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adelliet · 2 days ago

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BOB’S SEX MANUAL

This is a general sexual manual for Bob Reynolds — what positions he prefers, which ones he tends to avoid, how he behaves during intimacy, all of that (and more) is detailed right here.

Warning: MDNI 18+. This text contains explicit sexual content, mentions of blood and menstruation, and other potentially sensitive topics.

A/n: Even though I tried to write this mostly through Bob’s eyes and feelings, keep in mind it’s still a subjective interpretation, obviously. Everyone’s free to have their own take on the character, so please don’t take every single word too seriously. After all, this is all just imagination :p

SEX POSITIONS

Missionary

Definitely one of his favorites.

Bob likes this position because he can see your face — every flutter of your eyelids, every tremor of pleasure that crosses your expression. It gives him a sense of connection, of reassurance that he’s doing it right. He’s not the overly dominant type, but he enjoys having just enough control to guide the pace, the rhythm, the depth.

In missionary, he takes his time. Slow, steady, deep. He doesn’t rush. He watches you unravel beneath him, eyes rolling back, breath catching, until your body arches up to meet his, wordless and wanting. He kisses you between thrusts, touches your face like it’s the only thing anchoring him to reality.

To Bob, it’s not just sex, it’s intimacy, and in this position, it’s personal.

Doggy Style

Unlike missionary, this one doesn’t rank high on his list.

It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy the physical part, it’s just that he misses you. In this position, he can’t see your face. He can’t watch your reactions or gauge if that low moan meant more or less. That disconnect messes with his head.

He prefers to feel you emotionally as much as physically, and doggy style puts a wall between those two things.

You’re usually the one who suggests it, and when you do, he doesn’t say no. He goes along with it, hands firm on your hips, following your lead. But the whole time, a part of him aches to turn you around, pull you close, and see you again.

Because for Bob, the pleasure is in the connection and doggy, for all its intensity, just feels a little too distant.

Cowgirl

He loves this. Absolutely adores it.

The way he gets to just lie back and watch you, watch the way you move on top of him, how your body responds, how you take control. There’s something about the confidence in your hips, the heat in your eyes when you ride him face to face, that completely unravels him.

He can touch you however he wants — your thighs, your waist, your breasts, your face. It’s all right there, and you’re the one calling the shots. And he lives for that. Sure, when you start to tire, he’s more than happy to take over, but until then? He lets you do what you want with him.

That loss of control mixed with your gaze locked on his, it’s lethal. He almost never lasts long like this.

Reverse Cowgirl

Same problem as doggy. He can’t see your face.

You might try this once or twice, maybe out of curiosity or just to spice things up, but Bob? He doesn’t really feel it.

Yes, the view is incredible — he’s not blind, he adores your ass, and watching you move on top of him like that is ridiculously hot. But it’s also distant. He can’t read you. Can’t see the flickers of pleasure, the little half-smiles, the clenched teeth.

He misses you in this position.

So while he’ll go along with it, he’ll probably suggest switching to something more intimate before long, something where he can feel more connected, more grounded in you.

Spooning

Hell yes. This one’s for those soft, sleepy nights, when one of you is too tired to move much, but still craving that closeness.

He pulls you in, arms around you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held — and to him, you are. His hips do all the work, but his heart is in your neck, breathing you in, pressing tiny, shivering kisses against your skin.

You moan, and he shudders. You gasp, and he feels it. Always so gentle, but so needy at the same time. He clutches you tighter, burying his face in your shoulder, as if the world might end if he lets go.

It’s not just about sex in this position — it’s about being close, staying close, needing you. And when he finishes he doesn’t pull away. He just holds you, like he never wants to stop.

Lotus

YES. Yes. A thousand times yes.

There’s something about being tangled together like that — skin to skin, faces close, legs wrapped, breath mingling. It’s not just sex, it’s devotion. Bob thrives in that closeness.

Your thighs draped around him, your hands in his hair, your forehead brushing his, he feels like you’re inside his soul.

The movements are small, subtle, almost lazy, but the tension is unbearable. Every tiny thrust, every twitch of your hips or squeeze of your thighs sends shivers down his spine. But what really drives him over the edge isn’t the movement. It’s you.

Your eyes. The sound of your breath. The way you bite your lip when he pushes just a little deeper.

And because you’re the one in control, moving at your pace, choosing the rhythm, he gets to watch, to feel. And he always, always, finishes fast in this one. Not because of friction but because of the feeling.

Standing

Usually, against a wall.

This one doesn’t happen often but when it does, it’s because things have boiled over. Maybe you’re drunk. Maybe he is. Maybe neither of you can't wait the five seconds it would take to find a bed. Clothes half-on, half-off. Breathless. Urgent.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, arms clutching his shoulders for balance. His hands are firm on your thighs, supporting you while he thrusts into you, slow at first, testing the limits of balance and breath. Then harder and faster.

He presses you to the wall like he’s trying to fuse you with it, and for once, he feels powerful and confident

He bites your neck, kisses your jaw, groans into your skin like he’s losing his mind. And in that wild chaos, with the door half open and the hallway spinning, he feels alive. He owns that moment and he loves how you let him.

Sex During Menstruation

This isn’t something that happens all the time between you and Bob, but it’s also not something either of you treat like a taboo. If anything, Bob sees it as a very human, very intimate kind of vulnerability — one that he’s more than willing to meet with kindness, patience, and genuine desire.

He never pressures you, and he would never suggest it outright. Not because he’s uncomfortable with it, but because he understands how different menstruation can feel from person to person, even from day to day. Some cycles leave you drained and sore; others might actually make you feel more sensitive and in the mood. Bob knows that.

So if you do suggest it, his only answer is a gentle, “Are you sure?” followed by a kiss that says he’s already on board. From that moment, you’re in his care.

He moves a little slower than usual, touches you a little more consciously, and stays deeply tuned in to how your body responds. If there’s any sign of discomfort, he stops immediately, no questions asked, no disappointment. But if you’re moaning and pulling him closer? He’ll give you everything.

There’s no disgust in his eyes. No flinching. No pulling away if his hands or thighs or anything else get messy. It doesn’t bother him. In fact, it kind of fuels something deeper in him, a need to show you that you’re loved and desired at all times, not just when you’re ‘neat’ or ‘presentable.’ His hands may be streaked red, the sheets a little ruined, but none of that matters.

Physically, the sex itself tends to be slower, more sensual. There’s a sense of care woven into every movement. Sometimes, it’s spooning or missionary with a towel underneath, and sometimes it’s you riding him because you feel more in control that way. Either way, Bob focuses less on orgasm and more on the closeness of it all.

If you’re feeling insecure about the mess, he’ll reassure you with little gestures: a kiss to your temple, a soft “I don’t care” whispered against your shoulder, or even a low laugh as he helps clean up afterward, like it’s no big deal, just another part of being woman, and a reason to keep a backup set of sheets.

Emotionally, Bob seems almost softer afterward. Like sex during your period unlocks something even more protective in him. He’ll pull you in close, rub small circles on your back, and look at you with that quiet awe he gets when he realizes just how much he loves you, and how much you trust him. That trust means more to him than anything.

ORAL POSITIONS

Sixty-nine (69)

Bob is more of a giver, always has been. That’s why sixty-nine overwhelms him a little.

Your lips wrapped around him while he’s trying to focus on pleasuring you? It’s almost too much.

He’s not the one to suggest this. It’s just not in his nature. But if you bring it up and want to try it? He won’t say no. He’ll try it for you.

Still, it’s hard for him to focus when you’re making him feel good at the same time. When he’s between your thighs, he wants to give you 100%. He wants to lose himself in your taste, your reactions, your sounds, but when he’s getting pleasure too, he gets distracted.

Your mouth is too warm. He groans into your body and his rhythm falters. Also, sixty-nine takes energy and coordination. And let’s be honest, Bob’s stamina lies in his heart, not in gymnastics.

So while he might try it, enjoy it even, he’s not exactly a fan. He’d rather lie you down and worship you without any distractions.

Face sitting

Now this? This is heaven for Bob.

When you sit on his face, you become his whole world. He’s always loved giving you pleasure, and here, you’re in control, but he’s the one doing all the work.

Your thighs around his head. Your heat against his mouth. The sound of your breath, the way your hips start to shake. He loves every second. He holds your hips or your ass, grounding himself like he’s trying not to float away. Sometimes he pulls you closer, sometimes he steadies you when your legs tremble.

And when you look down and lock eyes with him? His pupils go wide. His grip tightens. And honestly, he has come from that alone more than once. Even when you’re shy at first, worried you might hurt him or that it’s “too much”, Bob’s only response is more.

Once your knees sink down fully and you really let go, Bob is in his element. He doesn’t even care if he can breathe. He just wants to make you fall apart on his tongue.

And after the first time, you’ll catch him glancing up at you with those soft eyes and that little hopeful smile, silently asking:

“Again?”

Standing Oral

When Bob wants to make you come, he prefers you to let go. No pressure. No overthinking. Just pleasure. That’s why, even if you start off standing, he won’t let you stay that way for long.

As soon as he notices your knees start to give out, his hands are already on your thighs. Gently, like he’s handling silk. He lifts your legs up and settles them onto his shoulder.

He adores the way your fingers tangle in his hair. The quiet gasps. The not-so-quiet moans. The heat that spreads from your hips to his lips. It takes strength, yes. But it’s not about the posture for Bob. It’s about the fact that you’re losing control. And nothing makes him harder than knowing he’s the reason.

Sometimes, he catches glimpses of you in a short, tight dress and his brain short-circuits. He thinks about the taste of you for hours. Until finally, you’re alone, and he can kneel down and indulge like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Lying Oral

This is foreplay, but with intention.

Bob wants to be sure. That before anything else happens, you’re fully taken care of. Because he knows sex doesn’t always end in a climax for you, and that’s not acceptable to him. Not if he can help it. So he takes his time.

Lying between your thighs, flat on the bed, he’s in his element. His hands explore your hips, your stomach, your inner thighs, grounding himself while his tongue explores you.

From below, he looks up at you through his lashes and his messy hair, and God, he looks starved. Some nights, it’s so overwhelming you have to stop him. He listens. Usually.

But there are moments when your legs are trembling and your hands are shaking — where he keeps going anyway. Gently, slowly, but deliberately. And when you come on his tongue, he moans like he’s the one finishing.

Then there was that first time. You squirting, panicking afterwards. His whole face was soaked and you apologized, flustered and horrified.

But Bob just laughed, pulled you close and told you it was okay. Because inside he was glowing. Because he made that happen. And he’s never, ever, forgotten it.

Oral from behind

This one… is complicated.

Because Bob loves how you look from behind. The arch of your back. The way your thighs shake. The soft sounds falling from your lips. He loves how open you are to him — how vulnerable, exposed, trusting.

But.

He can’t see your face. And for Bob, as already being said, that’s a problem. He needs to see your expression. To read the way your brows knit, the way your mouth parts when something feels especially good, the way your eyes roll back when he hits the right spot. That’s his feedback. Without it, he spirals.

“Am I going too hard? Too soft?”

“Is she bored?”

“Did she just twitch or did she flinch?”

He hates not knowing. So this position is rare. Something you maybe try once in a while, on a wild night, when you’re both a little drunk, laughing and stumbling into bed. He’ll go down on you like that, pulling your hips back with shaky hands, mouth wet and eager, but even as he moans into you, there’s this part of him that’s hyperaware of not seeing you.

You can feel it in the way he pulls away just to ask, “Is that okay?”

Even when you’re moaning yes, he doesn’t look convinced. It’s not about performance, it’s about connection. Bob’s not the kind of guy who gets off on your body alone (mostly). He needs your soul, your face, your breath against his skin. So while this isn’t off the table, it’s more of a sometimes thing, a playful experiment, and that’s okay. Because Bob always finds his way back to your front, where he can look you in the eyes and absolutely ruin you.

Period Oral

This is not something Bob initiates on his own, not because he finds it repulsive or shameful, but simply because he respects your body and knows that this time of the month can come with discomfort, pain, or just the desire to be left alone. If you don’t bring it up, he won’t either. But if you do? If you even hint that you’d like him to go down on you despite your period, he’ll be there in a heartbeat, no questions asked, no hesitation, and absolutely no judgment.

He’s not squeamish in the slightest. In fact, he sees it as just another part of your body and your cycle — something natural, human, and beautiful in its own way. For Bob, it’s not about the blood; it’s about you. If this is what your body is going through, then he wants to honor that. He wants to be close to you even when you don’t feel at your best, especially when you don’t feel at your best.

Of course, he’s a lot more careful in how he approaches it. His touches are gentler, his tongue softer, and his pace much slower. You’ll never feel rushed or pushed into anything, in fact, he constantly watches your face, gauging your reactions, making sure you’re still comfortable, still enjoying it. He’s particularly mindful of cramps or sensitivity, often asking quietly if it still feels good, and adjusting immediately if you need something different.

He understands that for many people, the experience can feel messy or insecure, but Bob never once makes you feel that way. Not even a glance of discomfort, not a single shift in his tone or expression. If anything, his reverence for you only seems to increase. His voice gets quieter, his hands steadier, and there’s an undeniable warmth in how he looks at you, like he’s honored that you trust him enough to let him be intimate with you during a moment that many would hide away.

That said, this is not a go-to position for him. It happens on occasion, maybe when you’re both feeling emotionally close, or if you admit that the pressure in your lower belly makes gentle oral feel amazing, or if you’re tipsy and craving the closeness without much else. He doesn’t push for it, and it’s not something he would do casually or spontaneously. It needs to be mutual, intentional and grounded in comfort and trust.

And even though he’s done it more than once, every time still feels like a new act of connection to him. One that he treats with tenderness, care, and a deep emotional understanding that proves, once again, that with Bob, there are no conditions to his desire for you.

Switch up (You giving Bob)

As it’s been said, and there’s no point arguing about it, Bob is a giver. He’ll offer you everything he has — his hands, his mouth, his fingers, his cock… All in devotion to your pleasure. It’s almost like he forgets himself in the process, like the only thing that matters is you moaning his name.

But sometimes the cards get switched, and just as much as he loves giving to you, you love giving back. You want to see him unravel. You want to hear him gasp, cry your name and whine like a pathetic man. And there’s nothing more satisfying than watching Bob fall apart under your touch.

When you go down on him before he’s had the chance to touch you, before he’s made sure you’ve come at least once, it kind of short-circuits his brain. He gets this guilty, flustered panic in his eyes, like he owes you now. And he will repay that favor. Twice over. With fingers, tongue, hips —whatever it takes to make you come harder than you thought possible.

Still, Bob loves your mouth. That warm, wet heat around him. Your soft lips stretched just perfectly. And your eyes — oh God, your eyes. You always look up at him, so innocent, so sweet, while doing something so sinful. That contrast drives him crazy. His hands will instantly find your hair, but he never pushes. He’s not forceful. He doesn’t like violence, especially in situations like this.

Sometimes, his hips twitch forward, instinct taking over for just a second, and he always apologizes. He never wants to make you uncomfortable. Pleasure should never be taken, it should be shared. He believes that deeply.

But when you wrap your lips around him with that look in your eyes, like you’re about to ruin him, he doesn’t last long. Three minutes, maybe. On a good day. Because with you on your knees, mouth full of him, Bob forgets how to breathe. And when you swallow him whole with that perfect, wicked grin, he sees stars.

POWERS vs SEX

Most of the time, Bob keeps his eyes tightly shut when he comes, but if they do open, even for a second, you can see it. A flicker of gold. Not just a reflection or a trick of the light. It glows inside him, and it only lasts a second before he crushes his eyes shut again, almost ashamed of letting it slip through. This thing leaks out of him in moments of overwhelming feeling. Especially when he’s inside you and when he’s close.

Sometimes, Bob loses control, but only for a moment. You’ll feel his fingers dig in a little too hard, his grip becoming tighter than he intended. It leaves small bruises on your thighs, hips, wrists. Nothing dramatic, nothing that lasts more than a few hours or days. They’re always in places hidden beneath clothes. You don’t mind, in fact, part of you likes it. You call them marks of affection, signs that he was there. But Bob panics.

“I didn’t mean to. I swear. I wasn’t trying to—I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay? Does it hurt? Let me see—please, let me see…”

He touches them so gently, as if his fingers could undo what his strength caused. He looks so guilty, eyes wide and glassy, barely holding back tears.

“What if I really hurt you, and I don’t even realize?”

And you always soothe him — hold his cheeks, kiss him, reassure him that you’re okay, that you trust him, with everything. Still, he carries the guilt like a scar no one can see.

Then there’s what happens every time he comes, without fail. The lights flicker, lamps stutter, sometimes they die completely. But just for a moment, before they flare back to life. As if the electricity in the room can’t handle what’s burning through Bob’s body.

Once he fried the power grid of the entire building. All because of how hard he came inside you. You both laughed about it later, wrapped in the dark, hearts still racing. But Bob never truly relaxes about these things. He’s always afraid he’ll go too far, break something, burn someone, burn you.

Even fabric isn’t safe. If he grips the sheets too hard, they sometimes ignite — just a flicker, a flash of heat that curls the edges and smells like smoke. You’ve gotten used to it. You don’t even flinch anymore. You’ve got backup sheets folded in the closet, so it's no big deal at all. Not because you’re careless. But because you understand him.

Robert Reynolds isn’t dangerous. He’s just powerful. And in your arms, when he feels safe, when he feels loved, he lets himself feel everything. And sometimes the world around you just can’t quite keep up.

BONUS

Tits or Ass?

Truth is, Bob adores every part of you — and he shows it. He’ll spend just as much time burying his face between your breasts as he does grabbing handfuls of your hips, thighs, and curves. He’s not picky. To him, your body is a gift, and he treats it like one.

But if you watch closely, the signs are there. The way his hands almost automatically slide down to your ass when he hugs you. How his grip tightens there when he’s deep inside you. How often he sneaks glances at your backside when you walk ahead of him in nothing but a t-shirt.

He might not admit it, but there’s a subtle obsession, a craving for the shape, the softness, the power you hold in your hips. So while he’s absolutely a worshipper of the whole temple… he definitely has a favorite pew.

Dominant or Submissive?

Bob is naturally submissive. Not because he lacks confidence or desire, but because he finds genuine pleasure in surrendering to you. He loves being guided, touched, praised. He loves the way your voice gets low when you tell him what to do, and how your hands feel when they’re holding him down or pulling him closer. The idea of being wanted that badly lights up something in him that he rarely shows anyone else.

He gives control freely, not out of weakness but out of trust. That doesn’t mean he’s incapable of dominance, he can surprise you in moments of overwhelming need, but those are exceptions, not the rule.

Most nights, Bob is the type to lay back, lips parted, eyes soft, silently begging you to ruin him. And he wouldn’t want it any other way.

Loud or Quiet?

Bob lives in that golden middle, not loud in volume, but incredibly expressive in sound. He breathes heavily against your neck. He lets out these shaky, breathless gasps when he’s close.

Sometimes, you catch him whispering your name like it’s sacred, like if he stops saying it, he might fall apart completely.

But above all, Bob’s a whimperer. Quiet, broken little noises that slip out of him without permission. They’re high-pitched and desperate, often choked off by kisses or your movements. And every time you hear one, it’s like a shot straight to your core.

He also talks — not constantly, but enough to drive you insane. Little muttered praises, desperate pleas, and sometimes even full confessions whispered hotly into your skin.

Kinks or Soft Limits?

Bob isn’t someone who seeks extremes when it comes to sex.

He doesn’t actively crave things like bondage, roleplay, or toys — not because he judges them, but because they don’t naturally align with how he connects. That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t try something new if you were curious.

If you asked, if you genuinely wanted to explore something, he’d follow your lead. He might be hesitant at first, unsure if he’s doing it right, but he’d try, not out of kink, but out of love. Out of a deep, burning desire to understand and satisfy you.

But ultimately, Bob’s not in it for thrills or fantasies. He’s in it for you.

Aftercare?

Aftercare is sacred to Bob — not because it’s a routine, but because it’s when he feels the most needed. He has this instinctive drive to take care of you, to make sure you feel safe. It makes him feel useful, which is important for someone who sometimes struggles with his self-worth.

If you’re still lucid and alert after sex, he’ll gently help you into the shower, wash your body like it’s made of glass, and dry you off with infinite tenderness. He’ll even comb through your hair if you let him.

And if you’re too exhausted to move, that’s okay too. He wraps you in blankets, makes sure you’re warm, and holds you so close you can feel his heartbeat slow. Cuddles are always non-negotiable. It’s where he lets go of any guilt, any worry. It’s where he gets to whisper that he loves you without having to say it out loud.

Turn-Ons vs Turn-Offs?

Bob’s biggest turn-on… is you. It’s really that simple.

Your voice, the way you carry yourself, how you tease him with just a glance, it drives him wild. He’s obsessed with the shape of your mouth when you talk, the way you smell, even how your fingers move when you’re distracted. If you’re wearing something he likes — tight clothes, short skirts, soft pajamas, or just his t-shirt, his brain goes blank.

On the flip side, his turn-offs are more situational than specific. He doesn’t respond well to coldness, disinterest, or anything that feels overly performative. He needs to feel wanted, genuinely, not just physically. Without that, he loses his fire.

How He Reacts to Teasing?

Early on, teasing leaves Bob flustered. He’ll smile shyly, play along with a nervous laugh, and maybe pretend not to notice just how much you’re affecting him. He tries to act cool, but his ears go red and his eyes dart away.

But as time goes on and his confidence builds, the dynamic shifts. He starts giving it back. He learns how to play your game, maybe not as boldly as you do, but with his own style. He performs — for you and because of you.

Public or Semi-Public Sex?

Bob is not someone who would ever suggest anything public on his own. The idea of being caught, of doing something so vulnerable in a place that isn’t private, makes him nervous. His anxiety spikes just thinking about someone walking in.

But he also has limits. And if the desire is overwhelming, if you lean in and whisper in his ear, if your hands wander beneath the table, if you give him that look, he might just break.

Especially if it’s somewhere more hidden, more ‘semi’ than public: a locked dressing room, photo booth, a quiet parking lot. He wouldn’t do it often, but when it happens, it’s frantic.

Quickies vs Long Sessions?

Bob is in it for the long haul. Always.

Quickies might happen, rushed mornings, late-night cravings, but they’re never his preference. He wants time. Time to worship, to explore, to learn your body again and again. Sex with Bob isn’t about efficiency; it’s about intensity. He wants to take you apart slowly, piece by piece, and put you back together in his arms.

He lingers. He kisses like it’s the last time. He touches like he’s trying to memorize you.

A ‘quick one’ could leave him unsatisfied emotionally, like he didn’t get to give you everything he wanted to. And that’s what he’s here for. Not just the pleasure, but the act of giving it to you.

If you enjoyed reading this manual, I’d really appreciate any kind of support, whether it’s a reblog, comment, note, follow, or even suggestions. I’m always open to ideas, so feel free to reach out!

And if you really liked it, I might just write one of these for other characters too 👀

Thank you so much for reading!

Have a lovely day!

BYEEE!!!🪻

452 notes · View notes

stlllle · 3 days ago

Text

ways stray kids say “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

Masterlist stray kids

main masterlist

ways bang chan says “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

bang chan was never just about words.

he’s care.

he’s softness.

he’s the kind of love that shows itself in quiet gestures, in tiny details that say everything without needing to speak.

—

he fixes your hair without saying a word

chan always notices you.

a strand out of place? he’s already there, gently tucking it behind your ear.

he doesn’t say anything — but his fingers whisper: “i like taking care of you.”

—

he always asks if you’ve eaten

time zones, busy days, stress… doesn’t matter.

chan will always check in: “did you eat?”

and if you say you’re not hungry, he’ll sigh and reply: “but you need to take care of yourself… for me.”

—

he sends songs instead of saying he misses you

he makes you playlists with names like “for rainy days” or “you, always.”

and when he hears lyrics that remind him of you, he sends them without thinking.

you ask, “why this one?”

and he just shrugs and says: “i don’t know… it just feels like you.”

—

he gives you his jacket even if he’s freezing

you forget yours? he hands you his.

no hesitation.

he’ll shiver quietly just to make sure you’re warm.

and though he won’t say it, his body is screaming: “your comfort means more to me than mine.”

—

he always finds a way to be there

he texts in the middle of the day just to check on you.

he sends random little emojis.

calls when he misses your voice, even if it’s only for five minutes.

no matter how busy, he makes time for you.

and that is love.

—

he gives you nicknames that only he uses

chan’s that kind of person.

he invents silly, soft, weirdly cute nicknames that sound like home coming from his lips.

and somehow, it always feels like he’s reminding you: “you’re mine.”

—

he covers you with a blanket when you fall asleep

you fall asleep on the couch?

he gently covers you.

adjusts the pillow.

kisses your forehead.

and just watches for a little while.

he says nothing — but the silence feels like:

“i could spend my whole life caring for you like this.”

—

bang chan doesn’t say “i love you” with words.

he says it with actions.

with time.

with effort.

and the truth is…

you feel it.

you’ve always felt it.

ways lee minho says “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

minho isn’t loud about love.

he doesn’t scream it.

doesn’t post it.

doesn’t rush it.

but if you know where to look,

you’ll see he says “i love you” all the time — in the quietest, softest ways.

—

he gives you the best part of everything

minho pretends he doesn’t care, but when he hands you the last dumpling or gives you the fluffiest pillow, he’s saying:

“i always think of you first.”

he might tease you right after —

“don’t get used to it.”

but the sparkle in his eyes betrays the truth.

