thought of losing you, his closest friend, his soulmate. He can’t stand the thought of the love of his life fading from his fingers and into distant memories that were once so close, so recent.

Satoru refuses to tell you that he is in love with you, and has for years, but he knows he doesn’t need to. Your relationship isn’t defined by your declarations, but by your innate understanding of who you are to each other.

Satoru loves you like no other. You’re the breath he takes, the water he drinks, his very existence at the palm of his hands. He knows you love him just the same, and he does not need to validate so by telling you. You’ve told each other hundreds of times, whispers in the night, feeble breaths against each other’s cheeks, laughs as you swoop one another up into your arms. 

The two of you are love incarnate.

You are to be together until the end of time. Fated to die in each other’s arms at the end of the world when all sound has gone mute and all color has already drained from the world, when it is only the two of you left and you welcome the rest that awaits you at the final touch of your lips to each other’s.

Neither of you are meant to leave the other before you both are ready.

So why… why are the birds still chirping?

Something told Satoru not to let you take this mission.

Something deep in his gut was churning, giving him the worst possible feeling imaginable. Something visceral was screaming inside him, telling him to interfere, to make you stay back, to tell Yaga to cancel the entire thing.

You’re a grade one sorcerer now. You’re strong, you’re talented, you can and always have been able to hold your own, but something wasn’t right. Satoru knew this and he tried to convince Yaga to pull you back, but he didn’t listen. He tried to tell you to reconsider, that his instincts were telling him to keep you away, but you simply turned and smiled at him, those pretty (e/c) eyes of your glimmering and your soft lips curling kindly. 

“Stop worrying, Toru,” you said. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

He’s staring at your body, pupils shrunken and face frozen.

It’s a sunny day. Partly cloudy. Almost two in the afternoon.

The birds are chirping and Satoru is staring at your body.

You lay against the brick wall, limbs twisted and head splattered against the building. You aren’t moving. You aren’t breathing. You’re oh so still, and Satoru can not pick up any vitals within your body signifying any life.

He can’t move. Is this real? Is he dreaming?

It’s sunny outside, like the day he met you, and the birds are chirping, and you’re lying limp before him. 

He twitches, captured by shock, blue eyes dull, lips parted, eyes glazing over. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

Satoru’s mind swarms with images of you. He sees you as a child, swarming with light as you grin amiably at him in search of a friend. He sees you in the ice cream parlor, breath caught in your throat as your friends drag you away from his rejection of you. He sees you at the vending machine, sun in your eyes as you look at him as though you hate him, and he sees that hatred wash away to make room for your incandescent, raw, unconditional love for him.

He sees your hand reaching to brush his hair into place, your arms clinging around his torso to press yourself into him, your head tossing back with laughter after he tells a stupid joke, the tears drip from your eyes endlessly when the news of Suguru’s crimes fall upon your ears, the heat dusting your cheeks when Satoru looks you in your eyes and tells you that he will always protect you, the touch of your lips to his cheek, the twitch of your brown when you sleep, the grace of your love as it touches him softly as well as the students who have taken such an immense liking to you.

He sees you, all of you, and he can’t breathe.

“(Y/n),” his name tumbles from your lips, a whisper. He expects you to answer, but you don’t, and this nightmare becomes real before him. “(Y/n)?” he calls you again, voice rising, cracking, body trembling. You don’t respond. You don’t move. You don’t do anything. Why won’t you do anything?

He rushes to his knees before you, his blank expression morphing into horror. He grips your shoulders, taking your body into his and you slump into him. Your eyes, once so full of life, are gray as they stare into nothing, past his trembling face. “(Y/n),” he croaks your name again, a shaky hand reaching to touch your face. You’re cold.

No. No. No.

This isn’t supposed to happen. You aren’t supposed to leave him, not like this. You’re supposed to stay by his side until the end of time, you are supposed to be with him forever, you are supposed to come back to his place hours later with takeout in your hands, begging him to watch that one movie he had been dreading to sit through. 

Not you. Anyone but you. Any sorcerer, any human, any life but yours. Not his love. Not his life. Not the source of all the color and joy and music in the world.

