#and sometimes that never changes. but sometimes it does

[starmaidengarden]

Hello !!

May i request a fic with Jade, Leona, and Floyd where the reader is scared of them and often hides behind someone else when meeting them? Totally not bc i was scared of them back then lmao

Thank you, have a nice day!

—Jade : Leona : Floyd x gn!reader. no cw/tw. dividers: uzmacchiato.

note: sorry this took so long!! but I hope you like it!!

Jade Leech ༉⋆｡˚

At first, Jade finds your fear of him amusing in that quiet, unnerving way he does everything. You hide behind Ace or Deuce every time he appears, and he never misses the chance to smile just a little too pleasantly and say, “Oh? Hiding again? How cruel—I was simply going to say hello.”

He doesn’t get offended. In fact, he’s curious—what was it that made you fear him so much? His gaze? The rumors? His eel nature? He never directly asks, but you get the sense that he already knows.

He starts appearing more often in places you frequent, acting completely harmless, but always with an aura of something off—like he’s trying to prove you right and wrong at the same time.

Over time, he begins to soften his demeanor—his smile becomes a little warmer, his words a bit less cryptic. He’ll still tease, but in smaller, lighter doses. Eventually, if you begin to peek out from behind your “shield” when he’s around, he’ll notice immediately. One day, when you don’t hide fast enough, he’ll gently lean down and whisper with a soft smirk, “I must be doing something right.”

If you start talking to him on your own, expect him to treat it like a delicate animal approaching for the first time. “You’re growing used to my presence. I’m honored.”

Leona Kingscholar ༉⋆｡˚

Leona’s used to people fearing him, but it irritates him when it’s you. He doesn’t understand why you flinch when he walks in or physically hides behind someone else.

At first, he glares and says things like, “Tch. What, I look like I’m gonna bite?” He’s gruff and dismissive, not realizing that his aggression is part of why you’re scared.

Ruggie ends up being your main shield, standing between you and Leona. He always mutters about it—“Babysitting now, Ruggie?”

Eventually, Leona grows restless. Your fear gnaws at his pride. He doesn’t want to be liked, necessarily, but being feared by someone like you—a harmless little mouse who flinches at his voice—annoys him more than he wants to admit.

So he changes tactics. Instead of barking or intimidating, he tries ignoring you completely, hoping you’ll calm down if he acts indifferent. It works better than he expects. You stop hiding as fast. You relax a little when he’s around.

Eventually, one day he catches you not hiding behind anyone. He makes eye contact, raises an eyebrow, and says dryly, “Look at that. Thought you’d pass out if I looked at you too long. You’re getting bolder.”

Floyd Leech ༉⋆｡˚

You hiding from Floyd is like putting gasoline on fire. He finds your reactions hilarious and entertaining from day one.

“Shrimpyyyyy~ why are you hiding again? That’s so boring! C’mon, come out! I wanna squeeze you!” Cue you burying yourself behind anyone nearby.

Floyd’s unpredictable behavior makes it worse. Sometimes he’s giggling. Sometimes he’s staring blankly with wide eyes. Sometimes he drops his voice and gets way too close to your ear just to make you yelp and run.

But beneath the chaos, Floyd’s not trying to be cruel. He’s trying to get a reaction—he thinks your fear is exciting, and in a weird way, it makes you memorable to him.

The more you hide, the more he’s like a cat stalking a laser pointer. But over time, if he sees you genuinely trembling or distressed, the fun drops from his face. “...Not fun when you’re actually scared.”

He starts adjusting. He’ll approach more casually, sometimes even dragging Jade along so you feel “safer” by comparison. He'll offer little things in an oddly sweet way—like a trinket he found or food you like. “For Shrimpy. Don’t scream.”

If you ever thank him, grins wide, and says, “Awww, you’re warming up to me! This is so much better~”

Floyd doesn’t really know how to tone himself down properly, but when you begin to open up just a little, he becomes more affectionate and playful rather than scary. He’ll guard you from others who freak you out—even if it’s something minor. “Only I get to scare Shrimpy.”

[v3ronicasawyer]

2 - probably an old disney channel show i used to watch, like, there was this one time when i was in spain, and the whole change of routine knocked me off, so in between being at the pool and getting ready to go out for the night, i’d sit on the hotel bed or something and watch an episode of sam and cat, even if it sounds silly, it helped, even if it was only a little bit

11 - honestly, not really, i do wish i had one though. but listening to music does slightly help sometimes, so i guess maybe my airpods? even though they hurt my ears sometimes

23 - other than receiving one single fake rose ages ago, none that i can recall of. i’ve never really thought of it all that much, until last month my four year old cousin got a whole ass fucking bouquet from a boy in her class and now i feel failed lmao

26 - honestly, i’d stay where i am now. even though it can suck here a lot of the time, and there’s a lot of arguments, and sometimes i want nothing more than to just evaporate, if that even makes sense, i think if i left i’d honestly never be calm or get any sleep ( not that i do anyway ), but maybe one day, if i get my shit sorted out, just somewhere nice with someone i trust

holy yap sorry

and for youuu how about 5, 10, 11 and 24?

✨soft asks✨

What song makes you feel better?

What is your go to comfort show?

Reading or writing? Why?

Whats your favorite feeling?

How do you like to take care of yourself?

What’s your favorite candle scent?

Who do you feel most like yourself around?

Whats a fabric/texture that’s nostalgic for you?

Best childhood moment?

When was the last time you laughed so hard you cried? (or just felt really good afterwards)

Do you have a comfort item? Tell us about it!

What calms you down?

Bath or shower to relax?

Whats something upcoming that you’re excited for?

Comfort food?

What’s something you want to create soon?

How do you feel best loved?

What age in life do you think you’ll feel most yourself at?

Have you ever written or received a love letter?

Tell us about a memory you hold close to your heart.

Tea, Coffee, or hot cocoa?

Name of your favorite playlist?

Have you ever received flowers?

Who is your bestfriend?

If your soul was a color, what would it be?

If you could live anywhere with anyone you want, where would it be and who would you bring?

Do you like to garden? Have you ever grown something?

What are you proudest of?

Are you a kind person?

What do your hobbies look like?

[checkeredflagggs]

Fun in the Sun*

pairing: jenson button x wife!reader

summary: the five times the Buttons were caught in an the act by someone on the grid and the one time they were found cuddling.

a/n: sometimes things just come to you…

a/n2: don’t look too closely at the handles please 🙏

Masterlist | Taglist

lewishamilton

liked by jensonbutton, yn, fernandoalo_oficial and 1,928,823 others

tagged: jensonbutton, yn

lewishamilton: Silverstone here we come! And Jenson, yn? I’m never giving you a ride again

view all comments

user1: omg Jenson Lewis and yn all on one plane? Idk if that’s my dream threesome or foursome…

↳user2: honestly both

↳user1: true true

jensonbutton: oh come on we weren’t that bad

↳lewishamilton: im sending you the cleaning bill

↳yn: you need some fun in your life

↳user3: …ummm???

user4: did they…

↳user5: I mean I think?

↳user6: it certainly appears that way?

↳user7: what are you guys saying?

↳yn: they’re asking if we fucked on Lewis’ plane (spoiler - yes we did!) liked by jensonbutton

↳user7: oh 😳

↳user6: never change queen liked by yn

fernandoalo_oficial: i'm never flying with you two

↳aussiegrit: neither am I

yn

liked by jensonbutton, lewishamilton, fernandoalo_oficial and 1,292,913 others

tagged: jensonbutton

yn: baby button incoming!

view all comments

user8: oh my god a baby button

user9: between Jenson and yn that’s gonna be one beautiful kid

aussiegrit: congrats!

rubens: amazing news!

kimimatiasraikkonen: 👍🏻

nicorosberg: You guys will be amazing parents!

brawngp: preparing for 2027!

user10: ok unless my math is like way off?? This kid has a high possibility of coming from the mile high club?

↳user11: …oh my god you’re right??

↳lewishamilton: ON MY PLANE??? jensonbutton yn???

↳yn: yeah that tracks?

↳jensonbutton: be a fun story to tell!

↳lewishamilton: I’m gonna demand emotional compensation

↳yn: congrats then godfather!

↳lewishamilton: that is NOT what I meant!

↳jensonbutton: so you don’t want it?

↳lewishamilton: back off! The title is mine

↳user12: loving the whiplash from yeah we fucked on your plane to congrats you’re a godfather

f1gossip

liked by user1, user2 and 790,469 others

tagged: nicorosberg, jensonbutton, yn

f1gossip: Drivers Nico Rosberg and Jenson Button (and wife YN Button) are vacationing together this summer break!

view all comments

user13: I love this?

user14: not really a group I thought of…

user15: this seems like a random pairing?

↳user16: that was my thought…

↳user17: maybe they independently chose the same location?

user18: tbh I’m here for it — I just know that Nico and yn have the good gossip

↳user19: I can see that

jensonbutton

liked by yn, rubens, vondafone, and 1,473,782 others

tagged: yn

jensonbutton: We liked the first one so much, we decided to go for a second one

view all comments

user20: OMG

↳user21: It’s happening!

↳user22: this is like the cutest announcement 💙

yn: We did do good didn’t we…

↳jensonbutton: the absolute best!

lewishamilton: congratulations guys — you’ve already proven you’re amazing parents, they’re gonna be lucky to have you

vondafone: When is it too early to sign a driver? Asking for a friend

ruebans: congrats!

aussiegrit: congrats guys

f1: We’re all excited for them here!

user10: doing some more math…

↳user23: yeah?

↳user10: this was a summer break baby I think?

↳nicorosberg: jensonbutton yn tell me they’re wrong right now

↳jensonbutton: i don’t think we can…

↳yn: sorry nics but i think user10 is right again

↳user10: thank you! But why are you sorry?

↳yn: oh apparently we traumatized him during the vacation?

↳nicorosberg: you absolutely did

↳jensonbutton: we did the same to Lewis you aren’t special

↳nicorosberg: I’m claiming godfather for this one — gotta teach them good manners…

yn_p

liked by lewis, mark, nico, and 183 others

tagged: jenson, nando

yn_p: Nando threatened us if any funny business happened on his boat

view all comments

lewis: does that work?

↳nando: it did, yes

↳jenson: no it didn’t

↳nando: what. liked by jenson, yn_p

↳nando: Where are you? I’m going to hurt you

↳nando: MY BOAT

nico: yeah I’m never going on vacation with you degenerates ever again

↳jenson: ok but I thought we were going to Disneyland soon?

↳nico: …ok after that I’m never going on vacation with you ever again

↳yn_p: you say that now but just wait…

mark: you people are animals…

↳yn_p: thank you!

↳mark: that was not a compliment

↳jenson: well when you’re as good looking as we are…oh wait liked by nando, nico, yn_p, lewis

jensonbutton

liked by yn, mclaren, hulkhulkenburg, danielricciardo and 2,824,182 others

tagged: yn

jensonbutton: Baby Button #3 incoming!

view all comments

hulkhulkenburg: Congratulations guys! Lucky #3!

user23: Baby Button number 3!!

yn: no one else I’d want to have a bunch of kids with

↳jensonbutton: such romance 💝

↳yn: only for you handsome

user24: oh my god I love this so much…

danielricciardo: BABY BUTTON IN THE HOUSE!!

mclaren: prepping the baby clothes as we speak

lewishamilton: So who are we going to be welcoming to the traumatized club?

this comment has been deleted

lewishamilton: So who are we going to be welcoming to the godfather club?

↳yn: Why? Are you angling for another?

↳lewishamilton: No but Nico and I made t-shirts

↳yn: that’s nice!

↳lewishamilton: Makes it obvious who's been in the wrong place at the wrong time

this comment has been deleted

↳jensonbutton: 😑😑😑

↳jensonbutton: but Nando get the position of he wants it

↳fernandoalo_oficial: absolutely!

f1gossip posted 2 stories

[Sebastian Vettel seen skiing this winter break][The Buttons are reportedly in the same area — double date vacations anyone?]

user25 replied what a man…

user26 replied hi hello I’d like to order myself one of him

user27 replied what a lucky person to be so close to him…

user28 replied I bet he smells so good…

user29 replied what I would give to be on a vacay with them

user30 replied I love how much the buttons travel with the other drivers

user10 replied ok ok ok I’m willing to put money down that come fall we’ll have button baby #4

↳f1gossip that’s an interesting proposition!

yn

liked by jensonbutton, maxverstappen33, pierregasly, and 829,923 others

tagged: jensonbutton

yn: One last Button for the family 🩵

view all comments

user10: hahaha I knew it!

↳f1gossip: yes you did!

↳yn: 👀👀👀

user31: these are the best types of posts!

↳user32: same — I love seeing the various people come out of the woodwork to congratulate them!

mclaren: So do we get first rights for signing the baby button?

↳williamsracing: I do think that right goes to us!

↳alpinef1team: I think we should get it!

user33: baby button’s get the award for cutest babies!

sebastainvettel: lewishamilton nicorosberg fernandoalo_oficial i want my membership T-shirt now

↳user34: Sebastian is on instagram now?!?

↳user35: this is literally his first and only comment — he doesn’t even have any posts…

↳lewishamilton: on it 🫡

f1: We’re excited for another Baby Button

kimimatiasraikkonen: 👍🏻

nicorosberg: Are you guys planning on overrunning the paddock?

maxverstappen33: Congratulations

pierregasly: félicitations!

yn

liked by maxverstappen33, charles_leclerc, lance_stroll and 923,013 others

tagged: jensonbutton, aussiegrit

yn: went to watch my husband at work and got to see an old friend

view all comments

user36: god they’re both aging like fine wine

jensonbutton: It’s always a pleasure to have you visit me!

↳yn: literally anytime, anyplace

↳lewishamilton: no thank you 🖤

user37: would do both, thank you

maxverstappen33: ummm and you didn’t come see me?

↳yn: literally omw rn

↳maxverstappen33: great!

↳charles_leclerc: what am i?

↳yn: I’ll pencil you in for tomorrow?

↳charles_leclerc: good!

aussiegrit: Not good to see you

this comment has been deleted

aussiegrit: Never visit me again

this comment has been deleted

aussiegrit: Good to see you again

↳yn: 😂😂😂

↳user38: …am I the only one who saw mark’s deleted comments??

↳yn: no 🤣

↳user38: Queen I think you traumatized him

↳yn: yeah probably!

yn

liked by maxverstappen33, pierregasly, nicorosberg and 1,123,922 others

tagged: jensonbutton

yn: Last one, I promise (and threaten!)

view all comments

user39: that’s the best sign I’ve ever seen oh my god

user50: so like asking for a friend but what else is he good at??

↳user51: 👀 I mean I wanna know…

↳user52: we need answers!

lewishamilton: making a T-shirt as we speak

↳aussiegrit: good

↳user10: is this a we got traumatized T-shirt?

↳jensonbutton: it is — it’s also a godfather T-shirt

↳user10: as an apology??

↳yn: apology, bribe…they sound the same don’t they? liked by user10

f1: Glad to hear the happy news!

↳wec: Umm this one is ours!

↳f1: You can’t take the Baby Buttons away from us!

jensonbutton: Understood 🫡

↳yn: Good!

fernandoalo_oficial: You people need to be stopped

↳yn: Oh don’t worry, we will be

↳fernandoalo_oficial: Yeah we’ve heard that one before…

charles_leclerc: you keep gatekeeping godfather from us…

↳sebastianvettel: trust me kid, you’re safer not knowing

↳sebastianvettel: and definitely not getting the position

fernandoalo_oficial

liked by sebastianvettel, aussiegrit, maxverstappen1, and 1,823,273 others

tagged: yn, jensonbutton

fernandoalo_oficial: Unfortunately, they can be kinda cute…

view all comments

sebastianvettel: it does make it easier to forgive them for everything else…

aussiegrit: unfortunately…

↳fernandoalo_oficial: could be worse I suppose

jensonbutton: what do you mean unfortunately!!

maxverstappen33: Catching a flight to you guys — need some button baby cuddles

↳charles_leclerc: too slow, I’ve already got them

↳pierregasly: We have them! You can’t take all the credit

hulkhulkenberg: kid cuddles are the best

danielricciardo: baby button cuddle party!

↳yn: if we say no, are you gonna ignore us?

↳danielricciardo: absolutely!

Taglist

Please interact with my taglist post if you want to join — I don’t always check the notes on the individual posts

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @lost4lyrics @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @tallrock35 @il0vereadingstuff @widow-cevans @1-of-my-many-obsessions @charlesgirl16 @anunstablefangirl @princessesgarden @galaxygurlll @shelbyteller @ihaveitprinteddout @allthings-fandom @mountainshuman @moonypixel @nikfigueiredo @daisydaze111 @deephideoutmilkshake @mimisweetz @books-fangirl-books @woderfulkawaii @fastandcurious16 @lilyofthevalley-09 @rexit-mo @alessa-the-enchantress @1800-love-me @greantii @toodeepintofandoms @tukes @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @lecfosimaxbull @dramaticpiratellamas @devilacot @supernatural-harrypotter7 @nightrose-18 @alexxavicry @vhkdncu2ei8997 @purplephantomwolf @shadowreader07 @spilled-coffee-cup @stuffyownswrld

[keirareidss]

talk to me nice - s.r

♡ summary: you teach spencer how to appreciate himself pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut wc: 1.3k request here

Complimenting Spencer was as easy as breathing. There were countless aspects of him that you loved and it felt like you never ran out of things to say. And you weren't afraid of repeats. Calling him pretty boy never grew old.

But lately, you started noticing something. With every compliment you gave him, he brushed it off like it was nothing. Sometimes it seemed like he thought you were lying or worse, making fun of him. You had no way of knowing though, because every time you brought it up, he laughed it off or changed the subject.

"Hey, Spence, you look really pretty today. I love your hair at this length." Your fingers tangled in his short curly hair, tugging slightly as you leaned back against his desk.

"Um, did you want to get takeout tonight? We could get that Chinese stuff you like." You tilted your head at him.

"What are you doing, Spence?" That disappointed mom tone slipped out as it always does when you're scolding him.

"What?"

"Do you know how gorgeous you are?" His face flushed and he ducked his head to hide from you. "I'm being serious. You always do this."

"I'm not doing anything!"

"Spencer-"

"Can we just not talk about this right now?" You sighed, pushing off his desk.

"Fine. We'll talk later then." You headed back to your own desk, disappointed in yourself for giving in so easily. You watched Spencer bury himself in his work, your eyes trailing over his features. He really was the prettiest man you'd ever seen. Soft brown hair, deep hazel eyes drew you to him, make you addicted to the sight of him. Sometimes, when he was asleep in your bed, all relaxed and ethereal, you'd lay there and stare at him, taking in the sight of the angelic human being next to you.

You took it upon yourself to do better. Make him realize how perfect he really is.

"Spence, can you come in here please?" You called from the bedroom, slipping sweetness into your voice as to raise no suspicion.

"What do you need, angel?" Spencer, beautiful oblivious Spencer, stepped into the room.