—

he lets you win… sometimes

if you’re playing games together, he’ll act like he’s competitive.

but suddenly you’re winning.

and he smiles quietly, watching you celebrate.

that’s his way of saying:

“your happiness matters more than my ego.”

—

he sits closer than necessary

minho doesn’t always hold your hand.

but he’ll sit so close that your legs are touching.

he leans his head on your shoulder during movie nights.

and he’ll never say it out loud, but his body says:

“this is where i feel safest.”

—

he texts things like “don’t be stupid” instead of “i’m worried about you”

he hides his care under sarcasm.

texts like:

“wear a jacket. it’s cold. don’t be dumb.”

“eat something. don’t faint or whatever.”

and somehow… it feels more sincere than any love letter.

—

he introduces you to his cats

if you meet soonie, doongie and dori?

that’s a love confession.

point blank.

those cats are his heart.

if they like you — and if he lets you hold them —

you’re in.

you’re home.

—

he watches you sleep like it’s his favorite movie

you fall asleep on the couch, in his bed, in the car —

and minho just… stays.

quiet.

still.

looking at you like you’re the softest thing he’s ever seen.

he won’t say it, but in that moment, his whole body whispers:

“i’d protect this peace forever.”

—

he’s there when you need him — always

no drama. no announcements.

you say, “i had a bad day,” and he’s already knocking at your door.

you don’t even have to ask.

because when minho loves you, he just shows up.

no explanations. no words.

just presence.

and that’s everything.

—

lee minho says “i love you” with subtlety.

with side glances.

with shared earbuds.

with the last bite of food.

with being the safe place you didn’t even know you needed.

and if you pay attention,

you’ll realize —

he’s been saying it this whole time.

ways seo changbin says “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

changbin feels things deeply —

but he doesn’t always know how to say them.

so he shows love in gestures that feel loud when you notice.

and if you pay attention,

you’ll realize:

he’s saying “i love you” all the time.

—

he brings you snacks “just because”

“i saw this and thought of you,”

he says, dropping your favorite candy or drink in your lap.

he pretends it’s nothing,

but he literally stopped everything, went to the store,

and remembered what you like.

that’s not nothing.

that’s love.

—

he carries everything for you

your bag? his.

your groceries? already in his hands.

he acts all cool about it,

but if you try to take it back, he gets fake offended.

“what kind of man would i be if i let you carry this?”

translation: “i want to take care of you, always.”

—

he sings lyrics at you in the car

it’s always playful.

he raps your name into songs, sings dramatic ballads with fake tears…

but then there’s that one song.

the soft one.

and he sings it quietly while looking at you.

not smiling.

just… feeling.

and in that moment, he’s telling you:

“this is how my heart sounds when you’re around.”

—

he double texts. and triple texts.

you take a little longer to reply and he sends:

“hello?”

“did you fall asleep?”

“are you okay?”

and when you finally answer, he plays it cool like:

“took you long enough.”

but you know the truth:

he just missed you. so much it made him anxious.

—

he always makes sure you’re warm

changbin will take off his hoodie without a second thought.

he’ll wrap it around your shoulders and then say something dumb like:

“you better not sweat in it.”

but don’t be fooled.

he’ll sleep cold just so you’re not.

—

he gets shy when you compliment him

you call him cute?

he hides behind his hands.

you tell him you missed him?

he suddenly starts looking everywhere except at you.

but then, 10 minutes later, he’s hugging you so tight you can barely breathe.

that’s him saying: “i missed you too, more than you know.”

—

he works out just a little harder when you’re watching

he’ll flex.

he’ll lift heavier.

he’ll do one more rep, glance at you, and smirk.

it’s all for you.

he wants to impress you —

because even if he can’t say “i love you,”

he wants to be someone worthy of your love.

—

seo changbin doesn’t say “i love you” often —

but he carries it in his arms,

sings it through his laughter,

and shows it with every little thing he does for you.

and somehow…

it’s louder than words.

ways hwang hyunjin says “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

hyunjin loves with his whole soul —

but not always with words.

his “i love you” is painted in soft glances, long hugs,

pages of sketchbooks and sudden laughter.

if you listen closely,

you’ll hear it in the way he exists beside you.

—

he draws you when you’re not looking

his sketchbook has pages filled with soft outlines of your face.

your eyes. your hands.

tiny moments he tried to capture forever.

he won’t show you unless you ask,

but when you see it…

you’ll realize he’s been loving you in silence for a while.

—

he shares his umbrella, even if it means getting wet

hyunjin always holds the umbrella toward you.

your shoulder stays dry.

his doesn’t.

and when you tell him he’s getting soaked,

he just shrugs:

“you’ll get sick.”

but really, he means: “your comfort is more important than mine.”

—

he gives you one earbud, even when he wants both

he never hesitates to let you in.

into his music, his world, his bubble.

you sit beside him and he offers you his earbud,

presses play, and closes his eyes.

and in that silence,

you’re sharing something sacred.

—

he takes random pictures of you

you’ll see the gallery in his phone and it’s all you.

you laughing.

you sleeping.

you looking away.

and when you ask why,

he blushes and mumbles something like:

“you just looked really pretty in that moment.”

—

his hugs last longer than necessary

hyunjin hugs like he’s afraid to let go.

his arms wrap around you slowly,

tight, warm, safe.

he buries his face in your neck and sighs —

as if all the tension in him melts with your touch.

he doesn’t say it,

but his embrace whispers: “please stay.”

—

he lights candles when you’re over

he sets the mood, even for no reason.

a soft playlist, warm lighting, cozy blankets,

your favorite snack on the table.

he prepares the space like a love letter without words.

every detail is intentional.

every piece of it says: “i want you to feel at home with me.”

—

he tells you about his dreams

hyunjin doesn’t open up easily.

but when he does, it’s magical.

he talks about the dreams he had with you in them.

the places he wants to go with you.

the paintings he wants to create because of you.

his imagination is filled with you —

and that’s his most honest way of saying:

“you’re part of the future i want.”

—

hwang hyunjin may not say “i love you” in every sentence,

but he draws it,

sings it,

holds it in his silence,

and creates a world where you are the muse.

ways han jisung says “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

jisung is loud when he’s joking,

but so, so quiet when he’s feeling.

he hides i love you in the laughter,

in the stares that last a little too long,

and in the way his voice softens every time he says your name.

—

he always shares his food with you (even when he doesn’t want to)

he complains, sure.

“this is the best part, don’t touch it—”

but somehow it ends up on your plate anyway.

and when you say, “you didn’t have to,”

he shrugs, cheeks red, and mumbles:

“yeah, but i wanted to.”

—

he writes lyrics about you — and never admits it

he’ll play you a song and casually say:

“just something i was working on.”

but the lyrics sound too familiar.

the way he describes the person in them… it’s you.

and when you ask,

he’ll just look away and say, “maybe.”

translation: “yes. it’s always been you.”

—

he teases you like you’re his favorite joke

jisung jokes around a lot.

but with you, it’s different.

his teasing is softer.

more careful.

like he never wants to actually hurt your feelings.

he laughs, but watches you immediately after —

just to make sure you're still smiling.

—

he teaches you how to play his favorite games

he’ll act like you’re terrible at it,

but secretly loves having you next to him,

watching your fingers move,

your reactions, your excitement.

he just wants to share his little world with you.

that’s his way of saying: “i want you in every part of my life.”

—

he sends the most random messages, just to feel close

a blurry pic.

a dumb meme.

a voice note that ends in laughter.

he doesn’t even know what he’s saying sometimes,

he just wants to talk to you.

wants to make you laugh.

wants to feel like you’re close, even when you’re not.

—

he remembers the little things you say

you mention once that you like a certain snack?

he buys it.

you say you love a movie?

he watches it — twice.

jisung pretends to forget birthdays and appointments,

but when it comes to you,

he remembers everything.

—

he stays on the phone with you until you fall asleep

“i’ll hang up after you’re asleep, okay?”

he whispers,

but doesn’t.

he stays until your breathing slows down.

and only then does he whisper into the silence:

“i love you so much it actually scares me.”

but you never hear it.

not yet.

—

han jisung’s “i love you” isn’t loud.

it’s messy.

it’s chaotic.

it’s full of nervous laughter and fast heartbeats.

but it’s real.

so real it spills into everything he touches —

especially you.

ways lee felix says “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

felix is softness personified.

he doesn’t always say the words,

but his love shows up in smiles that reach his eyes,

warm touches, gentle check-ins,

and the way he looks at you like you’re his whole sky.

—

he bakes for you, just because

it doesn’t have to be a special day.

he’ll show up with cookies, brownies, banana bread…

and say, “i tried something new today, wanna taste it?”

but the truth is:

he made it with you in mind.

every time.

that’s his love language.

—

he texts you “let me know when you’re home safe”

every single time.

no matter how late.

no matter how tired he is.

he’ll wait for your message — and won’t sleep until he gets it.

sometimes he even sends:

“call me when you get in, yeah?”

that’s not just care.

that’s “i can’t rest unless i know you’re okay.”

—

he holds your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world

in crowded places.

on quiet walks.

in the car.

felix’s hand always finds yours.

sometimes he swings your arms together.

sometimes he rubs his thumb over your knuckles.

like he’s grounding himself in you.

—

he keeps polaroids of you in his phone case

not selfies.

not staged pics.

just you — laughing, blinking, living.

he doesn’t show them off.

doesn’t even mention them.

but they’re there.

because having your face near his heart just feels… right.

—

he sets the mood just to make you feel special

candles lit.

soft music playing.

blanket fluffed.

even if it’s just a regular day.

felix creates peace wherever you are.

and in that peace, he says:

“you deserve softness, always.”

—

he stargazes with you and says nothing

he lays beside you, hand in yours, eyes on the stars.

not talking.

just existing with you.

but in his stillness, you feel it —

like the silence is whispering:

“this moment is everything. you are everything.”

—

his hugs last forever and feel like home

felix doesn’t just hug.

he wraps you up, rocks you slightly, buries his face in your neck.

he smells like warmth and sugar and safety.

and when you try to pull away,

he tightens his arms and says,

“just a little longer, yeah?”

what he means is:

“i could stay like this forever.”

—

lee felix doesn’t need to say “i love you.”

he shows it.

with warm cookies.

with soft hands.

with gentle words and deep silences.

and in every little thing,

he’s telling you:

“you’re my favorite place to be.”

ways kim seungmin says “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

seungmin’s love is quiet, sarcastic,

hidden beneath teasing words and side eyes.

but if you listen closely,

if you look past the dry comments and fake eye rolls—

you’ll hear it.

you’ll feel it.

he’s been saying “i love you” this whole time.

—

he helps you with everything, even if he acts annoyed

“ugh, seriously? you can’t do this by yourself?”

he says…

right before sitting next to you and doing half of it himself.

no complaints after that.

just quiet help.

focused.

gentle.

and if you thank him, he just shrugs:

“whatever.”

but what he means is: “i’ll always help you, no matter what.”

—

he gives you his headphones without a word

he sees you a little overwhelmed.

you don’t even ask — he just pulls out one earbud and holds it out to you.

soft music.

shared silence.

and maybe his pinky brushing yours.

in that moment, it’s like he’s saying:

“let me be your calm.”

—

he brings you food and says “i had extra” (he didn’t)

“i accidentally bought too much.”

no he didn’t.

he planned it.

he knows your favorites.

and he bought it because he thought of you while standing in line.

but he’ll never admit that.

not with words.

—

he teases you nonstop, but defends you instantly

he calls you names.

makes fun of your laugh.

mocks your texting habits.

but the second someone else does it?

he goes silent.

then cold.

and then:

“watch your mouth.”

because he can joke with you.

but no one else gets that privilege.

—

he stays even when you tell him he doesn’t have to

you’re sick?

sad?

burned out?

you say: “you don’t need to stay, i’ll be fine.”

but he stays.

without a word.

just… sits near you.

scrolling.

breathing.

being there.

that’s his “i’m not going anywhere.”

—

he nags you like a grumpy husband

“don’t leave your socks there.”

“you’re not wearing that outside, right?”

“drink water. not coffee. water.”

it sounds like nagging.

but every complaint is soaked in love.

he’s paying attention.

he cares.

he just hides it behind sass.

—

he lets you distract him during games

he’s competitive.

he likes to win.

but when you crawl into his lap or start poking his cheeks,

he lets you.

he grins.

he loses.

and doesn’t care.

because he’d rather lose the match than miss a second of you being in his arms.

—

kim seungmin may not say “i love you” in big, obvious ways—

but it’s in the way he shows up.

the way he listens.

the way he nags.

the way he stays.

he’s not cold.

he’s just scared.

but when he loves…

he loves deeply.

truly.

and forever.

ways yang jeongin says “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

jeongin doesn’t say it right away.

he gets flustered.

blushes.

smiles too wide when you look at him.

but still, somehow…

he says “i love you” in every tiny, unspoken moment.

—

he buys you little things “just because”

your favorite drink.

that snack you mentioned once.

a plushie that “looked like you.”

he hands it to you and says:

“i don’t know… i saw it and thought maybe you’d like it.”

but what he really means is: “you live in my mind. always.”

—

he lets you touch his cheeks when he’s shy

you call him cute and his ears turn red.

you squish his face and he groans,

but never pulls away.

he just hides behind his sleeves and says:

“why are you like this?”

but stays right there.

because your hands feel like home.

—

he teaches you things with the most patience

he’s competitive — but when it’s you,

he slows down.

he shows you how to play.

laughs when you mess up.

cheers when you do it right.

and whispers:

“you’re doing amazing.”

that’s his way of saying: “i believe in you more than anything.”

—

he texts you when something reminds him of you

a sunset.

a meme.

a dog in a sweater.

he sends it with a simple “look, it’s you”

or “this made me smile. like you do.”

he never says it outright—

but every message means: “you’re always with me.”

—

he leaves things at your place on purpose

his hoodie.

a beanie.

one sock (how???).

he plays it off like he forgot,

but when you wear them, he gets quiet.

blushes.

and smiles like he just won the lottery.

he wanted you to have a piece of him.

—

he watches you like you’re magic

you’re just talking — rambling, laughing, being yourself.

and you catch him staring.

softly.

with that dreamy look in his eyes.

you ask “what?”

he shrugs and says,

“nothing.”

but everything in his gaze screams:

“i’m so in love with you it hurts.”

—

he stays on call with you until you fall asleep

“goodnight,” he says.

but he doesn’t hang up.

he stays.

listens to your breathing.

smiles at every tiny sound you make.

and right before he falls asleep too,

he whispers — so quietly:

“i love you.”

knowing you won’t hear it.

not yet.

—

yang jeongin doesn’t say “i love you” easily.

he says it through blushed cheeks.

through clumsy gifts.

through soft eyes and hoodie sleeves.

but once you feel it…

you’ll know it’s the purest love in the world.

434 notes · View notes

ceristelle · 1 day ago

Text

𝜗ৎ KISS POWER UP ft. yoichi isagi

yapper isagi will always be your favorite. fluff <3 an old draft i had

you weren’t really listening.

but to be fair, it was hard to focus when isagi was like this.

his dark hair was a little messy from practice, cheeks flushed, voice bright as he leaned back on the couch. he was practically vibrating with excitement, hands flying around to mimic how he outmanoeuvred a midfielder in the final minutes of the match.

it was one of his most endearing habits—how he couldn’t stay still when he went into yapper mode, rambling on about every little detail.

you nodded along, chin resting on your palm. technically you were still listening, but your mind eventually wandered somewhere else.

he just looked too cute.

the way his lips curled mid-sentence. the shine in his blue eyes as he talked. the soft sway of his bangs every time he moved.

“—and when i scored that goal it was—”

peck!

a warm kiss landed right on his lips.

isagi froze, words cutting off like someone had yanked the power cord out of his brain.

“...thanks.” his cheeks flared a soft cherry red, hands slowly lowering in embarrassment.

maybe he got shy about yapping so much, but that only lasted for a second:

“anyway, right—so i was saying, the ball was in the perfect spot. bachira took two defenders left and that opened up the way for me! i didn’t even think, just kicked straight into the net. top corner, clean.”

that made you smile. he said it with so much pride and just a bit of hope that you were proud of him, too.

a quiet hum slipped out in approval. “you did amazing, love. always so impressive, huh?” you teased, watching that red hue creep back onto his face. your hand reached up to pat that familiar head of messy hair, fingers smoothing over the tiny sprout sticking out.

you didn’t miss the way he beamed under the attention.

it wasn’t long before he was off rambling about something else.

“...so i’m thinking i need to train harder on redirecting my goals to where i want from different angles—”

isagi paused, calloused but gentle hands cupping your face as he leaned in to press a sweet kiss on your forehead.

“—mwah—because if i can perfect that, i’d be unstoppable!”

you stared at him, blinking slowly. “did you just kiss me and then say unstoppable like you’re some villain in a kids’ movie?”

the striker looked at you in confusion, brows furrowed as he nodded slowly. “yeah?...what’s wro—mm!”

you kissed him again, pulling away to pinch his cheek which made him yelp in surprise.

then he went back to talking like..five seconds later.

isagi and his endless yapping will always have a soft place in your heart.

234 notes · View notes

magicalmatcha · 21 hours ago

Text

now playing ♪ don't wanna fall in love by kyle

"i'd be kinda shitty as your man, let's go back to only

being friends, sorry girl i hope you understand"

cw: violence (?), the usual

“What kind of music do you listen to, Ln?”

The question caught her off guard. Yn was busy adjusting the IV drip on an elderly patient, glancing between the monitor and the chart in her hand. The fluorescents above buzzed faintly as she double-checked the dosage, her gloved fingers precise and steady.

She glanced over her shoulder at her coworker lounging by the nurse’s station and then turned her attention back to removing the old saline bag and swapping it for a fresh one.

She glanced up, eyebrows raised. “Hmm… a little (artist). Some (artist). I like (genre) shit.” She dropped the pen into the tray and snapped her gloves on.

Her coworker, Mariah, let out an exaggerated groan from across the nurse’s station. “God, of course you do. Why is every hot nurse into (genre) music?”

Yn smirked, scanning the barcode on a pill bottle. “Why do you ask?”

Her coworker, Mariah, let out a dramatic groan, nearly sliding off her rolling chair. “God, I knew you’d have good taste. Why do you people always say it like it’s nothing?”

Yn smiled faintly, scribbling something in the chart, then tossing her gloves in the bin. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I’ve been dying to talk about the drama going on with my favorite artist and no one listens to him,” Mariah whined, grabbing a bag of peanut M&M’s from the drawer she’d long since claimed as her own. “Well—okay—technically a lot of people do. But none of the CNAs here wanna talk about it. It’s all gospel and Bruno Mars over there.”

Yn chuckled, pushing the clipboard back into the wall holster and wiping down the counter with hospital-grade disinfectant. “You can tell me, babe. I’m all ears. Just give me a second to check 308’s vitals and then I want every messy detail.”

“Thank God,” Mariah said, already getting her phone out. “You’re gonna scream. It’s so interesting. Like TMZ level.”

“Is it cheating?” Yn asked, peeking into room 308 with a practiced knock. “It’s always cheating.”

Mariah grinned wide, evil. “Better.”

Mariah lowered her voice and leaned in, as if she were about to tell Yn a state secret. “Okay, so you know Wait For May, right?”

Yn paused at the threshold of Room 308, one hand still on the vitals monitor. Her fingers froze.

"The band right?" She muttered, reaching for the thermometer in her coat pocket, turning it over in her hands, acting busy.

Mariah shook her head. "No — it's one guy. Well he uses the game drummer and guitarist for all official shows but wait for may is technically one guy. One fine ass guy. God, I'd just need five minutes and a hair tie."

Yn gave a sharp little laugh through her nose, pretending to read the heart rate on the monitor. “You’re mental.”

“And yet somehow still licensed,” Mariah said cheerfully, already scrolling.

“And get this,” Mariah said, spinning in her chair like she was preparing for a TED Talk. “He has a kid. A secret one. That no one knew about. Like he's always been private but no one even suspected a kid. And given how old she looks he would have been a teen father, TMZ got a pic of him in the park last week with this tiny little girl. Like, full-on dad mode.”

The pen in Yn’s hand stilled mid-sentence.

“What?” she asked, too quickly.

Mariah held up her phone, already pulling up the screenshot. “Literally. I follow this gossip account on Instagram and they posted the photo. He’s holding this kid, like holding holding her. Doting on her. God, he's such a girl dad. It's lowkey makes him even more attractive.”

Yn forced her face neutral. “Are you sure it wasn’t his niece or something?”

“Girl, no. The caption was like, ‘Is this Wait For May’s biggest secret yet?’ And then his PR team issued one of those weird vague ‘We ask for you to respect artist's privacy’ statements, so like… yeah. It’s giving baby mama drama.” She crunched on an M&M for emphasis. “It’s kinda hot.”

Yn blinked once. Twice. Her throat went dry.

“She’s cute too. Like a little doll, looked about three maybe?” Mariah flipped her phone around to flash a blurry pap shot of Megumi crouched near a jungle gym, helping Yume tie her sneaker. “Look at his face. He loves her so much. If I had known that man had the capacity for nurturing—Jesus.”

Yn forced a breath out through her nose. Her fingers clenched around the clipboard she hadn’t realized she was still holding.

Mariah turned her phone back. “I mean, obviously it’s unconfirmed. Could be a cousin or something. But Twitter’s eating it up. You know how it is—seven girls have already posted tiktoks saying that they're his baby mama.”

Yn snorted softly. It came out sharper than she meant.

Mariah laughed. “Right? The delusion. Anyway, I’ll send you the video. You’ve got to see the way he picks her up. Like, arm under her legs, all gentle and shit. Fatherhood looks good on him.”

Yn turned away.

She didn’t realize her hands were shaking until she reached for the alcohol swabs.

The door creaked open before he could even knock.

Megumi stood on the front steps, Yume on his hip, her sparkly backpack drooping from one arm, a chocolate smudge on the corner of her mouth. She waved excitedly.

“Mummy! I ate a crepe with a bear face!” she announced before he could say anything.

“You did?” Yn asked, a small smile on her face. She wiped at Yume’s cheek with her thumb, expression soft but distracted. “Did you say thank you?”

Yume nodded, "And then we drank soda floats, and these pretty girls danced for us!" She cheered rocking back and forth in his arms. "And the one with purple hair gave us free cake and hugged Megummy!"

Yn frowned, just slightly, her eyes flicking up to meet his.

“Did she now?” she said, voice neutral but edged with something sharp.

Megumi shifted his weight, adjusting Yume on his hip. “It was just part of the act. The waitresses play characters—think Disneyland."

“Mm. But in tiny dresses. Sounds educational.”

“Mummy, she said Megummy was handsome!” Yume added helpfully, throwing her arms around his neck with a giggle.

Yn’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Wow. What a productive afternoon.”

Megumi cleared his throat, gently setting Yume down. “Go put your backpack inside, okay? And rinse your hands before you touch anything.”

Yume saluted dramatically, her glittery sneakers already pattering across the floor as she disappeared into the house. Yn chose to ignore that she was wearing shoes in the house.

She didn't move from the doorway.

“She hugged you?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

Yn shrugged, her voice all airy indifference. “Not that it matters. You can do whatever you want. I don’t care.”

She turned her back to him, walking into the dining room.

Megumi followed without hesitation, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Oh, you don’t care?” he said casually. “Seem a little upset for someone who doesn't care.”

She rolled her eyes, squatting to gather the trail of chaos Yume had left behind—plastic tiaras, glitter pens without caps, two dolls missing their heads, and a slice of pretend pizza.

“Whatever, Fushiguro,” she muttered, tossing a plush unicorn into the toy bin. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

He tilted his head, watching her bend. “Your ass looks great in those shorts?”

She stood up and walked past him, smacking the back of his head as she did.

“Anything else?” she repeated, dropping the last of the toys into the woven basket in the corner of the living room.

Megumi stood there, blinking, clearly trying to play catch-up. She turned, slowly, sauntering toward him again, but this time, her voice dropped just a little lower. Her steps were slower. Measured. Purposeful.

“I can give you a hint,” she said, her tone sliding toward sultry, eyes half-lidded, the sudden shift confused him.

He barely registered the words. His gaze dropped instinctively to her mouth, then lower, like muscle memory. One hand lifted to her waist, slow and familiar, and he tilted his head ever so slightly, eyes flickering down, then back up.

“I wouldn't mind one” he murmured, thumb grazing just above her waistband.

She smiled—sharp and bright..

“Starts with a T…” she murmured, voice like syrup, “…ends with an M-Z…”

His brow furrowed in confusion. He opened his mouth to respond—

“—has something to do with you NOT TELLING ME TMZ HAS PICTURES OF MY CHILD!” she shouted, shoving his shoulder with a force that made him stumble back a step.

Before he could react, her fist connected hard with his arm, dead center muscle. He stumbled back, caught entirely off guard, hands flying up like she’d actually punched the air out of him.

“OW—what the fuck!?”

“Don’t ‘what the fuck’ me!” she snapped, shoving him back again for good measure. “Were you seriously not going to tell me? Were you just gonna let me find out from my coworker that the entire internet thinks I’m hiding some secret love child with a washed-up indie band frontman?!”

“I—wait—washed-up?!”

She hit him again.

“Okay, sorry! Bad timing! Not the point!” he hissed, stumbling a half step back as he rubbed his arm.