“Please, no,” he breathes. Satoru can feel himself unravel, his brain scrambling and his heart thudding into him. He’s panicking, hyperventilating, looking over every part of you as though you will lift a hand to cup over his and tell him that you’re fine, that you’re okay, that you got hurt badly, but you made it. “Fuck, no, no, fucking- (Y/n), wake up. Get up, come on, pretty, get up please! Please, please…”

His hands are soaking in your blood, and Satoru’s eyes blur over. He tries to pull your face up, to look into your eye, to plead you to gain consciousness, but there’s nothing. You give him nothing.

He sits there, staring at you in terror. Pearly tears cascade down his face before he even registers so, splattering onto your red stained cheek. His fingers dig into your body, pressing you close to him. His pants are drenched in your blood, but he doesn’t care.

How can he care about anything anymore?

A strangled cry rips the air from his chest as he clings to you, ducking his head and pressing his forehead to yours. He wraps you up into his arms, holding you over his waist as he rocks you back and forth. 

“Not my baby,” he whimpers, nose flaring. “Not my beautiful girl. Please don’t leave me alone, sunshine, please.”

He’s lost. He’s devastated, heart broken, ripped apart. 

You revealed a world to him that he had never known to be possible. A world that brought him back down to earth, that healed his trauma, that allowed him to breathe, that allowed him to know what it is like to be human. To be weak. To be loved in a way that the expecting world could never love him despite its constant demands for his sacrifice. 

And now, you’re gone. 

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how quickly you slipped away. He knows the life of a sorcerer is to accept death just as you did, but this isn’t right. This isn’t supposed to happen to you. He’s supposed to protect you. How could he have failed to protect you?

He should have been there. He should have prevented you from going. He should have locked you in a room and dealt with whatever curse did this to you himself. He shouldn’t have let you go. He should have done something. He should have fought harder, but he didn’t. And this is the price he must pay for trusting, for stepping away, for watching you assure him and turning your back to him as you walked off. 

He knew and yet he let you go.

Satoru thinks he’s going to break. He can feel his mind shifting, his irregular breaths growing ragged. He can feel the unbridled hatred brewing, the rage, the urge to find and slaughter whatever beast took you away from him. He feels nothing, yet he feels everything all at once. 

Nothing matters anymore, now that you’re gone. There is nothing holding him back, nothing keeping his demons at bay, nothing preventing him from letting loose without a care in this goddamn planet. The higher ups. They sent you. He’d kill them. He’d kill them all after finding your murderer and ripping them apart from the inside out.

Gojo is aching, for he doesn’t know what to do except hold you and cry against your pretty face, pressing shaky kisses to your forehead as he recites your name over and over.

He expects the sky to fall dark. He expects the plants surrounding to wilt. He expects life to stop as he knows it because an angel has died on earth. The source of the world’s life has been torn away.

But life continues around him. The sun beams down, the flowers sprout high…

And those birds keep chirping, though you are the only person who exposed the sound to him in the first place.

“Why…” he shivers, burying his head into your chest.

Why are the birds still chirping now that you’re gone?

[lonesomedovescry]

“i don’t want you to get sick.”

you stared at arthur, perplexed. the wash cloth in your hand dripped hot water down the flesh of your wrist. outside, the crackle of the fire and whispered conversation.

arthur had returned from doing god knows what late into the night, bleeding from cuts on his face and chest. you had risen the moment you felt his presence and went straight to preparing a dish of hot water to clean his wounds. you’d returned to see him sitting on his cot, head hung low and wheezing with rattling breath.

you had bent low to lift his face so that you could start cleaning his wounds, but he pushed you away. eyes creased with regret and sorrow, he had told you that as if it killed him.

water lined his eyes now as you stared at each other. the dim light of the lantern carved sharp angles into his face and made him breathtakingly handsome despite the redness of his eyes and the shadows beneath them.

“you can’t do this for me no more.” he said with a shake of his head. “you touch my blood you’re good as dead.”

tears began to ache and burn behind your nose and you tried to blink away the tears. “arthur…” you said quietly, and stepped forward. you watched as blood dripped painfully into his eye from a cut on his brow and clenched your jaw.

the hand holding the dish of hot water was beginning to tremble now and made your wrist ache uncomfortably. arthur shook his head. “don’t. i can do it myself. put it down.”

he grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut as if to fight the oncoming tears. you lowered the bowl beside him but still clung to the wet cloth in your hand. when arthur reached for it, you shook your head.