"Come here." You patted the floor next to you where you sat on your knees in front of the full length mirror. He obeyed, dropping to his knees next to you, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You shuffled behind him, your hands on his shoulders as you position him in the center of the mirror. You wanted to make sure he could see every part of him.

"What are we doing?" Spencer asked, laughing a little at the situation.

"You know I love your right?" Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him back into your chest in an affectionate hug. He reached up to hold your arms.

"Yeah. I love you too." He murmured, the room taking on a softer atmosphere.

"And I want you to love you as well." His smile slowly fell as he realized what this was. He averted his gaze from yours in the mirror, pressing his lips together and looking down at his lap.

"I do." He defended quietly. You released his shoulders, brushing a hand through his hair. There was already an idea in your mind of how to show him how much he means to you and how much he should mean to himself. Your hands slid down his chest to his belt, he still hadn't taken off his work pants, where you started unbuckling, unbuttoning, and unzipping. "Wha- what are you doing?" Spencer was brought out of his mind by your hands in his pants.

"Showing you what you should be proud of." You reach down, pushing his thighs apart more and he lets out a shuddering breath. "Can you take these off for me, baby?" You ask, tugging on his pants slightly. He hurries himself out of them, tossing them aside and blushing at being so revealed in front of you. It's not like he's never been naked around you before but it was different when he was on his knees staring at himself in the mirror. You pulled his shirt over his head and soon he was bare, his back against your chest again.

Your thumb and forefinger find one of his nipples, brushing over it slightly before pinching. He jolts, letting out an involuntary whimper. Your other hand slides down to his lap, taking his hardening length in your palm.

"See how pretty you are?" You asked, stroking him up and down, beads of precum dribbling from his red tip. He moans, letting his head fall back to your shoulder. "No, baby, look." You patted his jaw a few times until he lifted his head, looking in the mirror again.

"Please." He whined, bucking his hips into your hand.

"Tell me." You purred in his ear.

"What?"

"Say 'I'm pretty'."

"Please, I don't-"

"Spencer, if you want to cum, then repeat after me."

"I- I'm pretty." You took his earlobe between your teeth, biting softly as you stimulated his nipples and his cock at the same time, brushing your thumb over the head of his length.

"Now say 'I'm a genius'."

"I'm a genius." He whimpered. You grinned, taking him in through the mirror. A thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead as his chest heaved.

"Tell me something else." You prompted, wanting him to come up with his own. Wanting it to be genuine.

"I don't- I don't know." His head fell back to your shoulder again and you tutted, leaning forward and sucking and biting his neck.

"Spencer." You scolded. His pulse hummed beneath your lips. He lifted his head again, feeling fuzzy with his desire to cum.

"I'm- I'm handsome."

"Good." You rewarded him, spitting into your palm and stroking him firmer and faster. He moaned brokenly, his hips jerking. "More."

"I, uh, I'm kind."

"Mhm." You hummed, kissing his neck.

"I'm... funny?"

"You don't sound so sure." You tsked your tongue.

"I- I am. I'm funny." He repeats, his voice an octave higher than normal.

"What else?"

"I... I wanna cum. Please? I need- need to cum." He whines, his whole body trembling.

"Tell me you're loved."

"I'm loved." He breathes.

"And you're enough."

"I'm... I'm enough." His eyes are welling up with tears, from sorrow or from bliss, he doesn't know. You keep kissing his neck, stroking his cock faster and bringing him closer and closer to the edge.

"Can I cum? Please, please, please-"

"Yes, baby, cum for me." The tears finally fall down his pretty, blushy cheeks as he lets go. He cums all over your hand and himself, his chest heaving as a whine leaves his throat. You reach up with your clean hand, wiping the tears from under his eyes. "You okay?" You ask gently, kissing at his damp cheeks.

"Uh huh." He hums, sluggishly. His body sags back into yours, his eyes falling closed. You wrap your arms around him again, holding him tight.

"It's true. Everything you said." You said, kissing his hair. He just hums again, on the brink of sleep, warm in your embrace. "Alright sleepy, let's get you in bed before you collapse on the floor." You chuckled, standing and helping him to his feet, his legs wobbly. You make a mental note to clean the carpet once he falls asleep, which shouldn't be long now.

Once he's under the covers, you kiss his forehead, moving to get off the bed but a hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist.

"Don't go." Spencer murmurs.

"I'll be right back, I just have to-"

"No. No, don't." He whines, tugging on your arm, his eyes still blissfully closed. You sighed, giving in and climbing under the sheets with him. You let him curl into you, his arms around your waist, his head on your chest, and you press a kiss to his head. You thought it was alright to put off cleaning the carpet for just a few more minutes.

Taglist: @superbeaglewitch, @perfectgoopfishuniversity-blog, totallynotabuckybarnessimp, @dramioneforevertilltheend. @cynbx, @diminombre

[roundaboutnow]

it's terrorism thats never the answer

violence is a different thing entirely.

terrorism is about taking control and making people afraid. its about going after someone you can hurt or kill just because its easy. most of the time, there isnt a point to it, but if there does happen to be a point, youve lost sight of it.

violence is just violence. violence is as much about defending as it is about attacking, which is sometimes the only defense youve got. when youre rioting violently, theres a point to it- you know why youre doing it. its directed at oppressors who know why youre doing it, too. its not about hurting and killing- which, if its done right, shouldnt result in deaths at all- no its about making a change. its about telling people in power that our communities arent going to take their bullshit anymore- and reminding them that there are more of us than there are of them.

Sorry that’s the last straw we’re putting demsoc grandpa down

[mephistostwin]

Away from Him

SYLUS X NON-MC! READER

Part 2 Part 3

Reminders:

I do not own the characters, this is simply a story that I made up inside my head.

The plot and story line does not follow the events in the game.

MC, Sylus, and other characters' personality and behavior here are not the same as what's in the game.

I'm a first-time writer so please be understanding with the wrong grammars and misspelled words.

Expect that I probably did not use tumblr correctly because this is the first time that I will post an au here.

If this is not your type of story, please scroll up and ignore this post.

Some scenes that are like the scenes from other works are pure coincidence. I never intended to copy anyone's hard work and this is based on my imaginations alone.

Open for constructive criticism but be mindful of your words.

Description:

You are Sylus' best friend for 10 years. You already saw the versions of him that no one had ever got a chance to know or see. For the past years that you had been with him, your feelings for him grew and you thought that someday, you will become more than friends. Until something or someone appeared.

~~

Everything were all going well for the past years and months—until she showed up. You tried faking your reactions whenever you see them together. At first, you really did a great job at hiding your thoughts into playful and teasing manner. You shipped them and acted like you really love to see them being clingy to each other— but MC was not having it.

MC looked sweet and kind at first. She will constantly hug you and give you compliments. Because of her treatment towards you, you almost accepted the situation and move on so they can enjoy their time without a jealous eye piercing at their souls.

But it all changed one day when Sylus and MC finally announced that they are an official couple after five months of fixing their connection. You really never minded it and you started to hurt your own feelings and ego so you can be able to heal. To your surprise, MC's behavior changed. She became evil, possessive, hateful— every bad attitude, you name it.

She started pulling Sylus away from you and she will make it obvious that she does not like when he's around you. You normalized it when it first happened because you understand that no woman will like when their man is around other girls—but she tried to make you envious.

She will pull Sylus for a kiss or sit in his lap around you on purpose. She will look into your eyes and smirk as she do almost inappropriate things to or with Sylus in front of you. There are also times when she will confront you alone and shove it in your face that Sylus will never like or will never be with you because they are tied to a bond in every lifetime.

It is hard for you to avoid them both because you are Sylus' secretary. You arrange his meetings and some paper works and it is impossible to not cross paths with them. Of course, MC is always following him like a shadow. She will throw dirty looks at you when you go inside Sylus' office because of work purposes.

You wanted to tell Sylus about MC's behaviour because after all, you are still the best friend that he used to defend from any bad people. But you refrained yourself because you do not want them to fight over you and eventually ruin the connection that they built— already built in every lifetime.

But even Sylus has changed. He will give you extra works on purpose and it is obvious that the two of them planned it. He also became harsh and offensive when he talks to you. You tried taking his insults as a joke but you can't because it is clear that he meant to say it to hurt your feelings.

--

Today is nothing different. You are walking towards his office to hand over all the important papers that you have finished for the day. After you give this to him, you will head home and probably cry to sleep for the night. That became your routine for the past five months and fortunately, you can sometimes sleep without crying due to exhaustion. But most of the time, you will have a breakdown even if your body begs you for some rest.

As usual, Sylus is on his desk and typing in his laptop. His desk is clean and there is almost no papers because he passed some of his job to you because he had an urgent meeting with some of his business partners. MC is sitting in the chair in front of his desk. She's focused on spending Sylus' infinite money on online shopping.

It took less than a second for them to notice you as you entered the room. MC's eye roll and arched brow never missed your vision but you did not mind it, you are already immune to it. However, Sylus' nonchalant expression and eyes still hurt you. It's like someone is gripping at your heart tightly and wants to crush it under their palms. Sylus never looked at you like that long before MC came. Your Sylus was not like that.

“Here are the paper works that you gave to me earlier. I also have set all your meetings for this week. So far, there's no problem and adjustments to your appointments.”

You said like the usual times. The difference is just the tone is now more formal like you are a stranger working for a man that is hard to please or impress with normal work and conversation.

“Right... the only problem in the company is you...” MC murmured but she obviously wants you to hear it. She gave you a fake smile and a stare that holds grudges for no reason. You brushed it off and ignored the anger and pain that is building inside your chest.

“If there is nothing that you want me to do, I'll head home now.” You said with a slight and forced smile. Sylus looked up to you and brushed his hair. He smirked at you like he wants to fill your system up with anxiety.

“I want you to resign...” You were already expecting that he will say this because he always joke about this everytime that you are in his office while MC is also there. You gave him a nod and a smile like what he said was nothing serious.

“Is there anything else that you want?” You slightly tilt your head. He shaked his head and smiled— not to you, but to MC.

“Now, please leave us alone and leave. Wouldn't want my kitten to be distracted by some... dramatic person.” He said it like it's casual and not something that can hurt your feelings. You were already used to his new behavior towards you but everything that slips from his mouth never failed to shoot daggers to your already-fragile heart.

You gave them a faint smile and turned away from them and walked towards the door. You closed the door as you went outside his office but the pain that is throbbing in your chest made you grip the handle of the door.

You cleaned up your desk and put all your belongings inside your bag. You are planning to do his last request. Just as when you are heading out of the building, you saw the twins— Luke and Kieran— walking towards you.

“Hey... you brought out more bags than usual... don't tell us that you're finally leaving us all alone?” Kieran said, disappointment is evident in his tone. You smiled at them but pain is still showing in your eyes.

“As a loyal employee and a friend, I have to fulfill my boss’ last request...” You said with a kidding tone but the twins are obviously not happy about it.

“Don’t leave us with that girl... She's clearly fake. We wouldn't want to be around her suffocating energy instead of your warm presence.” Luke begged while caressing your hands that are gripping your bags.

But your decision is now final and you are willing to stand firm for it. You comforted the twins and you told them that they are going to be fine because you guys will still contact each other. You bid all your goodbyes with a lot of hugs and tearing up like you are gonna be separated from them forever.

You walked to your car and drive to your home. Each place that you pass reminds you of the memories of you and Sylus together that you should forget because he already belong to someone else— even before you came.

When you got back home, you started your night routine even if your body feels like it will collapse because of the pain and exhaustion that you are holding for such a long time. After your routine, you head straight towards your desk to fix your resignation letter.

Every letter and word that you type adds a heavy feeling that makes you sick. Your past self would never imagine that your bond with Sylus will end this way.

You stayed up all night because of fixing your resignation letter and booking a plane ticket to Linkon city. You also found an expensive apartment there and it already have all furnitures and essential things. Fortunately, you still have your card that Sylus gave you as gift for your birthday last year. You were too shy to spend it because you already save up tons of money because of your high salary but you never knew until now that it will be useful for you this time.

You get to sleep for 2 hours after packing all your things. Your alarm went off at 8:00 am and you had no choice but to wake up and get ready. Your flight is at 11:00 am and you still have almost 4 hours to prepare yourself.

After you prepared, you placed all your bags inside your car. You drove off to a near restaurant to have your breakfast and to buy a takeout lunch for later.

Just as when you are about to drive to the airport, you remembered that you did not prepare the requirements for your car to be transported to Linkon city. “Fuck, why am I being so unfortunate now? argh, I'm so dumb for forgetting my car...”. You curse yourself until you suddenly remembered a memory.

“Hey, don't curse yourself. You're too precious for that, sweetheart. It's not your fault.”

His voice and his memory rang into your mind. You did not instantly notice the hot tears slowly running down your cheek. You were not the type of person that swears on others but you can't help it. “You’re such an asshole, motherfucker.” You say as you wipe your tears.

Finally, you arrive at the airport. You decided to just book a ticket for your car to be transported to linkon even if it will take a lot of days to have your car again. You definitely had no choice.

“This is what you get when you suddenly act on something without a lot of time for preparation...” You murmured to yourself as you finished your transaction about your car at the lobby.

-Timeskip-

After hours in the air, you finally landed in Linkon city. The warm sunlight and comforting air greeted you. For a moment, you felt a relieving presence in your surroundings.

Away from trouble... Away from him.

You had to book an uber to get to your apartment. “If only I prepared the requirements for my car earlier...” you sighed in disappointment.

After you arrived in your apartment, you slipped into your comfortable casual clothes. You tried to stay awake but your lack of sleep pulled you into the darkness as you relax yourself on the comfortable couch.

You woke up to be greeted by the dark sky and shining moon that you can see outside in your balcony. You checked the time and it is already 6:45 pm. You forced yourself to stand and make your appearance more presentable. You are going to a nearby coffee shop that you saw earlier and you hope that they are still open.

After getting ready, you head out and walked a not-so-long distance from your apartment. The coffee shop is just five buildings away from the building of your apartment.

You are happy that you manage to come inside the coffee shop because they are still open until 10 pm. You ordered your favorite drink and snack. All of it taste delicious and kind of boost your mood. Your table is in front of the glass wall and you enjoyed the view of the towering buildings and cars passing by.

You were happily eating your meal until someone spoke beside you, startling you and almost made your snack slip out of your hands. “Can I sit here with you?”

“Ow, sorry for shocking you...” A man with a purple hair smiled at you. You gave him back a smile. The one that is not forced but genuine. You don't know why but his presence carry an unknown feeling that soothes your worries. But you won't admit it because of course, you just met him tonight in less than an hour— less than a minute, rather.

You gave him a hesitant nod and adjusted your position so he can comfortably sit beside you.

“I never saw you here in this area before... are you a new resident?” He asks as he sips his drink.

“Yeah... I actually just came earlier and I happen to see this café on my way here and thought that maybe I can give it a try.” You smiled as you looked down on your lap. You are shy to talk to someone else about your day because you are used to yapping to the twins or him.

“Oh, that's really nice! I can recommend you a lot of amazing places that are near here.” He giggled. His cute gestures while talking makes you want to pinch his cheeks.

You guys talked until both of you finished your meal. You really enjoyed the stories that he told you— or maybe, you just like the excitement in his eyes as he talks about things that you cannot relate to.

“Where do you live? I'll accompany you to make sure that you get back home safely.” He said as he looks down on you. You are a lot smaller than him and it makes you embarrassed but you hide it.

“I live in that building— just five buildings away from here.” You pointed.

“What a coincidence! I also live there!” He excitedly said as he chuckled. “Which floor is your apartment in?” he asked.

“Fifth floor, apartment 502” you shortly replied, sleepiness evident from your eyes and tone.

You guys talked again as you both walked towards the building. He never ran out of stories and it is also convenient for you because it helps you to stay awake as you both walk.

You both reached the door of your apartment. You turned and looked at him to say thank you and good night.

“Thank you... I never really asked for your name after all that yapping we did.” You both laughed.

“I’m Rafayel, by the way. And also, I live here in 501— In front of your apartment... hehe...” he massaged the back of his neck as he let out an awkward and shy chuckle.

“That’s nice to know! But you're full of secrets huh..” you teased him and he smiled.

“My apologies...” he hesitated to continue his words because he also does not know your name yet.

“Y/N... My name is Y/N.”

“Yeah, Y/N. What a lovely name.” You smiled at his compliment and lightly pinched his arm while giggling.

“Uhh before I forgot, here's my contact number. I'm literally living just in front of your home but I rarely come out because I usually paint or I'm not home because of something... Maybe you can call me when you need help.” He handed you his phone so you can type his contact number on yours. You also typed your contact number in his phone so he can also call you when he needs help.

“It’s nice to meet you, Raf! But I really need to rest now, my body is screaming for some sleep.” You warmingly smiled at him and he blushed because of your smile and the nickname that you gave him.

“Take a rest now, Y/N. I'll see you again tomorrow. Bye!”

You wave your goodbyes to each other as you faced the opposite side of the hallway to go inside both of your own apartments.

You did your night routine. You put layers of layers of skin care and body care in the bathroom and it made you sigh in relief. You felt clean and it makes you happy.

After your pampering routine, you head to the bedroom to get some rest for the night. You jumped on top of the soft bed and hugged your pillows as you pulled the blanket towards your fragile body.

You are so sleepy but you still managed to stare at the ceiling and rethink all the things that happened even when your heart begs you to stop hurting yourself. It is painful but you can't help to get your mind away from the thoughts about it. It is like your mind is not your own, but his.

But out of all the painful memories that you reminisced about, you still smiled at the thought of having a new friend and life in a new city. Maybe, just maybe, you can start a new life without him. Away from the memories of him.

You are so drawn on the memories of the past and what could have been if MC never returned. A part of you wants to free yourself from his life but a part of you also wants to come back and make him realize that you are the one that stayed with him in this lifetime.

But you do not stand a chance with fate.

You remembered the things that MC told you that made your heart ache. “We’re tied by fate, while you? oh, you're nothing but his little secretary for years... and you will stay in that place while you watch us be connected and build our future family...”.

She was aware...

She was fucking aware of the feelings that you have for Sylus that you buried just for the sake of their bond. Her evil character that was disguised before really makes you amused.

You begged your mind to stop replaying the evil things that she said. You pulled your hair and curled up into a ball. Your tears run in your cheeks as your heart tightens. Tugging your shirt did not help and it makes you more miserable.

You love him but your mind tells you to hate him for throwing away everything that you did just for his bond with MC. You hate the way that he picked the months that he is with MC than the years that you stayed for him, no matter what the situation is.

Darkness slowly took over you as your chest became more tighter, making it hard for you to breath. The pain is suffocating you but you can't do anything about it. After all, he is still the medicine for the pain that he also caused.

You felt your eye lids becoming more and more harder to keep open until you decided to let the darkness completely consume you.

“I don't know what will happen to me but I know that I wouldn't want to see you in the moment that I wake up.” You said as you slowly closed your eyes, still crying because of the pain.

“I love you Sylus... but I'm slowly starting to hate you...”

(Note: Idk if this will reach a lot of readers and I don't know if I should do a part 2 hehe)

[airybcby]

heloooo airy! can i order a cappucino, with marshmallows, hot served, with barou? (BTW SUPER EXCITED FOR THIS EVENT!)

order up!

hot cappucino add marshmallows!