“I’m not even mad that they found out,” she snapped, voice low but furious. “It’s not your fault. I get that. But I am mad you didn’t think to tell me.”

“I was going to,” he said quickly. “I was hoping to get ahead of it. Maybe talk to PR, try to get the photos scrubbed before you even had to know. I didn’t want you to be mad at me!”

“Oh yeah, because not telling me was definitely the smarter option,” she said, throwing her hands up.

He scowled. “And what was with the flirting? Why didn’t you just yell at me like a normal person?”

“I needed to land a hit. You’d have dodged if I just came at you.” She shrugged, calm. “You’re easy as hell. I figured that was the trick.”

He blinked. “…So you flirted with me just to punch me?”

She gave him a patronizing pat on the cheek. “Boys like you are too stupid when they think there's a chance they'll get laid."

He looked like he might be genuinely wounded.

She turned back toward the living room, and her tone dropped as she gathered her breath again. “Don’t change the subject. When were you going to tell me? How are we supposed to co-parent if you do shit like this?"

Megumi shifted, guilt bleeding into the lines of his face. “I don’t know. I kept putting it off. I knew the second I told you, it’d make it real. And I—I didn’t want to hurt you. Or make things harder than they already are.”

Yn exhaled slowly, crossing her arms.

“I’m not mad because of TMZ,” she said. “I’m mad because I found out from someone else. Because I had to stand there smiling while my coworker showed me photos of my daughter, and I couldn’t even react. I couldn’t say anything. I had to pretend like it didn’t rip something out of me.”

His jaw clenched. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re always sorry,” she said quietly. “But you’re never honest.”

Silence pressed in.

She stepped toward him then,not flirtatious, not soft, just tired. Like her body carried the weight of too many moments like this. Too many almosts. Too many disappointments.

“I can’t keep doing this with you, Fushiguro. The version of you I used to love doesn’t exist anymore. He left. And this version?” Her voice cracked, just a little. “He keeps saying he wants to be here, but keeps showing me he doesn’t know how.”

“I’m trying,” he said, voice low.

“Try harder.”

She exhaled hard through her nose and sank slowly to the floor, the polished hardwood cool beneath her as she let her head fall into her hands. “I want you to be her dad. I want you to be present. I know you’re not going to be perfect—I’m not either. God knows I’ve made a mess of things. But I want to see an effort. Okay? Just try.”

There was something raw in her voice, something that made his throat tighten.

Megumi dropped down next to her, his shoulder just barely brushing hers. He didn’t speak right away. He just stared straight ahead, into the middle distance, as if assembling the words in his chest before giving them breath.

“I used to think I wouldn’t be a good father,” he said finally. “Never really had one to know what it would be like to be a good one. And it's better to just have no father than one who can't find it in him to properly love you. Didn’t want to pass that on. I thought… if I stayed away, maybe that was better. Cleaner. Safer.”

Yn didn’t interrupt.

“But when I saw her,” he continued, his voice soft, almost reverent, “everything changed. She’s not just a part of you, she’s a part of me too. And I would’ve done anything just to earn five minutes with her. To make her laugh. To see her smile and know I had something to do with it."

He paused, swallowing hard.

“I want to be her dad, Yn. I don’t want to miss a second more of her life. I want to be the person she runs to when her world feels too big. I want to braid her hair badly and cheer the loudest at school plays and embarrass her on purpose and tell her no when she wants a tattoo at sixteen. I want to raise her. With you. If you’ll let me.”

She turned toward him slowly, eyes glassy but a small, tired smile tugging at her lips.

“You love her,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

“More than I ever thought was possible,” he replied, breath catching. “It’s terrifying.”

They sat there for a while, saying nothing more, the silence between them finally the comfortable kind. Her knee leaned against his. His hand inched just a little closer to hers, not quite touching.

“And what about us?” he asked suddenly, slowly, like the words weighed too much to speak easily.

She turned her head toward him, expression unreadable. “What about us?” she asked softly.

His gaze lingered on her; her flushed cheeks, her worn hoodie, the slight tremble of exhaustion in her shoulders. He looked at her like she was an answer he hadn’t dared hope for.

“I still love you,” he said, simply.

She blinked, stunned. Not angry, not overwhelmed, just startled. Like she hadn’t expected him to be brave enough to say it out loud again.

“That’s not fair,” she said, her voice thick.

“I know.”

“You can’t just say that after everything. After four years.”

“I know,” he said again, softer. “But I couldn’t lie about it either.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“Almost every song I’ve ever written,” he added, quietly, like it was a confession he didn’t want to give, “was about you.”

She pulled back slowly, looking up at him like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to cry or scream. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“Say you’re lying.”

He met her eyes, and for once, he didn’t flinch. “I’m lying.”

She shook her head like she was trying to knock the words out of her ears. “We had our run. It was a good one. But that time is over. It’s been over for years.”

He didn’t flinch, but something in his chest tightened. “It wasn’t over that night.”

Her mouth opened, then shut again. She looked away.

“T-That was different,” she said finally, the words catching in her throat.

“Was it?” His voice dipped lower, a challenge disguised as curiosity. “Because it didn’t feel different.”

She crossed her arms, retreating into herself. “It was a mistake.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then you’re delusional.”

Megumi leaned forward. Not close enough to touch her, but close enough for her to feel the weight of his presence. “You didn’t look at me like it was a mistake. You didn’t touch me like it was a mistake. You didn’t beg for me like it was a mistake.”

Her breath hitched. She hated how easily he could still do this, make her body remember before her brain could protect her from it.

“That night was…” she paused, teeth sinking into her lip. “It was old feelings. And bad boundaries. It was comfort and weakness and hormones and… It wasn’t real.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “It felt real.”

She scoffed. “It was just sex, Megumi.”

“You say that like it didn’t shake you.”

“It didn’t.”

“You couldn’t even look at me after,” he said quietly. “And you gaslighted me for two days like I don’t have the scratches on my back to prove it.”

She gave a weak laugh. “Yeah, that wasn’t my best work.”

��I want us to still mean something, Yn.” His voice was softer now, but insistent. “I want to mean something to you.”

Her eyes flicked toward him, sharp. “You did. Five years ago.”

The words stung more than he thought they would. She didn’t stop.

“And maybe you still could’ve if you never left. But you did. So now?” She exhaled through her nose. “You don’t.”

Silence settled over them, uneasy and aching. They sat side by side on the cold kitchen floor, the soft beep of the neglected smoke detector and the hum of the white noise machine from Yume’s room filling the air between them.

Megumi looked down, his voice barely audible. “So you don’t feel anything for me.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers toyed with the drawstring of her shorts.

“Unfortunately,” she said at last, “a part of me will always love you. As much as I hate it.”

He turned to her, something fragile in his eyes.

“But,” she added, “I don’t think we fit anymore. Not like we used to.”

Then, quietly, like it meant nothing, she leaned her head on his shoulder.

His entire body went still. Like he was afraid moving would ruin the moment—or reveal how much it meant to him.

“But we can stay friends,” she murmured. “We have to. For her.”

He didn’t move.

“Just…” she hesitated, then continued, “Promise me you’ll move on. Fall in love with someone else. Someone who isn’t still angry at you. Someone who doesn’t look at you and see everything they lost. Because the part of my that still loves you will always resent you. And you don't deserve that, you need to let this idea of us go."

"Just say you'll move on."

The hand he had resting on her thigh slowed, then stilled completely.

“I can’t."

extra! extra! read all about it!

Not proofread

Chapter brought to you by Dominic Fike bringing out his secret child on stage

just felt very twry coded

Also if Yn and Megumi are ever flirty/ seem into each other, just assume I wrote the chapter faded.

cute girls in short dresses being over friendly" is a reference to Megumi's ex(?) Momo whom he was seeing before yn (she caused a lot of arguments in their relationship)

And the white noise is bc Yume often puts herself to sleep (girl loves her naps)

Is weed even accessible in Japan? Like someone tell me honestly.

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smokebombsandspotlights · 2 days ago

Text

🏁✨ “He’s Number 1.” (F1 Grid x Platonic!Child!Reader) ✨🏁

Genre: Platonic fluff | Slice of Life Characters: Y/N (6 y/o), Lewis Hamilton, Max Verstappen, Ollie Bearman, Kimi Antonelli, Lando Norris, Charles Leclerc, the entire 2025 grid Warnings: None | Just overflowing fluff Word count: 1,236 Summary: Christian Horner's daughter has a favorite Formula 1 driver. It's not who he wants it to be. And unfortunately for Christian, the entire grid finds it hilarious.

Y/N Horner was six years old, owned a red Ferrari bucket hat, and could not be reasoned with.

“Where is he?” she asked, peeking out from behind the Red Bull hospitality tent. Her tone was urgent, high-pitched, and determined, the kind that usually meant Christian Horner was about to get another PR migraine.

Her security detail—who had long since given up trying to herd her like a regular child—just sighed and said, “Lewis is still in the paddock, Miss Y/N.”

“Then I’ll wait here,” she said, arms crossed, toes tapping in light-up sneakers that blinked red with every bounce. “He’s the fastest man alive.”

Christian Horner, overhearing this from behind a Red Bull fridge, looked like he’d just been told she’d committed treason.

“She’s six,” he muttered to Adrian Newey, who was sipping espresso nearby. “What does she even know about Ferrari?”

“She knows enough,” Adrian replied without looking up. “Smart kid.”

Y/N didn’t care for Red Bull. Despite having their logo stitched onto half her wardrobe (her mother’s doing, not hers), and despite being the literal child of the team principal, her allegiance had always belonged to someone else:

Sir Lewis Hamilton.

It had started small. One Grand Prix weekend when she was three, she’d seen him crouch down to tie his own shoes, smile at the fans, and hand a little boy his hat. Three-year-olds are great at imprinting.

It had become tradition. Whenever Lewis walked into a paddock, she walked after him.

The paddock camera operators loved it—footage of Lewis arriving with a tiny, Ferrari-hat-wearing shadow trailing behind him became a beloved cut-in on race mornings.

The broadcasters even had a segment for her now: “Y/N Watch.”

And every time, no matter the race, no matter the country, she’d find her way to the front of the fan zone or the garages and say the same thing to any driver who asked her why she liked Lewis so much:

“He’s Number One.”

“Y/N!” a familiar voice called out.

She turned, beaming. Ollie Bearman jogged over from the Haas garage, helmet under one arm. “Looking for Lewis again?”

She nodded firmly, holding up her autograph book.

“You know, I drive cars too,” Ollie said, playfully offended. “British, just like him!”

She tilted her head, serious. “But you didn’t win seven championships.”

Ollie gasped, clutching his chest in fake heartbreak. “Savage.”

Just then, Kimi Antonelli appeared beside her. He was still new to the grid, but had quickly learned the routine.

“She’s not gonna switch,” he told Ollie, smirking. “She’s loyal.”

Y/N’s eyes lit up as Lewis Hamilton finally stepped into view, calm and composed in his Ferrari fire suit, braids tight, smile soft.

Y/N immediately bolted across the walkway, autograph book in hand, ignoring the chorus of “Good morning, Y/N!” from the other drivers.

“Lewis!” she squeaked.

He turned instantly, grinning. “Hey, little one!”

He crouched down to her level and offered a fist bump, which she returned with all the strength of her tiny arm.

“I made you a bracelet,” she said, holding up a knotted mess of red yarn and shiny beads. It said “#1” in crooked letters.

Lewis blinked. His smile grew so warm it could’ve melted asphalt.

“For me?” he asked.

She nodded. “Because you’re the best.”

Behind them, Max Verstappen fake-choked on his Red Bull.

“Excuse me?” he called. “Y/N, what about me?”

She turned to him and said sweetly, “You already won a lot. Now it’s Lewis’ turn again.”

Max clutched at his heart and staggered backward into Sergio Pérez like he’d been shot.

“Betrayed,” he whispered.

Sergio just patted his shoulder. “Kids are honest, hermano. Can’t fight the truth.”

Christian Horner looked like he was chewing rocks.

“Do you see this?” he hissed at Helmut Marko, gesturing toward his daughter skipping happily beside Lewis, who now had the #1 bracelet looped around his radio wire. “She’s my child.”

“Clearly, fate had other plans,” Helmut replied, shrugging.

Meanwhile, the rest of the grid was slowly gathering around to say hi to Y/N.

Charles Leclerc gave her a wink. “You know, I’m his teammate now. That makes me cool too, right?”

Y/N blinked. “You crash a lot.”

Charles gasped, stunned into silence.

Lando Norris cackled from behind him. “She got you so good.”

Yuki Tsunoda offered her a sticker from his helmet and said, “Lewis is great, but I bet I’m louder.”

She giggled. “You and my daddy shout the same.”

Somewhere, Christian screamed internally.

Oscar Piastri, quiet as ever, handed her a mini McLaren teddy bear.

“McBear,” she named it on the spot, “but Lewis can hold him.”

Hamilton, still kneeling beside her, took the stuffed bear like it was a trophy and gave her a grateful look.

“I don’t know how you do it,” George Russell said, watching with a smile. “You’ve got the entire paddock in the palm of your hand.”

“She’s just honest,” Lewis replied, eyes soft as he looked at her. “That’s all.”

Later that day, just before qualifying, Christian cornered his daughter in the motorhome.

“Sweetheart,” he began carefully, “I love that you like racing. And it’s… great that you admire Lewis. But maybe we could show a little support for your own family’s team?”

She looked at him, very serious. “I don’t like Red Bull.”

Christian flinched.

“Why not?” he asked, trying not to sound personally attacked.

“You said bad things about Lewis one time. And Max was mean to George. And your drinks taste weird.”

Christian put a hand on the table to steady himself.

“Okay,” he said, “but you live in my house.”

She gave him the same look Lewis gave to rival teams on Turn 1.

“You live in my house,” she corrected.

After qualifying (Lewis on the second row), she waited for him by the Ferrari garage.

Max tried one last time. He knelt down beside her and asked, “If I win this weekend, will you wear a Red Bull hat?”

Y/N leaned in, patted his arm, and said with deadly sincerity:

“I only wear red for Lewis.”

Everyone within earshot screamed.

That night, the official F1 TikTok posted a clip titled: “Y/N Horner Outsmarts Max Verstappen & Co. | Cutest Paddock Moment Ever”

It had 6 million views in four hours.

The comments were filled with:

“She’s so real for choosing Lewis 🫡”

“Protect Y/N at all costs 😭❤️”

“Christian must be crying in the Red Bull HQ rn 😂”

“GIRL STANDARDS ‼️”

“Tell her to run for FIA president”

Race day came, and Y/N was once again trailing behind Lewis like a little red Ferrari duckling.

When he climbed into his car, she gave him a tiny thumbs-up from the side.

“She’s my good luck charm,” he told a Sky Sports interviewer.

Christian Horner, watching from the pit wall, muttered, “She’s supposed to be mine.”

Lewis finished P2 that day, spraying champagne and waving up to where Y/N sat on her mother’s shoulders, McBear in hand.

Max finished P1. But when he came around for interviews, Y/N was nowhere to be found.

“Guess she didn’t like the result,” a reporter joked.

Max just sighed. “She’s gonna make me cry, man.”

Later, in the cool-down room, Lewis unzipped his suit and noticed the yarn bracelet still around his comms wire.

He smiled to himself.

“Number one,” he whispered.

And somewhere outside, Y/N was already planning next week’s bracelet.

Red and black.

With beads that spelled: GOAT.

End.

a/n

this was disgustingly cute & i'm not sorry. also, the grid as a bunch of uncles fighting for a toddler’s approval is my new favorite genre 🫶🏽 pls someone draw Y/N in her little bucket hat & send it to me.

#lewis hamilton supremacy #redbull slander #max is a sore loser (affectionate) #f1 fluff #let her cook

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mxnlgmy · 3 days ago

Text

i’m all yours, i’ve got no control (part 2)

gif not mine

part 1 here!

summary: after a mission leaves peter shaken and unstable, (y/n)’s told to keep her distance for his safety and hers. but when he shows up at her door in the middle of the night, trembling and barely holding on, it becomes clear: this is more than just recovery. whatever’s happening to him, it’s changing everything. and he only wants one thing to feel whole again — her.

pairing: peter parker x fem! reader

genre: SMUT, little bit of angst and soft post-chaos fluff

word count: 4.2k

warnings: sex pollen, explicit smut, soft!dom peter, praise kink, overstimulation, (mild) feral behavior, public(ish) elevator sex, avengers cameos lol, mentions of broken furniture (rip stark tower)

a/n: i'm sorry this part took so long. uni’s been hectic, but we’re finally on break YAYY. i really hope this chapter was worth the wait. thank u so much for all the love on part 1. feedback is welcome, and i love hearing from you guys. enjoy the chaos, the smut, and the soft moments. luv y’all <33

MINORS DNI

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

(Y/N) had always considered herself fairly resilient.

She’d once broken her wrist during a Krav Maga sparring match and didn’t even cry. She’d stared down a HYDRA drone at age sixteen. She’d even taken a punch from Flash Thompson in tenth grade and had the satisfaction of watching Peter make him regret it thirty seconds later.

But this?

This was worse than all of that combined.

Because (Y/N) — twenty, deeply in love, and sore in places she didn’t know could be sore; was now sitting in a wheelchair. Wrapped in one of Peter’s too-large MIT hoodies. Looking like she’d been hit by a truck. Or, more accurately, Spider-Man on sex pollen.

And worst of all?

The Avengers were here.

Steve Rogers stood frozen near the doorway, blinking slowly like he’d walked in on something unseeable. Clint was choking on his own laughter in the corner. Bruce had turned pink and immediately started scribbling on a clipboard, eyes anywhere but on her. And Tony — oh, Tony — was pacing in front of her like a dad trying not to explode after catching his teenage kid sneaking in after curfew.

(Y/N)’s face was in her hands.

Peter, for his part, stood behind her chair. His hands gripping the handles like she might try to escape which was hilarious, considering she couldn’t feel her legs. He looked suspiciously proud for someone who was technically in trouble.

Tony finally turned to him.

“Kid. The hell.”

Peter cleared his throat. “So uh… Funny story.”

“No,” Tony said immediately. “No stories. I don’t want the details. I can see the details. They’re written all over her face and, Jesus, is that a bite mark on her neck?!”

(Y/N) groaned. “Please kill me.”

“You broke containment,” Tony continued, glaring now. “You ignored protocol, FRIDAY’s lockdown measures, and about five separate international-level agreements about containment of extraterrestrial biological influence-”

“I was fine Mr. Stark,” Peter insisted. “FRIDAY ran the scans. The compound was harmless once uh… once the effects were…” He paused, glancing down at (Y/N), and his voice dropped into something almost sheepish. “…resolved.”

“I hate that you used that word,” Clint muttered.

Steve sighed deeply. “How many rounds?”

(Y/N) made a sound of pure horror.

Peter blinked. “…I lost count after four.”

Bruce made a tiny squeak. Tony pointed at the ceiling.

“FRIDAY, disable his access to the main lab for a week. And get this boy a goddamn chastity belt.”

“I hate all of you,” (Y/N) mumbled into her hoodie.

“You’re still glowing, by the way,” Clint added helpfully. “And is that bed frame broken? Did you — oh man.”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “It was an accident.”

“I’m never looking either of you in the eye again,” Bruce muttered as he fled the room.

A heavy pause followed. Then—

“So,” came Thor’s booming voice from the hallway, “is this what Midgardian mating rituals typically entail? Because I must say, I am very impressed.”

(Y/N) groaned louder. “Oh my God.”

The God of Thunder stepped into view, completely unbothered, munching on a Pop-Tart like he hadn’t just wandered into post-coital ground zero. “Truly,” he added, nodding solemnly, “a bed shattered by pure passion is the mark of a warrior. I applaud you both.”

“Thor, stop,” Peter hissed, mortified.

“Don’t encourage them,” Tony snapped, spinning toward the Asgardian. “This was your idea, by the way. ‘Let’s bring the sex pollen infested kid back to the lab, Stark! He’s perfectly harmless!’”

Thor looked affronted. “I said it was harmless in theory,” Thor repeated indignantly, waving his half-eaten Pop-Tart. “How was I to know Midgardians lacked the willpower to resist such effects?”

Tony stared at him. “They just turned 20, Thor. Barely adults, still act like teenagers. Their willpower barely exists on a good day.”

“I am standing right here,” Peter muttered, red-faced.

(Y/N) buried her face further into her hoodie. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Nat leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, smirking. “I’m just surprised Peter’s still standing. You looked like you’d been folded in half, (Y/N).”

“I was,” Y/N muttered, drawing the hoodie tighter around herself like it could erase her from existence. “Multiple times.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve muttered, now holding a hand over his eyes. “I’ve seen war. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Oh, we’re never letting this go,” Tony declared, already pulling up the holographic footage of the compound logs. “I’m naming this Incident Spider-Bang. Don’t test me.”

Peter groaned. “Please don’t name it.”

“Too late,” Tony said smugly.

“I’m going to die,” (Y/N) muttered. “Right here in this wheelchair.”

Thor clapped Peter on the shoulder so hard he stumbled. “Well done, son of Parker. You have honored your lady most gloriously. Truly, this day shall be sung about for ages.”

“No one is singing about this,” Peter said, face red as his suit.

“Oh, I am absolutely writing a ballad,” Clint said, taking out his phone. “Do you rhyme anything with ‘broken pelvis’? Because I feel like that’s important context.”

Steve let out a long, long breath and rubbed his temples. “I miss the days when the biggest scandal was someone stealing Cap’s shield to impress a girl.”

FRIDAY chimed in politely, “Would you like me to initiate a search for suitable chastity belt models, Mr. Stark?”

Tony blinked. “You know what? Yeah. Go nuts.”

Peter muttered something unintelligible and slumped further behind (Y/N)’s chair. She reached up to squeeze his hand. Both of them humiliated, exhausted, and deeply aware that this would never be forgotten.

The moment was silent for a beat.

Then Clint snorted. “So, what you’re saying is… sex pollen actually works?”

Tony turned to him slowly. “Get. Out.”

And just like that, chaos resumed.

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

Once the room was cleared — save for Peter, who looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or kiss her forehead again — (Y/N) rolled her eyes.

“I can’t believe I let you touch me.”

He leaned down, brushing her hair back gently. “You did more than let me, baby.”

“Shut up.”

“You came so hard you saw stars.”

“Peter Benjamin Parker-”

“You said I could break you and worship you,” he whispered, lips near her ear. “And I did both, didn’t I?”

Her body betrayed her with a shiver.

Peter’s expression softened, guilt flickering in his eyes.

“But seriously… are you okay?”

She nodded, more or less. “Sore. Emotionally scarred. But fine.”

He knelt beside the chair, resting his head on her thigh. “I’m sorry I scared you. And for everything else… the mission, disappearing, the tower locking you out. I wanted you near me so bad it felt like I was dying.”

“I know,” she said softly. “You didn’t choose what happened to you. But you still asked for consent. Even when your body was screaming for it.”

He looked up at her, eyes wide. “Of course I did. (Y/N), I would never touch you without-”

She kissed him, shutting him up. “I know. That’s why I trusted you.”

His cheeks flushed.

Then, after a beat: “Does this mean I’m not in trouble?”

“No. You’re in so much trouble,” she said sweetly. “But we’ll circle back once I can walk again.”

He groaned and kissed her knee.

Two hours later, MJ and Ned showed up.

(Y/N) was still in the wheelchair, now in a different hoodie (Peter’s, of course), with a pillow wedged under her thighs, sipping tea like her dignity hadn’t just been shattered. Peter sat beside her, one hand gripping hers like he was afraid she might float away.

Ned entered first. Cheery and oblivious, and then immediately stopped.

MJ followed. Looked between them. And smirked.

“Oh my god,” Ned whispered.

Peter cleared his throat. “Hi.”

“You broke her pelvis,” MJ said flatly, one eyebrow raised.

“I did not-” Peter started, scandalized.

“I literally had to be wheeled in,” (Y/N) muttered into her tea.

Ned choked on his own spit. “What the hell did you do to her, dude?!”

Peter turned bright red. “Okay — look, it’s a long story, but-”

“You went full freak mode, didn’t you,” MJ said, narrowing her eyes. “The spider-senses. The pheromones. I knew this would happen.”

“Actually, it was due to a sex poll-” (Y/N) started, only for MJ to wave a hand.

“Save it. Honestly, I’m not even mad. I’m just surprised the tower is still standing.”

Peter buried his face in (Y/N) shoulder. “I’m never living this down.”

MJ smirked. “Correct.”

Later that night, after MJ and Ned had left with entirely too much ammunition, Peter helped (Y/N) into bed.

His eyes were softer now. No hunger. Just devotion.

“You okay?”

“Still can’t walk. But you’ve asked me that six times.”

“I’m just making sure,” he said quietly. “Because part of me is still terrified that I lost control.”

She touched his cheek. “You didn’t. You were you, Peter. Even when you were wrecked.”

“I didn’t mean to break the bed.”

She laughed, even as her hips protested the movement. “We’ll bill Mr. Stark.”

He smiled faintly, then lay beside her, arms wrapping gently around her waist. His hand found hers under the covers.

“I love you,” he murmured. “I said it a hundred times last night, but… I’ll say it again. I love you.”

She turned to him, heart full.

“I love you too, Peter. Even when you’re feral.”

He kissed her shoulder.

And despite the soreness, the exhaustion, the lingering embarrassment — she felt safe.