“quit being so stubborn.” arthur grumbled. “hand it over.”

instead of complying, you reached forward and brushed a strand of ashy hair away from his face. you watched the strength falter in a brief shudder before it was replaced by a sudden spark of disdain. his large hand snapped to your wrist and although his grip remained gentle, his pull of it was not.

“can’t you quit it!?” he barked.

“shut up!” you snapped. “if you don’t stop whining i will walk out of this tent.”

arthur glared up at you defiantly and for a moment you caught a light of who he truly was — angry, confused, scared. it made your heart tighten and pound in your chest.

“you think im afraid of you, arthur?” you hissed. “you think that i don’t know of what can happen? of what will happen?”

his jaw clenched and feathered. a shuttered grief passed over his face. you bent down and pressed a kiss to his forehead before he could argue and as soon as you did, you felt him sag.

“i have loved you through it all.” you muttered. “and i will love you through this, understand? whether i die before or after you i will love you. whether i die from this god-awful disease or a bullet in my head it is no fault of yours.”

a bitter chuckle from him. you scowled and grabbed him by his scarred chin to lift his face up — tears had slipped in stray, sparse trails down his face.

“do you love me, arthur?” you asked quietly.

distantly, you heard the sound of javier’s laughter.

“more than the wind and rain.” arthur replied, voice cracking.

you took the rag to his face and began wiping away the blood and grime from his face. slowly, the paths of his tears faded away. then, when he was finally clean, you put the cleaning things to the side and settled beside him and took his hand in yours. scars and callouses, freckles and hair.

“then let me love you for the time we have left.” you muttered. you kissed his knuckles, his wrist, his fingers. when his other hand came to your face and pulled you close to him, when your lips finally met and he kissed you as if he was starving a mutual understanding bloomed.

there was no coyote without a deer. there was no life without death. similarly, there was no him without you — nor you without him. as he dug his teeth into the flesh of your sweet spot, it was in an act of reverence and through each sweet rich touch you felt the threat of tears to overcome you.

when they escaped your hold, he kissed them away with his sick mouth. with his mouth plagued by sickness and love, and humor and sin, and everything that made him the man you loved.

-

an: in my universe arthur and you(me) are in a constant state of mutual flourishing and they will always take the great journey together btw

[redflagshipwriter]

Ghost Driver 6

Masterpost

His body was shaking. Jason came back to himself in fits and starts, mind suffering through the sludge of a concussion and heavy duty pain medication. His ears had finally stopped ringing after the explosion. He was aware enough to know that he had been in and out of it for what must have been hours.

He checked in with himself: he hurt. His body hurt, like he had hit a wall at high speed because of the uh, the explosion. His eye ached obnoxiously, and he had a crick in his neck. Jason rolled it cautiously. “This is not my beautiful sofa,” he said. Where was he? He should be sleeping off his injuries in a shitty cold apartment in downtown Gotham. The world rumbled around him like he was on top of an old water heater, or traveling at high speed.

“Definitely not,” said Dickie.

Oh. It was another dream. He closed his eyes. There was no scenario in which Batman took him back to the cave that didn’t involve waking up on a bed in a room with no shoelaces. He was scrunched into the front seat of a vehicle– that was the source of the shaking. A motor. He peeled open one eye to reconfirm that the world outside was wavy and green.

“This is different.” He didn’t feel much of anything when he looked at it. It was kinda dumb. He deserved a more substantial hallucinatory sequence after the new worst day of his life “Hey, was I really fuckin annoying when I was little? Is that why you didn’t like me? Because I dreamed I was on a road trip with little me and I gotta say, he didn’t deserve to have his head beat in with a crowbar, but he was truly obnoxious.” He grimaced. So sincere. Christ. He was an idiot and he always had been. Of course Bruce would never choose his son over his morals.

“Not a dream,” said a new voice. “Sorry.” They coughed.

Wait. Jason struggled to put it together. He did know that voice, but the guy it came out of was all wrong. “You look like a space mermaid,” he told Danny Fenton disapprovingly. “I am not a pirate. What are you doing? There’s no coherency in this dream.” He waved a hand around and immediately regretted it. “Go back to your other face.”

“Uh.” Danny sounded nervous. “This is just what I look like, all the time.” He gave a very bad fake laugh.

That was suspicious. Jason considered this. Fuck, his head was pounding. He sat up and fought past nausea to assess what was going on around him better.

Dick was staring at him inside the cockpit of an unidentified vehicle. He was aiming for a cheerfully detached mien, but Jason saw right through it. Dick was stressed out of his big dumb pumpkin head. Next to him was a Robin.