જ⁀✦ miss americana & the heartbreak prince

( barou shoei x reader )

♡ a/n — for my for here or to go event! find the menu here! (masterlist )

♡ word count — 2.2k

♡ content — barou shoei x reader, kinda gn? prob more fem, friends to lovers, late night convos, secret crush (kind of), kinda au where blue lock isnt a thing?, really just normal HS, mention of Barou's family, not proofread.

♡ synopsis — You've known Barou Shoei for a long time, but how long can you keep your feelings from him?

── .✦ you play stupid games, you win stupid prizes

Barou Shouei moves in the summer before second year of middle school.

You’re in your room when you see it happen — a sleek car, a mountain of moving boxes, and a boy who looks like he was carved from granite itself, standing stiffly in front of the front door while two movers argue over where to put a lamp.

You watch from your window, biting into a popsicle, eyes squinting. 

He doesn’t talk to anyone. Doesn’t help unload. Just crosses his arms and watches everyone else work.

And later that night, when your eyes drift toward his window again, you spot him inside — arranging his books by color.

Then by height.

Then changing it again.

You time it. He spends thirty-five minutes adjusting his pencil case.

So, naturally, you knock on his door the next day.

Three times.

You’re wearing a messy hoodie and pajama shorts, hands on your hips.

When he opens the door, he stares at you blankly — that same intensity from the window now aimed directly at your face. 

You smile like it doesn’t affect you.

“Hi! Come help me clean my room.”

And Barou Shoei — a boy you’ve never spoken to before — slams the door in your face.

You’d be embarrassed if it wasn’t so funny.

He doesn’t know you. He will, though. You make sure of it.

A few days later, you spot him again in his window — cleaning his desk for the fourth time in a week. 

You lean out of yours and launch a pencil toward his closed glass. Then another. 

Then a paper airplane with “stop being antisocial” scrawled in pink marker.

The fourth pencil hits dead center and bounces off the pane.

Barou slides his window open with the kind of rage you’d expect from a villain in a drama.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he calls.

You beam. “You talk!”

“I was cleaning.”

“Obsessively,” you grin. “Come help me clean my room instead.”

He stares like you’re speaking a different language. “No.”

But he doesn’t close the window.

And you keep talking.

That’s the real beginning of everything.

By the time you’re in high school, it’s become routine.

He’s your closest friend — though Barou never uses that word. 

You walk home together (sometimes two steps behind because he walks too fast), sit in silence in each other’s rooms after long days (his: spotless, yours: organized chaos), and share late-night conversations across your windows.

You leave your curtains open at night, lamps warm, music drifting.

Sometimes you work quietly in tandem, other times you swap notes, complain about teachers, or argue over which protein bar brand is best.

You’re the one who made him try strawberry milk.

He’s the one who remembered your test dates and bought your favorite snacks without ever admitting it.

He never lets anyone else close. But you’re in. 

Somehow, despite the way he snarls and glares and rolls his eyes — you’re in.

The truth is, you like him.

You’ve liked him since the day he opened that window.

He’s sharp-tongued and stubborn and infuriating.

But also quiet, observant, reliable in ways no one ever gives him credit for.

Sometimes, when you catch him looking at you — really looking, like you’re the only person in the world — your breath stutters in your throat and you think: maybe he likes you too.

But he never says anything. Never does anything. Just keeps letting you into his life, one quiet moment at a time.

So you don’t say anything either.

It’s raining one night when he knocks on your window.

Not his usual call. A real knock.

You open it, blinking. “You okay?”

He climbs in on the ladder you two set up your first year of high school — a little damp, hair mussed, shirt sticking slightly to his chest.

“Power went out at mine,” he grumbles. “Can’t sleep.”

“Your backup generator didn’t kick in?”

“I didn’t turn it on,” he mutters, settling on your bed. “Didn’t think it’d storm.”

You toss him a towel and flick your lamp on lower.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say casually, trying not to show how fast your heart is racing. “Storms are always better with company.”

Barou hums, toweling his hair with sharp motions.

Then quiet.

For a while it’s just the storm.

Then—

“Do you ever think about…moving away?”

You turn, surprised. “What?”

“Like. Leaving. Doing something bigger. Somewhere else.”

You blink. “Is this about soccer?”

Barou shrugs. “Maybe.”

“You’ll go pro,” you say softly. “You’re so good. I’d follow your games even if you moved to Iceland.”

He snorts. “I hate the cold.”

You smile.

He doesn’t look at you when he says, “Would you actually come?”

Your chest tightens. “Anywhere.”

The storm rumbles outside.

And Barou Shouei — usually so composed, so shut off — looks at you with something wide and wondering in his eyes.

But he doesn’t say anything else.

It was supposed to be just another lazy weekend.

The match was on — a big one. 

National-level players, maybe even a few names Barou mentioned once, long ago, in that rare voice of reverence. 

You’re sprawled across his bed, half-eaten snacks on the floor, and the blue glow of the TV casting flickers across his neatly kept room.

You’ve done this a hundred times.

But today, something feels different.

Barou is quiet.

Quieter than usual.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg bent, arms resting across his knee. Focused. Too focused.

You glance over at him, grinning. “You know that’s gonna be you one day, right?”

Nothing.

Not even the usual scoff.

You nudge him with your foot. “Barou.”

He lets out a grunt. “Tch.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s it? That’s all I get?”

He doesn’t look away from the screen. “It’s just a game.”

You sit up straighter, frowning. “It’s not just a game. This is what you’ve always wanted.”

He finally turns to you — and for a second, something unreadable crosses his face. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” you reply, gentler now. “I just… I know you. You’ve been talking about playing pro since middle school.”

“Yeah. Well.” His gaze drops. “I’m not going.”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like it’s always been this way. “I’m not leaving.”

The words sink like concrete in your chest. “You’re… what do you mean?”

“I’m staying,” he says again. Matter of fact. Final.

You sit up fully now. “But why?”

He doesn’t answer.

You press, voice slightly rising. “Shoei—this has been your dream since we were twelve. You used to train in the rain. You used to talk about living overseas. You—”

“I changed my mind.”

“No. You didn’t.” You shake your head. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” Your voice cracks. “What’s really going on?”

He stands suddenly. Too fast. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“No, you never want to talk,” you fire back, standing too. “You want to bury it, pretend it doesn’t exist. But I see you, Barou.”

“Then stop.”

The words hit like a slap. The silence that follows is deafening.

You swallow, tears stinging your eyes. “You’re not staying for your sisters. Or your mom. You’re staying because you’re scared.”

He flinches. Just barely. But it’s enough.

You take a step forward. “You’re scared of what happens when you don’t have us around. When you’re alone.” You jab your finger into his chest. “You’re terrified.”

He’s silent. Breathing hard. Jaw clenched.

“There’s nothing here to stay for,” you say, quieter now. “We’ll all support you no matter where so just-”

That’s when it happens.

He moves. One step. Two.

And then he grabs your face and kisses you.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet.

It’s years of tension, pressure, held breath. 

It’s all the things he’s never said, never let himself admit.

You gasp into it, stunned — and then melt, hands fisting the front of his shirt. You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting your whole life. Because maybe you have.

When he pulls away, you’re breathless, eyes wide.

“I don’t want to leave,” he says, voice hoarse. “Because I don’t want to leave you.”

You stare at him. “Shoei…”

“I know it’s stupid,” he mutters, eyes darting away. “I know I’m throwing shit away. I just—” his hands drop from your face, falling to his sides. “I don’t care.”

You reach for him.

This time, you kiss him. Softer. Calmer. Like you’re grounding him.

When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his. “You're not throwing this away. Not for me. Yeah?”

He exhales shakily. “I don’t-”

You smile. “Just do it. I’ll always be there.”

He doesn’t walk you home after practice the next day.

Which is… weird.

Because he always does.

Even if the team’s dragging themselves through drills, even if his backpack’s broken and spilling gear, even if you don’t talk the whole way home — he walks beside you, shoulder to shoulder, always.

But today?

You wait at the gate.

Five minutes. Then ten.

When you finally peek inside the gym, you catch a glimpse of him ducking out the back. He’s gone before you can call out.

You think — maybe he had to rush home.

Maybe it’s nothing.

Except the next morning, you wake up to overcast skies and Barou’s bedroom window is closed.

The curtains are drawn.

And not in the many years you’ve known him — through rain, typhoons, cold snaps and blazing summer — have you ever seen that curtain closed.

He’s shutting you out.

Literally.

You try to knock, once. Twice. 

Like that first time all those years ago. You even toss a pencil at his window.

Nothing.

On the third day, it hits you. He’s not ignoring you.

He’s hiding.

You see him at school — across the field during practice, in the cafeteria line, in the hallway — and every time, his eyes flick away the moment you look up. 

The worst part? It’s not even cruel.

It’s cowardice.

And that makes your heart ache in ways it never has before.

Because now you know. 

Now you’ve felt it — the way his hand curled behind your neck when he kissed you, the way he pulled you in like he couldn’t breathe without you. 

And now it’s like none of it ever happened.

Except it did.

And you can’t take it anymore.

So on the fourth day, you storm across the street, climb the little gate that separates your houses, and knock on his door with the weight of every word he hasn’t said.

No answer.

You try again. Louder this time. “Barou!”

You don’t care who hears.

Still nothing.

You pound once more and then snap, “If you don’t open this door, I’m going to make a scene.”

Silence.

Then… footsteps. Slow. Reluctant.

When the door creaks open, he’s there — tired eyes, hair down, tension across his shoulders like he’s bracing for a fight.

He stares.

You stare back. “Really?” you whisper. “This is what you do? After everything?”

He doesn’t speak.

So you keep going.

“You avoid me. You act like it didn’t happen. You shut me out like I’m some stranger—like we didn’t grow up together, like I don’t know exactly who you are.” Your voice shakes. “What the hell, Shoei?”

“I didn’t mean to,” he mutters.

“You kissed me.”

“I know.”

“You told me you didn’t want to leave because of me.”

“I know.”

You throw your arms up. “Then what is this?”

He runs a hand through his hair, breathing hard like he’s trying to keep himself steady. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Yes, you do,” you say, quieter now. “You just don’t want to.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then look at me and say it isn’t.”

And he does.

Slowly. Reluctantly.

Red eyes meeting yours.

“I meant it,” he says, voice low and rough. “Every damn word.”

You feel your heart stutter.

“But I thought…” He looks away again. “If I let you in, I’d lose everything I worked for.”

You blink. “Shoei…”

“I didn’t know if I could be that guy. The one who can be a boyfriend. Someone who—” he cuts off, jaw clenched. “I can’t mess this up.”

Your voice breaks. “Then why are you pushing me away?”

“Because I already feel like I don’t deserve you,” he says. “And you haven’t even kissed me twice.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, you step forward.

You take his hand.

And you squeeze it three times.

Maybe one a little too hard to get your frustration through to him. Oops.

“I didn’t kiss you back because I had to,” you whisper. “I kissed you back because I wanted to. Because I’ve wanted to for a long time.”

His eyes flicker.

Your fingers curl around his wrist. “You don’t get to pretend that didn’t happen. I won’t let you.”

He breathes out like he’s been holding his lungs hostage. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Another breath.

Then: “You’re still gonna throw pencils at my window?”

You smile, watery. “If you keep being an idiot, yeah.”

He huffs, barely a laugh — and then steps forward, arms wrapping around your waist, forehead dropping against yours. 

For the first time in days, he lets himself breathe with you again.

And this time?

You know he won’t shut the curtain.

i LOVE barou so i'm very happy you sent this ask in :)))

i hope you liked it!!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!!

⋆.˚✮ 2025 ©airybcby ✮˚.⋆

[wake-me-up-inside-imagines]

Tw: Implied murder, yandere character, self-esteem issues, delusion

Yandere! best friend who's known you for years, since middle school, really. Moving to a whole new school building was a big adjustment for the both of you, but you had found comfort in each other after being assigned to sit together during one of your classes. It was a friendship built to last, one the two of you would continue to grow and treasure for years to come.

Yandere! Best friend who values your friendship like no other, and you do the same for him. The two of you have always prioritized time together, hanging out or talking whenever you got the chance. Sure, life would get in the way sometimes, it always does, but through all the change growing up brought, the two of you managed to maintain a wonderful relationship.

Yandere! Best friend who’s always been kind and chivalrous to you. He’s a real gentleman, but he’s not weird about it. You can tell he genuinely cares for you as a person, and it brings you all the closer to him.

Yandere! Best friend who’s been there for you since the day you met, always looking after you whenever you needed support. No matter the problem, he’s always there for you, listening and comforting you with a warmth only he can manage.

Yandere! Best friend who's never told you how enthralled he was with you, from the second you entered his life.

Yandere! Best friend who didn’t mean to become obsessed with you. It was just supposed to be a harmless little crush, fading in and out as you both grew older. But instead, he grew more and more obsessed with you, every interaction with you filling his heart with so much desire that he felt he would burst from the pressure. He doesn’t understand it, but he’s far past wanting to fight it. You’re just so…perfect!

Yandere! Best friend who’s spent years trying to get closer to you, soaking in the joy you bring him like a dry sponge. He’s tried to be the perfect friend, always answering your calls, always accepting sporadic hangouts, always showing you the kindness and affection you deserve. He does everything in his power to make sure you’re comfortable while also making you feel adored. He’d do anything for you, a truth anyone who sees the two of you can understand.

Yandere! Best friend who becomes crestfallen every time you refer to him as “just a friend” or “like a brother.” He loves you so much, why can’t you return the love? What is he doing wrong? He treats you so well, he’s your closest confident, so what is he missing?

Yandere! Best friend who cannot for the life of him understand why you don’t see how much he adores you.

Yandere! Best friend who becomes even more destroyed once you enter the dating scene. Of course, he’s be over the moon to date you, but it’s not him you’re with. No, it’s never him. It’s always this person you met on an app or that person you know from somewhere, all sleaze bags, all inevitably breaking your heart. He watches time and time again as you date people who obviously don’t care for you, lending you a shoulder to cry on when they inevitably cheat on or break up with you. He pretends to be devastated for you, but it’s hard to hide the hope in his eyes. He hates to see you hurt, but surely you’ll understand now, right? Surely you’ll see how much better his for you, right?

But no. You never do. The cycle continues, and your best friend is left in the dust, pining desperately after someone who doesn’t love him back.

Yandere! Best friend who doesn’t get it. He can’t get it. He spends hours sorting through everything in his head, trying to figure out where he’s going wrong. What was he doing to make you prefer these other people instead of him? Was he really that unappealing to you? What could he possibly do to make you fall for him the way he fell for you?

And then it hits him. It’s so simple it’s almost laughable: You don’t think you deserve him!

Yandere! Best friend who understands now. It’s all become clear. You haven’t fallen for him because you won’t let yourself fall for him! After years of knowing you, it’s no secret to him that you’ve dealt with some self-esteem issues. Now that he thinks about it, your little insecure spells always happened around the time you found another person to date. Maybe you were only getting with these losers because you’d been brainwashed into thinking that you don’t deserve anything nicer. Maybe you’ve convinced yourself that you could never be loved by someone like him, someone who would give you the world and love you unconditionally.

Yandere! Best friend who couldn’t disagree more with you. It’s ok though, it’s not your fault! Rest assured, he can fix it. And fix it he will.

Starting with the terrible influences in your life.

Yandere! Best friend who becomes a needed comfort in your life when the guy you’ve been messaging suddenly ghosts you out of no where. He tells you you’re not missing out on much, that the guy seemed like a sleaze anyway, but it still hurt to be rejected so cruelly. But after a couple of weeks, the stings disappears, and you find yourself back to your regular state.

Yandere! Best friend who’s there for you when you discover the sudden murder of one of your more…interesting ex’s. Sure the guy had cheated on you, but he didn’t deserve to die, especially not so brutally! If you had stayed, would this had happened?

Yandere! Best friend who makes you feel better about the whole situation, reminding you that it wasn’t your fault and you couldn’t have known the future. Besides, the guy was terrible! Surely you can’t actually feel bad for him, right?

Still it messes with you. And that just isn’t acceptable.

Yandere! Best friend who learns from his mistake. He won’t be so careless again, not when it puts your mental health at risk.

Yandere! Best friend who makes sure you don’t see the missing signs and news reports on his newest victims, ones you’d be all too familiar with. He has to be careful if he doesn’t want to be caught, but it’s much easier for both of you this way. He didn’t like the mess anyway.

Yandere! Best friend who becomes even more involved in your life after that one guy ghosted you, growing touchier and more sappy as each day goes by. You don’t mind, he treats you right, and with all that had been going on, maybe it was best if you took a break from dating. You were happy to settle for just having your best friend by your side, at least for now. You hoped you could find a guy like him to get with one day.

Yandere! Best friend who’s determined to make you his, even more so now than before. He’s so, so close, he can feel it, he just has to get rid of a couple more people. He just has to do a little more work and then you’ll be his! He can guarantee it!

Yandere! Best friend who’s patient. He’s waited this long, he can wait for a couple more months…or weeks…or days, preferably.

He’ll make it happen. It’s just a matter of time.

[princesscolumbia]

What tells me that the producers of Strange New Worlds really got Trek far better than nearly anyone in decades was the S01 finale, "A Quality of Mercy." If you're unfamiliar, SNW is a prequel series for TOS that focuses on Captain Pike. This version of Pike it's aware of his eventual fate in the mobility chair even with the best 23rd century medicine has to offer and decides he's going to try to change his fate to the incident that puts him in the chair never happens.

Pike's future self appears and does an inverse "It's a Wonderful Life" and transports Pike to his future if he never gets disabled and suddenly he's officiating a wedding between two of his crew members and there's a red alert and the old school Trekkies all sat up and blurted out, "HOLY SHIT! IT'S 'BALANCE OF TERROR' BUT WITH PIKE!!!"

One of the things that so perfectly tied the two episodes together was the sometimes shot-for-shot recreation of key moments in each episode's plot, down to blocking, lighting, and dialog.

Quality of Mercy was a freaking love letter to some of the things that made TOS great.

cannot get over this lighting

[tellingtell5]

Home: 《James Cook, skins x reader 》

James Cook x femreader

Summary: Coming back to the city that watched you grow up? Yeah, that’s never easy — especially when you left things unfinished. And looking him in the eyes again? That hits different. Brings back stuff you tried to bury way deep down.

wc (I never usually mention this, but I think it’s necessary this time): 15k

A/N: Well... here it is. Can’t say I didn’t pour my heart into this story. Honestly, I had no idea it’d turn out like this when I started — but Skins hits close to home, and sadly, some things hit way too deep. I wanted to make it less painful, I swear... but yeah, a few tears might’ve slipped out. I don’t even know what this is — it’s a mess, for sure. Still, I needed to tell this story to ease something in my poor soul. I think this is the idea that’s taken me the longest — the one I’ve written, rewritten, deleted whole chunks of, and left a bunch of stuff on the cutting room floor (let me know if you'd wanna read those bits sometime).