Like maybe, in all the chaos, they were exactly where they were supposed to be.

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

By the third day, (Y/N) was walking again.

Not well. Not fast. But upright.

She shuffled down the Stark Tower hallway in her softest sweats, hair piled in a bun, and a slight wobble in her step in which Peter noticed instantly.

He nearly dropped his breakfast burrito.

“Are you — wait, are you walking?”

“I’m limping,” she corrected, gripping the wall as she moved toward the kitchen. “There’s a difference.”

Peter was at her side in two seconds, one hand on her lower back, the other hovering like he wanted to catch her if she so much as sneezed wrong. “You should’ve called me. You didn’t have to walk all the way here.”

“You were across the hall, not on Mars.”

“You limped across the hall,” he murmured, voice low, soft. “Because of me.”

She turned to him slowly. “Yeah. Because of what you did to me.”

He froze.

Her voice was different this morning. Still soft, still teasing. But there was an edge to it. A heat beneath the words. And Peter, hypersensitive still from the leftover side effects of that damn alien pollen, felt it.

Felt her.

Her scent, warm and familiar like home, wrapped around him like a noose. Not the choking kind, but the kind that tugged him closer, coaxing him to lean in and never pull away. It was her, entirely her, and it hit him like gravity, pulling him down. Every nerve in his body lit up. The air between them thinned.

(Y/N) smirked. “You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you?”

Peter swallowed. “I — uh… maybe-”

She stepped closer. Her fingers danced along the hem of his MIT hoodie — her hoodie, technically, but it had always smelled like him. “You broke the bed, Parker. Left me walking funny for two days.”

“I know, and I’m sor-”

“I didn’t say I minded.”

Peter blinked. “…what?”

She pressed up onto her toes, whispering into his ear, “I liked the way you begged. I liked when you asked for permission to wreck me. Like you couldn’t breathe until I said yes.”

His knees nearly gave out.

“Baby,” he whispered, jaw tight. “Please. You can’t do this right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because Steve is in the other room. And if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna throw you on the nearest surface and-”

She leaned in closer, lips brushing his jaw. “You think I’d mind?”

Peter whimpered.

They didn’t even make it out of the hallway.

(Y/N) shoved him into the elevator with trembling hands and fire in her eyes. She pressed all the buttons in a hurry. The doors slid shut, sealing them inside that small, mirrored box; and she didn’t hesitate.

She grabbed his hoodie, fisting the fabric, and kissed him like she’d been holding her breath since the last time their bodies collided. Peter responded instantly, lips crashing against hers with a bruising, aching need. His hands flying to her hips, gripping like she might vanish.

Her hands were everywhere — on his jaw, in his hair, under his hoodie. She tugged it up, fingers skating along his stomach, memorizing the planes of muscle like she’d been starved of him. And maybe she had. Three days of tension, of silence, of his gentle hands and guilty eyes, had burned between them like a fuse. It was snapping now. Loud. Violent. Beautiful.

“You’re so mean,” he gasped between kisses. “You know what you do to me. You know.”

“You’ve been babying me for days,” she whispered, licking into his mouth. “I needed to remind you I can make you fall apart too.”

He shuddered.

“You’ve been so sweet,” she continued, brushing her lips along his ear. “So careful. Like I’m glass.”

“I’m trying to behave,” he panted, forehead falling against hers. “I told myself I’d let you rest, give you time, be good-”

“But you’re not good, are you?” she said sweetly, grinding her hips into his. “You’re so close to snapping.”

Her hips rolled against his, deliberately slow, deliberately cruel. The friction was just enough to make him whimper.

“I needed to remind you,” she said, eyes locked on his. “That I can take it. That I want all of you.”

She ground against him again, slower this time, letting the drag of her body against his show him exactly what she meant. His breath hitched.

Peter’s whole body shuddered. “I’m gonna fucking cry.”

“You’re holding back,” she whispered. “But I don’t want you to.”

He dropped to his knees. Not out of dominance. Not even out of lust. It was reverence. He looked up at her like she hung the stars, hands settling on her hips like they were meant to be there.

“Wait, Peter — what are you —”

“I’ve missed this,” he whispered as his hands wrapped around her thighs, pushing her up against the wall as he nuzzled against her center through her sweats. “I’ve been aching for this. Let me make you come. Please. Right here. Just one. Just let me taste-”

“Peter,” she gasped and stared at him, shocked by the sheer desperation in his voice, the way he trembled under the weight of wanting her.

“Say yes,” he begged, looking up at her. “Say yes and I’ll be gentle. I’ll be sweet. I’ll lick you until you forget where we are.”

Her breath caught.

“Say no,” he whispered, “and I’ll stop. I swear. But please don’t say no.”

Her fingers threaded into his curls. “Yes,” she said, voice barely more than a breath. “Yes, Peter.”

That was all he needed.

Her sweats were gone in one swift pull, her underwear with them, and he didn’t waste a second. His mouth was on her, hot and soft and relentless. She gasped, knees buckling slightly as his tongue parted her, licking slow and deep. He moaned like her taste was everything he’d ever wanted, like it had been haunting him since the moment he walked out of that bedroom.

The elevator kept rising, but she didn’t care. Couldn’t even think. Peter’s tongue was hot and wet and sinful against her, licking and sucking like he was worshipping, and she felt herself coming undone fast — faster than she expected.

His grip tightened on her thighs as she rocked against his face, her fingers buried in his hair, anchoring herself to something real while the world spun.

Her hips bucked. He held her down.

“You taste so good,” he groaned, licking deeper. “You always do. I’ll never get enough.”

“Peter — someone might —“ she whimpered, voice cracking.

“I don’t care,” he said, voice raw. “Let them see. Let them see how good I make you feel,” he murmured between strokes, his lips slick and reverent. “I could die right here and not regret a thing.”

She was already close. Too close. It was overwhelming; his tongue, his praise, the look in his eyes every time he glanced up at her. And when he moaned again, dragging the flat of his tongue against her with long, desperate strokes, she snapped.

Her back hit the mirror. Her hips jerked. She cried out, clutching his curls and Peter just held her there, groaning against her as if her pleasure was enough to undo him completely.

She came with a sharp cry as her orgasm hit like a tidal wave, legs trembling, and Peter moaned against her. Seeing her become undone fed something inside him.

When he finally pulled away, his lips were swollen, cheeks flushed, and breathing ragged.

And he was so hard it looked painful.

“(Y/N),” he panted, standing slowly, hands finding her waist again like he was afraid to let go. “Please.”

“What do you need?”

“You. All of you. Right now, please.”

“Then take me.”

They didn’t make it to a bed this time.

He spun her gently, pressing her against the mirrored wall. She could see their reflection now. Her flushed cheeks, his blown pupils, the way his hands trembled slightly as they gripped her hips.

He pulled his sweats low enough, lined himself up, and pushed inside with one slow, careful thrust. They both gasped — not from pain, but from relief. From finally giving in.

Peter stilled, forehead resting on her shoulder. His hands held her hips like glass. “Tell me if I go too far.”

“You won’t,” she moaned, backing into him. “I want all of it.”

He moved slowly at first, savoring the drag of her around him, the sounds she made, the way her breath hitched every time he bottomed out.

But (Y/N) pushed back harder. “More.”

He gripped her hips tighter.

“Say it again.”

“Harder, Peter. I can take it. I want it.”

That did it.

The pace shifted; deeper, rougher, desperate. Each thrust came with a groan, a whispered confession, a kiss to her shoulder. His grip was bruising, but careful. His mouth trailed along her neck as he moved, panting her name like it was the only word he remembered.

“You feel so good,” he panted. “So perfect. You were made for me.”

“You’re ruining me in an elevator,” she gasped. “What would the Avengers think?”

“That I’m the luckiest man alive,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her neck. “And that you’re everything.”

She clenched around him — tight, pulsing — and he lost all rhythm.

“I’m close,” he gasped, voice breaking. “I love you. I love you so much, I — ”

He came with a cry, buried deep inside her, his whole body trembling as he wrapped his arms around her from behind like she was the only thing holding him up.

The elevator dinged.

Peter caught her before she could collapse, holding her against his chest, breathing her in.

“I didn’t mean for it to be like that,” he whispered. “I’m sorry if-”

She silenced him with a kiss. “You don’t ever have to apologize for loving me like that.”

His eyes were glassy. “I just wanted to be good.”

“You are, Peter,” she promised, and smiled. Her hands went to cup his jaw. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

For once, Stark Tower was quiet.

Peter sat in Tony’s office, fidgeting with a stress cube that clicked with every twitch of his fingers. Across from him, Tony stared silently, sipping scotch at ten in the morning like it was coffee.

“You done wrecking my furniture?” he finally asked.

Peter coughed. “Yeah… For now.”

Tony’s brow raised. “So you’re saying you’re open to a payment plan.”

“I can… fix the frame?” Peter offered. “And the wall. And the door. And probably part of the ceiling.”

“You dented the ceiling?”

Peter turned red. “I had enhanced strength and a biological mating drive, Mr. Stark. What do you want from me?”

“Control,” Tony said, setting the glass down. “Which you miraculously still had, apparently. You could’ve hurt her.”

“I’d rather die.”

Tony didn’t smile. But his expression softened just slightly.

“Look. I’m not gonna give you the sex talk. God knows your girlfriend already limped through the aftermath, but if you’re gonna keep getting tangled up in Avengers-level bullshit, you need to be prepared for what happens when biology, stress, and superpowers mix.”

Peter nodded.

“Does she know what she signed up for?” Tony asked.

Peter thought of (Y/N)’s hands. Her voice. Her eyes when she told him yes, every single time.

“She knows,” Peter said. “She always knows.”

Tony grunted. “Good. Then stop breaking my elevators.”

Meanwhile, MJ had cornered (Y/N) in the media room with a chai latte and a face that screamed we’re gonna talk about it whether you like it or not.

“So,” she said, sitting cross-legged beside her. “You okay?”

(Y/N) blinked. “You mean emotionally? Or like… still wobbly from getting my soul rearranged?”

“Both.”

“I’m okay,” (Y/N) said softly. “Tired. Sore. And a little stunned that Tony didn’t have me escorted out by force.”

MJ smirked. “He likes you. Hates to admit it, but you ground Peter. He gets… weird without you.”

“Yeah,” (Y/N) whispered. “I noticed.”

MJ nudged her shoulder. “Was it weird weird? Or like, ‘you’d do it again if no one was watching’ weird?”

“MJ!” (Y/N)’s hands flew to her face as it flushed bright red.

“What? I was just asking.” MJ grinned unapologetically. “You’re glowing, babe. I had to check in.”

(Y/N) gave her a look but then her expression softened. A shy, faraway smile tugged at her lips.

“It wasn’t even about the sex,” she murmured. “I mean yeah, it was insane, but it was how he looked at me. Like I was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.”

MJ’s smirk faded into something gentler.

“He begged for my consent like it was air,” (Y/N) continued. “Even when he could barely think straight. He could’ve snapped, but he didn’t. He held on for me.”

“That’s love, babe,” MJ said quietly. “The real kind.”

(Y/N) nodded. “It really is.”

MJ handed her the chai. “You deserve it.”

(Y/N) smiled. “So do you.”

MJ leaned her head on her shoulder. “Okay, well now I’m gonna cry. And you still look like you’ve been thoroughly railed, so let’s call it even.”

They both burst out laughing.

That night, (Y/N) found Peter on the rooftop, hoodie pulled up over his curls, the wind ruffling the hem as the lights of New York buzzed quietly below them. He stood near the edge, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

She stepped beside him, the cool air catching strands of her hair.

“You’re brooding,” she said gently.

“I’m recovering from being the Tower menace.”

She smiled. “You’re not. Well… maybe a little.”

He glanced at her, his expression serious. “I keep thinking about what could’ve happened. If I’d lost control.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I could have.”

She reached up, cupping his jaw. Her thumb brushed along the edge of his cheekbone.

“You gave me the choice. Every time. You never took.”

Peter’s eyes searched hers, shimmering in the rooftop glow.

“I wanted to make love to you,” he whispered. “Even when I was losing it. Especially then. It was never just about the heat. It was you. It’s always been you.”

“You did,” she whispered back. “You made me feel safe. Wanted. Like I was yours… in the softest way.”

A long silence fell between them, full but comforting.

Then she tilted her head. “Come to bed?”

Peter took her hand, kissing the back of it. “Yeah. Okay.”

This time, there was no frenzy. No tearing of clothes. No desperation.

Just quiet hands. Warm skin. Deep breaths in the dark.

They laid tangled in the sheets, their limbs wrapped around each other like vines. Peter pulled her close, bare chests pressed together, and kissed her temple.

“You’re my home,” he whispered.

(Y/N) smiled sleepily, resting her head against his chest.

“Then you’d better get used to me being around,” she mumbled. “Because I’m never leaving.”

He didn’t say anything. Just held her tighter.

Outside, the city kept buzzing; neon lights flickering, taxis flying past, voices echoing through the streets.

But inside, in the quiet of her arms, the world slowed down.

It was warm, gentle, and safe.

She was curled into him like she belonged there, like she’d always known where to fit — and Peter didn’t need spider-sense to feel it. He just knew.

Her fingers rested over his heart. His breathing matched hers.

And for the first time in a long, long while, he wasn’t thinking about saving the world.

He was thinking about her laugh. Her skin. The way she looked at him like he was worth loving, even when he didn’t believe it himself.

And just like that, with her heartbeat beneath his fingertips, her presence filling every quiet corner of him — Peter finally, finally felt like he wasn’t falling.

He was home.

#marvel mcu #peter parker fluff #peter parker x reader #spiderman #tom holland #marvel #peter parker #peter parker angst #peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker smut #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #softdom peter

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heldbybarnes · 2 days ago

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can you write a moment where bucky realizes he’s in love but it’s like... completely quiet? like he’s watching them laugh in the sunlight or put on chapstick and he’s just like. oh. oh fuck.

THIS HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY INBOX FOR LIKE TWO WEEKS....IM SO SORRY😬🤦🏻‍♀️

----------

Bucky doesn’t realize he’s in love the way people always talk about. There’s no swell of music, no cinematic moment where everything snaps into place. No kiss that rearranges his world or speechless, thunderstruck silence in the middle of a fight.

No, it happens on a Tuesday.

The kind of Tuesday that hums with softness—sunlight streaming through the windows, warm tea forgotten on the arm of the couch, you curled up in a sweatshirt and mismatched socks with your legs tucked under you. You’re talking about something—maybe your friend’s dog who hates wearing raincoats—and your hands are moving with the words, animated, familiar, yours.

You don’t even look up when you do it—just pop the cap off a tube of cherry chapstick and swipe it across your mouth like it’s nothing. Your top lip catches a little on the first swipe, and you scrunch your nose and try again. Bucky’s seen you do it a dozen times before.

But this time, something shifts.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

There’s no bolt of lightning. No realization crashing into him like a train.

Just… oh. Oh.

It lands in him quietly. Fully.

He’s in love with you.

The weight of it doesn’t scare him. It doesn’t sit heavy on his chest or claw at the corners of his mind. It’s warm, soft-edged, something that feels like it was always there—he just hadn’t turned the right way to see it. Like catching a familiar scent in the breeze or suddenly remembering the lyrics to a song you didn’t know you knew.

You’re still talking, still oblivious to the way the whole world has just tilted under his feet. And Bucky? He’s just watching you—watching the way your lips move, how the light catches in your hair, the laugh that slips out when you remember a detail and can’t quite stop yourself from smiling.

He thinks: I love you.

Not in a loud way. Not in a panic.

It’s quieter than that. Like the air in his lungs. Like breathing.

You glance over and catch his stare, eyebrows lifting just slightly as you smile around your words. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head as something unfamiliar curls inside his chest.

“You’re staring,” you tease.

“Maybe I like the view.”

You roll your eyes, mutter something about him being a sap, and return to your phone. But there’s color in your cheeks now, and Bucky knows you felt it too—that tiny, unspoken thing that passed between you.

Later, when you move into the kitchen to make soup, you insist he sit down because he “cuts the carrots wrong” and uses “the entirely wrong spoon” to stir. He pretends to be offended, but he does as he’s told, sliding onto the stool at the kitchen island with a small, amused huff.

He watches you hum as you work, dancing in your socks between the stove and the sink, tapping the lid of the spice jar against your palm with practiced rhythm. Your sweatshirt is slipping off one shoulder, and your hair is pulled back in a lopsided ponytail, and you’re focused, completely absorbed in whether the broth needs more thyme. You look beautiful.

And it hits him all over again.

He doesn’t know how to say it. Doesn’t know how to explain that the reason he can breathe again has something to do with the way you stir soup like it’s sacred, the way you hum off-key without even realizing, the way you smell like home.

You notice his gaze again and turn with a spoonful of broth held out toward him. “Taste this. Tell me if it needs more salt.”

He leans in and tries it, even though it’s perfect—because of course it is. And then, when you’re looking at him with that soft, squinty-eyed smile and asking what’s gotten into him today, he wants so badly to tell you.

“I just like watchin’ you,” he murmurs.

Your head tilts like you’re trying to read more from his face. “Are you dying?”

“Not yet.”

“You sure?”

He just smiles.

That night, you get ready for bed together like you always do. Brush your teeth side by side, bump hips at the sink, laugh through foamy mouths when he spits before you. He peeks at you in the mirror while you pull your hair up, the chapstick still tucked in your pajama pocket, your eyes already sleepy-soft.

You slip into bed with him, your cold feet tangling with his warm ones under the covers, your hand automatically settling on his chest. You hum a sigh against him, murmuring something about needing to do laundry tomorrow. He wraps his arm around your back and pulls you closer.

He lies awake for a while after you’ve fallen asleep, heart strangely steady. The moonlight catches the shape of your cheek, and he watches you breathe—peaceful, sure, here. And he thinks that if this is what peace feels like, if this is what love really is, then he understands now why people wait for it.

He doesn’t say it aloud. Not yet. It’s still blooming in his chest, still learning its shape.

But it’s there. Quiet and undeniable.

He’ll say it soon, when the words aren’t so heavy in his throat. When he knows how to hand them to you gently, without dropping them all at once. But for now, it’s enough to know.

Enough to feel it in the stillness. In the sunlight on your face. In the curve of your lip as you hum to yourself over a pot of soup.

It’s enough just to love you like this—like breathing.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel mcu #bucky x reader #hbb blurbs #bucky barnes fluff #bucky loves softly #bucky in love

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norrisradio · 5 hours ago

Text

see it with the lights out

♡ pairing: yuki tsunoda x reader | ♡ wc: 4.2k ♡ genre: tooth-rotting fluff and quite literally nothing else, yuki is in love etc etc etc ♡ a/n: i am back from my hiatus to celebrate @tsunodaradio 's birthday month (this is just the first of many, hopefully) !! i haven't had the time or the energy to write as of late, but it turns out, all i had to do was think of kae and the words came easy. to kae: happy birthday month, i adore you most. i'll love you forever, if you'll let me.

Yuki doesn’t like waiting.

Patience has never been his virtue. He moves through life like the cars he drives—fast, relentless, with no room for hesitation. A second lost is a second too long. His fingers drum against the wheel at red lights like they can will them to change. His jaw tightens when a text bubble appears and disappears without a response. When a barista takes too long foaming milk, he exhales sharply through his nose, weight shifting from one foot to the other, itching to move.

Waiting is an empty stretch of nothingness, and Yuki has never known what to do with nothing.

And then there’s you.

Taking your time with everything. Standing in front of the mirror, smoothing invisible creases from your clothes, tilting your head slightly as if considering some secret detail only you can see. Your fingers ghost over the delicate chain of a necklace, contemplating, before deciding against it, only to pick it up again a moment later. When you put on lipstick, you press your lips together slowly, blotting, then checking again, as if perfection is just a breath away from being achieved.

And food. God, food. The decision is never simple. You scroll through endless options, reading reviews like they hold the weight of fate itself. "What are you in the mood for?" he'll ask, and you'll hum in contemplation, clicking through another menu, then another. He could make a lap around the paddock in the time it takes you to decide.

Your stories are never a straight line. You start with something simple, something that happened at work, something a friend said, and then it unravels into threads of unrelated details, tangents winding in and out like an uncharted road. You laugh at your own distractions, doubling back, adding side notes and explanations. It should be frustrating, the way you lose yourself in the telling. But somehow, it never is.

With anyone else, he’d groan, cross his arms, tell them to hurry the hell up. But with you? He just watches.

Tonight, it’s no different. You still haven’t picked a restaurant, still lost in the endless debate of sushi or pasta or maybe something new, but that’s a problem for later. A problem for exactly seventeen minutes from now, if he’s guessing right. Right now, he just leans against the doorway, arms crossed, observing the quiet ritual of you getting ready.

He watches the way your fingers skim over fabrics, indecisive, how you turn slightly to see different angles in the mirror. You don’t rush. You never do. And somehow, against all logic, he never minds.

When you finally settle on an outfit, you approach him with a delicate chain in hand, turning your back to him in silent expectation. He huffs, but it’s barely a sound—more habit than anything else—as he steps forward.

The clasp is tiny between his fingers, and his movements are careful, deliberate. The softest brush of his knuckles against your skin sends a quiet shiver down your spine. He catches it, of course. Smirks. But instead of teasing, he lets his lips graze the back of your neck, a barely-there kiss, warm and fleeting.

You exhale, just the tiniest sigh, tilting back ever so slightly into him. His hands linger at your shoulders for a moment longer before he pulls away, like the warmth of you is something he wants to commit to memory.

And when you finally turn to him, triumphant in your decision: because yes, you’ve finally picked a place, he just smirks and takes your hand.

"Finally," he teases. But there’s no bite to it. Just fondness. Just you.

Yuki doesn’t share his food.

He’s always been territorial over his meals. A habit born out of necessity, of growing up in a world where survival meant claiming what was his. If it’s on his plate, it’s his. No exceptions. His teammates learned that the hard way: once, when Pierre tried to swipe a piece of sushi, Yuki had smacked his hand away so fast it left a sting. No one tried again after that. His engineers don’t dare reach for his snacks, either. If they’re hungry, they know the rule: get your own.

But then there’s you.

You, who takes an eternity to decide what to eat, scrolling through menu after menu with a furrowed brow, lips pursed like you’re contemplating the meaning of life instead of dinner. When the waiter comes, you wave them off with a sheepish, "Just a second!" only to spend five more minutes debating between two options. In the end, you settle on your well-practiced lie—"I’m not that hungry, I’ll just have a little of yours."

A lie. A blatant, shameless one.

Because it always starts the same way. The first time, you reach over with casual ease, fingers stretching toward his fries like you’ve done it a hundred times before. He’s faster, catches your wrist midair, his grip firm, fork still poised between his fingers. His glare is sharp, warning.

"No."

You blink at him, all wide-eyed innocence, withdrawing your hand like you’ve been gravely wronged. And then, the moment his attention flickers back to his food—

Another attempt.

The second time, he doesn’t just scowl: he shifts his plate closer, an unmistakable barrier between your thieving hands and his perfectly arranged meal. A challenge. You only grin, tapping your nails against the table, waiting. He eats a fry while looking you dead in the eyes, slow and deliberate, just to make a point. There’s mischief in your gaze, a silent dare, and before he can react—

You strike. Quick. Efficient. A fry, stolen right from the top.

His brow twitches.

The third time, he sighs. Defeat, begrudging and inevitable. His fingers tighten around his burger as he watches you pop another fry into your mouth, chewing in smug satisfaction. He should be annoyed. He wants to be. But then you look at him like that: head tilted, eyes twinkling, the kind of look that makes him feel like he’s losing a game he never wanted to play.

And maybe he is.

"Just take them," he mutters, pushing the plate toward you with an exaggerated eye roll.

You hum in satisfaction, plucking another fry. This time, without the theatrics. Your hand lingers on his wrist, fingertips brushing against his skin for just a second too long, leaving warmth in their wake. He feels it even after you pull away.

And then—because you never let a victory go uncelebrated—you lean in, pressing a quick, grease-slicked kiss to his cheek, barely more than a brush of lips.

"Thanks, babe."

He groans, deep and exasperated, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, twitching up despite himself.

He doesn’t take the plate back.

Yuki doesn’t do mornings.

Mornings have always been a battle for him. A fight he rarely wins, especially on days that aren’t marked by the screech of tires or the roar of engines. Those days, race days, adrenaline is enough to slice through his grogginess. The second the sun breaks the horizon, he’s already sharp, his mind a laser focus, every muscle wired for action. He doesn’t even feel it when the day begins, not with the rush of purpose coursing through him.

But on mornings like this—quiet, unhurried, with nothing demanding his attention—Yuki is a creature of blankets. The soft, heavy weight of the covers calls to him, a promise of warmth, the kind that keeps him cocooned in sleep even as daylight spills through the windows. His hand reaches out instinctively to swipe at the alarm, but when he finds it, the screen just mocks him: too early, it says. And he agrees wholeheartedly.

In the dim light, his body feels sluggish, his movements slow and uncoordinated, he could easily fall back into a deep, thick sleep if only the world would allow it.

But then…

There’s you.

You, who never seem to have trouble waking, even in the early mornings. You always stir before him, never in a rush, just the slow, gentle stretching of muscles as you lazily push yourself up from the warmth of the covers. And then, just as effortlessly, you curl back into him, pressing yourself against his side like you belong there. And maybe you do. There’s something about the way you fit into him, the way your body drapes over his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The curve of your cheek presses against his shoulder, and the soft sigh you let out, content and peaceful, lingers in the air, making the early hour a little less unbearable.