Jason narrowed his eyes. That wasn’t a ghost or vision. That was the new kid, upgraded uniform and all. “You lack panache,” he told Tim Drake disdainfully. He skimmed over the techno mermaid version of the incredibly hot getaway driver he had promised to protect from Batman and had the dim suspicion that he had fucked that up. He nodded at the vampire who was driving their spaceship through green air. “Hey, man.”

“...Hello,” said the vampire.

“Ignore him,” Danny hastily said. He gave Jason a queasy smile and twisted his fingers together. “You’re up up now? Sorry, you missed kiiiind of a lot. When you didn’t come back I decided to figure out what happened to you and I did kidnap a guy, so we have to fix that with paperwork.” He paused. “Also I did kidnap Robin a little bit. But that was an honest mistake! I thought he was dead.”

Jason watched this babbling, perplexed but charmed. “Who else did you kidnap?” His voice was a little choked up. He had kidnapped Robin? Batman must be losing his mind. He fought down a hysterical giggle. Dickie was here too, hell. The Bat-aneurism would be blinding.

The vampire heaved a massively put-upon sigh. “Some ruffian styling himself as a Joker,” he drawled. He was so powerfully unimpressed that his words took a moment to penetrate Jason’s brain.

He froze.

“So dear Phantom here gifted him to Skulker.” He pronounced ‘Skulker’ like the name might leave mud in his mouth if he wasn’t careful with it. “Skulker is disinterested in giving up his toy, so we are now in a very exciting chase.” The vampire sneered.

Jason hauled himself upwards with difficulty. His body felt so heavy. Every muscle hurt. “We are chasing him?”

“No, he is chasing us.” Dick pointed a thumb towards the back. “We’re, uh.” His whole face twitched. “We’re towing the Joker behind us. Skulker keeps trying to harpoon him to get him back.”

The ship jerked violently. Jason looked over to the vampire pilot, who was serenely unaffected by the violent subject matter.

He took a moment to experience childlike wonder. What had Danny done while he was unconscious? How had he pulled this off? Was it an elaborate proposal? If so, he didn’t need to try that hard, goddamn. Jason had an empty ring finger.

Jason considered all of this and tried to be cool about it. “What’s the end goal?”

Dickie leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and make deadpan eye contact. “We are going to take the Joker to a private prison in the Infinite Realms run by a cowboy ghost named Walker, and I am going to oversee transfer paperwork to give to Inspector Gordon.” He said it all like it made some sense. “Can’t have the Joker disappear without a record.”

“...Right,” Jason said, remembering that bit of information. He inserted as much disdain as possible into his voice for the sheer fun of it. “You’re a fucking cop.”

Dickie flinched.

“That’s right,” Danny said, pleased and impressed. “How did you know that? I found him at the police station and he said he would help out. This is my estranged godfather vampire, Vlad.” He gestured at the driver. “And I’m Phantom,” he said, despite being obviously Danny Fenton in a superhero transformation.

“...I’m Jason, but you can call me honey,” he said.

Dick choked on air.

Phantom flushed a very pleasing teal.

Jason flung an arm over Danny’s shoulder and reeled him in. He might have also leaned on him a bit, but that was the blood loss talking. He wasn’t swooning. “Tell me about this prison and how you feel about gold versus silver.”

Drake made a gagging sound.

“No, shh,” Dickie said quietly. “I want to see where this is going.”

[aventurineswife]

Could I request Jing Yuan, Dan Heng, Aventurine and Ratio with a very generous and doting partner who makes them an abundance of gifts?

New weapons, a couple plushies, and many more

Gifts of the Heart

Tags: Jing Yuan x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Fluff, Gifts, Tender Moments, Soft Romance, Lighthearted, Emotional Vulnerability, Comfort, Slice of Life, Found Family.

A/N: why was I listening to cure while writing this? 💀

Jing Yuan's office was a sanctuary of calm amidst the chaos of the Xianzhou Luofu. However, today it was anything but calm. Piled high on his usually immaculate desk were an assortment of meticulously crafted gifts: a new weapon stand made of polished silver, embroidered cushions for his chair, and a plush lion that looked suspiciously like Mimi.