Thanks for reading, for the support, and I hope you enjoy it 💛

You knew. You fucking knew the moment you stepped into your son's room and saw the little plastic bag lying there on the floor like it belonged. That flimsy wrap lit a fire in your chest, rage crawling up your throat like ivy, wrapping 'round your skull 'til it took root in your head.

If you'd been less angry, maybe you'd've sat him down, had the chat, told him again what it does to people. But all you could think of was your dad, shouting in your face, and how that only made you go harder. Made you do it just to spite him.

You thought about waiting, kitchen table drama, the bag in your fingers, trying to make a point with silence. Thought about telling your kid he could've told you, that he should've. That you would've sorted him better than whatever scumbag was dealing to him. But the thought of him not trusting you—of him looking at you like you'd looked at your own dad at that age—that cracked something inside.

So you took it. Stormed out. All logic drowned under the bile rising in your throat, and what bloomed in its place was cold certainty.

You could’ve bet your fucking arm you were right. That if you went to wherever the fuck he was pushing now, he’d be the one holding the bags. He always found a way to come out on top, didn’t he? You’d lost track of him ages ago. Didn’t know if he was locked up, dead, clean—nothing. But somehow, that one thing stayed the same. Cook and trouble—two sides of the same fucked-up coin.

You could've messaged. Maybe said, "I’m back. For me da, not for you. I had no choice but to crawl back to this shithole we used to call home." Could've told him to stay away. Not to drag your kid down the same pit you'd both rolled around in all those years ago.

Still, you knew there’d be no calm conversation. No sit-down chat. That wasn’t who you were. Not with him. Not ever. The rational, grown-up bit of you—the part that worked, paid bills, packed lunches—started to fade, dissolving like ink in water. The bile crawled higher in your throat and wiped all that sensible shit clean.

There was only one feeling left. Raw, rotting pain. The kind you’d stuffed down for years. The kind that never really healed, just got quiet until it exploded.

You knew exactly where to find him. And when you grabbed your keys and stormed out, there was no hesitation. You didn’t care how far you had to walk, or that it’d been over a decade since you'd wandered those streets. Your legs knew the way. The city hadn’t changed. Not really. Still the same miserable pit you'd clawed your way out of.

The air smelled the same. Damp brick, warm beer, stale piss. And just like that, you weren’t in the present anymore. It hit your spine like a ghost. You could hear your own laugh echo off the walls—too loud, too bright. The joke hadn’t been that funny, but you were happy. So happy, you wanted the whole fuckin’ world to know.

If you closed your eyes, you could feel the gravel crunchin' under your trainers as you ran through those streets. Young, breathless, and high on somethin’ better than drugs��freedom. Escape. The sheer joy of not givin’ a fuck.

You weren’t that girl anymore.

But you were about to see the boy who helped break her.

You saw him from down the road. Laughing, chatting with some teen in a hoodie, handing over something small. And that kid? Gone in a second. Cook’s hand in his back pocket, stuffing away the notes like nothing.

You didn't stop. Didn't even think. You didn’t hesitate. Shoved him hard from behind, caught him off balance so he stumbled forward, proper shocked. Your hands stung — muscle memory from a softer time, from when they used to hold him, trace his jaw like he meant something. You shook that off. Hit him again. Let his curses fly past you.

“Oi! The fuck?”

He turned, spitting fury, mouth curled like he was ready to rip into whoever dared touch him.

“Who the fuck d'you think you are, you stupid bitch?”

Your breath caught when you looked into those blue eyes again—the same ones that once held your whole fuckin' world together. For a moment, you forgot why you'd even come to this shithole. But then it hit you, sharp and cruel: his eyes were the same as your boy's. And he was the reason your kid was off his head on weed, sneakin' around behind your back.

"You fuckin' bastard."

You lunged. Fists clenched, ready to swing until he blacked out. He grabbed your wrists, tried to hold you back, jaw clenching with the effort. But it wasn't just 'cause you were flailin'. No—he was searchin', diggin' through his memory to figure out where the hell he knew this girl from, this girl who was throwin' punches like she wanted to break somethin' permanent.

His first thought was some bird he'd been with lately. Some one-night stand back to start shit. But then your eyes — filled with that same old fury, the same tears — gave you away. That flicker of recognition? It gutted him. He stopped fightin' back. Let your fists land. Took every hit like he deserved 'em.

He was too stunned to move. How long had it been? Fifteen years? Yeah. Quick maths. Fifteen years of missin' you. Of pretendin' he hadn’t been left with a heart cracked open and still bleedin'.

“You’re a proper wanker.”

Your hand had cracked across his face with all the fury you’d pent up for half your bloody life. He staggered a bit, jaw clenched, eyes wide, not from the hit—he could take a hit—but from the sight of you. Standing there like a storm that never passed, breathing like each inhale might rip you apart.

You weren’t hitting him anymore. Just staring. Shaking all over from rage, or something deeper. Trying to find your breath, trying to remember the woman you’d become, the one that had her shit together. But all you could feel was seventeen again. Seventeen, raw and bleeding, back in the streets that never let you heal. The city that had made you.

You looked away. Ran a hand down your face like you could wipe yourself clean of it all. What the fuck were you doing? This wasn’t you. Not anymore. But that version of you, the one this place had carved out with broken glass and sleepless nights, she clawed her way back.

He reached for you, hand brushing your hair like he used to — like he still had the right. You slapped him away.

“Not got nothin’ to say, have you?” You were baring teeth now, a wild thing uncaged. “’Course not. 'Cause you’re a fuckin’ twat, James.”

His eyes widened. James. His name. You said his real name. That hit harder than your fists. Nobody called him that anymore. Not like that. Not with meaning.

“What the fuck am I meant to say?” Now it was him unraveling. Shock turning to fury. The kind born in sleepless nights and stitched-up scars. “What the fuck do I say to the girl who vanishes for fifteen fuckin’ years and shows up swingin’ like some mad bitch, yeah?”

His voice cracked, rough with hurt.

Another slap. And this time, you were crying.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out one of those little plastic baggies—the kind he used to deal in. You hurled it at his face, daring him to say something.

“You high? That what this is?” he mocked, chucking it back. “You want somethin’ stronger? That why you dragged your sorry arse back here?”

He threw it back at you.

“You’re fuckin’ scum. Peddlin’ shite to kids without losin’ a wink of sleep. You’re filth, Cook.”

The name didn’t sit right in your mouth. You’d said it like everyone else did. Not like back then.

“Always been, though, ent I?”

And your heart cracked. Because through all the bravado, all the posturing, you saw it. That pain. Buried deep, still festering. He looked older. Sharper round the edges. But beneath it all, the same lost boy who once made you feel like the world could be more than just surviving.

“That why you did it, yeah? Fucked off like a slag an’ left me to rot?”

His voice was steel now, colder than you remembered. Void of anything soft. He spat the words like poison.

“Fuckin’ jog back in like nothin’s changed and act like you’re better than me? like we ain’t got history, and try to lecture me? Who the fuck d’you think you are?”

You had no answer. Because deep down, you knew he had every right to be furious. You left. You didn’t look back. You never told him about the baby, about how scared you were. You never gave him the chance. You never planned on seeing any of them again. But the city had a way of dragging you back into its rot.

“Yeah, thought so. Nothin’ to say. You’re mental. Proper fuckin’ mental.”

He flinched, like he might say something else. Like maybe he wanted to tell you he’d missed you every damn day. That you’d wrecked him. That your ghost had never stopped haunting him. Instead, he turned his head, spat blood on the pavement, wiped his lip. Walked past you like a stranger. Your shoulders brushed. For a second, you both stopped.

His warmth stunned you. Like a memory refusing to die.

Then your voice stopped him.

“Stay the fuck away from him.”

He stopped dead, turned slightly, eyebrows pinched in confusion.

“What?”

Now he turned fully, frowning at you like you’d lost your mind.

“What the fuck you on about?”

You let out a dry, bitter laugh and ran a hand through your hair, trying not to scream. The disbelief hit you harder than expected. He hadn’t even looked the kid in the eye when he sold him that shit. If he had, if he’d just looked, he might’ve seen it — those same bloody eyes. His eyes. A mirror he didn’t even recognise

“Unbelievable. You didn’t even look at him when you sold him that crap, did you?”

Something inside you cracked open, a bubble of rage and irony all twisted together, and you laughed — loud, manic. You’d come here full of fire, ready to unload years of anger onto him, but now it just felt… empty. He hadn’t even seen the boy. His own fucking son. You could’ve killed him. “Of course not, 'cause you're a proper fuckin' idiot. Leavin' was the smartest thing I ever did”.

Your words cut through him like glass. You saw it. The way his face twitched, jaw tightened. Like you’d pulled the stitches off wounds he’d buried deep under pints and pills. They’d never healed proper—just got rotten beneath all the filth he’d poured over them.

"Tell your dealer to stop givin' you whatever the fuck you’re on. You’re mad. Proper gone.

"Say what you want," you added, voice low and lethal, "but don’t come near him again. You hear me? Stay the fuck away from my son."

That shut him up. Stone-silent. The bloke who always had some clever line, some cocky deflection—now he was just standin’ there, mouth half-open, tryin’ to make sense of the words you’d just thrown at him like bricks. He just stared at you, stunned, trying to make sense of it. Like he was watching someone he used to know twist into something unrecognisable.

"Your son? You got a kid?"

His mind got flooded with old memories. Playin’ footie in the park, skivin’ off school, sittin’ on rooftops with that loudmouth girl with freckles on her cheeks and too much fire in her gut. He remembered the day she just walked up to him, JJ and Freddie on the school yard like she owned the fuckin’ place and went, “You lot are my mates now. That’s just how it is.”

The other kids didn’t take her in. She didn’t give a toss. She’d just said, “I didn’t wanna be their mate anyway. Got you lot now.” And somehow, that was it. You’d decided, and they didn’t argue. None of ‘em knew where the hell you’d come from, but they’d shrugged and let you stay. Like you were always meant to be there. Part of their broken little trio.

He tried to see that same boldness in the kids he’d sold to lately. Searched their faces for wide eyes and that look—like they’d punch the world in the teeth before lettin’ it touch them. For freckles spattered across skin like someone flung paint at ‘em.

But there was nothin’. Not one face that matched.

"How old is he?"

You saw what he was doing. The mental maths. The way his voice shifted, softer now. But fear gripped you too fast to answer.

"What, you givin' a shit now 'bout how old your customers are, Cook?"

Your name slipped out from those lips that once made you sigh. You own lips trembled, because you’d missed the way he said it, like it tangled up with his very soul.

"Fifteen."

His eyebrows shot up. And you saw it—the maths landin’. Fifteen years. The same amount of time since you’d vanished. Since you’d been... you and him. But he didn’t speak straight away, because things were never that easy. Not with you two.

“Don’t sell to him again, Cook. I fuckin’ mean it. Or you’ll regret it.

He snorted, tried to twist it into a joke, something he could use to deflect. "Yeah? What, his dad gonna come smash me up or somethin’?"

You didn’t flinch. Still knew him too well. Knew he was digging for answers. Knew exactly how his brain worked — like it hadn’t been fifteen years at all.

"No dad, Cook."

He blinked. Again. And then, one by one:

"Prison?"

You shook your head.

"Dead?"

Another no.

"Did a runner?"

You hesitated. Because yeah, there had been a runner. But not your son’s father.

"Freddie’s?"

That caught you off guard. Sharp like a punch to the chest. Your lungs forgot how to work. The ache behind your ribs, the way your heart flipped — fuck, you’d thought all that was buried. You crossed your arms, guarding yourself from the memories. From him. But he saw it. Of course he fucking did.

You remembered being ten, fallin’ in the park, scrapin’ your knees. You tried to hide it, didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to look weak. But Cook had known. He always knew. Told you, “Our bond’s forever, innit? I know when you’re hurt, stupid. Can’t hide nothin’ from me.”

And now, that same look was in his eyes. Like he still saw right through you. All the time and space in the world hadn’t changed that.

You shook your head again.

His voice came quieter now. Less of the bravado.

"...Mine?"

You lifted your face. Eyes red, cheeks wet. And you didn’t have to say a word.

Your name spilled again from his lips like a memory half-sung, cracked at the edges. Like he'd been carryin' it round in his chest all these years, not sayin' it out loud 'cause it hurt too much. It trembled on his tongue, that name, yours, the one he used to whisper when the lights were out and the world had gone quiet. It came out raw. Frayed. Familiar.

Fifteen years. And suddenly it all meant something. Every missed call, every time he’d cursed your name. Every fucked-up thing he’d done since. You’d left, But not just him.

You’d taken him with you.

He saw you again, and for a moment, everything else vanished. All the years, all the scars, all the pretending. Just your eyes. The ones that used to fill his dreams and keep him awake in equal measure. And the pain? The pain came back all at once, rushing through him like a freight train.

His mind, always loud, always chaotic, went still — just a dull roar of memory crashing in waves. Of laughter under streetlights, bruised knees, whispered dares, nights spent hiding from the world in each other’s presence.

"Our bond is forever."

You’d said it when you were six. Like it was gospel. Like it meant something unbreakable. And maybe it had, back then. Back when the world was smaller, and the monsters only lived under the bed. He’d believed you — with the kind of blind, feral devotion only a child can manage. And those words etched themselves deep, carved into bone, into blood.

With time, words started to weigh heavier on your chest. That crew – that mad, messy, beautiful crew – had once seemed unbreakable. Like kids made of velcro, always sticking back together no matter the mess. Their laughs used to warm the whole bloody street. It felt like family. The kind you picked, not the one you were born with. And even though most of them always had a home to crawl back to, arms half open no matter how twisted they came back, for Cook nor you – it had always been different.

He didn’t need to shout to be seen. People noticed him anyway. Especially you. The girl who'd pull him up with one hand, then trip him with the other, only to fall beside him laughing her head off. Always beside him.

But time twisted you. Pain does that. Made you careful, made you distant. Still, you leaned on them – the ones who held you up when you couldn’t float. Everyone carried their own kind of ache. You all tried, in your fucked up little ways, to meet somewhere in the middle – past the shouting and the silences, past the scars that never properly healed. You'd built a bubble. Inside it, you could forget who the world wanted you to be. You could just... be.

But who were you now?

He looked different. Older, sure. Harder around the edges. But when you met his eyes, something clicked. That thread, the one you’d both tied knot after knot in, hadn’t snapped. Not really. You wondered if he felt it too. If that old shed of Freddie’s still stood, would it feel the same? Could you tuck yourself between him and JJ again, let the noise in your head drift off while Freddie went on about his latest trick, JJ pulled coins out your ears, and Cook traced lazy shapes on your legs, spread across his lap?

Now... you weren’t sure where to place it all. You’d unplugged from them so violently. From the only people who’d really seen you at your worst. But in Cook’s eyes – fuck – it was like he remembered too. Like he was back there, where you’d built each other up with the bits that no one else wanted.

"You left."

It wasn’t sharp. Just a fact. A truth too big to hold in.

You nodded. Tears stinging. Heart crumpling in your chest.

"We were a mess, yeah?"

You shook your head, firm.

"Not always," you whispered, your voice barely air. "Not all the time. There were good bits, Cook."

And you both remembered.

°°°

You’d barely turned ten. Still had milk teeth hanging by threads. Just the two of you outside school, sat on the curb. Freddie and JJ had already legged it home – warm dinners waiting, family fussing.

Not you two.

Your legs were scraped from a fall you pretended didn’t hurt, backpack half-open, books spilling like you couldn't be bothered anymore. He sat next to you, legs crossed like a question mark, fiddling with a busted shoelace. Neither of you said anything for a while. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was the kind you only get when someone knows your kind of quiet.

"My dad’s a mess too," you muttered, eyes fixed on a chip in the pavement like it held answers. Voice small, but steady. Not crying. Not asking for pity.

Cook didn’t flinch. Just looked over, his face unreadable. Maybe he already knew. Maybe he saw it in your hunched shoulders or the way you kicked at pebbles like they owed you something.

"He’s working," you said, like you were trying to make it sound okay. "Says we need the money. Said he’d be back in a few days. There’s beans in the cupboard and my uncle’s number stuck on the fridge. But not to call unless I’m really dying or summat."

You laughed then. But it was dry. Hollow. The kind of laugh that tries to keep your throat from closing up. Cook didn’t laugh. Just nodded. Like yeah, that made sense. Like it wasn’t the worst thing he’d heard that week.

You stood up, dusted your trousers, slung that old worn backpack over your shoulder. Reached a hand down.

"Come on. I learned how to work the hob. Not eating tinned crap again. You can stay at mine."

It wasn’t said like an invitation. It was a fact. Like the sky being grey, or Mondays being shite. He took your hand without a word, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because it was. With him, it always was.

That night you cooked something that vaguely resembled food, even if the noodles were half-crunchy and the sauce came from three different expired packets. You laughed when he made a face. He ate it anyway.

You gave him that hideous purple pyjama set you’d grown out of. He swam in it, looked absolutely ridiculous, and wore it like it was made of gold. Called it his superhero suit. You mocked him mercilessly, but secretly kept the matching top buried under your pillow. Just in case.

It became a thing. Not just staying over, but staying close. He’d swing by with half a sandwich, you’d share a single glove when one of you lost theirs. He’d show up on bad days without asking what was wrong. You’d walk beside him when he needed someone to pretend nothing was.

He remembered the first time his chest did something stupid around you. That weird pirouette inside, then you handed him instant soup like it was gourmet.

"This bond, it’s forever, James. So eat this and say it’s the best shit you’ve ever had, yeah?"

Something cracked in him then. Not like with Freddie and JJ – he loved them, no doubt. But this? This was different. Warmer. Deeper. Scary, if he was honest.

You weren’t just surviving anymore. You were building something. A quiet, scrappy little life made of instant soup and mismatched pyjamas and the kind of loyalty that doesn’t need words.

°°°°

You were thirteen when all your mates had buggered off for the summer. Off to some beach town or cosy village with ice cream and swimming pools. But not you. Not him either. The two of you were stuck. Stuck on the estate, where heat curled up off the pavement and the air sat thick and lazy, unmoved by even a whisper of breeze.

You were sprawled out on the grass in that sad little park, the one near the shops with the broken swing and the bin that always stank. Silent—not because there was nothing to say, but because everything felt too heavy to speak aloud. Maybe, deep down, you just didn’t want to be left alone with your thoughts. Not that day. Not any day, really. You were just kids then, but you both knew loneliness like an old song. Familiar. Mean.

Across the field, some couple were snogging like their lives depended on it. Arms tangled, lips smacking, all dramatic and disgusting. You rolled your eyes, but it was Cook who cracked first. Started taking the piss—moaning, miming, flailing like an idiot. A proper knobhead. But it worked. You laughed so hard your ribs ached, folding in on yourself as the air left your lungs in gasps. He was holding his sides too, wheezing, grinning, eyes bright with mischief. You wiped a tear from your cheek, the laughter still fizzing.

“That was vile,” you gasped, catching your breath.