Your breath is warm against his skin, and the weight of you, pressed close, becomes an anchor that tethers him to the moment. He doesn’t even try to move, not even to roll over and bury his face in the pillow again. He just... stays there, eyes half-closed, caught somewhere between waking and dreaming.

"It’s early," you mumble, your voice still thick with sleep, like a purring hum that barely reaches his ears.

Yuki grunts in agreement, his body shifting slightly, but only enough to adjust to you, to allow your small movements to nestle into him more comfortably. Not that he’d want you to move away, even if the quiet morning makes him want to pull the covers back over his head and shut out the world.

But then, the quiet settles again, and he feels your fingertips—so soft, so light—tracing lazy patterns over his stomach. Aimless, gentle, like you’re sketching invisible lines in the air, drawing with no particular plan, just because you can.

And then, when the silence stretches long enough, your voice comes again, quieter this time—a murmur against his chest, laced with hunger.

"’M hungry."

Yuki cracks open one eye, just a slit, enough to catch your profile as you shift slightly, your hair falling messily over your forehead. You’re warm, so warm, radiating comfort. He watches you for a second, his brain half asleep, half awake, still struggling with the very idea of leaving this bed.

"Then go eat," he mutters, the words coming out gruff and unintelligible as he burrows deeper into the pillow, but the sharpness of his tone fades when you simply press your face closer to him.

Your lips brush against his jaw as you speak, muffled by his skin. "Can’t move. Comfy."

A small noise escapes him, a frustrated exhale that blends into a groan, but it's all fondness, the way his arms instinctively tighten around you: enclosing you closer, even though part of him longs to return to the dark, heavy quiet of sleep. But not yet. Not with you here.

"So starve," he grumbles, his words lazy with sleep, but there’s no malice in them. He doesn’t really want you to go hungry, not when you're this close, the quiet thrum of your heartbeat beneath his ear, the rise and fall of your chest so steady, so familiar.

You make a sound that’s something between a whine and a pout, burying your face against him like you’ve decided he’s your pillow now, your human cushion. You’re so damn cute, and it makes something inside him twist in the most uncomfortable way, like he’s helpless to it.

"Rude," you grumble, and he can feel the curve of your lips against his jaw, the ghost of your kiss before you speak again. "Some boyfriend you are."

He smirks despite himself. He can’t fight it, not when you’re this close, not when your warmth fills the spaces between his ribs. He groans again, muffled, but his body betrays him, pulling you in deeper, shifting until your head is tucked into his neck, your body a perfect match to his as you press yourself into him with a slow, deliberate ease.

You shift again, only this time, it’s your lips, soft and warm, brushing against his jaw, leaving a barely-there kiss, so light, so soft, that it makes him shiver.

"Mm," you hum, the sound full of satisfaction. "Love you."

The words seep into him like honey, slow and thick, and for a long beat, Yuki stays still, his heart pounding in his chest, unable to ignore the sudden rush of warmth filling him from the inside out. His eyelids flutter open, just enough to catch the way you blink up at him, sleepy and impossibly smug, your lips tugging into a smile that’s everything he wants to see.

"Love you too," he mumbles, his voice rough with sleep, the words still coming slow, like he’s trying to hold onto the hazy warmth of sleep for just a second longer. And then, after a beat, he sighs, feeling the weight of the day creeping up on him.

"Now shut up."

You laugh. It’s soft, a little breathy, and it carries all the sweetness of the morning.

And for once, Yuki doesn’t mind the early morning. Doesn’t mind waking up. He doesn’t mind anything at all as long as you’re here.

Yuki doesn’t try new things.

Yuki’s routine is sacred. The familiar, the comfortable, the things he knows will always be there—those are his preferences. When it comes to food, he’s not adventurous. Sure, he’ll put on a show for the cameras: pretend to enjoy some bizarre, experimental dish cooked up by the team for social media content. But that’s because he has to. It’s part of the job. The likes, the shares, the endless promotional content. He’ll grin through it, even if the taste is something straight out of a horror story. But outside of that, when he’s given the choice, when he’s the one in control, he sticks to his tried-and-true favorites.

Which is why, when you walk down the grocery aisle together, Yuki’s hand automatically reaches for the familiar: a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Cookies and Cream. He pulls it from the shelf with a satisfied, almost reverent air. The cold carton, the ice cream with those perfect little chunks of cookie—this is his happy place.

But then, just as he’s about to toss it into the cart, you sidle up behind him, a mischievous grin on your face, and hold up something that makes his stomach twist in a very un-Yuki-like way.

"Look what I found!" you say, the gleam in your eyes impossible to ignore. You’re holding a tub of bubblegum ice cream, the bright pink color practically screaming for attention. "I’ve been looking for this forever!"

Yuki’s nose scrunches instantly. His lips curl in disgust as he eyes the ice cream, then shoots you a look like you’ve just committed some grave offense.

"No," he says firmly, shaking his head as if even the idea of it is sacrilege. "That looks gross."

You’re relentless, though, and your pout is lethal. It’s the kind of look that softens his resolve faster than anything else. You lean into him, your face inches from his, and his breath hitches at the closeness, even if it’s just the softness of your eyes that does it.

"Baby," you whine, just enough to make his patience snap like a twig.

Yuki sighs, the sound heavy and full of reluctant affection. He takes the tub from your hand, dropping the one he was holding into the cart and begrudgingly placing the bubblegum ice cream in its place. It’s a silent surrender, but there’s a subtle, almost unnoticeable smile that plays at the corner of his mouth. He still buys his usual, though. He’s not that far gone.

Later that night, when the living room lights are dim and the flickering glow of the TV fills the space, you’re sprawled across the couch beside him, a bowl of the bubblegum ice cream in your hands. It’s become a routine of sorts after qualifying: movie night, couch lounging, just the two of you with a random film playing in the background.

You extend the bowl toward him, holding out the spoon like a challenge. "Want a bite?"

Yuki looks down at your offering, his lips curling in a disinterested, almost condescending way as he raises his own spoonful of real ice cream, his precious Cookies and Cream.

"I'm good," he mutters, lifting the spoon to his mouth. It’s the perfect balance of sweet and cookie, the familiar chill that fills him with a sense of calm. He could eat this every day for the rest of his life and be content.

But you’re still looking at him, your eyes wide and pleading, the kind of gaze that never fails to chip away at his defenses. You stick out your bottom lip in that irresistible pout, and for a moment, it feels like the world narrows down to just the two of you, the silence punctuated only by the soft hum of the movie.

"Please?" you ask, your voice a little teasing, a little desperate in that endearing way you know gets to him. "It's so good, I promise it'll change your life."

Yuki groans, a low sound of defeat. You always know how to make him cave, even if he’ll never admit it. He rolls his eyes, but despite his protests, he leans forward, reluctantly taking the spoon from you.

The first bite hits him cold, and for a moment, all he can focus on is the strange, almost sickly-sweet bubblegum flavor that coats his tongue. It’s too sweet, too artificial; nothing like the comforting richness of his usual choice. His face scrunches, but he swallows anyway, the texture strange and the taste lingering uncomfortably.

He doesn’t say anything right away, as if waiting for his taste buds to process what’s just happened.

You’re watching him closely, your eyes sparkling with mischief, but also a touch of hope.

Yuki looks at you—genuine, unaffected, as if nothing’s changed. He takes another spoonful of his own, shrugging noncommittally.

He still prefers Cookies and Cream. The bubblegum is a novelty, nothing more.

But... sometimes, just sometimes, when you're there beside him with that expectant look in your eyes, Yuki reaches for the bubblegum ice cream instead. Not because it’s better. Not because he’s suddenly a convert. But because, in that small way, he wants to let you win a little.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s not so bad after all.

Yuki doesn’t get nervous.

The track is alive with sound and energy, the roar of engines filling the air like a living thing. Yuki has been in the thick of it more times than he can count, his hands steady on the wheel, his mind sharp, as if every twist of the road was part of a dance he had mastered long ago. He thrives under pressure, welcomes it like an old friend. The chaos of it all—the adrenaline, the need to make split-second decisions that could change everything—only sharpens his focus. Confidence is his armor, polished and unyielding, a constant companion that never wavers.

But today? Today is different.

Today, it’s you.

It’s the first race in a while that you’ve been able to attend. Your work at the hospital always keeps you busy, and Yuki would never dare hold that against you. He knows how hard you work, how many lives you touch with your compassion, and he’s proud of you for it. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s missed you at the track, missed the quiet, steady presence you bring, the way your eyes always seem to find him in the chaos of the race.

The car hums beneath him, a low growl of power that makes the world feel like it’s about to shift on its axis. He’s focused. Laser-focused.

But it’s hard to keep that edge when you’re standing at the edge of the garage, just outside the fence that separates the chaos from the calm. Your arms are wrapped around yourself, your posture a mix of anticipation and quiet calm. The moment your gaze locks with his, it’s like everything else fades away. The world becomes a blur, and it’s just you and him, just the way your eyes fix on him with such intensity that it makes his chest tighten.

He’s seen the look before, but today, it feels different. Today, there’s a weight to it, a softness that makes his stomach twist, makes his heart beat just a little faster. And in that moment, Yuki realizes something that catches him off guard, something that pulls him away from his usual confidence.

It’s not nerves, not doubt. It’s something else, something quieter, something urgent. A need, perhaps.

To be good.

To be great.

To make you proud.

He swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and tightens his grip on the wheel, as if the car might feel it, as if it might understand that this time, it’s not just about winning for himself.

It’s about you.

So when the lights go out and he launches forward, he’s not just racing for himself anymore.

Yuki doesn’t do sappy stuff.

Romance movies make him cringe, the kind where someone runs through the rain with their arms wide open, all dramatic and earnest. Grand gestures are reserved for people who don't know how to express themselves with just words. He rolls his eyes when his friends get all soft and sentimental, throwing around sweet nothings like it’s second nature.

Yuki is none of those things.

He’s the guy who prefers bluntness over all the fluff, the one who keeps his affection hidden beneath layers of sarcasm, behind the smirk he wears like armor. It’s simpler that way. Cleaner.

But then there’s you.

You, with your quiet way of being. Your softness, like it’s woven into every little thing you do. You curl up next to him, body warm and relaxed against his side. Your fingertips trace absentminded shapes on his palm, slow and gentle, like it's the easiest thing in the world to touch him. It’s simple, effortless. No rush, no expectation—just your hand in his, like it's always been meant to be that way.

The room hums with that quietness, the soft buzz of a late night, with the only sounds the soft rustle of sheets and your steady breathing. It's the kind of silence that feels like home. Not the absence of sound, but the absence of any need to fill it.

Yuki doesn’t need to fill the silence when it’s with you.

He’s never been good at this, at letting himself sit with his emotions without some form of distraction, without running away from the weight of them. But with you, it’s different.

You, with your warmth. You, with your quiet acceptance of him, of all his rough edges, the parts of himself he hides behind teasing words and quick smiles. You make it so easy to just… be.

Then, without any warning, you break the stillness, your voice a soft murmur against his shoulder. "I love you."

It’s not the first time you’ve said it. But this time, this time, it feels different.

The words slip out so easily, like they’ve been waiting for the right moment to escape. Like they’re not something you’ve practiced, something you’ve planned, but something you’ve just… known. Something you’ve been carrying inside of you, and now, here in this quiet, tucked against him in the warm darkness, it just flows from your lips as naturally as breathing.

And suddenly, Yuki’s chest tightens.

He blinks, once, twice, like he’s trying to clear the weight that’s settled behind his ribs. His breath catches in his throat, too surprised by the simplicity of it all, by the sudden way his heart seems to stop beating for just a second.

He turns his head slightly, just enough to catch the gentle curve of your face in the dim light. Your eyes are closed, your lashes resting softly against your skin, as if you’ve said something ordinary. But Yuki? Yuki feels like the ground has shifted beneath him, like he’s teetering on the edge of something he can’t quite explain.

There’s no grand gesture, no need for fireworks or dramatic pauses. Just you, so sure of yourself, so unafraid to offer him something so pure.

He swallows thickly, his throat suddenly feeling tight, heavy with the weight of something he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time.

His eyes flicker to your hand still resting on his, and for a moment, it’s as though time has stopped. All he can think of is the way you’ve quietly and gently made a place for him in your world, how effortlessly you’ve slipped into his heart.

And in that moment, something in him shifts, something soft, something fragile.

He looks at you again, really looks at you, and his breath comes out in a slow exhale. Your face is calm, content, the way it always is when you’re with him. And maybe it’s the way your touch lingers on his palm, or maybe it’s the quiet trust in your voice, or maybe it’s just the undeniable truth that, with you, he feels like he doesn’t have to hide anymore.

So, maybe, just maybe—his voice is barely a whisper, but it holds more weight than any grand gesture ever could. "I love you too."

It’s simple. Quiet. Almost as if saying it out loud makes it more real, more tangible, than it’s ever been.

And when you open your eyes and meet his gaze, your smile is soft and slow, as if you’ve always known.

And for once, in the silence that follows, Yuki feels like he’s finally where he’s meant to be.

#f1 #formula 1 #yuki tsunoda #yk22 #yuki tsunoda 22 #yuki tsunoda fic #yuki tsunoda f1 #yuki tsunoda imagine #yuki tsunoda x reader #yuki tsunoda x y/n #f1 fic #f1 imagine #formula one #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #f1 x you #f1 2025 #⚡︎ race day

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bitters-n-sweets · 9 hours ago

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matchy match — andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader In which Lena gifts you a friendship bracelet that looks identical to Pope's.

this is just a fluff blurb, no warnings

Lena catches you off-guard when she suddenly gifts you a bracelet. It’s carefully made, strung with beads in your eye color and warm hazel tones, decorated with tiny flowers and hearts. You smile sweetly at her. “Sweetie, it’s your birthday. Why are you giving me gifts, huh?”

She grins, “It’s a friendship bracelet! Uncle Pope has one, too.”

Your eyes drift toward the pool, where Pope is nursing a beer, half-listening as J talks his ear off. Sure enough, you spot a matching bracelet on his wrist—beads glinting in the sun. Your heart stumbles a little.

He catches your gaze and holds it for a beat too long, his expression softening in a subtle way only you can read. Then J says something and Pope looks away.

You glance back at Lena, smiling. “I love it, honey. Thank you.” You press a kiss to the top of her head, and she grabs your hand, tugging you toward her room to show off her new haul of stuffed animals.

You watch her unwrap your gift next—a unicorn-themed tea set—and she squeals in delight, immediately tearing into the box. Plastic cakes and pastries are soon arranged with chaotic precision as she lays out tiny cups and saucers for a tea party.

A few minutes later, Pope steps into the doorway. He stands there for a moment, watching the two of you endearingly. “Can I join the tea party?” He asks.

Lena scrambles to make space. Pope crouches down and settles into a tiny chair that was previously occupied by a stuffed bear. He’s far too big for it, knees nearly to his chest, but he doesn’t complain. He just looks at you with a small, amused smile that makes your chest flutter.

“Hi,” He says softly.

“Hi,” You return his smile.

You’ve known Pope for a while. He brings Lena down to the pier sometimes, and that’s where you first met them—when Lena reached for your hand while learning how to skate. You fell in love with her immediately, with her courage and the way she talks like she’s known you forever.

As for her uncle? You never expected to develop feelings for him—he’s godly handsome, that you’ve noticed since day one, but when Pope started picking random flowers he sees on your walks together and tucks them behind your ear?

That’s when you knew you were in trouble.

Pope grabs his tiny teacup and that’s when you notice the details on the bracelet Lena gave him. It’s similar—no, it’s identical to yours, but very different from Lena’s.

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Sweetie? How come your bracelet’s different from mine and your uncle Pope’s? Did you run out of beads?” You ask her, “Want me to get you some more next time?”

Lena shakes her head. “Nope! Couples wear matchy stuff. So I made yours match.”

You blink at her. Couples?

Pope almost chokes on his pretend-tea.

“Uncle Pope, you gotta drink slower!” Lena scolds, handing him a unicorn napkin.

You can feel the blood rushing to your cheeks, and you’re not sure if Pope can tell you’re flustered.

Lena runs out after that when Smurf calls her, saying it’s time for cake, leaving you and Pope in her bubblegum-colored room, surrounded by pretend cakes and stuffed animals.

You look at him.

He’s already looking at you.

The two of you stand up and almost bump into each other.

“So—” “We should—”

You both stop, talking over each other, and it makes you laugh—soft and nervous. You glance up at him through your lashes, heart fluttering. Pope’s already watching you like you hung the moon. Your smile falters slightly, overwhelmed by the weight of that look.

And he doesn’t say anything—he just reaches up, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. His touch lingers, and it’s enough to make your breath catch.

Pope tilts his head slightly, gaze flickering from your eyes to your lips, and back again.

So you lean in slightly, and Pope meets you the rest of the way. He presses his lips to yours with slight urgency, like he’s been holding this in for too long. He kisses you warmly, his hand settling gently at the side of your neck as you melt into him.

When you pull away, your noses brush. He doesn’t open his eyes right away. Neither do you.

“Can’t believe it took Lena for us to actually do this.” You whisper.

Pope chuckles. “Better late than never.”

#andrew pope cody x you #andrew cody x reader #andrew pope cody x reader #pope cody x reader #pope cody x female reader #andrew cody x fem reader #pope cody x you

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owepossum · 1 day ago

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Hngh I need you to know that I love Anton so much! I know he’s not a good person and a sociopath and all that and really probably I shouldn’t want him and Sil together and I guess really I don’t but good gosh their dynamic is cool to me :) I’d love to know more about their history I’m so excited for more :) I’ve never ever read a made up character for an established IP that I actually really liked. I love that he has a thing for Sil but weirdly (surprisingly?) is pretty respectable about it. Also yes Silco exploit him for Viktor’s benefit! (sort of, I suppose he doesn’t really mind Anton that much and he’s not really exploiting him but you know).

Anyway I have way too many feelings about your absolutely brain-altering-ly good story!! This “ask” just zeroed in on Anton. I love every single way you write each character!

Is there ANYTHING you would want to share about him that we may not know? Can be harmless and tiny detail, but also no pressure to say anything at all :) 💖

This makes me so happy (and feel like I haven’t failed as an author)!! 😭🫶🏽 coming off the back of an original novel it makes me fuzzy to know that an OC is enjoyed within a fic context ahhh. I’ve got their entire backstory sketched out as part of the Zaun Trio/Quarter prequel, of which I’ve only written about 4K but it’s coming along!

Antonin Trivia™️ (non-spoilery)

Like Viktor, Anton’s mother was a Freljordian immigrant who married a Zaunite. The town she hailed from was built around goldmines & she was an artisan!

Anton met Sil when they were 24 and 15 respectively.

Wanted to follow his mother’s passions in art but knew it wouldn’t support the lifestyle he wanted.

Initially bonded with Sil over art / fashion and then politics. Gave Sil a lot of books in the early years.

He studied finance & trained on Sidereal in Piltover before realising he could make a lot more money straddling the bridge

Worked as as an accountant for a zaunite partnership specialising in advising rich Zaunites / savvy Piltovan businesses

Eventually took his portfolio freelance and establishes himself as the art broker of choice (read: money laundering and tax avoidance).

:3 I hope this is fun to read, happy to yap further / do more of these?!?! Thank u for asking meee ❤️

#this devotion may contain side effects #asks #my fic #arcane fic #arcane OC #original character #arcane au #Silco arcane #baby viktor #arcane silco #arcane fanfic #antonin sokolov

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euno11a · 12 hours ago

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Summary: When you're dragged to an underground party by your best friend, the last thing you expect is to be thrown into a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven — especially not with Jeon Jungkook, the brooding, sharp-tongued heartbreaker with a reputation that precedes him. You barely know him. He barely looks at anyone. But behind that locked door, time slows down, sparks fly, and he's done for. You're sure he'll forget you. He does. But now he’s on a mission to figure out who “Closet Girl” is — and your friends are doing everything they can to mess with him while keeping your identity secret.

genre: University AU | strangers to lovers (sort of)

warnings: flirting, mild romantic tension, social anxiety, embarrassment, minor illness, playful pranks, friendly manipulation, study stress, mild language, sarcastic banter, JK being so whipped, slow-burn romance, light comedy/drama, no serious harm

WC: 18k words

a/n: this is technically pt. 2 without meaning to be

Thursday Night – Jungkook’s Dorm 8:09 PM

Jungkook opens the door mid-yawn and freezes when he sees Jimin, Taehyung, Yanni, and Jenna standing in the hallway like they’re on a mission from God.

“What… are you wearing?” he asks, staring at Taehyung, who’s in sunglasses and a turtleneck like he’s about to brief the CIA.

“Respect the fit,” Taehyung replies, sweeping in past him.

“Don’t ask questions,” Jimin grins, patting Jungkook’s chest on the way in. “You’re about to receive the gift of knowledge.”

Yanni lifts a flash drive dramatically in the air. “And heartbreak.”

Jungkook blinks. “...What?”

They all file in before he can protest. Jimin kicks his beanbag chair into position. Jenna’s already hooking her laptop up to Jungkook’s TV. Yanni’s dragging over a dining chair like she’s preparing to defend her dissertation.

“This is an ambush,” Jungkook mutters.

“It’s an intervention,” Jimin corrects. “For your situation.”

“What situation.”

Yanni taps the spacebar. The TV flickers to life.

A title slide appears:

“THE CLOSET FILES: VOL. 2” A tragic love story told in 720p Presented by: Four people who are tired of your whining

Jungkook groans, flopping onto his bed face-first. “No.”

“Oh, yes,” Taehyung grins, sliding off his sunglasses.

Slide One: A blurry image of a girl from behind, walking through the quad. Head covered with a cartoon closet sticker.

“Subject A, known to the public as Closet Girl, photographed in her natural habitat.”

Jungkook peeks through his fingers. “...Where did you even get that?”

“Campus security has blind spots,” Yanni says flatly.

“I’m kidding,” Jenna adds quickly. “It’s from my camera roll. Don’t arrest us.”

Slide Two: Another photo. Reader sitting under a tree, reading. Closet.png pasted neatly over her face.

“She’s literate,” Taehyung says solemnly. “We can confirm this.”

“She has a favorite pen,” Yanni adds, pointing at the zoomed-in detail of your stationery.

Slide Three: A photo of you from behind again, walking into the library.

“She studies a lot,” Jimin says helpfully. “You’d like her. Oh wait—”

“I DO LIKE HER, I JUST DON’T KNOW WHO SHE IS,” Jungkook cries, dragging his hands down his face.

Yanni grins. “Hence: this.”

Slide Four: Reader holding a coffee cup. You can barely see her, but her wrist has a tiny pen mark on it.

“She writes little reminders on her hand,” Jenna explains. “This one said ‘ask prof for extension.’ We did NOT hack her calendar. Yet.”

“I feel like this is illegal,” Jungkook mutters.

“It’s romance,” Taehyung says. “And art.”

Slide Five: A very blurry picture from the Seven Minutes in Heaven night. Reader walking toward the drinks table. Closet still hiding her identity.

“I remember this,” Jungkook murmurs, sitting up a little straighter. “That was before—"

“Before she got trapped in a closet with your emotionally unavailable self?” Yanni supplies.

Jungkook glares. “I was emotionally available in that closet.”

“You said you were gonna kiss her to shut her up,” Jenna points out.

“She wouldn’t stop panicking!” Jungkook defends.

Jimin pats his shoulder. “It’s okay. We have more slides.”

Jungkook buries his face in his hands again. “God, do I even want to see them?”

“No,” Yanni answers. “But you have to.”

Slide Six: Another shot. Reader sitting in a lecture hall, two rows below Jimin’s camera view. Her head is down, scribbling. Closet.png doing its job.

“You literally sit this close to her in class,” Jimin says, zooming in dramatically. “And yet you never noticed her.”

“She doesn’t talk!” Jungkook protests. “She just… sits there! Like a quiet little nerd—”

He stops. Goes quiet.

“Oh no,” Taehyung says, eyebrows raising. “It’s happening.”

“No,” Jungkook says quickly. “No no no no—”

“You’re picturing her in the closet again, aren’t you,” Jenna asks.

Jungkook covers his face with a pillow and screams into it.

The group breaks into chaotic laughter.

“We’re not even done,” Yanni says, clicking to the next slide.

Slide Seven: Just a text slide. White background. Black font.

"You’ve already talked to her." "You’ve already made her laugh." "And you’ve already said the stupidest thing she’s ever heard."

Jungkook drops the pillow. “WHAT DID I SAY?”

Yanni shrugs. “We’ll tell you someday.”

“WHEN?”

“When you deserve her,” Taehyung says with faux wisdom.

“You’re all evil,” Jungkook mutters, but he’s leaning forward again, face flushed, gaze soft.

“Final slide,” Jenna announces.

The screen goes black. Then—

Slide Eight: A shaky photo. You, walking just past Jungkook on campus. He’s facing the other way. You’re almost shoulder to shoulder — a moment in passing. Two near-strangers. One closet. Fate.

Caption: "You’re always looking the wrong way."

Jungkook stares.

For a long moment, no one says anything. The air buzzes.

“…She’s actually kind of short,” he murmurs.

Everyone turns to him slowly.

Jimin: “Just noticed?”

Jungkook’s voice goes soft. “The back of her neck… it’s—" He cuts himself off. “Never mind.”