You walked in with another package, your cheeks flushed with effort and excitement. "I thought you might like these," you said, setting down the final bundle—a lightweight, beautifully designed cape lined with reinforced threads, perfect for both combat and ceremony.

Jing Yuan leaned back in his chair, his eyes glimmering with amusement. “Dozing General or not, I fear I might soon become the spoiled General if this continues.”

You smiled, brushing off his teasing. “It’s not spoiling if you deserve it.”

He reached for the plush lion and held it up, a rare chuckle escaping his lips. “Even Mimi has a twin now. Truly, you leave no detail overlooked.” His tone softened, and he leaned closer, his expression uncharacteristically tender. “You’ve made my world a much brighter place. Thank you, truly.”

Dan Heng was used to silence. It was his comfort zone, a shield against the chaos of the universe. But lately, the quiet in the archives had been punctuated by the rustling of gift-wrapped packages.

At first, he had been perplexed. Who needed a custom-crafted spear attachment inlaid with celestial patterns? Or a weighted blanket embroidered with stars and constellations that mirrored his room’s nightlight setting? And the plushies—one resembled Cloud-Piercer, another was an adorable caricature of his own stoic self.

You stood behind him, watching as he carefully examined a new spear stand. “Do you like it?” you asked hesitantly.

Dan Heng turned, his expression unreadable but his eyes softer than usual. “You don’t have to go to such lengths for me.”

“I want to,” you said simply. “You deserve to feel cared for.”

He hesitated, then reached for the plush Cloud-Piercer and placed it on his desk. “Thank you. I… appreciate everything.” His voice was quiet, but the sincerity in it spoke volumes. For the first time in a long while, Dan Heng felt that his solitude wasn’t a burden he had to bear alone.

Aventurine’s office was a chaotic display of opulence and extravagance, but now it had taken on a more personal touch. Golden dice-shaped ornaments dangled from the corners, a new set of playing cards lay on his desk, and a plush peacock sat proudly atop his chair.

“Another gift?” he asked, his signature smile playing on his lips as you entered with a set of intricately designed cufflinks shaped like roulette wheels.

“Only the best for you,” you replied, setting the box down. “I noticed your old ones were scratched.”

Aventurine picked up one of the cufflinks, holding it up to the light. “These are exquisite. You truly outdo yourself every time.”

You shrugged, grinning. “I just want to see you happy.”

His expression flickered, the mask slipping for a brief moment as he regarded you with something raw and unspoken. “You know, most people give me things expecting something in return. But you… you just give.”

“That’s because I care about you,” you said gently. “No strings attached.”

Aventurine chuckled, sliding the cufflinks into place. “You’re a dangerous one, you know that? Making me feel things I thought I’d buried long ago.”

Ratio’s lab was a temple of precision and order. Each piece of equipment had its place, every book meticulously cataloged. And yet, amidst the sterility of science, there was now a peculiar warmth: a plush owl perched on his desk, custom bookmarks tucked into his volumes, and a set of tools engraved with his initials.

“Another package?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as you entered with a sleek case.

You opened it to reveal a new set of instruments, polished to perfection and designed with ergonomic grips. “I thought these might help with your work.”

He inspected them with a critical eye, his expression unreadable. Finally, he set them down and turned to you. “You have an uncanny ability to surprise me.”

“I just want to make your life a little easier,” you said, smiling. “You work so hard; you deserve it.”

Ratio’s gaze softened, the sharp edges of his intellect giving way to something more human. “It’s rare for someone to see beyond the intellect and treat me as a person. You’ve done more than that—you’ve made me feel valued in ways I didn’t think possible.”

He reached for the plush owl, holding it up as a small smile tugged at his lips. “Even this has its charm. Thank you, truly.”

[tpwk-formula1]

Can I order

Ollie Bearman- Thin crust,red sauce,roasted mushrooms,bacon,pineapple with sprite,truly and Diet Coke with no dessert please💕

Lee-Lee's Pizzeria Menu

thin crust brother's best friend red sauce rough sex roasted mushroom “Fucking you so good you I can see myself in your tummy” bacon "What would your brother think if he caught us" pineapple "Look so pretty wrapped around my cock" sprite size kink truly belly bulge diet coke recording kink dessert no served by Ollie Bearman

Ollie x Antonelli! reader

TW - squirting, pussy eating, multiple orgasms, fingering, unprotected sex, filming the act, belly bulge, size kink

WC 1900+

Y/N POV

"Kimi, can I talk to you?" I ask after finally finding my twin brother hiding in the Mercedes garage getting away from all the media.