He nodded, that daft grin still plastered on his face. But then he went quiet. His mouth was still curved up like he might keep laughing, but his eyes drifted—miles away. You knew that look. You knew him too well not to.

“Spit it out, before your brain explodes.”

He bit his cheek, weighing something up. But of course, he said it.

“We should try it.”

“What?”

“Snogging. We should give it a go. Everyone’s doing it. Might as well get some practice in, yeah? Don’t wanna be shit when it matters.”

You looked away. Something twisted in your chest. You didn’t know what it was—not exactly—but it stung. That last bit. When it matters. Like this wouldn’t. Like you didn’t. And that hurt in a way you hadn’t planned for.

So you did what you always did when things hurt: something stupid.

“Alright then. Let’s do it.”

He froze. Didn’t expect that—not really. He always talked big, but deep down he must’ve known you’d do anything he asked. You always had.

You leaned in, hands on his shoulders, a little rougher than you meant. Trying to seem cool, to ignore the way your fingers trembled. Your head felt full of static. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel funny. It felt like falling.

He licked his lips—nervous, clueless, drowning.

“Ew. Why’d you do that?”

“Dunno. That’s what they do in films.”

“Yeah, well, this ain’t some bloody film, James.”

And before you could think it to death, you kissed him. Slammed your mouth against his like it was a dare. Clumsy. Fast. A bit gross. You stayed there for a second, lips mashed together, not moving. Just existing in that weird, hot space between what you were and what you might’ve been.

Somewhere in that messy, awkward press of lips, something shifted—not outside you, but inside. A slow, startling warmth unfurled in your chest. Not like fire. More like the sun, rising somewhere deep in your ribs. It made it hard to breathe. Hard to move.

You always liked being near Cook. His warmth was different. Like home. He smelled like sun and grass and cheap soap, and somehow that had started to mean something.

His nearness made your heart twist.

It scared you.

You pulled back. His eyes were still shut, lips puckered like he was waiting for more. You gave his shoulder a little shove.

He coughed, awkward. Didn’t have the words. Probably never would. He looked lost—too many feelings with no names yet. Just two kids, barely keeping their own heads above water, trying to figure it out one clumsy kiss at a time.

“Dunno what the fuss is. Wasn’t even that good.”

He winced. You saw it. But he swallowed it down, did what he always did.

Turned pain into jokes.

“You taste like crisps.”

“You’re a dickhead, Cook.”

You flopped back on the grass beside him, squinting up at the sky. He laid down too, close enough your elbows touched.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Because yeah—maybe that was easier than admitting your heart had just cracked open a little.

°°°

You'd been waiting outside for over ten minutes. Maybe that wouldn’t’ve felt like much to another kid who’d just turned fourteen, but for you it was turning into bloody eternity. Time felt warped, stretched thin and cruel, the kind of waiting that made your hands itch for something to do—like pressing the buzzer and messing about with the loose bits on the porch, or digging through that box of shite Cook kept outside, pretending you weren’t just standing there feeling small. But you knew how it made him feel—coming down and finding you alone with his mum.

You’d known Ruth longer than you’d known your own way home. Spent more afternoons in that house than you cared to count—killing time, mucking about, waiting for your dad to remember he had a daughter. Back then, you didn’t think too much of it. It was an escape, sort of. Your house had no rules, sure—but Cook’s was real anarchy.

You’d sit on the floor drawing for hours, paper smudged with colour, making worlds out of felt-tip pens. Ruth’d snatch your sketches up and slap 'em on the fridge like they meant something. "This one’s got it," she’d say, holding your paper like a fucking relic. "Don’t lose her, James. She’s got light."

You don’t even realise your finger’s pressed the buzzer until it’s done. Regret floods you fast, heavy and choking. You can already picture his face—Cook’s—tight with hurt, confused why you didn’t wait like you promised. The door creaks open and there she is. Ruth. Wine glass in one hand, makeup smeared like war paint. She smiles like a knife.

"Well well. If it ain’t the little threat herself."

You force a grin. Polite. Hollow. Just long enough to slip past her and into the house. But once you're in, it’s like the walls start watching you. Her eyes rake over you—up and down, inside out. You feel flayed.

"All grown up now, eh? No wonder my Jamie can’t shut up about you. Always on about his special little mate."

The air snags in your chest. Something twists deep down, hot and weird and aching. You’d started feeling things lately. Not just for anyone—for him. Feelings none of your mates had names for. A tug in your chest when he looked at you too long. That burn in your cheeks when he touched your wrist by accident and didn’t let go.

You keep your mouth shut, lips tight. Just nod, just smile. But your eyes are locked on Ruth, taking her in, trying to memorise every bit of damage. Every sharp edge that made you learn how to fix him.

She leans in too close, breath warm and sickly with booze and smoke, and plants her hand heavy on your shoulder.

"Let me give you a bit of advice, sweetheart. Since your mum ain’t here to do it, yeah? Don’t let yourself get dragged down. You’ve got future in you—I can see it. That fire in your eyes, it’s real. You’ve got ambition."

You blink. Once. Then twice.

"Sorry, I don’t quite—"

"Don’t let that little monster ruin you. He don’t mean to, but he will. It’s in his blood. Everything he touches, he rots. Just like his dad."

That’s the first time you taste rage. Real rage. Not kid anger. Not sulking or stomping or shouting. Real, white-hot, burning fury. She’d just called him a monster. Him. The boy you stayed up late worrying about. The one who called you when his nightmares got bad and who never told you what they were.

Your mouth twists. You feel your shoulders square without thinking.

"Take care, darling. Best stay away fro—"

"Told you to wait outside."

Your head snaps toward the stairs. There he is. Cook. Slouched and tired and barefoot, shirt unbuttoned like he couldn’t be arsed to finish dressing. His face says everything—he heard enough.

You break from her touch like it burned. Move toward him. Raise your hand, slow but sure. It’s not just a gesture. It’s a message. Come with me. Let’s go.

He hesitates. Always does, like he’s checking to see if he’s allowed to want something. But then he moves, steps down, takes your hand in his. Warm and rough and real. You squeeze. Too hard, maybe. But you don’t care. You’re telling him everything in that grip. I’m here. I’m not leaving.

You pass Ruth together, hand in hand, her perfume still clinging to your lungs. But you don’t look back—until the very last moment. You hold her gaze like a dare.

She snorts. Disbelief, not laughter.

"What did I tell ya? Eyes like fire. Gonna burn the whole bloody world."

"Goodbye, Ruth," you spit, her name bitter on your tongue.

Outside, you don’t let go. You rub your thumb over the back of his hand. Small circles. Like you can undo what she said. Like you can stitch up all the places she left him bleeding.

"Our bond’s forever, yeah?"

Your voice is too soft. Too vulnerable. And he doesn’t answer with words. He lets go only to pull you into him, arms tight around your shoulders like he’s building a shelter out of himself.

You bury your face in his chest and grip the back of his shirt. Because this is how you’ve always talked. Not with words. With skin. With the way he holds you like you're the only thing that feels right in the world.

°°°

At fifteen, it was all just too much. Emotions that once felt simple started twisting, folding in on themselves, turning into something you didn’t have the words for. Your body spoke a language you couldn’t bloody translate, and it was driving you mad. You wanted to scream half the time. The other half, you were just tired. Tired of feeling too much and not enough all at once.

Cook? Cook decided the best way to cope was to be louder. To let the world know he was a mess inside by being even messier on the outside. He didn’t give a shit who he pissed off or what got broken along the way. If it hurt, he made it louder. Like pain meant less when it echoed.

You took the opposite route. You locked it all down. Ignored the noise in your own head, pushed the thoughts back so deep they started to rot. You didn’t let yourself think about what it meant to sit alone in a house that never felt like home. You tried not to notice the twist in your gut when Panda's mum made her cake and warm milk, or when Katie and Emily argued over nothing but still sat down to eat together. And JJ's mum? Bloody hell, she made your skin itch with all that love. Asking him how his day went, reminding him to take his pills, cheering like a loon when he did some daft magic trick.

You knew none of their lives were perfect. Hell, you knew too well. But that didn’t stop you wanting a piece of it. Just a bit of the warmth. Just something.

So that one night, when you waited for Cook with that sad little dish you’d spent hours learning to make, something cracked. Just the two of you, like always. You told yourself it’d be okay once he got there. That he'd laugh at the burnt bits, eat it all anyway, and then the two of you would take the piss out of that show with Freddie’s sister dancing like she’d been electrocuted. That you’d feel less alone, just for a bit.

But he was late. Real late. And that cold plate on the table started looking like a fucking eulogy.

You called. Once, twice. No answer. By the third, you were angry. Angry and scared. Told yourself you wouldn't ring again. That if he was lying in a ditch, it served him right.

Then he picked up.

His breath came heavy, like he'd legged it down the whole of Bristol. His voice was rough, but it wasn’t the good kind. And then you heard it – laughter. A girl, muffled but clear. Something clicked in your stomach. Jealousy. Ugly, sharp.

“Cook?”

A shushing noise, then that daft voice of his. “Yeah. Shit. Sorry. I lost track.”

“You forgot experimental dinner night.”

“Fuck. Was that tonight?”

“Yeah. It was.”

More noise. A girl again, asking him to come back to bed.

You felt it then. That bite. The heat rising in your cheeks. But not the good kind. This wasn’t blushing. This was burning.

“Give me a bit, yeah? I can—”

“No, Cook. You can’t. Don’t you dare come over.”

“Oi, don’t be like that, sweetheart—”

But you were already gone. Phone across the room. Dinner in the fridge. And just like that, it was empty again. You were empty.

At night, curled up in a bed that suddenly felt twice as big, you heard the knocking at your window. You didn’t move. Just buried your head deeper under the pillow, tightening it around your ears until his voice was nothing but a muffled hum in the storm of your own thoughts.

You knew it was him. Of course it was him. Who else would be daft enough to throw stones at your window past midnight in the rain? Who else would show up after fucking everything up like it meant nothing, like it was just another night?

But this wasn’t just another night. And it wasn’t just some dinner.

It was your thing. Thursdays. You’d started it as a joke. Experimental dinner night. You’d make something weird, he'd pretend to hate it, and you'd both end up on the floor laughing, talking about fuck all till it was late enough to forget the rest of the world.

You’d made something new that night. Put effort in. Set the table. Waited. And waited. You told yourself he was just late. That he'd show up with some stupid excuse and that you’d forgive him before you even got angry.

But he didn’t come. You felt something sharp twist inside you. Not just jealousy. It was betrayal. It was the cold realisation that he'd forgotten. Not flaked, not ditched. Forgotten.

Forgotten the one thing that was yours.

And not because he didn’t care. Because he did. That’s what made it worse. He cared, but he was still Cook. Still running from his own feelings like they were fire at his heels. Still diving headfirst into chaos instead of sitting still long enough to feel something real.

You’d seen it before. When things got too close, he’d blow it all up. Not on purpose—but not by accident either.

He couldn’t bear the quiet. Couldn’t bear how good it felt when you looked at him like you saw all the wreckage and still wanted him anyway. That kind of safety terrified him. So he ran. Straight into the arms of anyone who didn’t ask questions. Anyone who didn’t look at him like you did.

He showed up that night because a part of him knew what he’d done. Knew he’d fucked it. Knew that he’d broken something that wasn’t easy to glue back together.

You didn’t let him in.

And outside, under your window, Cook was falling apart.

Because you had been the only one who never asked him to be anything else. Who never expected perfection or promises. Just a seat at the table. A bit of warmth in the mess.

And he’d forgotten it. Like it was nothing. Because he'd been too busy trying not to feel jealous about you and Freddie. Too scared to ask what you felt, too hurt to admit what he felt himself. He'd bottled it all up like always, let it fester, and then found a body to disappear into instead of saying the one thing he couldn’t:

That he was scared of losing you.

°°°

There were no more Thursday experiments. That part of your life had vanished, like a dream fading in the morning light, and nothing came close to replacing it.

But still, you stayed. Maybe not in the same way, maybe not with sleepovers and secret smiles, but you never truly left him. You were still there—still laughing at his jokes, still showing up when he called, still walking into the chaos just to pull him out again. You kept orbiting each other like planets with wrecked gravity, doomed to circle forever without ever quite touching.

Things had changed between you. Not in loud, dramatic ways—but in the silences. In the pauses between jokes. In the way your eyes lingered too long and your hands pulled away too quickly. There was a weight between you that neither of you dared to name, the kind of tension that makes your chest ache because it’s too full of things left unsaid. Every time you looked at him, you felt it—that ache. And he felt it too, but neither of you was brave enough to step into it. So you let it grow, let it rot into something heavy and bitter, something that pressed against your ribs whenever he smiled at someone else.

You tried to kill it. You both did. You went looking for numbness, for distractions. For something to drown out that god-awful feeling of almost. Cook found it in strangers—flashes of skin and noise and temporary warmth. He was always good at pretending none of it mattered, that he didn’t feel anything. He’d wrap himself around anyone who’d have him, chasing that brief second of being wanted, of not being alone.

And you? You chose quiet. You chose Freddie. Gentle hands. Calm words. Someone who wouldn’t explode at the drop of a hat. He made your life feel less like a car crash and more like a walk through the rain. With him, it was softer. Safer. You knew he loved you in a way that hurt because you couldn’t love him back the same. He’d whisper it into your skin—"I love you, I love you"—like it could make you stay, like it could make you forget the way your heart still twisted at the sound of Cook’s laugh.

And all you could say was, “I know.”.

 He saw it in the way your eyes always drifted across the room. In how your voice changed when Cook was near. Freddie knew your heart belonged to someone who never quite knew what to do with it. And still, he stayed. Let you carve a home out of his chest and never asked for more than you could give.

You weren’t Cook’s girlfriend. Never were. You weren’t Freddie’s either, not really—just someone who drifted close enough to feel safe for a while. But Cook, he hated the idea of you choosing anyone else. Not because he’d claimed you, not because he’d ever said the words—but because deep down, he always believed you were his. His anchor. His person.

It twisted something in him, the thought of someone else holding you when your hands shook, of someone else knowing the sound of your breathing when you finally fell asleep. He couldn’t stand the idea that someone else got to see you soft, see you small. So his jokes turned sharper, crueler. His laugh louder, more manic. Every room you walked into, he made sure you saw him first—made sure you couldn’t look anywhere else.

He'd do anything to keep your eyes on him, even if it meant becoming a caricature of himself. Because being your nothing was still better than watching you belong to someone else.

And it worked. Somehow, it always worked. You’d end up beside him, always. Fingers tracing nothing on his arm while Freddie looked on from across the room, too kind to say anything, too in love to look away.

You were both broken. You and Cook. Too mangled by life to know how to say what needed saying. Too scared of ruining what little you had left. So instead of building something, you burned everything around you just to feel alive.

But no matter how far he spiralled, no matter how messy the night, Cook always found his way back to you. Battered and bleeding, eyes glazed over from whatever he’d taken, fists bruised from fights that didn’t mean anything. Somehow, his feet would always carry him to your door.

And you’d always open it. Even when you shouldn’t. Even when you were exhausted from carrying too much that was never yours to carry. You’d open that door and there he’d be—your wreck of a boy. All scraped knees and bleeding knuckles. Lost. And you’d take his hand, still the same hand you held when you were kids, and you’d guide him out of the dark again.

You’d clean him up. Sit him down, wipe the blood off his stupid face with that same gentleness he never felt he deserved. You’d dress his wounds like he hadn’t ripped your heart open a hundred times. Leave fresh clothes for him, not the old purple pyjamas anymore.

Then you’d pull him into your bed and wrap your arms around him like you could hold him together. Like if you held him tight enough, he wouldn’t fall apart again. Like maybe you could keep the pieces from slipping through your fingers this time.

And he’d let you. He always did. He’d let the warmth swallow him whole. Let you be the one place that didn’t hurt. And he’d think it—every time—that he loved you. That he needed you. That it killed him, not having the right to say any of it out loud. Because he didn’t know how to love things gently. He only knew how to want so much it broke him.

Instead of saying it, he’d make a joke. Always. “You really need to wash these sheets. They fucking stink.”

And you’d roll your eyes, your heart aching in your chest. “If you didn’t cover them in blood and sick every time, they wouldn’t, twat.”

And somehow, in all the mess and damage and wreckage—you’d fall asleep beside him. Pretending, just for a night, that love didn’t have to ruin everything.

°°°

You didn’t even remember gettin’ up to your room. Everything’d been so fucking loud, so overwhelming—all screaming and chaos, a storm in your head that felt like it’d drown you. You wanted to feel pain. Real pain. Something sharp enough to split you open, just so you’d know you were still alive. But there was nothing. Just that heavy, humming nothing sitting inside your chest like a weight.

You could see yourself sitting on the edge of the bed, dead still, staring at some random spot on the wall like your brain’d shorted out. It didn’t feel like it was happening to you, couldn’t be. You weren’t there, not properly. Like you’d split from your body and drifted off somewhere else.

You didn’t remember picking up your phone either. Didn’t clock the moment you called Freddie. He didn’t answer. Probably asleep. Maybe off with Effy. You weren’t even upset. No anger, no disappointment. Just more of that fucking void. Didn’t even know why you rang him first. Maybe deep down, you knew he wouldn’t pick up. That way, you wouldn’t have to say it out loud—wouldn’t have to make it real.

Your fingers moved on their own, calling another number. You didn’t even know what you were doing ‘til you heard his voice.

"What’s happened?"

He always knew. Didn’t matter if you hadn’t spoken in months, Cook just fuckin’ knew when summat was off. Like he had a radar for your pain or something. You just breathed, trying to find your voice beneath all the noise.

"You home? I’m comin’."

And suddenly, something. Your heart banged against your ribs and the heat came with it, warm and dizzying, like the blood was rushing back into dead limbs. You held onto it. Clung, like it might stop you from falling apart completely. Because that feeling, even buried as deep as it was, was better than that cold empty nothing.

When you stepped outside, you saw him. Loud as ever. Car that probably wasn’t his, windows down, music blaring through the estate like a fuck-you anthem. You knew he did it on purpose. For your dad. For anyone who thought you were alone.

He leaned out the window, waving a tub of ice cream.

"Weren’t no mint, babe. Got what I could."

Your chest twisted so tight it felt like it might snap. You smiled with your teeth clenched, trying not to fall apart.

"You gettin’ in or what? This shit’s already turnin’ to soup."

You got in without a word. Took the tub off him. It was a mess. Melting and sticking to your fingers. Just like you. Just like him. Perfectly fucked.

Back at his flat, you lay side by side on his bed, eyes stuck on the ceiling. The air was thick. Every breath a fucking effort. You reached out, slow, your thumb grazing his hand—a silent SOS. And he answered. That touch turned real. Present. Dangerous.

You started stroking his hand, like it meant nothing, like it was casual. But it weren’t. Not for either of you. You used to touch all the time. Back when you were just mates. Before it got complicated. Before it started hurting to be close.

He shifted closer. Your shoulders brushed. The weight of it pressed down on you like concrete. You couldn’t breathe properly—not through your nose, not through your fucking lungs. But you didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

His fingers gripped yours. Tight. Not soft. He was saying something. That he was there. That you weren’t alone. His breath hitched. You turned your head to look at him. His eyes were moving, restless, chasing answers in the plaster above.