“Oh, he’s GONE gone,” Yanni grins.

“You’re welcome,” Jenna says, unplugging the USB.

“We’ll see ourselves out,” Taehyung adds, grabbing the popcorn for the road.

Jimin claps Jungkook on the shoulder on the way out. “Good luck finding her, Romeo.”

Jungkook just stares at the blank TV screen, cheeks flushed, brain full of closet-stickered moments and glimpses of a girl he almost knows.

He doesn’t even have a name.

But he’s sure now, more than ever—

He’s already in love.

Thursday Night – 10:04 PM Jungkook’s Dorm Post-PowerPoint. Post-heartbreak. Post-closet-induced delusion.

The door clicks shut.

Silence.

Jungkook stands in the middle of his room, arms limp at his sides, eyes fixed on the black TV screen like it’s going to flicker back on and bless him with another blurry, closet-covered glimpse of her.

He hasn’t moved since they left. Not even a breath.

Until—

“...I’m such an idiot.”

He says it out loud. To no one. Because no one else is in the room. Just him, and a ghost of a girl who might smell like vanilla and who maybe — maybe — wrote a reminder to herself on her hand with the same brand of pen he uses.

He collapses backward onto his bed with a groan and immediately drags a pillow over his face.

“I was right there,” he mumbles into the cotton. “I was literally right next to her. The same exact sidewalk. I was breathing the same air as her. What am I—some kind of visually impaired golden retriever?”

He flips over dramatically. Stares at the ceiling like it insulted him.

“How did I not notice her?”

Another beat.

“Why didn’t she say anything?” Pause. “Okay, no — that’s dumb. Why would she? ‘Hi, I’m the girl you fake-threatened to kiss in a closet while I was having a breakdown’ — yeah, great icebreaker, Jungkook. Really nailed that one.”

He groans again, dragging his hands through his hair and sitting up so quickly he nearly knocks his head on the wall.

He stares at the blank space where the photos had been just minutes earlier. The slideshow might be gone, but his mental image bank is full now. Every tiny detail they’d shown him — her in the library, at the quad, that little mark on her hand — all of it’s seared into his brain like it’s been tattooed.

“And she studies,” he mutters, like that’s the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. “And she wears oversized sweaters. And—God.” He leans forward, hands on his knees, eyes wide.

“She was laughing at something in that library photo. Was that her friend? Was it something they said? Or was she—”

A thought hits him.

“Wait,” he whispers, eyes narrowing. “Did I say something? Was I there? Was I—?”

He suddenly stands, pacing now. His room’s not big, but he’s working it like it’s a runway of shame.

“I can’t believe I flirted with her like that. What was I even thinking? ‘If you don’t stop moving I’m gonna kiss you’? Who SAYS THAT?”

He stops. Blinks.

“…Okay it was kind of smooth,” he admits. “But in a feral, what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you kind of way.”

He drops into his desk chair, spinning in a slow, guilty circle.

“She didn’t even say anything,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “She was just… breathing. Freaking out. And I was making it worse. Of course she wouldn’t tell me who she was after that. God.”

The spin slows. His voice gets softer.

“She was so close.”

He thinks of the photo — the one where he was turned away, and she was walking by.

Literally right beside him.

“Would I have looked at her differently if I’d known?” he whispers.

And then—he freezes.

Because his heart’s telling him no.

No. He would’ve stared at her anyway. He would’ve noticed how soft her laugh sounded under the music. How even panicking, she was kind of funny. How even in the dark, he could feel how smart she was. How real.

He doesn’t even know her name.

But she’s already ruined him.

He slumps back against the chair with a deep sigh, staring at the ceiling again.

“...I’m done for.”

A beat.

Then he grabs his phone.

Jungkook [to Jimin]: u have 24 hrs to turn over her name or I’m telling Yanni you used her serum and said nothing

Jimin [read] Jimin [typing...] Jimin: who’s to say I know her name?

Jungkook: YOU TOOK A WHOLE STALKER SLIDESHOW OF HER HER NAME. NOW.

Jimin: her name... is closet. closet jeon. your wife. congrats.

Jungkook tosses his phone onto his bed.

“Unbelievable.”

Still — his lips twitch.

Because even through the embarrassment, the obsession, the mystery… he’s smiling now.

Tiny. Stupid. Helpless.

“Closet Jeon,” he mumbles under his breath, shaking his head.

And for the first time in days, he falls asleep with a grin on his face.

Friday – 2:47 PM

Campus Café Patio

“Okay,” Jimin starts, sliding Jungkook a cold brew like it’s a sedative. “Don’t freak out.”

“Why would you even say that?” Jungkook deadpans, hoodie string caught between his teeth like emotional support. “Now I have to freak out.”

“Good,” Taehyung says, taking a loud slurp from his drink. “You’ve been weirdly calm for a man who got bested by a PowerPoint full of red-sweater thirst traps.”

“Shut up,” Jungkook mutters, snatching the drink.

He hasn’t stopped thinking about the slideshow. He didn’t even sleep properly last night — just lay there, blinking at his ceiling fan and whispering, “What if she reads books I’ve never heard of?” like a man haunted.

Now Jimin pulls out his phone, tapping the screen like he’s about to detonate something.

“Seriously,” he says. “Promise not to cry.”

“I hate you,” Jungkook replies, already nervous.

“Group project list,” Jimin announces, flipping the phone toward him.

Jungkook grabs it, scans the screen—and freezes.

Group 3:

Jeon Jungkook

Kim Taehyung

Lee Sunmi

Y/N L/N

It hits him like a shovel to the face.

He stares at the name. Then at Jimin.

Then back at the name.

“…You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Her name is Y/N?” Jungkook says, voice rising with each syllable.

“That’s her.”

“YOU KNEW HER NAME THIS WHOLE TIME—?!”

Jungkook practically lunges over the table, the iced coffee jostling as he goes into a full-body meltdown.

“I’m in her group?! And you’re just telling me now?!”

“You weren’t listening,” Jimin shrugs.

“You weren’t even in class the day she got assigned,” Taehyung adds helpfully.

“Oh my God.”

Jungkook sits back down like gravity just gave up on him.

He stares straight ahead. Blankly. Mouth open.

“She was right there the whole time,” he mutters. “In my class. I could’ve figured this out two weeks ago if I’d just—paid attention.”

“You didn’t even know where the class was until midterms,” Jimin says.

“YOU GUYS—” Jungkook spins around to face them again. “Do you know what this means?! I’m in a group project with the literal girl of my dreams and I still don’t know what she looks like!”

Taehyung sighs. “Poetic suffering.”

“She’s just—Y/N. That’s it! I have no face to match. Just… cardigans. A pretty voice. Maybe a vanilla perfume. And this feeling like I got punched in the chest when she said my name.”

“You mean when she didn’t say your name,” Jimin says, deadpan.

“I AM LOSING MY MIND.”

Jungkook puts his head in his hands.

Taehyung pats his back solemnly. “Let it out.”

Meanwhile – 3:12 PM

East Side Lawn

“I cannot believe this,” you hiss, pacing through the grass like you’re on the verge of setting it on fire. “He knows my name now. My full government name. And he still doesn’t know it’s me.”

Yanni is lying in the sun, sunglasses on, eating a cake pop like this is her favorite telenovela. Jenna’s sitting next to her, holding a matcha latte and trying not to laugh.

“Maybe he’s just processing,” Jenna offers weakly.

“Processing WHAT?!” You throw your hands in the air. “The part where I SAT NEAR HIM EVERY MONDAY AND WEDNESDAY?!”

Yanni sighs, watching you like she’s mentally adding sound effects.

“Imagine how funny it’ll be when he finds out and actually combusts.”

“I was next to him in the LIBRARY,” you cry. “We shared oxygen, Yanni.”

Jenna giggles into her drink.

You spin back toward them. “And now we’re in a group project together? How am I supposed to survive that?”

“By being extremely normal and not making it weird,” Yanni says.

“I AM THE WEIRD,” you shout.

A group of freshmen walking by side-eye you. You don’t care. You’re in shambles.

“I bet he doesn’t even recognize my voice,” you mutter. “He probably thinks Closet Girl and I are two different people. I’m out here doing the academic equivalent of slow dancing in a burning room and he’s just... vaping.”

Jenna snorts.

Meanwhile – 3:14 PM

West Side Path — walking toward lecture

Jungkook walks between Jimin and Taehyung, eyes slightly glazed, hoodie back on, muttering something about "soulmate proximity blindness."

“She’s gonna think I’m an idiot,” he says. “What if she already hates me? What if she knew it was me the whole time and was just waiting for me to connect the dots—”

A shout echoes from across the green.

“HE KNOWS MY NAME AND STILL DOESN’T KNOW IT’S ME?!”

They all pause.

Taehyung glances over. “Was that…”

Jimin nods. “Definitely someone in her flop era.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow, vaguely curious. “Huh. Wonder what her deal is.”

Taehyung and Jimin both stare at him.

Jimin drags a hand down his face.

“Seriously, how do you survive being you?”

Jungkook shrugs and keeps walking.

Behind him, a girl in a cardigan storms away across the lawn, arms flailing.

He doesn’t even glance back.

Wednesday – 10:09 AM

Media Studies Lecture Hall

Jungkook is sitting at the edge of his seat, leg bouncing, eyes flicking to the door every few seconds like he’s waiting for a prophecy to walk in.

But it doesn’t.

Not Monday. Not Tuesday. Not today.

Not her.

Not Y/N.

It’s been three straight classes, and her seat’s been empty. Her spot at their group table in the library? Also empty. Her name in the group chat? The only thing keeping him sane — but also driving him up the wall.

Because yes, okay, she’s still doing her part — sending in bullet-point outlines, responding to shared docs at 2AM, even cleaning up their slide formatting like an angel — but she isn’t here.

And Jungkook is losing his mind.

"She's literally a ghost again," he mutters, hunched over his desk.

Jimin, beside him, doesn’t even look up. “You’re obsessed.”

“I have to be. She vanished.”

“She’s obviously alive. She’s editing your grammar in the Google Doc in real time.”

“She changed my ‘there’ to the right version,” Jungkook says quietly. “She cares.”

Jimin sighs like this has happened before. It hasn’t.

“You’ve known her for a week,” he says.

“I’ve known of her for two.”

“Wow.”

“She said I use too many semicolons.”

“Hot.”

Jungkook slams his notebook shut and leans back in his seat with a dramatic groan. “Where is she?”

“She’s probably just—busy. Sick. Dead.”

Jungkook glares at him.

“…Or not dead,” Jimin adds quickly. “Probably not dead.”

Wednesday – 12:24 PM

Student Union Hallway

He’s walking out of lecture with a coffee he didn’t want and thoughts he didn’t ask for when—like fate herself intervening—a familiar voice cuts through the crowd.

“—I’m serious, I tried to bring her soup and she threatened me.”

It’s Jenna.

Jungkook’s head snaps toward her.

She’s laughing, phone in hand, walking past a table of student orgs like she owns the sidewalk.

Jungkook doesn’t even think — he just speed-walks.

“Hey—hey, Jenna, right?”

Jenna turns, surprised. “Uh—yeah?”

He stops short, breath hitching slightly. “You’re friends with Y/N.”

She blinks. “...Yes?”

“Where is she?”

Jenna looks vaguely alarmed.

“I mean—not in a creepy way,” Jungkook says quickly, hands raised. “I’m not, like—tracking her. Or obsessed. Or—” he stops, catches Jimin’s voice in his head: You’re obsessed. “Okay, fine, maybe a little obsessed, but—she hasn’t been in class. Or at the library. Or anywhere.”

Jenna tilts her head, then smiles slowly.

“She’s sick.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen like she just told him someone unplugged the moon.

“What?!”

“Sick. Like, legit sick. Fever, chills, coughing, the works. She’s been in bed for a week.”

He looks like she punched him in the gut.

“She’s been sick this whole time?” he mutters.

Jenna raises an eyebrow. “Did you think she was ghosting you?”

“No,” Jungkook lies. “...Kind of. I don’t know. I thought maybe she figured out I was a fraud who doesn’t know how to format MLA and decided to cut her losses.”

“She’s still doing the project.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s what makes it worse.”

Jenna laughs. “You’re so far gone it’s impressive.”

“I’m in hell,” Jungkook mutters. “I didn’t even know she was gone at first because I didn’t know what she looked like. I’m living a tragic slow-burn where I’m the idiot who can’t read the signs. Literally.”

“She told us you still don’t recognize her.”

“She WHAT?!”

“Relax.” Jenna smirks. “She’s not mad. Just a little feral.”

Jungkook drags a hand down his face.

“Okay,” he breathes. “I need to see her.”

“She can barely sit up.”

“I’ll stand across the room, Jenna. I just need—confirmation that she’s real.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“She’s you-know-who.”

“Say it.”

“Closet Girl,” Jungkook groans.

Jenna laughs again and starts walking away. “Tell her you care by proofreading the citations. APA style.”

Jungkook stares after her, dazed, clutching his coffee like it betrayed him.

“…I’m gonna lose it,” he mumbles.

And when he walks off toward the library, he’s already drafting an apology paragraph he’ll never send.

Wednesday – 3:32 PM

Your Apartment – The Cave of Death™

Your blanket is trying to kill you.

It’s hot. You’re sweating. Your hoodie is clinging to your skin like emotional damage. But also, the moment you move even an inch away from the cocoon of warmth, your bones start shaking like you're being haunted.

You sniffle, swipe at your nose with a crumpled tissue, and attempt to type something coherent into the group project doc.

[Y/N]: Updated slide 6 for tone consistency & added sources. Someone check my fever logic pls, I may be hallucinating APA citations.

You hit send, then immediately fall sideways into your pillow with a dramatic groan.

You’re dying. This is how it ends. Not in a blaze of glory, but in a sea of half-finished NyQuil bottles, unanswered texts, and microwave oatmeal.

A knock sounds at the door.

You don’t move.

Another knock, followed by a muffled, “Y/N, open the door or I’m calling your mom.”

You croak, “I live alone for a reason.”

“Yeah, and I’m ignoring it. Unlock it before I use this soup as a weapon.”

You groan, drag yourself upright, and stagger to the door like you’re in a zombie film.

When you crack it open, Jenna stands there holding a Tupperware container and looking smug.

“Chicken noodle. Handmade. By someone’s grandma. Probably.”

“I told you not to come.”

“You said you’d throw me off the balcony,” she corrects, stepping inside. “That’s not legally binding.”

You shuffle back to the couch, already regretting this social interaction. Jenna plops down next to you, unbothered by your hoodie/blanket/disease ensemble, and places the soup in your lap.

“…I can’t taste anything,” you admit after your first spoonful.

“Perfect, now I don’t have to lie about how good it is,” she says brightly.

You weakly throw a pillow at her.

She catches it. “Also—I ran into your secret little enemy-lover boy today.”

Your brain short circuits.

“…What?”

“Jungkook.”

You choke. “I beg your pardon?!”

“He found me after class. Literally ran up to me and was like, ‘Where’s Y/N? Why isn’t she in class? What happened? Did she die? Am I the reason? Is she mad at me? Please, I’m on the verge.’”

You stare at her in absolute horror.

“He did not.”

“He absolutely did. Boy looked like he’d been sleep-paralysis-haunted by your empty chair.”

You slap your hands over your face. “I’m going to physically dissolve into the floor.”

Jenna leans in. “It gets worse.”

“Please don’t.”

“He looked—wrecked. Like flannel, messy bun, undereye bags for miles. I told him you were sick and he acted like I told him the sun died.”

You’re sweating again. And not just from the fever.

“He was asking about me?” you whisper, horrified.

“More like spiraling about you,” she corrects. “Something something—‘She’s still doing the project but she’s not here.’ And then I think he actually gasped when I told him you had a fever.”

You drop your head into your hands.

Jenna grins.

“I think he might actually like you.”

“I will never recover from this.”

She shrugs, reaching for your phone. “Good. Now drink the soup, text him something cute, and maybe finally admit to the group chat that you’re alive.”

“I can’t text him.”

“Why not?”

“Because then he’ll know I know.”

“...That made absolutely no sense.”

You throw yourself back into the couch, covering your face with the blanket in utter shame.

Jenna doesn’t say anything for a second. Then:

“He asked about your voice.”

You freeze.

“He said he remembered how your voice sounded in the closet. That it was soft. Nervous. And that it stuck in his head.”

You peek out from the blanket like a gremlin.

“Stop making stuff up,” you whisper.

“I’m not.”

You blink.

And then you’re fully under the blanket again, blushing so hard you’re about to pass out from emotional heatstroke.

Jenna laughs.

“God,” you mumble. “I was fine with suffering in peace. Why’d he have to go and be all—worried and hot and confused?”

She sips from your water bottle like it’s wine. “Because he’s whipped, babe. And you’re the reason.”

Tuesday – 10:52 AM

Campus Walkway, en route to Lecture Hall 3C

The sun is actually kind today.

It’s warm but not blistering, and the breeze smells like cheap cologne and last-minute panic — which is to say: peak college energy. You’re finally out of your apartment-shaped sickbay, hoodie swapped for a cute, normal outfit (though your lungs are still politely attempting murder).

Jenna and Yanni flank you like two caffeinated bodyguards.

“I’m just saying,” Jenna’s saying, sipping an iced coffee that’s more syrup than liquid, “if he sees you today, you better not do that weird little cough-laugh thing again.”

“I will literally collapse to the sidewalk,” you mutter.

“You’re not allowed to die until we get the project grade back,” Yanni adds cheerfully.

You’re so busy trying to breathe and walk and not spontaneously combust from knowing Jungkook might be in this building — you don’t even notice the trio of boys walking the opposite direction down the same path.

That is: until you nearly shoulder-check Park Jimin.

“Oh—sorry!” you blurt, stumbling a bit.

Jimin blinks, then lights up like a sunrise. “You’re good.”

Next to him, Taehyung raises his brow, already suppressing a knowing smirk. And behind them—

Jeon Jungkook.

Jeon. Closet. Motorcycle. Meltdown Jungkook.

He’s there. Laughing at something Jimin just said. Shoulders loose. Hair tucked under a hat. Hands in his pockets like he’s not a walking campus heart attack. He’s facing away from you, looking at his friends—unaware.

The gods smile upon you. (For now.)

You turn to your girls, keeping your tone casual: “If I pass out in a coat closet today, someone please check who gets sent in with me this time.”

It’s a joke. A throwaway joke.

But it slices through the air like a blade, lodging itself somewhere deep in the foggy back of Jungkook’s mind. He barely registers it. Just a voice. A sentence. A laugh that—

...No. Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

The voice. That voice.

The second he turns around, you're already past him — laughing with your friends, steps light, legs moving, oxygen flowing like you didn’t just rip his sanity in half.

He stares.

Brows furrow. Mouth parting slightly. Muscles frozen mid-step.

“Bro?” Taehyung calls, realizing Jungkook’s fallen behind.

Jimin turns too, confused. “You good?”

But Jungkook doesn’t answer. He’s still watching the space where you were, your words echoing in his brain like a siren:

“If I pass out in a coat closet today—”

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

It's her.

It was her.

“...No f**king way,” he mumbles, eyes wide.

Then: he spins on his heel and speed-walks away from his friends.

“Uh—Jungkook?” Jimin calls, watching him disappear across the quad.

“Is he okay?” Taehyung asks, genuinely baffled.

Tuesday – 10:58 AM

Campus Library – Men’s Bathroom Stall of Doom

Jungkook is sitting on a toilet seat.

Not to use it.

Not even to escape something like midterm grades, or the fact that he forgot his Econ quiz existed this morning.

No.

He is here for one reason, and one reason only: You. Closet Girl. The girl with the voice he hasn’t stopped hearing in his head for the past two weeks. And he just saw you. Walk right past him. Laughing.

And said that line.

"If I pass out in a coat closet today, someone please check who gets sent in with me this time."

His body reacted before his brain even finished processing it. Now he’s hiding in the stall like a shellshocked soldier, hunched forward with his hands pressed to his temples, trying to mentally reverse time.

It doesn’t work.

He lets out a small, strangled sound—somewhere between a wheeze and a wounded animal—and hits the back of his head against the wall.

“Fuck.”

How did he not see you?

You walked right by him. Right. There.

The voice, the laugh, that line—it all makes sense now. And worse: it had to have been intentional. You knew. You knew exactly who he was.

“Oh my god. She saw me. She heard me. She—oh my god.”

He yanks his phone out with trembling fingers and opens his group chat with Jimin and Taehyung.

JK: she said it JK: SHE SAID SOMETHING JK: SHE SAID A CLOSET THING JK: AND I FROZE JK: IM GONNA THROW UP JK: IM IN THE BATHROOM JK: I NEED A MEDIC

Typing bubbles appear. Then stop. Then appear again.

JM: LMAOOOO TH: we’re coming to the library JM: stay in the stall JM: we’re gonna slide a juice box under the door TH: powerade too if you promise not to cry on it

JK: I DESERVE THIS JK: SHE WAS RIGHT THERE JK: HER VOICE—SHE WAS RIGHT FKING THERE JK: and i didn’t say a word JK: i just stood there like a fking moss-covered rock

He drops the phone onto his lap and leans back against the wall like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His ears are hot. His hands are clammy. His heart hasn’t stopped galloping like it’s trying to physically escape this stall and find you again.

You were so close.

He saw the back of your head.

He heard your voice again—and this time, he knows the face it belongs to. The girl he’s been imagining in flashes of memory for days was just inches from him, casually tossing out that callback like it didn’t just detonate every brain cell in his body.

And he just—

He did nothing.

Because of course he did. He’s Jungkook. World-class overthinker. Local emotionally constipated idiot. Professional regret-haver.

“God,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “I f**king hate myself.”

He had so many chances to talk to you—at the party, in the closet, in class, in the library—and each time, he found a new and creative way to fail spectacularly.

But this?

This is next level.

Because you know who he is. And you were messing with him. And now the balance of power has officially shifted.

You’re not just some anonymous blur in his memory anymore. You’re real. You’re witty. You’re walking around campus knowing he’s been spiraling and still choosing to play it cool.

And he’s hiding in a f**king bathroom stall like a cartoon character on the verge of collapse.

Another buzz.

TH: do u want us to bring tissues JM: or a pacifier TH: i heard hugging a plushie helps too

JK: if u ever mention this again i’ll key ur dorm

But he’s not even mad.

He’s jealous. Of himself. For being in that closet. For having you that close and not realizing.

And now that he knows who you are—knows your voice, your laugh, your name—he’s going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

Next time?

He’s not freezing. He’s not running. He’s not hiding in a f**king stall like an emotionally wrecked anime boy.

Next time, he’s saying something.

…maybe. After he stops hyperventilating.

Wednesday – 11:03 AM

Campus Courtyard, No One Is Safe

Jungkook doesn’t notice anything. Not the heat, not the crowd, not Jimin’s entire monologue about wanting to drop out and open a ramen truck in Guam.

He’s focused.

He’s scanning every face, every voice, every echo of a laugh. He’s got a phantom radar now—keyed into that voice, that energy, that feeling he got in the closet when someone panicked against his chest and called him names and still made him want to ruin his whole life for her.

And then—

A laugh.

Light, warm, real.

He freezes. A full-body stop like someone just yanked the emergency brake on his nervous system.

“That’s her.”

Jimin nearly walks into him. “What?”

“That’s her.” His voice is hoarse, like he’s been screaming into a void. “She’s here. Right there. Walking. That’s her.”

Taehyung squints ahead. “Ohhhh.”

You’re about ten steps away. Laughing with your friends, backpack slung casually over one shoulder, your sunglasses pushed up into your hair, voice carrying over the crowd like music.

And Jungkook?

He forgets how to function.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “She’s real. She’s—oh my god, she’s right there.”

You haven’t seen him yet. You’re mid-conversation, glancing over your shoulder at something Yanni said. And in that second— That tiny, stupid second— He watches your face light up with a grin so devastatingly gorgeous he feels violently unprepared.

He genuinely considers just—

Grabbing you. Throwing you over his shoulder. Walking into the sunset with no plan, no idea where to go, just you and him and a head full of chaos.

But he doesn’t move.

Because you’re coming closer. Like some kind of cruel, slow-motion dream.

He watches the way your mouth moves when you talk. The way you throw your head back when you laugh. The way your fingers lift to adjust your necklace and his entire brain just short-circuits.

“Jungkook,” Jimin whispers, “you’re shaking.”

“I am not,” Jungkook lies, hands absolutely trembling at his sides. “I’m fine. I’m—oh god, she’s looking over—what do I do?”

“Say hi?” Taehyung offers.

“Like a normal person?” Jimin adds.

“I don’t remember how to do that.”

Then—

You glance up. Right at him. Eyes locking.

He stops breathing.

Your smile falters just a bit. Like you’re surprised. Caught off guard. Your friends look between you and him—a little too smugly—and then...

You start to turn. Like you’re about to keep walking.

“NOPE,” Jungkook blurts.

He takes a massive step forward. Hand out like he might grab you (he won’t—he will—he’s not sure).

You pause.

Turn back slightly.

Eyebrow raised.

He opens his mouth to say anything, but his brain is melting under pressure, and the only thing he manages is—

“You’re her.”

You blink. “...Sorry?”

He steps closer. No hesitation now. The chaos in his head is full volume.

“You. It’s you. I know it’s you. You said the closet thing. The party. You—you’re Closet Girl. You’re Closet Girl.”