"What's up?" Kimi asks putting his phone down and giving me his full attention.

"So, you're probably gonna be mad but you cannot make a fucking scene," I tell Kimi making him sit up taller and stare at me with an unreadable face.

"Go on, I make zero promises," Kimi says making my pulse rise a bit.

"So, Ollie and I are dating," I say while giving Kimi a sarcastic smile knowing he wasn't happy the second the words left my mouth.

"Oh, I'm gonna fucking kill that giraffe," Kimi said while standing up and shoving past me.

"Kimi, we are in the fucking paddock keep it professional," I say while pulling his arm back slightly but he was on a mission that left me scrambling to follow him.

"Kimi, stop," I say again pulling him back a bit harder. This time Kimi stopped and looked at me with pure anger flashing in his eyes.

"Are you fucking serious right now? You planned this shit to tell me here in public so I couldn't blow up on either of you, but news flash, I dont care," Kimi said turning on his foot and marching towards the Ferrari garage.

We didn't even make it to the garage when we see Ollie pop out smiling and talking to one of the engineers when he spots both of the Antonelli twins approaching him. One radiating anger and the other radiating stress while still giving off a fake smile.

Ollie picked up on the signs and instantly popped back into the garage trying to get away before the much shorter boy reached him.

"No, Oliver Bearman get out here, I just want to talk," Kimi says. I'm shocked to find Ollie actually turning on his foot and coming back outside to stand in the middle of the pit area.

"How can I help you?" Ollie asks trying to mask his fear.

"Oh cut the shit, you and my fucking sister?" Kimi asks trying to keep his volume down but failing with how angry he is.

"Okay, before a full-out brawl occurs I think you guys need to take this into the garage," Fred says coming out of nowhere but quickly ushering the three of us into the Ferrari garage and into an unoccupied room before leaving the three of us to hash out our difference.

"Look Kimi, it's new, and I care a lot about your sister, I'm not in the business of hurting her," Ollie tells Kimi seriously. I can see a very perplexed look flash in Kimi's eyes before I watch his body physically relax.

"How long?" Is all Kimi asks sharply.

"Little over a month, it's new and we wanted to make sure it was gonna be more long term before telling anyone. You're the first person we are telling and I'm sorry if I did it in public I just knew you would flip shit... and I was right," I reply back softly. I can feel Ollie's hand brushing my back showing me that he is still there supporting me but keeping it respectful in front of my brother.

"Please, don't hurt her. I will run your ass off the track every single race if you do," Kimi finally speaks up making me smile and softly pull him in for a hug.

"It's gonna take time to get used to this shit, but I'm not gonna make you guys split or anything, but don't do weird shit in front of me," Kimi tells us making both Ollie and I smile.

"Deal, and thank you," I tell him softly.

We all leave the room and Kimi and I go back to the Mercedes garage where we spend the rest of the day talking and figuring out our plans for our upcoming vacation as well as sitting through boring Mercedes meetings.

"Hey, I'm gonna go see Ollie for a little bit and I should be back before dinner," I tell Kimi when we get back into our hotel happy to not have to be lying to him anymore.

Kimi just pulls a fake disgusted look before shooing me away.

When I get into Ollie's room I knock softly before I step in and pull him into my arms.

"Well that was interesting," I whisper making Ollie laugh and nod.

"He called you a giraffe," I tell Ollie making me laugh before looking down.

"He might be onto something," I joke when I realize how much I am having to strain my neck to look up at Ollie.

"I think you Antonelli's just don't know how to grow," Ollie said with a joking smirk written across his face.

"Oh shut up," I say not having anything to rebuttal him with.

I walk over to Ollie's bed noticing the the scattered clothes all around. Before climbing into his bed and making myself comfortable Ollie climbs onto the bed and into my space where he starts placing soft kisses across my jaw trailing to my lips where he pulls me in for a heated makeout session.

"I need you," Ollie whispers against my lips making me smirk slightly but agree anyway and pull Ollie in closer to keep the heated session going.

I can feel Ollie pulling off my tank top making me lift my arms and pull back to allow him to pull it off all the way and I make quick work of taking his shirt off leaving both of us bare from the top up given I wasn't wearing a bra.

"I love your pretty tits babe," Ollie mumbles against my neck before pulling in one of my hard nipples into his mouth making me gasp slightly.