Then he said it.

"I fuckin’ love you."

Too fast. Too real. Too late.

“No, Cook, please. Don’t”

You tried to shut him up. Hand over his mouth, desperate to stop the words before they fucked it all up. But he pulled it away.

"I love you. Not like Freddie or JJ. Not like that. It’s fuckin’ awful. Makes me feel sick, how much I do."

Your mouth opened but nothing came. Just tears. Blurry, burning, useless.

"You don’t have to say owt. Just... I need you to know there’s people out there who love you. Who think you’re gold, yeah? Proper gold. And you need to hear that. You need to believe it."

The world tilted.

Not just around you—inside you. It cracked. Your bones felt hollow. Your skin too thin. Your chest too tight to hold the weight of what he’d said. You were glad you were lying down because if you’d been upright, you would’ve collapsed under the force of it. You felt like glass, straining under pressure, seconds from shattering. He’d made you glass, and he didn’t even know it.

He was still next to you, breathing, waiting. Waiting for something you didn’t know how to give.

You loved him too.

Of course you fucking did.

You felt it blooming in your chest like a bruise, dark and tender and obvious. But you didn’t say it. You couldn’t. Because saying it would make it real, and real things could be broken. Could rot. Could ruin the only constant you’d ever had in your life—him.

You didn’t know how to love without ruining it. Didn’t know how to hold something without crushing it in your fists, how to touch something good without setting it on fire. You didn’t have soft in you. Not the kind people deserved. Not the kind he deserved.

And you knew, with this cold, awful certainty, that he would take anything you gave him. He always had. That was the worst part. He’d let you have him in pieces. He’d swallow your confusion, your silence, your mess, just to stay close. That confession? That reckless, beautiful fucking confession? It only proved what you’d already known deep down: he’d let you hurt him if it meant you’d let him stay.

You hated yourself for it. For needing him this much. For not saying what he needed to hear. For letting him drown in your silence just so you wouldn’t have to face your own fear.

You were selfish. And you knew it.

But you couldn’t risk losing him. Not him. Not the only one who’d stayed. Because once you fucked it up—and you would, it was in your blood—there’d be no going back. No arms to run to. No place left in the world that felt like home.

So when you saw him take another breath, gearing up to speak again, you did the only thing you could.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t anything out of a film. It was sharp and clumsy and almost panicked, your lips crashing into his like you could knock the words back down his throat.

And just like that, everything else fell away.

The years of confusion. Of longing. Of pretending. That ache in your chest that never had a name. It all burned up in the heat of that kiss. Because the truth was, your body had always known what your mouth couldn’t say. His mouth on yours was gasoline on everything buried. Your whole soul lit up.

You kissed him like a secret, like a scream, like a fucking prayer. Letting him feel all the things you couldn’t give shape to. All the love you didn’t know how to carry. You poured it into his mouth, frantic, desperate, hoping it would be enough.

His breath caught. His hands didn’t move. For a moment, it was just you—wreckage and want and all the things you couldn’t speak, pressed against the one person who might still want you anyway.

It only lasted a second. Maybe two. Just a graze of fire and salt and skin. But when you pulled back, you couldn’t breathe.

And he understood. Of course he did. That was the thing about him. He always fucking did.

°°°°

You don’t talk about it. Not the kiss. Not the way his hand clung to yours like he couldn’t stand to let go. Not the I love you he dropped like it was nothin—like he wasn’t tearing the world in half with it. You just pretend it didn’t happen. Both of you. Like it got swallowed up in the dark. Like it never cracked you open.

But everything’s different now. Even the silence. It hums. Stretches. Pulls at the edges of every moment. He still shows up, still takes the piss, still crashes at yours like always. But now, there’s a weight to everything. Like the air’s thicker when he’s near. Like you’re both waiting for the next mistake.

You wake up with him behind you.

Not heavy. Not suffocating. Just… there. Warm. Familiar. The kind of weight you used to think would mean safety, before you learned better. His arm is around your middle, loose but certain. His chest presses into your back, breath soft against the nape of your neck. You can smell him. Sweat, cheap shampoo, something vaguely like the smoke from last night’s spliff still clinging to his skin.

You blink at the light slipping through the crack in the curtains. Too early. Too cold. You should get up. Instead, you lie there for a moment longer.

It’s not the first time he’s crawled into your bed after a night out or a fight or just because he had nowhere else to go. He never asks. Just slips in beside you like it’s natural. Like it’s always been this way.

You try not to read into it anymore. You’ve both gotten good at pretending this doesn’t mean anything.

When you shift, his grip tightens. A sleepy groan vibrates against your shoulder.

"Don’t,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and honey, barely awake. “Warm here. Stay."

You smile despite yourself. That stupid, lazy voice of his—so close it feels like it could climb under your skin.

"We’ve got class, idiot," you whisper, turning just enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

His face is buried in your pillow, one eye cracked open, bleary and annoyed. He doesn’t move.

"Skip."

"You skip."

"I am."

You huff out a laugh. You should be annoyed, but he looks so fucking peaceful like that. Like some other version of himself. One that doesn’t burn everything down just by being near it. You push a bit of hair from his forehead, slow and careful. His eyes flutter closed again.

"Go back to sleep, Cook," you whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

You stay there a second longer, watching him. Trying to fix this version of him in your mind—the one that sleeps, the one that clings, the one that doesn’t talk. Then you ease out of his grip and tuck the duvet back around him.

By the time you leave, your fingers are still tingling from touching his skin.

The day’s shit from the start. Cold wind. Missed bus. You nearly spill coffee on your jumper, and someone plays Mardy Bum too loud in the hallway and it hits too close. But then—silver lining: your third period’s cancelled.

It’s barely noon. You could go to the library. Get ahead. Be a normal person for once. Instead, your feet turn toward home like they’ve made the decision for you.

You’re already smiling when you climb the stairs. He’ll still be asleep, probably starfished across your sheets. Maybe snoring, definitely drooling. You’ll crawl back in beside him, just for a bit. Maybe steal his warmth before he wakes up and ruins it with his mouth.

You push open the bedroom door, ready to say, You’re not gonna believe this, they actually—

And then you stop.

Because he’s not asleep.

He’s on your bed, one hand wrapped tight around himself, the other holding—

Your knickers.

Pressed to his face.

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

For a second, the world tilts.

Your voice gets caught in your throat, stuck somewhere between shock and—something else. Something hot. Something low and coiling.

You freeze, caught in the doorway like you’ve stepped into someone else’s dream—or maybe a nightmare you don't hate quite as much as you should.

He’s sprawled across your sheets like he owns them, like he belongs there, flushed and messy and loud, moaning your name like a curse. Your panties are bunched in his fist, pressed to his face like a drug he’s too far gone to quit.

And the worst part is: he doesn't even flinch. Doesn’t try to hide it. Just blinks through the haze, lips parted, hips twitching up into his fist like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like you walking in on this was just part of the plan.

Your heart stutters. Your skin prickles.

You should slam the door. Should scream at him. But instead—

You laugh. It bubbles up, breathless and sharp, just as your hand flies to your mouth.

“Are you actually jerking off in my bed?”

He grins, wild and unrepentant, eyes glittering with something feral. “Took you long enough, princess. Thought you’d never get home.”

“You absolute pig.”

He groans like that helps, head falling back into your pillow like he’s sinking into something holy. “Go on. Call me more names. Call me your filthy little secret.”

Heat coils in your stomach. This isn’t new. Cook and his disasters. Cook and his wreckage. But this—this thing he’s doing in your sheets with your scent on his skin and your name in his mouth—this is new. And it’s working.

“Is this what you do the second I leave?” Your voice barely works. You lean on the doorframe, arms crossed, trying not to melt. Trying to look unbothered. "Raid my drawer, get off with your nose buried in my underwear?"

He doesn’t startle. Doesn’t even stop. He just groans loud, lets his head roll toward you with a grin that’s all teeth and trouble.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You arch a brow, your stomach tightening.

He laughs again—breathless and soaked in sweat. “Alright, maybe do. You smell like sin, babe. Like fuckin' heartbreak. How'm I supposed to behave when you leave me here like this?"

Your mouth goes dry. There's heat curling behind your ears, a deep throb low in your stomach. You shift without meaning to, thighs brushing, sensitive.

"You're a menace."

"And you fuckin' love it," he pants, voice getting louder now, filthier. He's putting on a show and he knows it. All messy rhythm and flushed skin, muscles twitching under the strain. "Bet you think about this too, yeah? Think about me when you touch yourself in that bed?"

Your breath hitches. Everything inside you pulses.

"Not Freddie," he growls, jaw tight, hand still moving. "Me. It’s me you think of with your fingers between your legs, innit?"

Your legs lock, throat too dry to speak. Every nerve ending is on fire. You can feel the ache building between your legs just watching him. That hot-cold shame that feels like lightning.

" Because it’s always been you for me. Always have," he spits, eyes wild. "But after that kiss? Fuck, princess. I can’t stop. Every fuckin' night. You think I’m loud now? You should hear what I sound like with your name in my mouth and your taste still stuck in my teeth."

You squeeze your thighs together so tight it hurts. Your skin feels too hot. Your breath too shallow. He catches the shift in your stance and moans, filthy and guttural.

"You like this. Bet you're soaked just watchin' me. Bet you can't even look away."

You can’t. You don’t want to. Your body’s humming, aching, practically begging for something you haven’t even admitted to yourself.

You knew it was a provocation—everything he was doing was meant to make you snap, to make you say what you couldn’t that night. But the words caught in your throat again, stuck fast with no way out. He clicked his tongue, saw it in your eyes—the denial of the obvious—and moaned a little louder, just to fuck with you, just to see if that would finally pull you out of your own head.

“You’re such a dick.”

"Big one too," he grits out, voice almost breaking, hips bucking like he’s chasing the edge.

Your heart stutters. Your pulse thrums between your legs.

And he falls apart with a shout, like he wants the whole damn street to know. Loud, messy, shaking, like he can’t take it anymore.

Your name breaks out of him like a plea. Like a prayer.

You watch.

Burning. Silent. Shaken to your core.

He lies there for a second, chest heaving, hair stuck to his forehead, your ruined knickers still clutched in his hand. Then he looks up at you and laughs, soft and breathless.

“What d’you say, princess? How ‘bout we don’t talk about this?” He wipes his stomach with the fabric, grinning. “Just like we don’t talk about that night, yeah?”

Your whole body pulses. And still, you don’t say a word.

You can’t.

°°°°

Everything had gotten stranger. Your door wasn’t always open like it used to be, like you’d built a wall of bricks and silence around you. And Cook—he’d started wondering if he’d pushed you too far, properly fucked it by trying to force all the shit inside you to come spilling out.

Thing is, he never knew how to love right. Never learned how to want something without breaking it. But that didn’t stop him saying it, that jumble of feeling that had been growing inside him for years. Stuff too big to bury, no matter how deep he shoved it down.

And yeah, maybe you'd thrown yourself into someone else’s arms—Freddie’s—but he could almost understand that. The dizzying fear of handing your heart to someone who might actually take care of it. Still, he hadn’t given up, even if he stopped showing up at your door at 3 a.m., even if he kept his distance now like it might spare you.

But it didn’t help. There was a storm inside you that even Freddie couldn’t quiet. No one knew, no one else had seen that side. You didn’t let them. Too ashamed, maybe, of the mess you’d made trying to pretend you didn’t need anyone.

So you said yes to every plan, every distraction. Anything loud enough to drown the chaos in your head. That’s how you’d ended up at that party, half-cut and ignoring JJ’s warnings about exams and hangovers. You bit your tongue before telling him that forgetting was the plan. Blanking it all out—especially the parts that still mattered.

And then, like always, there he was.

You two always ended up in the same place, like it was fate or some sick joke. That night, you were dancing with Freddie, the world spinning, his hands on your hips trying to keep you grounded. But it was Cook’s eyes that scorched you, following every movement like they had something to prove. He wasn’t even trying to hide it.

And that made it worse. Because that kiss—it kept echoing in your head, louder than the bass pulsing through the floor. That brutal, honest confession you couldn’t shake: “I fucking love you.”

You couldn’t breathe. Pulled away from Freddie, gasping, some excuse about needing air. “Don’t worry, stay—I'll be back in a bit.”

The club door slammed behind you, and the stairwell felt thinner, heavier. You didn’t even know if you meant to go outside or just get away—away from those eyes.

Then the door creaked again.

You didn’t turn. You already knew it wasn’t Freddie.

You shut your eyes, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole. Anything would’ve been easier than facing him.

“Always runnin’, innit?”

That’s what made you spin.

His breath was ragged, lips parted like there was still more to say.

“Fuck you, Cook.”

You turned to face him fully. A thousand things slammed into your chest. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to hit him. Scream until your voice broke. Tear something down just to match the ruin inside.

“What d’you want me to say, ah?”

You were close now. You could feel the tremble in his chest, his breath hitting your skin.

“That I’ve been a fucking mess ‘cause you made me listen to what you feel?” Your voice cracked, trembling. “That it’s fucked me up ‘cause I can’t say it back?” Your eyes were wet now. “And not ‘cause I don’t feel it. Christ, I think I’ve loved you since the day we met, Cook. But I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to hold it. It scares the shit out of me that it’s this strong.”

You were sobbing now, your voice barely a whisper.

“Everyone who’s meant to love me has smashed me to pieces. And if I tell you how much you mean, it’ll be in your hands. You could destroy me.”

He froze. Eyes locked on you, wide, taking in every inch of your face like he was memorising it. His hands cupped your cheeks, rough but careful. Fingers shaking a little.

And then he smiled. Soft. So bloody gentle it hurt.

“Yeah. S’pose it’s a bit like that.”

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t one of those reckless, angry kisses you’d shared before. Not a distraction. Not a dare. It was soft. True. Full of all the words you’d never said aloud.

And you let it happen.

But softness scared you too. It was too raw, too open. So you kissed him back with hunger, with fire, like asking him to take everything you couldn’t put into words.

The kiss turned messy, desperate. Your nose knocked his, your fingers found his shirt. Cook growled into your mouth, hands gripping your jaw, angling your face just so.

He was all teeth and tongue and breathless want, like he was trying to burn his name into your bones.

By the time you broke apart, you were both gasping. But he didn’t pull away—he chased your lips like they were the only thing keeping him alive. Tiny kisses, feather-light, tracing the corners of your mouth. Whispering your name over and over like a prayer.

You buried your face in his neck, breathing him in. It smelled like memories. Like home. You nearly cried again.

“I was scared. I couldn’t—”

You didn’t finish. The stairwell wall slammed against your back. You had no idea when you’d started walking backwards, probably somewhere during that blazing kiss. Maybe when his tongue brushed yours and you stopped caring where you were.

He kissed you again, rougher this time. His hand slid under your top, warm on your spine, and the gentleness in his fingers didn’t match the urgency in his mouth. Your gasp gave him the chance to deepen the kiss, tasting you like he’d waited a lifetime.

Your hands flew to his neck, anchoring yourself. A low growl rumbled from his throat and tugged a whimper from yours.

He gripped your waist, dragging you closer, until there wasn’t a sliver of space between you. One hand dipped lower, bold now, until he cupped your arse firmly. You didn’t think—just wrapped your legs around his waist, letting him hold your weight. He hissed at the heat of you against him.

“Let me,” he murmured, scattering kisses along your cheek, your jaw, nipping lightly at your skin. One hand traced your thigh, skin to skin, making you shudder.

With Cook, words always failed you. But they weren’t needed.

So you nodded, lost in the spiral of everything you’d buried for years.

He tilted your chin with two fingers, gaze locked to yours. You braced for something cutting—but instead, he kissed you again. Gentle. Almost too tender for this hallway of secrets and mistakes.

“I’ve waited so fucking long for this,” he whispered. His hand ghosted across your chest, not quite touching. Like he had all the time in the world.

“No rush.”

His mouth finds your neck, and you're powerless to stop the moan that tears from your lips. He starts grinding against your heat, lost in the promise of it. With every shift of your body, desperate for more friction, you brush against his erection, making him lose the rhythm of the kisses and bites he was scattering across the sensitive skin of your throat.

“Please…”

The plea tumbles from your lips in desperation, because you don’t even know what you need—just that you need him.

“James, I need you. Please…”

He chuckles low in his throat, swallowing a groan when your hips buck forward, chasing the heat of him.

“Now you say what you want, huh?”

You’d curse at him, but the words tangle uselessly in your throat as he finally starts to hike up your skirt. His hands drag achingly slow over your skin. You’re about to tell him you’re not in the mood for teasing when you feel his fingers slipping between your bodies, still separated by too much fabric. He runs one fingertip over the damp spot that’s already soaked through, clicking his tongue when he feels how wet you are.

He comes into view, and you can’t believe he’s got that smug grin on his lips—like the two of you aren’t about to go up in flames.

“All this just for Freddie?”

Then he pushes the fabric aside, and the lazy caress he trails over your burning flesh makes your eyes snap shut, head pressing back against the wall. His warmth had always felt comforting, always felt like home—but this closeness, this hunger, was overwhelming.

“Of course not. Because you’ve always thought about me, haven’t you?”

Your heart thunders so loudly you can barely hear him. You feel the firm pressure of his thumb parting you, gliding easily through the slick heat that welcomes him with no resistance. He touches you with maddening care, never quite where you need him, and just when you're about to whine, he sinks a finger inside you. You gasp, sharp and breathless, the sensation too intense to be real. His voice brushes your ear again, warm and wet:

“You’re soaked.”

You don’t even realize you’re shaking until his fingers curl inside you — slow, deep, deliberate. Like he’s carving a place there for himself. Like you’re not already full of him. Your breath catches and he grins against your neck, cocky and smug and so goddamn beautiful it hurts.

“Fuck, you’re perfect like this,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of things he’ll never say out loud. His thumb finally finds your clit, circling with maddening pressure, and your back arches off the wall with a gasp that dies somewhere between your teeth and his.

You cling to him like you’re drowning. Maybe you are. In everything he is, everything he’s always been to you. In every bad decision you both swore you’d never make but are making anyway, right here, right now.

He bites down gently on your shoulder as he works you open, every stroke pushing you closer to something sharp and inevitable. You moan into his hair, tug at it with one hand while the other fists his shirt, needing him closer, deeper, anchored in the only way you’ve ever known how.

“You want me?” he mutters, almost like he’s teasing — but there’s something underneath, a raw edge, a crack he can’t quite cover. “Like this?

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just grind down against his hand like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth, because maybe it is.

“Say it,” he demands, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “Say you want me.”

Your voice is wrecked when it comes out. “I want you, James.”

And that’s all it takes.

He lets out a guttural noise and shifts, unfastening his jeans with a desperation that makes your pulse stutter. You help him, fumbling, frantic, the two of you lost in your own chaos. The second he’s free, you feel the heat and hardness of him pressed against your thigh, and your mouth goes dry.