Your eyes widen. Your friends? Howling. Yanni is physically shaking Jenna by the shoulders.

And you?

You just stare at him.

“Do you always announce people like that?” you ask, smirking.

“I—yes. No. Only when they’ve haunted my dreams for three weeks.”

Silence.

DEAD silence.

He freezes.

“...I didn’t mean that. That came out wrong. I mean it didn’t but—”

“No, I get it,” you say, grinning now, stepping closer. “I’m flattered.”

He almost dies on the spot.

He’s breathing so fast he’s pretty sure he’s going to pass out on the sidewalk. The sun is too bright. You’re too close. Your voice is too real.

And then—

You lean in a little. Lower your voice.

“By the way,” you murmur, “if I pass out in a coat closet today… check who gets sent in with me.”

…

The words land like a direct hit. A bomb to his chest. A kiss to his brain stem.

You turn.

Walk past him.

Gone.

Just like that.

He doesn’t move.

He can’t.

He stands there, mouth open, brain fried, skin buzzing like a TV left on static.

Taehyung walks over and gently pats him on the back.

“Should’ve thrown her over your shoulder, bro.”

Jungkook sinks into the earth.

Friday – 4:41 PM

Campus Library, Back Left Corner — The “Comfy” Table

You are already seated.

Tea in your mug, laptop open, sweatshirt two sizes too big, and a pen tucked behind your ear even though you’re not using it. Your hair is a little messy. Your socks are mismatched. You’re in your natural, undisturbed, study-goblin form.

Where are Jenna and Yanni?

Oh, they said they’d be late. Some excuse about Jenna’s lab partner setting off the fire alarm in chem, and Yanni needing to print something.

You didn’t question it.

You really should have.

Because at 4:46 PM, someone walks around the corner of the bookshelf behind you — the one that blocks off the little study nook you always sit at — and you hear the familiar rustle of fabric and faint squeak of sneakers and think no. way.

Your eyes lift.

And standing there, confused as hell, eyes wide and bag slung over one shoulder like he just stepped into the Twilight Zone—

Jeon Jungkook.

The world freezes.

Him: wide-eyed, blinking, breath caught halfway through a sentence he didn’t get to start.

You: sitting there in your dumb big hoodie with your tea and your notes and your soul leaving your body.

“…Hi?” you manage.

He stares for a second. Like his brain short-circuited.

“I don’t—okay, I didn’t think this was real.”

You frown. “What?”

He steps closer, looking around like he’s been tricked. “Yanni texted me and said Taehyung told her this was his new secret study spot.”

“…That’s not real.”

“That’s what I’m realizing now,” he mutters.

You narrow your eyes. “Wait, so she sent you here—knowing I’d be here—pretending it was for Taehyung?”

He nods.

You both go silent.

Then at the same time:

“They set us up.”

He drops into the chair across from you like he’s just run a marathon through betrayal.

“I knew Jimin was being weird when he made me buy gum and then told me to ‘freshen up emotionally.’”

You choke. “What does that even mean?”

“I still don’t know!”

You both break into laughter—nervous, giddy, chaotic.

And now you’re here.

Across from him. Alone. No friend buffers. No parties. No closet doors.

Just a table. A tea mug. And Jeon Jungkook’s very unfair face staring directly at you.

“So…” he says slowly, folding his hands in front of him, “this is your secret spot?”

You nod. “Where I pretend I’m smarter than I am.”

He grins. “You helped finish that whole project while you were sick. You’re smart.”

You try not to melt. Fail.

“What, you stalking my Canvas activity now?”

“Yes,” he says immediately.

You blink. “Wait—really?”

He looks horrified. “I mean—no! I mean maybe. I just—Jimin kept checking it, and I was near him, and—”

You raise a brow. He slouches in defeat.

“…I might have checked it once.”

A beat.

Then, you smile. “That’s cute.”

He leans back in the chair, gaze warm. “You think I’m cute?”

You sip your tea. “I said what I said.”

“Okay, closet girl.”

You groan. “We are never escaping that nickname, are we?”

“Not a chance.”

Silence again—but a good one. Your fingers tap the ceramic of your mug. He watches you like you’re a constellation or something equally impossible.

Then—

“Can I ask you something?” he says softly.

You glance up. “Sure.”

“…Why didn’t you tell me sooner? That you were you?”

You hesitate. Then: “I don’t know. I guess… it was fun watching you try.”

He bites his lip to hide a grin.

“You’re evil,” he says.

You lean in a little, resting your chin on your hand.

“You like it.”

And the way he looks at you in that exact second—

Yeah. You’re not getting out of this alive.

“You like it.”

That’s what you said. Still smirking. Still dangerous.

And Jungkook? Yeah. He’s down bad. Leaning back in the chair, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows, rings catching in the low light like they’re flirting with you too.

“I do,” he says finally, voice softer. “I really do.”

You blink.

He leans forward again, resting his forearms on the table, head tilted slightly like he’s trying to read between the lines on your face.

“So… do you always mess with guys like this? Or am I special?”

You raise an eyebrow, feigning casual. “Depends. Do most guys act like broken Roombas when they realize they’ve been tricked?”

He gasps. “I was composed!”

“You almost passed out.”

“I was managing my blood pressure in an emotionally complex environment.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

He grins, clearly biting back a laugh.

God, he’s infuriatingly hot when he laughs. Head thrown back just slightly. That little dimple you forgot about. It’s not fair.

“So,” he says again, tapping the table lightly. “If I ask you something, will you promise not to make fun of me?”

You narrow your eyes. “Absolutely not.”

“Okay, fair.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I was just wondering…”

You wait.

He looks up at you through his lashes, the picture of faux innocence.

“…Have you always looked at me like that in lecture?”

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like you were trying to figure out if I’m a hallucination or just dumb.”

Your jaw drops.

“I don’t—!”

“You do,” he teases. “You tilt your head, and your eyebrows do this little—like—confused judgment arch.”

“Stop watching my eyebrows!”

“I’m a visual learner,” he says seriously.

You cover your face with your hands.

He laughs again. “Okay, okay—serious question this time.”

You peek at him between your fingers.

He bites his bottom lip, nervous energy crackling around him like static.

“Do you wanna hang out?” he says quickly. “Like—not in a closet. Or a group project. Just—like. You. Me. Not studying. Unless that’s your idea of fun, in which case I will absolutely pretend I care deeply about citation formatting.”

You blink.

Then blink again.

“…Are you asking me out?”

“I’m asking you out.”

You stare.

He stares.

Your heartbeat is suddenly in your mouth.

Then—

You set your mug down, leaning forward just slightly, eyes bright.

“Well,” you say slowly, “I do have a very compelling spreadsheet about medieval textile trade routes.”

He smiles. Wide. Dimples. Game over.

“Can I bring snacks?”

You nod. “You bring the food, I’ll bring the trauma.”

Jungkook grins. “Perfect. A balanced meal.”

He glances around, suddenly noticing the time.

“Wait, how long do your friends usually leave you here alone?”

You smirk. “Exactly long enough for this.”

His eyes narrow, smile curling. “They’re trying to kill me.”

You sip your tea. “They’re succeeding.”

Silence.

“…So when do I see you again?”

You blink. “You’re not sick of me yet?”

He leans in again, voice low, just for you:

“I haven’t even started.”

Reader’s Dorm – A Friday Night, 8:17 PM

(Project Due: Monday) (Jungkook’s attention span: in hell)

“I’m begging you,” you groan, flicking the corner of his textbook. “Please, for the love of God and your GPA, just read the page.”

“I read the page.”

“You read the chapter title.”

“That’s the most important part!”

You look up from your laptop and level him with the flattest expression you can muster. He’s lying down on your bed — textbook open across his chest, hoodie sleeves pushed up, one sock halfway off like he lost a battle mid-reading.

“You haven’t even moved your highlighter in fifteen minutes.”

“I’m conserving ink,” he says seriously.

You nearly throw your pen at him.

“Jungkook.”

“Y/N.”

“I will break up with you for academic negligence.”

He sits up, grinning, like that’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said.

“You’d miss me in like half a day.”

“Try me.”

“You’d miss me in half a minute,” he says, now crawling to the edge of the bed like a cat with too much serotonin. “You’d miss my hoodie. My Spotify. My hand—”

“Focus!” You shove a pillow at his face.

He collapses back dramatically, arms spread like a martyr.

“I can’t,” he groans into the pillow. “You’re here. And you smell good. And you keep doing that thing where you bite your lip when you’re concentrating and it’s illegal.”

You pause. “I do not.”

“You do.”

“I do not—!”

“You’re doing it right now.”

Your jaw snaps shut so fast you actually wince.

He peeks over the pillow, victorious.

“…Stop being hot,” he says, pouty. “It’s ruining my academic integrity.”

You roll your eyes, standing to grab the paper instructions from your desk. “You don’t have academic integrity.”

“I did! Until I got a hot girlfriend and a dopamine disorder.”

You shove the rubric in his face.

“Two more sections. Minimum three references. Double spaced. Come on.”

He takes it, pouts again, and grabs his pen.

You watch him finally — finally — start writing, shoulders hunched, lips pursed, tongue peeking out at the corner like he’s solving a CIA file.

And then—

He pauses.

Turns his head toward you.

“You know what’s crazy?”

You brace yourself. “Always.”

He shifts onto his side again, grinning so hard it’s almost obnoxious.

“I don’t need a closet to kiss you anymore.”

You freeze.

Then: your eyes narrow.

He wiggles his brows. “What? It’s a win for progress.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best.”

“You’re not getting a kiss.”

“I’m already moving in.” He lays down dramatically again. “This is my bed now. You can come visit me.”

You cross your arms. “You didn’t answer your discussion question.”

“I discussed the important part.” He reaches for your hand. “Like how lucky I am. And how beautiful you look in sweatpants. And how I would absolutely let you ruin my life if you asked nicely.”

You snort, letting him pull you onto the bed beside him.

“…You’re a menace.”

“And you’re in love with me.”

You glance down at him.

He’s got ink smudged on his hand. Hair pushed back. Textbook pages wrinkled where he crumpled them trying to turn too fast.

And he’s looking at you like you personally invented the stars.

“…Maybe,” you say softly.

He grins.

Then —

“Kiss me.”

You blink. “You just said you didn’t need a closet.”

“I know,” he whispers, leaning closer.

“I want to kiss you because I don’t need a closet.”

And when you finally do — when you lean in and press your mouth to his, slow and warm and gentle — he hums like he’s just unlocked a cheat code in life.

Your pen clatters to the floor. His textbook slides off the bed. Neither of you notice.

Because this?

This is so much better than the closet.

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ninikrumbs · 15 hours ago

Text

I have a Dream

Morpheus/Dream x Reader. Part of a series of short and sweet snippets of your relationship with the King of dreams.

Tiny bit of angst in this but with lots of comfort.

Morpheus doesn't dream, nor does he sleep in the most traditional sense. He is, afterall, the personification of dreaming itself.

However he does adore watching over you as you sleep during his rare visits to the waking realm.

The way your eyelashes flutter in your slumber fascinates him, and the heaving of your chest brings him the utmost comfort. And the fact that you looked the most at peace when you were sleeping, or should he say dreaming makes him so pleased with himself.

He did that.

Though at times, Its does incite a reoccurring fear. A waking nightmare.

Dream rarely gives in to such thoughts, but in the occurrences that he does, it swallows him whole.

A vision of you teary eyed yet full of pity as words he never wished to hear from you escapes from your lips,

"How did you ever think I could ever love such a cold and emotionless man like you?"

"Endless and humans don't mix. This is wrong."

"My heart belongs to someone else. Someone from the waking world."

"You need to let me go."

This must be the disadvantage of being the King of the Dreams because everything felt and sounded terribly real. It sends painful stabs to his heart. Morpheus was so consumed by his nightmare that he barely notices you waking up.

Your eyes flutter open, still laced with sleep and it immediately lands on the dark figure sitting on the edge of your bed. Strangely enough, the first thing you notice was how tense his shoulders were.

Huffing softly, you reach out for his pale hand, "Morpheus.."

His head swiftly turns to face you, fingers slowly squeezing your own as he blinks away some sort of fog in his eyes.

You tilt your head, voice soft and soothing, "Are you okay?"

"I.." He sucks in a breath, "I am fine. My apologies. I did not mean to wake you."

Yet the way his eyes traces your face, memorising every detail like he has a thousand times before, is as if you were going to disappear at any given moment.

You shake your head, pulling away your covers to sit beside him as a quiet yawn escapes you, "Its okay, I was wondering where you were anyway."

The tension slips away from him the moment you lean your head on his shoulder, inhaling your comforting scent. And you felt it, "Are your sure you're all right?"

His hand finds yours once more and gives it a reassuring squeeze, "As long as I am in your presence, I will always be all right."

Lifting your head, you look up at him all soft and light, "I love you."

His eyes soften, your words so tender and true, triggering things in his heart that he has never felt before in his long, long life.

A hand gently cradles your head as soft lips press against your forehead in an adoring kiss. Morpheus whispers almost reverently, "As do I."

AN: Inspired by a lads fanart on X! Can't find it anymore though.

#love #fanfiction #fluff #the sandman #morpheus x reader #morpheus #morpheus x you #morpheus x y/n #king of dreams x reader #dream x you #dream x reader #king of dreams #sandmand x reader

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fandovers · 3 days ago

Text

Just wanted to share this detail I noticed and say; in the teased image of what we assume is Robo-Ky in some shape or form or model (Venom's partner aka OG Robo-Ky or Robo-Ky MK-II) a tiny detail stood out to me.

So yall remember how Robo-Ky, when talking to Venom in XRD's story, mentions "an old friend" and he explains that's why he wants a tangerine farm, that's why it's his dream? All that?

Take a closer look at this item hanging from where this new design's swords are held.

Now call me crazy, but doesn't that look like a tangerine? Or more specfically, a tangerine charm? The dots are the details of the peel, the area on top is the stem, and its held on with a piece of string.

(I mean there's always the possiblity it's a bag of gunpowder or smth but I dunno man!!)

Again this could just be me going insane, but if it IS a tangerine charm, is it possible this is Robo-Ky's "old friend" he mentions to Venom? The one who gave him the dream of owning a tangerine farm in the first place?

But that's just a theory... I suppose only time will tell!! I am very interested no matter what model or character this guy is !! There is literally no outcome that I would be disappointed with, honestly. I love those robots !!

#robo ky guilty gear #guilty gear #guilty gear strive #robo ky #IT STOOD OUT TO ME AND NOW I AM SHARING THIS FACT WITH THE WORLD #also if it is somehow mk-ii I'd find it very funny that MK-2 has 2 SWORDS.#it would be fitting wouldn't it?#anyway I love them robots please god I am so hungry please please please can the year go by faster I beg

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laserbobcat · 1 day ago

Note

I really just want to gush about you, to you for a moment. I really like Morgan as a character. Whenever I see you draw them, my little heart flutters and I am slightly jealous (in a good way, I promise) of how you fleshed him out I want a character like him and I get all giddy. I'm not as elegant with words as others can be. I just REALLY like how you created Morgan. I love his ideals, thoughts, the way he thinks and acts and is. Idk, you did a good job in character creation.

Also, I like your "I give them whatever parts depending on the joke/situation." As a nonbinary person, I fw that, hard. I love the ambiguity you give Morgan. (Completely unrelated, but seeing your AFAB Morgan kind of solidified my own want for top surgery)

I just love the idea that he's just so pent up. Idk, I think I unfortunately have a tiny crush on your character 😂😂 and I KNOW Morgan would hate it. Yet another fucking one 🙄. But damn. You cant be all stoic and nice and repressed and shit without getting a few people liking you.... Eh, I respect his want to not date anyone but Leshy, though.

(don't feel rushed to respond or like you have to respond at all. In fact, I'm nervous to reach out to anyone to begin with. I just want you to know how much I appreciate you for creating such a cool character.)

Yeah bitch, cut those titties, they're always in the way istg I'm cis but I want mine off pretty often!

I hid the rest it's a bit long:

I'm glad that character resonates! Creating characters and having people liking them is a legit high ngl. I've always been a storyteller at heart so that feels extra nice ❤ If you want a character like him, make one! Easy to say I know, especially outside of fandoms. My own OCs have a few persons liking them for sure, but get little to none interactions except for close friends I share my art with, so it can be a bit disheartening. I suggest getting into ttrpgs, it's great to pop out characters and watch them come to life (and have a ridiculous amount of fun). I know people draw, exchange and collect characters in communities like toyhouse, there's RP communities out there too. Or you go the old fashioned way and write a book lol

For the NB part idk, I'm cis straight and all, but I've been surrounded by The Gays™ since forever. Coming to tumblr sure made me learn a lot of details, terms, experiences etc. I found a lot of things that made me go "Oh I guess that exists" and a lot of things are completely normalized to me now, as they should for everyone (welp) I like to make characters with a lot of variety because it feels sooooo nice after decades of the old "the guy gets the girl at the end" trope that made me seethe my whole life. The possibilities you have with a bunch of queer characters in terms of interactions is so much wider, idk, you can focus on their actual dynamic instead of gender you know? So I throw them in the gay plinko and see what they are in the end. and fluidity is nice too. Note that I do not write about queer discrimination cause I'm not experiencing it directly, and would probably do a poor job of it, and also cause I don't want to write about discrimination in general. I like my stories without problems that I deal with IRL thank you I've go enough of that. I like stories where misogyny straight up doesn't exist for example. So I can relax and focus on what is important, like the local sorcerer eating kids or the MC kissing the hot dragon. BY THE WAY I keep saying "Y'all relate to the repressed character go to therapy" but I'm including myself in that, it's funny to be hypocritical and pretend characters like Morgan aren't out of my own brain lol. I relate to ace people so much cause I'm far from ace but GOD romance is annoying (most of the time). Piss poor quality romance and sex is shoehorned everywhere, advertisement is full of it, everyone is told it should be their N1 priority it's sooo annoying. I mentioned that I grew up with the shitty trope of "the guy gets the girl at the end regardless of chemistry or even basic respect" and I'm still mad about it. I'm so happy when I find a story with solid romantic relationships that make sense, and FRIENDHIPS goddammit. Anyway yeah, I'm comfortable being single, so I ramped that up to x1000 for Morgan and got "Dating is annoying because it requires emotional investment so I will completely ignore and repress my needs for 500 years that sounds reasonable 👌" I can't remember where I heard "All your characters are you, because you made them, but they're you if-" it might have been from Matt Mercer and Brenan L Mulligan.

If you relate to Morgan, get therapy for emotional constipation. If you have a crush on Morgan, get therapy for going after emotionally unavailable people. The doctor says so. If you relate to Leshy, good for you, you're happy (despite destroying everything around you cause you're dumb)

I appreciate you reaching out and turning on the rambling machine, if anyone starts talking to me about things I'm passionate about I start vibrating.

#asks #answers #blabla #long post

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ddearina · 1 day ago

Text

Mutual rings, mutual feelings.

. * • . • * . • . * • . * • * ☆ . • * .* • . • * . • * . * • *

Side note: Inspired by the Jeongin part of this picture and Jeongin from Paris D1, because seeing him in real life left me gagged.

. * • . • * . • . * • . * • * ☆ . • * .* • . • * . • * . * • *

Pairing: ChildhoodBsf!JeonginxTwoYearOlderBsf!FemReader Word count: 6.5k (6558) Content warning: Fluff!, 21!Jeongin, 22/23!Reader, Jeongin is referred to as Jeongin and Innie, Jeongin is not an idol, Reader is referred to as Y/n, Noona, reader was born in February, Ants!mentioned, Chan!mentioned, Seungmin!mentioned, Overthinking!mentioned, Jealousy!mentioned, BlindDate!mentioned, Cursing, Description of male upper body, A lot of tension, Confession, Please, tell me if I forgot anything!

. * • . • * . • . * • . * • * ☆ . • * .* • . • * . • * . * • *

Summary: Reader and Yang Jeongin have been friends their whole lives. You always saw him as that little boy, smiling with dirt on his dimples and clothes. That young neighbor, whom you cherished and treated as someone you had to protect. Jeongin, on the other hand... without you knowing, he was trying again and again to change the vision you had of him. Jeongin was a man. Jeongin was in love with you. And he needed you to know.

. * • . • * . • . * • . * • * ☆ . • * .* • . • * . • * . * • *

How... did you get in this situation? Your childhood best friend, Jeongin. And you. His body was framing you against the counter of your kitchen. His hands were on each side of your body, his face inches away from yours. What happened?

It all started twenty-one years ago.

As a toddler, you always loved what was little, tiny-sized, or small. Even if you weren't a fan of insects, it wasn't a surprise for your parents to find you crouching on the porch of their house, looking at ants. Unlike children of your age, stepping on them wasn't something that made you smile. You loved watching them walk, moving their little legs and antenna, picking up crumbs of the biscuits you were eating during your observation.

Your mother and her friends knew well that you'd prefer beads over crayons for your birthday. With your tiny fingers, you always liked the feeling of holding onto those little marbles.

When looking at a book, you didn't care about the writing. Not because you didn't know how to read yet, but mostly because you were busy looking at all the details of the illustration. How the bird was given a tiny hat, how that one pink flower was so small compared to the pot it was planted in.

So when your mom's best friend gave birth to her second child and asked if your family wanted to visit her, your parents did not hesitate. As adults were talking, you were wondering why you had to spend the day in your neighbor's house. It was so close to yours. Why couldn't your parents let you home? When you first noticed the bouncer, you didn't really give it a lot of attention. But as soon as you saw a minuscule hand pocking out of it, your curiosity pushed you towards it. No one could describe how fascinated you were as you looked at this two-week-old baby. Your mom took your hand and encouraged you to offer him directly the fox-plushy she sewn for him. No one could have predicted that instead of catching the orange tissue, Jeongin's hand would wrap around your index finger, leaving you with the biggest smile ever.

That's how your affection for Jeongin started. He was born on the 8th February, twenty days before your third birthday. Everyone could already tell you two would be friends forever.

When your mother gave birth to your little sister, everyone expected you to be as fascinated as you were the say you met Jeongin. Same thing when his parents got their third and last child. You found them cute, but not as much as him.

They were not Jeongin.

When you turned five, it was normal for you to play with your best friend after school. Even during school. The thin wire fence was not enough to stop you from playing together at every break. There you were, sitting in the dust, talking to each other, showing drawings, lending toys... When you turned seven, Jeongin's parents decided it was time for Jeongin to have a bigger bedroom. How happy you were the day you discovered he was now sleeping in the room with the window that gave onto your own room. All of your days consisted of waving at each other through the window as soon as you woke up. It took a while to convince your dad to install a zipline. Only you and Jeongin knew what you exchanged in that basket.

Now, you were twenty-two years old. Your best friend was twenty-one, and nothing changed. Well, from your point of view. As you were busy with your own life, Jeongin was busy thinking. Overthinking? Thinking too much about how to make you feel different about him. How to make you see him differently.

"Can't wait to see you! I'll wait at our usual spot so you can pick me up?"

You texted him. He tried to swallow the smile that was growing on his lips as he texted back.

"Sure." "There's no way I'm letting you drive." "Passenger princess ofc"

His heart skipped a beat as he saw your answer.

"😚😚"

He tried. He really tried to treat you as a friend. But unconsciously, he was always making more effort when it was for you. He noticed how he would tense for a second each time he'd hear your name, or how he catches himself waiting for you to text back. Bangchan, his roommate and closest male friend, also noticed that you were an important person for him. Without even meeting you, he saw how Jeongin was going above and beyond for you. When Chan confronted him about you, he tried to deny it as "she's my closest friend" or "I'm just thankful because she took care of me all these years". Chan did not believe a single word, but left him thinking he was. Until today.

"Jeongin?"

He called him as he pushed the door open. Your best friend was rummaging through his closet, his t-shirts, shirts, and long-sleeved clothes were on the floor. Chan leaned against the door frame, his lips pressed into a crooked and skeptical pout.

"D'you need help here?"

"Hyung, I... Does black go with yellow? Or maybe it'll look too much like a bee. But she loves bees. She said bees were cute. But I don't want her to think I'm cute. Do you think I dress too much like a child?"

Chan blinked once, twice, then scoffed. He walked to his friend and patted his shoulder. Maybe to reassure him, but mainly to stop him in his overthinking.

"Hey. How did you want to dress up? Before thinking too much?"

Jeongin looked down and picked up a few pieces of clothes. Chan nodded and smiled.

"Then go for it. No doubt she's going to love it."

Your best friend took a deep breath before picking up a tie, too. He walked out of the room, mumbling something like "She loves ties. A black tie is great." Chan laughed, shaking his head, and crouched, picking up the clothes from the floor. Folding them, he smiled at the picture that was on his nightstand. A little girl, her mouth wide open as a baby was holding her finger. Chan recognized his roommate instantly.

"Yep. You can't trick me on this one."

The door of his car closed, Jeongin exhaled one more time. He pulled out a few rings from his pocket and slid them on his fingers. Jeongin always loved rings. Jewelry in general. So when it was time to buy new ones, he always looked for the most detailed ones. Maybe he knew you'd ask to take a look at them. Maybe he knew you'd have to hold his hand to do so.

Pairing his phone to the Bluetooth of his car, he scratched his throat and looked at the passenger seat. He picked up his bag and stretched out to put it on the backseat, letting the seat empty, ready for you to sit on. Jeongin then turned the contact on and drove off.