"Not much there," I mumble which has Ollie lifting his hand and pinching my free nipple making me whimper slightly.

"Don't take about my favorite tits like that," he says while jokingly stroke them like they had feelings.

"Big apologies," I say with a joking eye roll. Ollie moves over to the nipple he had just pinched and starts sucking on it instantly making the sting go away and turn into pure pleasure.

"Fuck," I moan gripping into Ollie's hair pulling him closer needing him.

"Please," I beg wanting him inside me more than I want to continue the teasing. Even the begging doesn't cause Ollie just continues playing with my tits before finally unbottoning my shorts and pulling them down with my thong leaving me completely bare for Ollie to use.

"Fuck, so pretty baby," Ollie mumbles before he starts kissing down from my tits to where I needed him the most.

"Can we try something," I gasp when I feel a soft lick on my clit.

"Does it prevent me from eating this pussy right this moment?" Ollie questions clearly annoyed that I put a stop to his plans.

"No, I just wanna try filming ourselves," I tell him softly when I suddenly lose all of Ollie's warmth as he is across the room grabbing his phone and propping it up against the night stand to film our activites.

Once Ollie is back into the bed he makes quick work of pulling my clit into his mouth and sucking on it before he starts licking all around my pussy like a starved man.

"Fuck, best pussy ever," Ollie groans into my pulling makng me whine and moan when he sends a strong vibration through my clit just from him taking into my pussy.

"Ollie, so good!" I gasp when he slips two fingers into my pussy and searching for my G-spot which didn't take him long.

"What would your brother think if he caught us? Yo clenching around my fingers and my face burried in your soaked fold while you're begging for more," Ollie says with a smirk making me gasp at the mention of his best friend.

"He's fucking murder you in cold blood," I tell him which makes Ollie laugh lightly before he slaps my inner thigh making me jump slightly and gasp from the sting.

"Well then, be a good girl and don't get too loud, he's right next door," Ollie tells me before going right back into my pussy and teasing my clit with his tongue.

"Ollie, I'm so close," I moan while pushing his head deeper into my pussy and holding him there while he speeds up his fingers working on my G-spot helping bring me over the edge into a loud orgasm.

"Fuck, Ollie!" I scream out before covering my mouth and start cumming all over Ollie's face. Ollie's fingers leave my pussy wrapping both arms around my thigh and holding me in place while he helps ride my orgasm out. Once my orgasm has finished Ollie continues teasing my clit allowing for the overstimulation to sink in before he pulls away and instantly pulls his pants and boxers off before climbing between my thighs and sinking right into my cunt leaving no time for me to adjust.

"Look so pretty wrapped around my cock" Ollie mumbles while he starts thrusting his hips making me whine at how much he is stretching me out.

"Too big," I whine looking up at Ollie who has a proud smirk on his face while he concentrates on thrusting into my pussy at a consistent pace.

When I feel Ollie softly place his hand on my tummy and push down I scream out because he threw me into an unexpected squirting orgasm.

This doesn't stop Ollie from fucking into me but he does move his hand but continues staring at my tummy making me look down and notice the very noticeable bulge in my tummy.

I knew Ollie was big but seeing a bulge in my tummy that is clearly made by his dick was surprising.

“Fucking you so good you I can see myself in your tummy," Ollie says clearly loving it just as much as I loved it.

"Fuck, Ollie," I moan.

I feel Ollie reach his arm over to the nightstand where he picks up the phone and turns the camera towards me.

Ollie made sure to keep the camera focused on everything but makes sure to draw attention to his cock poking through my stomach where he softly pokes at his cock each time he thrust in making me whine.

"You gonna cum all over my cock again?" Ollie states more like a question before he pushes down on my tummy again while he makes sure to keep the camera focused.

"Fuck," I scream again while cumming all over Ollie's cock again making him pull out and cumming all over my tummy and cumming so hard some of it landed on my tits.

"Fuck," Ollie groans before ending the video and getting me a towel so he can clean his cum up.

When I hear my phone ring next to me I look at it and notice that it's Kimi calling.

"I think he might have caught us," I joke while showing Ollie who was calling. Ollie makes a fake oopsie smile truly not really caring. I ignore the call but quickly receive a text from Kimi that says "Hanging out my ass"

I just laugh and ignore him pulling Ollie in closer.