You wrap your legs tighter around his hips as he slides your underwear to the side, lining himself up with a grunt. One last look into your eyes — something unspoken flickering in his — and then he pushes into you in one long, aching thrust.

You choke on a gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

He groans like he’s finally home.

The stretch is intense, overwhelming, and right. He stills for a moment, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling, breathing each other in like you’ll forget how if you stop.

Then he moves.

He thrusts into you slow and deep, the drag of him inside you maddening, hitting places no one else ever has — not like this, not with this knowing. It’s messy and raw and so damn intimate it makes your heart lurch. His lips find yours again, sloppy and bruising and full of every word neither of you have the guts to say.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he groans, voice unraveling as he picks up pace. “So tight — fuck — always thought about you like this. Every goddamn time you smiled at him.”

You whimper, because it’s too much. The way he moves, the filthy things he says, the heat in your stomach building into something devastating. You press your face into his neck and he grinds deeper, fucking you like he’s trying to claim every part of you that’s ever belonged to someone else.

Each push forward is full of purpose, and with every thrust, it's like he's pressing a piece of himself into you, anchoring the years he never spoke into the softness of your body.

You're still clinging to him, arms looped tight around his neck like you’re afraid he'll disappear. But he’s here. All of him. And you feel it in the way his hand skims up your back, in the press of his forehead against yours, in the breath he lets out when he sinks all the way inside you again — a sound that cracks open your chest from the inside.

“Look at me,” he whispers, voice hoarse and breathless.

You do.

And it wrecks you.

His eyes are wild, glassy, filled with something so raw and full it almost hurts to meet them. He’s not just fucking you — he’s memorizing you. The way your breath catches. The way your legs tremble. The way your walls clench around him when he whispers your name like it’s something sacred.

“I didn’t know how much I needed it… you… until I couldn’t take pretending anymore.”

You don’t speak. Can’t. Your voice is buried beneath the waves of sensation building too fast, too sharp. But tears burn at the corners of your eyes,

Every roll of his hips is a confession. Every grind of his pelvis against your clit makes you cry out his name like it’s a lifeline. And he listens. God, does he listen — with his body, with his hands, with every whispered "I've got you," he leaves on your skin like a promise.

You feel yourself tightening around him, everything coiling and rising, your release hovering so close it makes your vision blur. And then—

“I’ve always been yours,” he pants against your mouth. “Even when you didn’t look at me. Even when it was him.”

That breaks you.

Not just physically.

Something inside you shatters in the most beautiful way. You come with a gasp so deep it feels like being reborn, and he holds you through it, kissing your face like you’re something holy.

He follows right after, hips stuttering, breath breaking apart as he spills into you with a moan that sounds like your name turned prayer.

°°°°

You walk into the party with Cook like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t have his hands all over you on the stairs. Like he didn’t look at you with something burning behind his eyes and say he’d been waiting for that moment for years.

Now it’s just music. Lights. Laughter. You two again, as always — shoulder to shoulder, knocking shots back like war buddies, bumping hips and stealing each other’s drinks.

You make him laugh. That loud, ridiculous Cook laugh. And you feel it twist something inside you, because it sounds like him. Like before.

He throws his arm around your shoulder at one point, and you lean into it automatically, like muscle memory. You know every version of this boy. You know how to pretend with him.

You’re both pretending now.

Pretending it didn’t mean anything. That the weight of him still isn’t echoing in your bone

But you’re both so drunk you’ve forgotten how to keep your distance.

Somewhere between the third shot and the stolen bottle of rum, you end up with your back against a wall, Cook’s mouth on yours again. It's messy and rough and soaked in everything you didn’t say earlier. Everything you won’t say now.

His hands are on your waist like he owns the moment — like this is something you've done a thousand times. And maybe, in his head, you have.

You laugh into his mouth, dizzy, half out of your mind, and he presses closer like he needs you to stay tethered. Like you’re the only solid thing left in the spinning room.

People are everywhere. Music’s pounding. Bodies are dancing. And you two? You’re falling. Fast.

“OH MY GOD,” someone yells.

You both flinch.

Panda’s standing there with her hands in her hair, looking like she’s about to cry from joy or scream.

“Fucking FINALLY. Finally, you two! You’ve had everyone going insane for months, man. Thought you were gonna combust or something.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Cook laughs. His forehead rests against yours for a second and you feel his breath on your lips. But then—

“No,” you mumble.

Panda blinks. “What?”

“We’re not… it’s not like that,” you say quickly, shaking your head.

Cook’s already back to kissing you — your cheek, your jaw, your neck. Sloppy, drunk kisses that make your knees weak, but you don’t stop him. You can’t.

“She’s right,” he mutters against your skin, voice low and wrecked. “Not like that at all.”

Panda looks confused. “Mate, you’re literally—what do you mean—?”

But you’re not listening.

Because Cook’s murmuring things in your ear now, nonsense and maybe truths, too far gone to care. Something like mine, something like fuck, I missed this even though you never had this.

You grab his shirt to steady yourself and smile at Panda like you’re not unraveling.

“It’s nothing,” you lie. “Just drunk.”

Panda stares like she knows exactly what kind of lie it is.

But she lets it go.

And Cook?

Cook just keeps kissing you like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

°°°°

You wake in his bed with the sunlight coming in sideways through a curtain that never quite closes. The room smells like him—sweat, smoke, the lingering sweetness of last night. It should feel gross, maybe. But it doesn’t. Not today. Today it feels like something new. Like you’re allowed to be here. Like it means something.

You lie still for a moment, head turned toward him. He’s facedown, limbs sprawled like he’s just been dropped from a great height. There’s a purple bruise blooming on his shoulder from your teeth. You smile.

Your body aches in places you didn’t even know could ache. You pull on his shirt—one he probably found on the floor and declared clean by smell alone—and tiptoe toward the bathroom. The mirror is cracked, the faucet leaks, the tiles haven’t been scrubbed since the last ice age, but it’s fine. You look at your reflection, hair tangled, eyes lit up. Wrecked and radiant. You press your fingers to the glass like you might fall into it.

This. This is yours. For a minute, at least.

You’re brushing your teeth when arms wrap around you from behind. He’s warm and heavier than you remember in the mornings, chin hooked over your shoulder, eyes barely open.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

You smile around the toothbrush.

He kisses your neck. Then your jaw. Then your cheek. Then—

“Wait. Wait, is that my toothbrush?”

You pause mid-brush. Turn your head just enough to see him in the mirror.

“Seriously?” you say, mouth full of foam.

He’s frowning, nose scrunched. “That’s rank. Why would you use my toothbrush?”

You pull it out of your mouth with a snap. “You had your tongue in my arse like, eight hours ago.”

“Yeah, that’s completely different.”

“HOW?!”

He grabs the toothbrush from your hand like he’s rescuing a puppy from a burning building.

“Boundaries, babe.”

And then he kisses you. Not soft. Not sweet. It’s filthy. He tastes like sleep and last night’s whiskey and the toothpaste you just spit out. His hands are on your hips, dragging you back against him like he’s starving. You choke a little on your own laughter, try to push him off, but he doesn’t budge.

He’s all tongue and teeth, messy and hot, mouth greedy against yours.

“Jesus—Cook—” you mumble between kisses, still foamy at the corners.

He finally pulls back, eyes shining with something wicked. Picks up the toothbrush off the sink and just shoves it back in the cup like nothing happened.

“You’re fucking gross,” you laugh, wiping your mouth on his shirt.

He winks. “You like it nasty, innit?”

You’re both laughing now. He’s got toothpaste on his chin, and you’re gasping, breathless, heart beating too fast.

“I hate you,” you whisper against his mouth.

“Liar,” he says, grinning.

°°°°

The reality of what you once were hits you like a lorry with no brakes.

Fifteen years. And still, it’s all right there. Still him. Still you. Still that version of love that didn’t make sense but somehow felt like the only thing that ever had.

You see it in his eyes first—same Cook, only older, worn in the ways no one should ever be. But there’s that glint of pain buried deep, like he never stopped waiting for you to come back through that door.

He stares at you like you’re still seventeen. Like you’re still that girl who used to press her fingers to his ribs and tell him he was more than what the world saw.

And he speaks—rough, guttural, voice splintered at the edges.

"You said our bond was forever. Said you wouldn’t fuckin’ leave."

It doesn’t even sound like him—not the version you built up in your head over the years. It’s not the brash, laughing boy who used to dive headfirst into every wrong decision and drag you along for the ride. This version? He sounds... small. Young. Like the scared kid life never gave a chance to grow slow.

And you... you almost break right there.

But you don’t.

You owe him the truth. And you owe yourself the choice you made, no matter how much it hurts now to stand by it.

"Nothing was ever enough, Cook."

You say it without flinching. Not cruel. Just honest. Raw. A blade wrapped in cloth.

"I tried. You know I did. But you—you wouldn’t let me stay."

He looks away, but you can feel the weight of his stare anyway. Feel it pressing into your skin like old ghosts.

"Maybe if you’d stayed... if—"

He stops, because the words die on his tongue. Because whatever he was going to say, it’s too late for it now.

You shake your head, voice steady, even as your chest cracks open under the weight of it all.

"You weren’t gonna drag just me to your heaven. You’d have burned it down before we ever got there. I couldn’t let you destroy everything."

He flinches. That gets him. That lands deeper than any hit he ever took in a fight.

And for a second, you’re both silent. Letting the years stretch between you like a trench too wide to cross.

He’s not that boy anymore. And you? You’re not that girl. You both had to learn how to survive without each other, and it left you stitched up in all the wrong ways.

You think about apologizing. For leaving. For running instead of holding his hand and fighting through the mess. But then you remember why you did it. Remember the child growing inside you and the life you refused to offer up to chaos.

You made a choice.

And now it’s time to deal with the fallout.

He breaks the silence.

"Who’s he like?"

You blink. The question doesn’t register at first.

"Who?"

"The lad. Our son."

It knocks the breath out of you like he’s punched you in the stomach.

You weren’t ready for that. For him to say "our son" like the words belonged to him, like he'd known all along. But he hadn’t. And somehow, hearing it now is worse than if he had.

You smile, but it’s the kind that’s wrapped in something heavier than joy.

"He’s... brilliant. A menace." You laugh a little through your tears. "He’s got that spark in his eyes, right before he does something mad. Laughs louder than everyone else. Can ruin a room or light it up, depends on the day. He’s a bloody bomb, James."

You say it like it’s a confession. Like loving someone that much should come with a warning.

And Cook—he just nods, sharp and sudden, turning his face away like maybe if he hides it, the pain will go somewhere else. But it doesn’t. It lands heavy, shattering whatever pieces of him were left intact. He rubs a hand down his mouth. Tries to swallow it. Tries not to fall apart.

And then, like a reflex, your hand reaches out. Shaky. Uncertain.

His eyes meet yours—bloodshot, worn down, but still the same underneath.

Everything in his grown-up self tells him not to take it. Not to fall for the same girl with the trembling fingers and the war in her eyes. But that younger version of him—the reckless boy who loved you with no armour at all—he grabs it.

And he holds on.

You close your fingers around his like it’s the only thing keeping either of you afloat.

"He loves hard, too," you whisper, your voice barely holding. "All-in. Like you. And sometimes that screws him over, because he doesn’t get why the world doesn’t love back the same way. But he’s learning."

Cook doesn’t speak. Just tightens his grip like if he lets go, you’ll disappear again.

"He’s got the best of both of us," you say, softer now. "And I won’t let you ruin him, Cook. Please."

His nod is almost invisible.

"I can do that," he says. Quiet. But firm.

You don’t wait. You pull him into a hug so hard your bones ache.

He smells different now. But he’s still warm. Still Cook. Still the boy who once built you a home out of broken glass and cigarette ash.

You cry into his shirt, no longer trying to stop it.

And when you finally let go, you kiss his cheek—gentle, trembling.

"Thank you."

And then you walk away.

He watches you go. And even though you’re not leaving town this time, it still tastes like goodbye.

[urlocalmultigroupfan]

ɪᴛꜱ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ᴘᴛ 2 ໑ ׄ ۪ ݁ ⑅ (방찬)

pairing: christopher bahng x fem!reader, strangers to friends to lovers

summary: based off of its nice to have a friend by taylor swift

tags/warnings: chris is literally feeding a squirrel at the beginning, hes extroverted, reader is introverted, not proofread,

a/n: bye its giving my fine shyt

pt 1 pt 2 pt 3 ??

Friendship with Chan sneaks up on you.

You don’t mark the moment you go from strangers to something else—it just happens quietly, like a soft song playing under a conversation. One day he’s the boy who calls your name across the quad. The next, he’s the one sitting beside you every Thursday afternoon like it’s tradition.

You’ve never said it out loud. You never needed to.

You’re friends now. That much is clear.

You know this because he always saves you a seat at the long table in the student center, even when he’s surrounded by his louder friends. You know this because he makes playlists and titles them things like “for rainy library days 🌧️” and sends them to you without saying a word.

You know because he texts you the night before a group project is due—not to ask for help, but just to check in.

hey, you good? just felt like asking :) also reminder: hydrate

You smile at your phone, every time.

You never tell him that no one really checks in on you like that. You don’t have to. He somehow knows.

When you're with him, you're a quieter version of yourself—but it never feels like too little.

Chan is bright, but never blinding.

He talks easily, laughs often, and never tries to fill your silences with noise. He’s the kind of extrovert who invites you into the light but never yanks you from the shadows.

You think that’s rare.

You think he’s rare.

Which is probably why you’ve started noticing the little things.

Like how he tugs the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands when he’s tired. Or how he taps a beat on his thigh when he’s thinking. Or how he smiles at you a little differently than he does at anyone else.

You don’t let yourself read into it too much.

But sometimes, when the sun hits his hair just right and he calls you Snowbird in that soft, teasing voice—you do.

It’s Friday afternoon when he shows up at your dorm with a bag of snacks and a look of triumph.

“We’re watching a movie,” he announces. “It’s friendship law.”

You raise a brow, leaning on your doorframe. “That a real law?”

“Definitely. Article three, paragraph seven. ‘Friends must watch at least one feel-good movie per week or suffer the consequences of emotional repression.’”

You stare.

He grins.

“…Fine,” you mumble, pretending to sigh.

He follows you in, already opening the chips.

You sit on the floor with pillows. The laptop is balanced on an upside-down laundry basket. It’s not fancy, but it’s warm. Familiar. Safe.

You don’t talk much during the movie, but you share glances at the funny lines. He snorts soda up his nose once and spends the next three minutes apologizing dramatically while you try not to choke on your laughter.

And then, somewhere near the end—your hands touch in the popcorn bowl.

Neither of you pulls away.

You walk with him the next morning.

Not because you planned to. You just happened to be leaving at the same time.

You tell yourself that, anyway.

The air is cool but not cold. The sky is pale and wide. You both linger near the edge of the quad, standing under the early bloom of a dogwood tree.

“You’ve got something,” he says, reaching out.

Your breath catches.

He brushes a petal from your hair. His fingers linger—just barely—at your temple. Then drop.

“There.” His voice is soft. Smiling.

You look away before you melt.

You tell yourself he’s just being friendly.

That’s what friends do. They check in. They share playlists. They brush petals out of each other’s hair.

Right?

But then you catch the way he looks at you when you’re not watching. Like he’s memorizing something.

You hear the way his voice changes when he says your name. Like it matters more than the rest of the sentence.

And once, when you're both at the café and he sees someone flirting with you from across the room—his hand finds the small of your back. Light. Protective. Wordless.

It stays there for a second too long.

So maybe…

Maybe it’s not just you.

One rainy afternoon, you both end up at the art building.

You’re there to kill time. He’s there to return a borrowed ukulele. Somehow, you both stay.

The music room is empty, warm with leftover echoes.

He sits at the baby grand in the corner, fingers testing chords. You watch from a stool near the door, curled in your hoodie.

“Wanna hear something I wrote?” he asks, not turning.

You nod before you realize he can’t see you. But he plays anyway.

It’s soft. Pretty. Unfinished, but thoughtful.

When it ends, you don’t say anything right away.

Then, quietly: “That was beautiful.”

He turns, surprised.

And when he sees your expression—earnest, a little shy—he blushes.

He actually blushes.

You store that moment somewhere deep in your chest, behind your ribs, where soft things go to stay warm.

That night, as you sit on your bed with your journal open and your heart full, you find yourself writing it down.

Chris’s song. Soft chords. Quiet courage. He blushes when I say what I mean.

You don’t know what this is between you yet.

But it feels like something.

And you think—maybe he feels it too.

Chan is in trouble.

Not real trouble—he’s not about to flunk out or get arrested or crash a car or anything—but emotional trouble.

The soft, slow, creeping kind.

The Oh no, I think I really like my friend kind.

He’s not sure when it happened. Somewhere between that snowy day with the squirrel and the third time you shared a croissant without asking. Somewhere between the first time he made you laugh and the first time you leaned into his side just slightly when it got cold.

He’s always liked your quiet.

Not the awkward kind—just…peaceful. Steady. Like you listen before you speak. Like your world is built on stillness and sharp observations.

He noticed it the first time you said his name like it meant something.

Now he wants to hear it all the time.

Chan’s not smooth, not really. He jokes a lot. Fills the space. Hopes you don’t notice the way he watches you from across the room when you’re not looking.

He tells himself he’s being smart by not saying anything.

Why risk it? You’re close. You trust him. He gets to know you in a way most people don’t.

But sometimes, when you smile at him like he’s made your day a little better…

It feels a lot like falling.

He’s pretty sure he already has.

hope you enjoyed <33

todays playlist...

hotline bling by drake, laplace's angels by will wood, virtual angel by artms, best friend by doja cat and saweetie, bite by mad tsai, super smash bros by yung gravy and bbno$, ssick by stray kids, if i can't have you by shawn mendes, blind spot by stray kids, dimple by bts, polaroid love by enhypen, crazy by le sserafim, beggin by maneskin, sweetest pie by megan thee stallion and dua lipa

*bold is explicit*

taglist: @rockstarkkami @sirloncelot-of-bananas @jisunggy @me-on-a-archive @hyunjiiza @hyuneskkami @highway-143 @hvseunq143 @chimmyn0chu @sadeeeeee @qwonyoung23 @jesuisstay

series/perm taglist is open! please comment/send an ask/dm if you would like to be added <3

[sxaymz217]

I got a degree in history. It's made the already ridiculous job market, even more challenging, nevertheless I don't regret getting the degree. I spent years learning and researching subjects I loved and still love. I have skills and knowledge I wouldn't trade for anything. It's given and continues to give me such a unique understanding and way of perceiving the world around me. I can honestly say, it was one if my better decisions.

What I don't understand, what I've never understood is why people think this area of knowledge doesn't have value. Everytime I've told adults in my life what I was studying/majoring in at school, almost all of them gave me the weirdest looks. I'm sure most of you are familiar with the conversation.

Well meaning adult/friend of parents/relative "So, what have you been up to? School, great! Great, what's your major? Oh, uh history that's... nice, what are you going to do with it? Museums I guess," sensible (derisive) chuckles.