While Jeonjin was busy preparing himself, you were in class, trying to listen to whatever your college teacher was saying. Six minutes left... You pinched your lips as one of your nails repeatedly tapped against your table. Your pencil case and notebook were closed, ready to be slid inside your bag. Those six minutes felt like hours, the teacher correcting the last evaluation he gave. Officially, every student here had to listen to the corrected version. Informally, those who did well enough could pretend to listen. Your eyes were now glued to the clock. Three minutes... When, finally, the teacher dismissed the class, you smiled and put your stuff away. Pulling out your phone, you clicked on Jeongin's profile.

"Done with my last class! I'll be here in a minute 🫶"

You knew Jeongin was always early. And who would make their best friend wait? Not you.

When you arrived at the parking lot, finding him was not difficult. He was leaning against his car, wearing a green New York cap. The tip of his nose was red, but when he saw you, his face lit up. Like he always does, he ran to you and smiled, his eyes turning into two thin lines.

"Innie! Why didn't you wait in the car? You look so cold..."

Without letting him answer, your hands are on his cheeks. Jeongin's brain turns off as you stroke his skin.

"My Jeongin... Oh, come here."

Your arms wrapping around his frame didn't help either. He hugged you back, trying to ignore how hot his cheeks now felt.

"N-Noona, I'm okay. I'm wearing a vest. It's okay."

You pulled back and inspected his outfit. A white shirt, a pair of blue jeans, a black tie, and a dark colored vest. On top of it, he's wearing his cap and at the bottom, a clean pair of white sneakers. Tilting your head on the side, you gave him the look he despised as much as he loved. Worried but caring. He chuckled and pointed at the car.

"Should we..."

Before you could nod, he had taken your bag and was walking towards the car. You giggled and jogged to catch up with him.

"Since when did you get so tall? You used to be the one walking behind me, always following me around. Now I'm the one who needs to run after you."

Opening the backseat door, Jeongin tilted his head. Seeing him as a child... At least you're seeing that he grew up. He put your bag next to his, sighing. He then took a step to the side to open the door for you.

"How about I offer you a drink? So I'm sure you won't be cold?"

"Noona... We can go to a café, but don't brood over me like that."

"'Brood over you'?"

Your laugh made his heart melt, the way you always covered your mouth with your fist when you chuckled... He wasn't even pissed off by the fact that you were laughing at his mistake.

"I don't 'brood over you'. I wrap you in cotton wool."

Patting his head, you smiled at him as you entered the vehicle. Jeongin had always been like this. Gentleman, sweet, smiling... even if he had days where he was a bit calmer or speaking less, he'd always make sure he was being nice to you or treating you right. And on days when he was feeling a bit loud? He'd always check on you, seeing if his loudness was not annoying to you. Rare were the times you had to tell him to calm down; Jeongin knew how to read you.

As he was driving, you were typing on your phone. Jeongin tried to stay focused on the road, but his curiosity was flaring up to the point where you knew what he was thinking without him having to ask you.

"Noona?"

You turn your face towards him, smiling.

"Yes, Innie?"

Jeongin scratched his throat at the name you called him. Did he hate it because it's the same since he started talking? Yes. Does he want you to stop? Never.

"Can I ask who got you so busy like that? You usually turn the music on as soon as you sit in my car. You know you can use my phone, right?"

He pretended to check his blind spot, turning his head away from you. Watching you in his wing mirror, he didn't miss your small scoff and the way a crease appeared between your brows. As he pulled up at a traffic light, he turned towards you and placed his hand on your thigh.

"You can tell me, Noona. You seem.. annoyed?"

"Well... there's this guy.."

His heart dropped as you tilted your head, resting against the window. He slowly but surely removed his hand. Maybe to establish distance. Or maybe to give you respect. Who knows. He tried to listen as you continued talking.

"My mom organized a... 'blind date'. She wants me to meet her colleague's son? I think. She showed me a few pics of him, but... he's not..."

He watched you sigh once more. As you turned to look at him, you couldn't repress your smile.

"Innie~ Why do you look sad? You're scared Noona is going to leave one day?"

Jeongin tried not to blush as you softly pinched his cheek. Falsely annoyed, he wrapped his hand around your wrist and leaned closer to you. Your heart skipped a beat as he pressed his lips against the palm of your hand. Locking his eyes on yours, he softly spoke against your skin.

"Who says you're leaving? I'm willing to stay with you as much as I can. I love being with you, Noona."

The air in the car filled with a new feeling. Something thick prevented you both from looking away. You jolted as a car honked behind you. Jeongin chuckled, guiding your hand on the gear lever. He placed his hand on top of yours and shifted up. Looking down at your hand, your cheeks heated up as Jeongin's fingers intertwined with yours, driving like he would normally do.

"So, are you going to see him? Do you even know what he looks like... or his name?"

"Um.. Kim... What was his name? Kim Seungmin. Mom told me he was an author and... a model. I mean, he's handsome but... He's a bit young."

He tensed as you chuckled, trying to ease the tension. Too young...

"How old?"

You turned and faced him, then looked back at your phone to answer your mother.

"I believe he is twenty-one. He was born in 2000. He must be born at the end of the year, since he's still the same age as you."

Jeongin scoffed as he decelerated, driving towards a parking lot. You looked outside, recognizing the place.

"Are we going to walk?"

Jeongin nodded, trying to hide the turmoil of thoughts he had in mind. He was tensing his jaw, tapping against the steering wheel. You started to squirm, not knowing what to say. Did he want you to remove your hand from the gear lever? Or did he want to go home? Maybe he was still cold from waiting for you in the parking lot? You glanced at him as he lowered his window to print the parking ticket.

"Innie... is everything-"

"I'll pay for the parking."

"Oh. Okay.."

He removed his hand from yours, and you hid yours under your thighs. Realizing how harsh he might have sounded, he bit his lower lip and sighed. Dumbass... she's not doing anything. Don't treat her like that. When he stopped the car, he sighed as you stepped out of it. He followed you outside as you were picking up your bag. Jeongin walked around the car and softly wrapped his hand around your wrist.

"Innie?"

"I'm sorry, I.. I didn't mean to sound mean."

His heart melted as you smiled and cupped his cheek.

"I know Innie. It's okay. I know you, haha, you never did anything to hurt me."

I nodded and picked up his own bag. Sliding his glasses on, he locked the car as you started to walk towards the elevator. No matter who that Kim Seungmin was, he hated him already.

The wind was pushing clouds all over the city as you walked towards the café. You pushed your hair away from your forehead, glancing from time to time at Jeongin. He was hiding behind his glasses, a pair you had complimented once in the past. After that, you never saw him going out without them, no matter if it was in his bag or on his nose.

You adjusted your coat as a gust of cold wind came right into your face.

"Aren"t you cold?"

Jeongin blinked and looked at you.

"I'm okay. How about you?"

You shrugged your shoulders, smiling.

"I'm.. okay too. It's refreshing."

He smiled, shaking his head. A thing he loved about you was the way you always found a way to be optimistic about every situation.

"You know..."

You turned around as Jeongin stopped walking. He was fidgeting with the strap of his bag. You took a step towards him, wondering what he was trying to say. He opened his mouth, then sighed and shook his head.

"I'm thirsty. And hungry too."

You blinked then tilted your head. Trying to ignore the fact Jeongin was changing the topic, you nodded.

"Okay. I'll treat you well, then."

He gave you the smile you knew and loved so much and started walking again. Pulling out your phone, you looked at the text you just received.

"Hi Y/n, it's Seungmin. I understand you're not available at the moment, we can postpone our date, if we can call it like that. You seem like a nice person. I'm sorry our moms are forcing us to meet. See you later 🙂"

You put your phone in your pocket, feeling mixed. On one side, you were glad he understood. On the other side, you were sad for him. He seemed like a nice person, too. How could you tell him you never wanted to date him?

"Welcome! A table for two, you can sit on this table here."

You both walked into the café, smiling as a comfort from the heat of the room. As you took your coat off, Jeongin placed his hand on the small of your back. Slowly, he guided you towards the most comfortable seat.

Without saying anything, he waited for you to sit down before he took a seat in front of you. He smiled at you and crossed his hands. The smell of chocolate mixed with the aroma of coffee and different syrups. Looking down, your eyes quickly found his rings.

"Is it a new one?"

You pointed his left index finger, already inspecting details from afar. He nodded and raised his hand, letting you inspect the jewelry on his fingers. You scoffed as he silently refused to remove the ring from his finger, obliging you to hold his hand.

"It's funny, it looks like a...chain? Like, it's making several loops... It's really pretty."

"The other is more chain-like. Look."

He showed you his second hand, and quickly, you were holding both of his hands on the table. Even if it wasn't in a romantic way, that was the kind of action Jeongin would do to feel closer to you. Being tactile wasn't something he was extremely fond of, except when it was his close friends or family members. But you? Oh, Jeongin would beg and give everything he had to hold you or yours hands, brush hair out of your face, wipe your mouth, or hug you.

"Can I give you anything?"

A voice raised as you were still holding his hands. A bit embarrassed, you looked up and scratched your throat.

"Um... We'll need a few more minutes to decide. Sorry."

Jeongin lowered his hands and picked up the menu, looking at you.

"You don't need to apologize, Noona. We can take as much time as you need."

"Thanks... I won't lie, I'm a bit stressed. I... might have canceled my date to be with you right now."

Jeongin choked on his throat as your words came to his mind. He looked up, blinking.

"With that man?"

Nodding, you leaned on your hand and sighed.

"Mom's going to be disappointed.. She doesn't understand why I don't see someone. She's like... 'worried' she won't have grandchildren."

Scoffing, you pouted as you looked away. Jeongin bit his lower lip and whispered.

"And... Why not tell her you're seeing me? Like, you're going out with me?"

Smiling, you patted the top of his head.

"You're so cute.. Don't worry, I'll find an excuse."

After this, you quickly decided on your drink, still feeling pressured by the waitress. Your best friend, on the other hand, was facing another explosion of doubt. If he took a chocolate shake, wouldn't you think it's too childish? He should take a coffee... but he doesn't like coffee. Maybe a cappuccino? What's the difference between all of them... Maybe the smallest one? So he doesn't have to drink a lot of it? Iced Americanos are served in big cups... It'll be too much. An espresso? A double? They make singles, too?

As the waitress came back, Jeongin was still struggling with his choice. That's why you looked at him with surprise on your face as he ordered a Ristretto. A.k.a the strongest coffee type that was made here.

"Since when do you drink coffee, Innie?"

You leaned on your elbows, looking at him.

"I... tried. With my friends. And now I'm trying different kinds to see which one is my favorite."

He exhaled softly as you nodded. You'd be lying if you said you were one hundred percent believing him right now. But why accuse him of lying when he sounded so cute? You smiled and went back to your discussion with him.

When a few minutes later the drink finally arrived, you kept an eye on his reaction. Jeongin was struggling to keep a smile when the cup was brought under his nose. Frowning, he looked down at the cup, mentally cursing. Who drinks this?! Taking a sip of your creamy hot chocolate, you looked at him. As soon as he felt your eyes on him, he picked up his cup and took three mouthfuls. You burst into laughter as he lowered the recipient. His face was twisted in a weird grimace, clearly showing how he hated coffee.

"Are you okay?"

You asked, wiping the corner of your eye. Jeongin started to laugh too, realizing how stupid his act was. Without hesitating, you took his cup and placed it in front of you. As he looked down, he found your nearly full hot chocolate for him.

"But... Noona.."

"Drink it. It's okay."

You reassured him as you winked. With red cheeks, Jeongin looked down once more and took a sip of his 'new drink'. Sweet, sugary, and hot. A chuckle made him look up at you, a bit embarrassed.

"I..."

"It's okay Innie."

He nodded, watching you bring the cup to your lips. A part of him was happy because of the fact that you two exchanged cups, so indirectly kissed. But the other part was frustrated as his plan to make you look at him like the man he was now failed.

"I thought I was supposed to invite you, Innie! Why did you pay? I knew I shouldn't have been to the bathroom."

"It's the least I can do. Plus, what kind of men would let a woman like you pay?"

Jeongin laughed as you smacked his shoulder. As you both stepped out of the café, you realized it started to rain.

"Oh..."

"Maybe we can borrow an umbrella?"

As he was turning to enter the café again, you took his hand. With a smile, you pulled him under the rain and started to run.

"N-Noona, you're going to be drenched!"

"Who cares!"

Bursting into laughter, a smile crept to his face as he intertwined his fingers with yours. Being in the middle of February made the rain cold, but not cold enough to change it into snow. It was pouring, but you couldn't care less. Your chests and stomachs still felt hot, thanks to your drinks, and the way your hands held each other gave you that little spark. A little spark screaming in Jeongin's ears how much he loved you. How much he wanted to stop running and kiss you. Right now, right here, under the rain.

Entering the covered parking lot, only the sound of your exhausted and fast breathing covered the sound of the rain. Your hand still in Jeongin's, you smiled sadly at him.

"I'm sorry, you're wet now.. How about we go to my place and you take a shower? So you can warm up?"

He burst into laughter, adjusting his glasses.

"Didn't we take a drink to warm ourselves up?"

Teasing, he nudged your shoulder before walking to his car. Jeongin shook his hair, droplets falling on his skin. Wiping his face, he shivered as water dropped down his neck. You might not have been discreet while observing him. He looked up at you, smiled, and removed his vest.

"Hey, you're gonna get sick-"

Jeongin raised his hand and started to wipe your drenched face. Even if both of you were soaked, something about him taking care of you made your heart melt once more. Without saying anything, he just made you less drenched. Just enough to be comfortable. Giving you a smile, he then stepped back and entered the car.

"To your place we go!"

The ride to your car was relatively quick. Jeongin was the type of person who drove well, making every ride with him a nice moment. Before you even said anything, he turned the heat on.

"Wow... Innie, we raised you well."

You burst into laughter as your best friend gave you the weirdest look ever. What do you meant by 'raised you well'?

"Don't say that, you sound as if you were a family member. Or a.. mother?"

"Oh wow. Is that a not-so-subtle way to call me old? I'm still twenty-two!"

"For less than twenty-four hours, Noona."

Pressing your lips into a thin line, you looked down at your phone. Yes, tomorrow is your birthday. It's not that you forgot. You knew, but spending time with Jeongin pushed every important thing out of your mind. He chuckled, glancing at your surprised expression.

"Aren't you going back to your family?"

"Hm.. no. I have classes this week, so I don't have enough time to go and come back.

Nodding, he tilted his head.

"..want us to celebrate it? I mean, together?"

He spoke softly. It was normal for you to celebrate each other's birthdays together, but usually, you'd do that with both of your families.

"Tonight?"

"Tonight. Or tomorrow. Or tonight and tomorrow. Like, we buy a cake and you blow out your candles at midnight."

The idea sounded like a good one. A perfect one. Well, it was good enough to make you smile broadly.

"What do you think, Noona? You seem to like it?"

"I'd love to."

You didn't have to say more; Jeongin was already driving towards the closest bakery. As soon as you pointed one out, he pulled over and turned his blinker.

"I'll wait here, you go and take the cake you'll prefer?"

As you nodded, he looked down at your outfit. Before you could place your hand on the door, he had removed his vests and handed it to you.

"Noona. Put this on. Your... So you don't get cold."

Chuckling, you took it and went out the car.

"Thank you for taking care of me, Innie."

His heart melted as you gave him the biggest smile ever while putting on his vest. Tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, he kept watching you. Not in a creepy way, Jeongin would never do that. More in a.. 'lost in your gaze' kind of way. Everyone watching him would see how his eyes screamed love and affection for you.

As you stood in line, he smiled, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. When you made eye contact, you smiled at him and waved. Through the window, you were trying to ask you a question. He chuckled, watching you move around. You patted your pockets but frowned, realizing your phone was in the car. I guess you'll have to decide the flavor of the cake on your own...

A few minutes later, you sat down in the car. Jeongin drove off, smiling.

"I had no idea of what you were trying to say, Noona. Was it important?"

"I forgot to ask you which flavor you wanted. For the cake."

"But... Noona, it's your birthday. So you choose?"

"Yeah, but what if my Innie doesn't like it? They had Tiramisu, but having coffee late at night isn't a good idea. So I took chocolate!"

Jeongin stayed silent, looking at the road. Even if he looked fully focused, he was actually fighting his thoughts and feelings, trying not to fall even more for you.

By the time you reached your apartment, it was already dark outside. Mostly because it's still February and nightfall is at 17 o'clock. After closing the front door of your apartment and taking off your shoes, you took back the cake box, smiling at your best friend.

"So... a chocolate cake is a good option, right?"

"Of course it is."

"I'm glad.. because you didn't answer earlier. I thought I didn't choose well."

Placing the box on the counter of your kitchen, you looked at Jeongin. After removing his shoes, he stood awkwardly, fidgeting with his rings.

"You know where the bathroom is, right? You came so often, you know you're like home here, right?"

Nodding, he put his stuff on your couch. If you were about to celebrate your birthday with him, that meant he had to stay late. Knowing you, that also meant you'd refuse to let him drive home late.

"Innie? Last time you came, you left a pair of shorts, no? And a T-shirt. The ones you forgot."

"Uh... I might. But it was a long time ago.

"Let me grab them for you."

You disappeared into your room, not realizing that a lot more time had passed than you thought. That's why you found yourself embarrassed as you came out of the bathroom, all cleaned and cozy.

"N-Noona? Do you have something else?"

Jeongin was standing in the middle of your living room, holding the t-shirt he had forgotten several months ago. The thing is... he started hitting the gym in the meantime. And saying he didn't change would be more than a lie.

"Innie, what are you..."

"I'm sorry, I tried to put it on but... it just doesn't fit. Like, I can't put it past my neck. My... arms don't fit. Neither my shoulders"

Looking away, Jeongin was clutching the fabric against his torso. When did he get this buff? You'd be lying if you said you didn't want to push the piece of clothing out of the way. Without even showing himself, you could see how brawny he was. Muscles bulged out no matter where you looked. His arm flexed as he shivered. Who knew if it was because of the cold or because of your eyes on him?

"Oh."

Silence fell in the room as you were trying to think. Jeongin was trying to remember how to breathe as you blinked. New shirt. For him. Now.

"I... will try to see if... If I have something. I.. Wait."

As you disappeared into your bedroom, Jeongin crouched. Hiding his face in the fabric, he tried to realize what was happening.

"Shit..."

You, in your bedroom, were rummaging through your closet. You weren't the smallest person ever, nor the tallest, but how could you give your 172-cm-tall-I-went-to-the-gym best friend something that would fit him? Sighing, you pushed your hangers away. Maybe... this one? Even if you weren't a fan of extra-tight clothes, you had bought a few for special occasions. But larger clothes... suddenly, every t-shirt, every sweater seemed too small. Too tight, even minuscule. Except...

"Why is the only t-shirt fitting a pink one?"

"...Your favorite color used to be hot pink... You're lucky it fits, I have no other options."

"Yeah, but this one is pink pink. Not hot pink. Plus... is that Snoopy?"

Rolling your eyes, you looked at Jeongin as he smiled, tugging on the fabric. The t-shirt was a bit too slinky on him, but was still wearable. As you cut the cake box open, you tilted your head nonchalantly.

"You prefer the black shirt from earlier?"

Choking on the air, he shook his head and ran a hand through his hair.

"That's what I thought. Can you get me a plate, please?"

Jeongin pouted, adjusting his glasses.

"You seem to enjoy this situation way too much, do you?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Jeongin had leaned his hand onto the counter next to you, raising his arm to open the cupboard. You gasped, half surprised, half silenced by the sudden intimacy between you two. Jeongin was so close, the type of proximity that allowed you to smell the soap of his recent shower and his remaining perfume. You couldn't tell if you were mentally cursing or thanking yourself for deciding the plates' place should be in the specific cupboard.

"Um.. Noona, do you need a big plate or the.. tray here?"

Noticing the absence of an answer, he looked down at you. His right arm was still up, waiting. At the same time, it was lifting the bottom of his shirt.

"Noona?"

Looking up, you had to take a second to think of an answer. Abs. Pink. Snoopy. Pink again. Mouth. Eyes.

"Uh... a big plate."

"Here."

You looked down again as he placed the plate on the counter. The cake. Yeah.

"Thanks..."

Not seeing the turmoil of thoughts that were going through your head, Jeongin sat down at your counter. Leaning on his arm, he didn't notice your phone until it rang against his skin.

"Can you tell me who that is?"

As he peeked, his smile flickered a little. Kim Seungmin.

"It's that guy. From earlier."

"That guy... Oh! Seungmin?"

A scoff left Jeongin mouth as you placed the cake out of it's box.

"You're already calling him by his name?"

"Hm.. Well, how do you want me to call him? Kim? Or.. Blind date guy?"

He tried to chuckle with you, but a feeling was boiling in his chest. Something he didn't like.

"Hm."

"And it's not like I called him.. I don't know, 'Seungminnie' or something? We're not... Oh my god!"

Jolting by the sudden raise in your voice, he looked up at you.

"No! Don't move. Oh, Innie.. Do you know you used to lean on the table like that when we were younger? You grew so much... Where did my Baby bread go?"

"Stop calling me that."

"What, you want me to call you Daddy Toast now?"

Sighing, he watched you take your phone from the counter and snap a picture. But his mind was still on the man your mother wanted you to date.

"I'll send them to you."

"Noona... You said he was too young for you, no?"

"I did."

You answered as you clicked on your phone, sending the pictures to your best friend.

"What about me?"

Jeongin whispered. As you were not looking, he had stood up and had taken a few steps towards you.

"Huh?"

"What about me?"

He repeated, his voice calm and low. Your eyes met as silence fell into the room. Jeongin's heartbeat was so loud he swore you could hear it. Taking another step, he spoke softly.

"You always say you see me as.. 'your baby', 'your younger best friend', 'someone who was born after you'. But... I don't want you to see me like that. I'm a man."

"I know you're a man, Jeongin, what do you..."

"No. When you say that, you mean it as 'a boy'. I meant a man."

He whispered those two last words, placing his hands on the counter behind you. His body was now framing you against the counter of your kitchen. Jeongin leaned forward, looking at your lips.

"I saw the way you looked at me. I know you saw how I changed. I'm taller than you, but you still treat me as a little boy."

You sucked your breath in as he leaned his head on your shoulder. His hair brushed against your cheek, jaw, and neck as he sighed.

"Don't get me wrong, I love it when you look at me. But not... like that."

Scooping his hand closer to you, he pulled back. It's like he was restraining himself from hugging you.

"Jeongin... what are you trying to say..?"

"I like you."

There, he said it. What he has been feeling for the past ten or maybe more years. He felt the weight of the biggest secret of his life leave his shoulders and chest, letting him finally breathe.

"You like me?"

"Yes. Not as a friend, not as a best friend. A lot more than that. I like you. So much."

"In a 'I-wanna-kiss-you' kind of way?"

"Worse."

Oh.

Seeing your face gaining probably three tints of red, Jeongin chuckled and, for the first time in a while, cupped your cheek.

"But kissing you would be an amazing start."

Who said that all words had a meaning? Because right now, you were incapable of understanding a single thing. Closing your eyes, opening them, you suddenly realized how Jeongin was behaving with you. How close he was right now. How beautiful he looked as the soft light was falling on his face, caressing his sharp features.

Your "Innie baby" suddenly seemed manly right now. Handsome. He had always been, everything just seemed a little more obvious now. Taking a breath, you leaned your head against his hand. He definitely noticed it because a smile appeared on his lips the moment you moved.

"Innie..."

"Yes?"

"You know what would be a perfect gift for my birthday?"

He chuckled, looking down at your lips. Jeongin swallowed and looked up. You smiled. How easy it was to read his mind. To guess what he was thinking of.

"Tell me?"

"You... kissing me. I'd love this."

Teasingly, he pulled out his phone. Even if you both took time for your showers, then spent time together, it was not tomorrow yet.

"If we take the cake now, place candles, you make a wish, and you blow the candles, then it'll be your birthday. I'll be able to give you your gift."

You blinked a few times, trying to hide your disappointment. Looking down at you, Jeongin smiled and cupped your cheek with his other hand.

"I'm joking, Noona. Sorry."

Leaning towards you, he whispered in a serious tone, making you look up at him.

"Can I?"

"Yes."

You whispered back, closing your eyes. One centimeter away from your lips, he smiled.

"Happy early birthday, Noona."

A firework was displayed in your chest as his lips pressed against yours. That night was the best birthday gift you could ever ask for. Nothing could overtake this moment. Not even when, once midnight and your candles were behind you, Jeongin pulled out the same ring he had, but in a slightly smaller version. No matter if you'd love him back, he wanted to offer it to you. Well, he was even happier now that he knew his feelings were mutual.

The coffee you both shared earlier kept you awake for a long time. Enough to chat, hug, cuddle, and kiss. When sunlight peeked through the curtains that morning, it was to show the world how cute and peaceful you looked, tangled up on the couch.

His hand was not far from yours, nearly falling from the couch. Somehow, none of you seemed willing to move. Like if, unconsciously, you both knew you were in the place you were meant to be in.

Mutual rings, mutual feelings.

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Thank you for reading! Feel free to give constructive feedback!

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Please consider that English is not my mother language.

No ai used.

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#skz #skz imagines #stray kids #stray kids fluff #i.n #i.n skz #i.n stray kids #i.n x reader #yang jeongin #yang jeongin x reader #yang jeongin stray kids #yang jeongin x you #jeongin #yang jeongin x y/n #kpop

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