And it's just, I mean, you know what, this has value. I may not need to know how many Roman emperors there were in day to day life, I may not need to know how long the investiture controversy lasted and the associated dates, it may not ever be relevant information while I'm folding clothes in retail how Cleopatra once smuggled herself into Caesar's room inside a rug, but that doesn't mean it was a waste of time to learn.

You know what is important? Knowing how to think critically about a document and identify inconsistencies that change the meaning, and the possible motives behind those inconsistencies. For instance, an emperor might have a really good motive for wanting people to remember his predecessor, so he looks better by comparison, so alters the dates of rule slightly. It is absolutely important to know that the investiture controversy, the ideas of who weilds power/levys legitimacy church or state, dominated European politics for centuries and even still has left lasting impact on modern Europe. It is important to understand the distinction between popular anecdotes, oral history, potential rumors and outn'out propaganda that makes determining if the rug story even happened as it's been recorded, what's more is the context of the situation where Cleopatra was trying not to seduce Caeasar but formulate a political alliance with her instead of her younger brother attempting to usurp her throne.

Critical analysis of documents, understanding the origins of modern problems, distinguishing between various sources, and comprehending larger context are all invaluable skills, to say nothing of the other things I learned, that I'm barely scratching the surface. And you know something else, I'm aloud to find something most people think is boring, interesting. That doesn't reduce my value or what I can contribute to our world.

I shouldn't have to give a practical reason for my degree and interests. I shouldn't have to justify it's value. I shouldn't have to sell myself as useful just to be able to keep a roof over my head and food on my table.

But if it's really soooo important to these madmen running our economy, fine. Had I been in the room when decisions were being made with regards to AI, I could've told them that "hey, historically speaking, when workers loose their jobs in large numbers, without adequate compensation or voice in the policy, they tend to lash out, sometimes violently against the individuals they blame for it. Usually ones with the greatest wealth or power. Perhaps, (pause for effect) we shouldn't market this technology to movie/TV studios, who have robust and powerful unions, who will go out of their way to destroy our organization, and have not only the numbers, but the wealth and influence to succeed. You know, just based on how humans have functioned for the last oh 10,000 years."

All knowledge has value, in it's own right. Whether or not it's profitable, does not determine importance.

“Like, we’re being taught by mainstream culture that getting an English degree is a waste of time, and that thinking about the meaning of stories will not prepare you for life in the world. This, in turn, comes from the assumption that the purpose of a college degree is as a qualification for a middle-class career — rather than a sign that you have learned something that has value in its own right. That you have gained critical thinking skills, of exactly the sort that studying literature would give you. If I were feeling extra snarky, I might point out that critical thinking skills would indeed be a drawback if you’re trying to get a career pumping up the A.I. hype bubble, but never mind.”

— Why the Worst People Are So Keen to Wreck Art and Culture (via wilwheaton)

[hollyhomburg]

Hold your Breath (Count to Seven)(2)

(Sneak Peak)(JHS x reader, Ot7 x reader, Omegaverse, Forced Caretaking, Omega scarcity au)

୨୧‧₊˚ Summary: Hoseok will never forgive the people who did this to you. Never.

୨୧ ‧₊˚ Word Count: 14.4k

୨୧ ‧₊˚ Tags: Omegaverse au, omega scarcity, forced caretaking, discipline, possessive love interest, protective partners that go a little too far, Dom/sub undertones, dom! jimin x m/c, spanking, Pack alpha Hoseok x omega! m/c, Sickfic, Angst, Hurt/comfort, chronic health issues, themes of trauma, familial neglect and abuse, Brief institutionalization, Past Medical mistreatment, non-chronological storyline

୨୧ ‧₊˚ A/N: ah well... people said they wanted to see a bit more of dom jimin so~ hopefully this scratches an itch! i can't believe they're all gonna be home soon! i saw jikook yesterday and...really does feel like the world is healing doesn't it? i guess this is also sorta a fest present too <3

"You're not my father Namjoon, I don't want you to act like my fucking dad when you're my partner. I get that sometimes- you have these instincts- but it doesn't make me feel good." You're close to tears, eyes suspiciously glassy. Your head feels fuzzy but panicky like everything is happening faster than you can handle it. Leaving you overwhelmed and off kilter.

You glance at Hoseok, and he stares back impassively. Rubbing a finger across his bottom lip- but he won't intervene unless you actually do cry or you ask him too. You're just starting to learn to trust your instincts. To understand why your breath goes even around him and why things are easier to sort through when he's touching you- either with a hand on the small of your back or holding yours so delicately- like you're fragile.

The others understand but you don't. you've never had a pack alpha before. He's the only pack alpha you've ever known.

There is apart of him more wolf than man, that loves that fact. That he's your first and your only pack alpha, If Hoseok can help it.

And Hoseok is helping, that's what this is. Mediating. Making sure you adjust to the pack and the pack adjusts to you. Hoseok is here just as Jimin is as pack beta- to make things go smoothly.

It's strange. Growing up you'd been treated so often like you were strong. industructible no matter what. Any cold or sickness was met with a snear that you were tougher than that. Strong despite your shakiness, strong despite the fact that when pushed you broke. Strong like your weakness was ever something you could conquer. No matter how many times you told people you couldn't- that you couldn't stay awake to study, that you couldn't run any faster- that you couldn't try any harder without it hurting- they never listened.

But now everything's changed- the pack are almost too gentle with you. Too aware of just how fragile you can be sometimes. You like to act independent. You even might need to sometimes (Hoseok is not so convinced that you actually need independance or if you just feel like you need it). And while they'd never stop you they are always hovering a little. It's easier sometimes- but right now-

Right now it feels stifling. Right now it feels like you can't breath. Like something very bad is going to happen if you take too much- like they'll find out it's not worth it. That you're not enough. You lean away from Namjoon when he speaks, and you can see the hurt in his eyes as you do it. Can see that Jimin's eyes darken in disapproval, posture stiff.

But your skin feels like it's going to crawl off your body and leave you fleshy and exposed. Something fights to claw out of your chest. And no breath comes easy.

Until you look at Hoseok.

You're not sure where your anger comes from or if it even is anger at all. Afraid, you know you're a bit afraid of Namjoon, but afraid of what you can't say. You know that his controlling behavior isn't exactly why but you're too worked up to care. Maybe you've never been both afraid and safe before. Maybe you don't trust them to keep you safe.

A deep voice whispers in Hoseok's ear, hidden and telling. His desires and impulses dark and not to be shared. You don't trust them to handle everything for you.

Yet.

Hoseok waits, Hoseok reclines in the chair and watches. Namjoon's voice is deep and calm. Rational. You're the only one getting worked up here, but thats okay. All of this is okay.

"Our lives are all very controlled, they have to be to get to the level that we are. But we need to look after each other. I won't be made out to be some sort of monster when all I'm trying to do is make sure you take care of yourself. You can't expect me not to treat you the same way I treat the others."

"Now that's some bullshit. You treat me like-" your voice warbles, and Hoseok gives it another 10 seconds before he intervenes. "I might be your omega but I'm not some sort of pet. You never tell the others what they can and can't eat or do so why am I-"

Hoseok holds up his hand, stopping your train of thought. For what it's worth you instantly fall silent. Your shaking stops just a little at the show of dominance, at obeying. Your body wants it even if your mind struggles to comprehend it. It's like you're trying to listen to your omega and your instincts but you just can't hear them.

You need a push. And Hoseok is very gentle. Gentle enough to do the pushing.

Coming Friday June 13th at 6pm EST

(Link to Part 1)

[haiwii]

୨ৎ ─── GET YOU

✎ᝰ .ᐟ Enhypen as your bf headcanon

HEESEUNG | JAY | JAKE | SUNGHOON | SUNOO | JUNGWON | RIKI

[ ✧ CW ✧ ] fluff, chaos, and a man deeply down bad, g!n reader (?) I don’t think the gender is specified

LiBRARY ## HEAD.c

This was so fun to write 😭

🧃 The Chill-Turned-Down-Bad Start

When you first met, you thought he was that calm, mysterious boy who probably journals about the meaning of life and listens to lo-fi jazz in his room with LED lights. And yeah… you were right. For like, two weeks. Then he accidentally tripped over your bag, did a dramatic “I HAVE FALLEN FOR YOU” on the floor, and you saw a glimpse of the idiot within. From then on, it was game over. He decided you were the one. He told Jay this with complete confidence while wearing Pikachu socks and a mouth full of Pocky.

🍜 Dates With Heeseung Be Like

Think: 50% actual romance, 50% utter chaos. Candlelit dinner? Sure. But he will dramatically say, “This reminds me of our wedding.” (You’re literally in your 20s and eating at Olive Garden.) Movie nights are sweet until he starts reciting the lines with the characters. Or worse guessing them and getting it right. Every. Single. Time. He makes you ramen and tells you he “poured his soul” into it. It’s literally instant ramen, but it’s somehow… better? Heeseung magic.

📱Texting Heeseung: A Horror Story

Sends you 47 memes a day. 38 of them are about ducks. You still don’t know why. You stopped asking after the duck dream he had that “changed his life.” “Good morning, my love 😚💗🌞🌸🌼🐥🐣🌸💗💞💘💓” Sent. At. 4. A.M. He has a very cursed notes app where he keeps nicknames for you. It includes: "My Little Toaster Strudel" "Cuddle Goblin" "The CEO of My Heart, LLC"

🎮 Gamer Boyfriend Heeseung

Yes, he games. Yes, he’s cracked. Yes, he forces you to play co-op games so he can “protect you.” Yells “I GOT YOU BABE” before running into a trap and dying instantly. But if anyone says anything remotely rude to you in chat? He becomes Satan. Voice lowers. Words sharp. You’ve never seen an online user get verbally destroyed so fast. He lets you win sometimes but pretends you beat him fair and square. Then gets revenge in Mario Kart. Mercilessly.

🐥 Love Language? Annoying the Hell Out of You

He pokes your cheek until you give him attention. Whispers “I love you” in the creepiest voice possible while you’re brushing your teeth. Starts fake arguments just to hear your annoyed voice. “No but like—why would you pick Charmander over Bulbasaur??” Steals your clothes. All of them. He looks better in your hoodie than you. It’s unfair.

🧸 But Also… A Secret Softie

Tells you he loves you like 16 times a day, casually. “Love you. Bye. Also bring me banana milk.” Has a folder in his phone of your candid pics. He labeled it “Proof I Scored.” You found it and almost cried because he literally labeled each photo. Stuff like: “Her smile when I said she’s my favorite person” “When she saw the puppy at the park” “The day she said she likes me more than ramen 😭” Whenever you’re sad, he drops everything. EVERYTHING. Even if he’s in the middle of gaming, he’s like: “Nope. Pause. My girl’s upset. Priorities.”

🛏️ Late-Night Chaos & Comfort

Lying in bed at night is either: You cuddling in silence while he plays with your hair and whispers sweet things like “I’m glad you exist.” Or you two laughing so hard at a dumb inside joke that you accidentally wake up the neighbors. Heeseung will tuck you in and say, “Good night, love of my life, mother of our imaginary dog, the moon to my star—” “Heeseung, shut up.” “Okay. But I still love you more than cheese.”

👨‍🍳 Domestic Heeseung Is Real

He can cook. Not like a chef, but enough to make your heart go boom. Tries to bake cookies but forgets the sugar. You eat them anyway. Wears matching aprons with you. Posts it on the group chat. Sunghoon leaves immediately. Jake sends 🧎 emojis. Does your laundry sometimes but gets distracted halfway through because he found an old shirt of yours that “smells like heaven.”

🎤 Idol Things + You

If you show up at a fansign? He breaks character IMMEDIATELY. The staff is like ??? while he beams at you like a puppy. Will 100% write your initials on his setlist or sneak a reference to your favorite color into his outfit. Fans catch on. You get a fanbase too. During live streams: “Who’s your favorite person?” “Oh, Y/N. Easy.” Silence. Confused blinks. “Wait, I mean—uh—my mom?” Too late. Twitter is exploding.

💌 TL;DR:

Heeseung as your boyfriend is the perfect mix of sweet, soft, and absolutely unhinged. He’s the type who would give you the last bite of his ramen and pretend he didn’t cry watching a Pixar movie. He’s clingy in the most adorable way, makes you laugh until your stomach hurts, and genuinely, without a single doubt, loves you like you’re his entire world. Even if he does send you 3 a.m. memes about ducks.

[mimi--writes]

Can we get a fluff headcanons about mr tenna pls like when you first start dating him

(also I enjoyed your yandere tenna fic so much ❤️)

Thank you so muchh, and of course <3!

Early Dating With Tenna

CW: None, just fluff

Notes: this gave me ideas if you know what I mean

:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:.

- He is so sweet. Just a gentleman to the absolute maximum.

- You need absolutely anything? Bored? Tired? Hungry? Thirsty? Your pillow is slightly too warm? He'll take good care of it! Just tell him what a good job he's doing, okay?

- His poor interns are both saddled with listening to their boss brag about his absolutely wonderful and gorgeous and perfect partner and he makes them report to him on if you're uncomfortable with absolutely anything. This won't last forever, promise, but he is very prone to fretting and worrying, so bear with him!

- Though he shows love through acts of service—he really, really wants to be useful in general and that just gets amplified with you—he prefers receiving affection through words of affirmation!

- Seriously, he's an absolute sucker for praise. Compliment this man and he will absolutely melt into a puddle. He's insecure, okay? He doesn't get compliments very much anymore (grrrr give me the TV Toriel I adore you madam but I will give him the TLC he needs and deserves 😤)

- If you're one of his employees, expect a lot of preferential treatment. He is, regrettably, not the best at being a fair boss, but he may just be the best at being a boyfriend! Expect tons of extra breaks and privileges.

- He'll probably have you working in his office, too—don't look at him like that, okay? It's not his fault he just likes to see your face!

- On that note he is soso clingy and needy and it's absolutely adorable. Constantly wants to pepper your face with kisses and hold hands.

- But on the flip side, if you give him a taste of his own clinginess, he gets so flustered, he just can't handle receiving any form of affection lmao

- You know that thing he did when he was guilting the fun gang into playing? Yeah he absolutely does that with you.

- "You don't want to cuddle? That's alright... I guess it'll just be me... Alone... In the bed... Getting... Colder... Brrrr—"

- "Oh, what's that? You changed your mind? Fantastic! Absolutely fantastic! The Fun-O-Meter's going crazy, folks!"

- Drama queen. He's lucky you love him so much!

- And yes, he will try to pull out the Fun-O-Meter on instinct. Sometimes, he needs a little hard reset to remind him he's not on air anymore.

- Speaking of giving him a hard reset...

- That dial. I could talk about what touching that entails, but that would end up devolving from fluff into smut, I fear. Another time! But that's all for now!

- Also, quick end note: the first time you found a pipis, he freaked out trying to explain himself. Static and the "WOAH MAMA MIA" everywhere. You will never let him live it down.

[ablobwhowrites]

Btw person who sent in request relating to overworked y/n and can't help bit think...Pretty sure blueberry pie would never get mad at y/n...maybe y/n saw them angry because they were angry at y/n's boss. And I also dropped this idea but thought to expand...maybe after one bad experience with the exercise cookies...they realize y/n had a bad time when they, including blueberry pie, notice y/n not speaking up and well voicing their opinions like they should...

All the cookies probanly want y/n to be open and honest about their needs and wants so they can spoil and care for y/n properly...cue cookies encouring y/n to speak up...and cue exercise cookies being more gentle with y/n and disguising the workouts as games and letting y/n feel like they are winning every time to help boost confidence even more...

Imagine first time they spoke up to blueberry pie...whether blueberry pie decides to actually change schedule or talks it out with y/n to learn why they want that change and shapes it into something enjoyable for y/n or something like that or something else...

Blueberry pie is silently celebrating because 'YES! Y/N IS SLOWLY NOT BEING AFRAID ANYMORE AND IS GETTINF COMFORTABLE! THEY ARE GETTING COMFY ENOUGH TO LEARN TO USE THEIR VOICE! HOORAY!!!' heck...maybe whenever y/n speaks up they give y/n a treat...like a piece of y/n's favorite candy or ice cream or some reward!

Y/n is always kinda scared to speak up for themselves as having a shitty boss that constantly ridicules them if they make one mistake or if you speak up on why this is problem but is shut down before even getting to talk because 'you aren't paid to talk back, especially after you failed to even do the simplest of requests' but these request aren't simple as the dates always change in the instance that y/n gets it on time finally. Their boss just brushes it off saying that it's one minute later but it was two hours early.

Y/n tends to just let themselves be pushed around as it's easier to do than talk back. If the cookies met them before their job, y/n would be using their voice a lot and making more suggestions and wanting to do things more but current y/n just has the mentality of letting people complain first so that it's just easier to do their job or just live their life. Of course the cookies don't really know office life except a few of them who canonically work in a office but in much different conditions than y/n did so some of them get that y/n doesn't like going out of their comfort zone but do try to gently nudge y/n into speaking up or just trying to do things they want to do.

Y/n isn't necessarily scared of blueberry pie cookie as a whole but more of a certain look or tone she has sometimes that copies the same as their boss. Y/n tends to watch people's facial expressions or tones as they dealt with customers a lot so they picked up the habit so blueberry pie cookie is fine in y/n's eyes it's just they get scared of being yelled at or ridiculed again if she looks frustrated or has a angry tone but over all of she doesn't have that then y/n does like being around blueberry pie cookie. Y/n with the athletic cookies being more experienced as y/n has worked in a office for a good chunk of their life and couldn't have hobbies or anything cause of that but they do try at least even if they are tired, sweaty and wheezing after. But once got absolutely decked in the face by Choco Ball Cookie after he accidentally kicked the ball to hard and y/n got distracted by something and didn't see it before it was to late but they were fine though just their face hurt a bit after and just a small bruise on their cheek as the same think kinda happened with Cherry Ball Cookie but wasn't as full force as Choco Ball Cookie.

But does get a little hurt sometimes but kinda just y/n got being inexperienced and falling or just doing something dumb kinda like Skating Queen Cookie having y/n ice skate but they fell and landed on their side from panicking about falling down and then ballet, holy shit y/n didn't know that being a regular cookie and having to walk normally but now it's harder with this kind of ballet!? Whipped Cream Cookie helped y/n a lot with some simple and complicated dance moves but y/n's joints were sore cause they kinda understand all the limitations to the cookie body but Whipped Cream Cookie was nice about it and tries his best to help y/n. Plus the idea of y/n being able to get free food from Sandwich Cookie at the sandwich shop in the city and she makes sure she makes it to y/n's liking and her boss likes y/n as well so they can come by anytime and are welcome to do so.

Sometimes y/n doesn't have a ride and Fruit Punch Cookie has a car and loves to drive y/n around if they need it. Street Urchin Cookie doesn't really like it because her and Kiwi Cookie drive y/n around if they need to and Fruit Punch Cookie taking that away cause y/n is more comfortable in a car and that the two cookies have motorcycles which y/n gets freaked out about because how fast they can go.

(Anyways that's it for my yap session! Hopefully you guys like this and if you want more please don't be shy and request any ideas for stories or y/n's! But for now please stay safe and drink water!)