#and what a wonderful thing it is to ask questions. and what a wonderful thing it is to experience. and i dont think that anxiety matters-

[pink-petal-horns]

Dumb & Poetic

Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader

You always liked the loud ones.

The guys who knew how to work a room, throw a wink, rattle a bottlecap on the table with a cocky laugh. You’d fall for them fast, just as fast as they’d forget to call you back.

There was something about their edges, the way they caught the light like shiny things you knew better than to touch, but always did anyway.

And then—Bob.

Not flashy. Not loud. Not even remotely interested in taking up space he didn’t earn.

Which, in your history of “types,” meant you almost missed him entirely.

—

You met him in the bar one night, the kind of night when the Navy pilots swarm Hard Deck like it’s their own little arena. Jake Seresin—Hangman—was holding court at the pool table, Phoenix was tossing darts with deadly aim, and Bob?

He was sitting in the corner. Reading. Reading, in a bar where everyone was busy being a headline.

You had a drink in your hand and a headache from someone else’s charm. So when you noticed the quiet guy with the soft eyes and crooked smile trying to make himself smaller in a crowd that prized the biggest personalities, something in you tugged.

“What are you reading?” you asked, easing into the chair beside him.

Bob blinked like he hadn’t expected anyone to approach him—definitely not you, in a leather jacket and lip gloss and the remnants of someone else’s kiss still cooling on your neck.

“Just, uh, Dandelion Wine,” he said, showing you the cover. “Ray Bradbury.”

You tilted your head. “You read that for fun?”

He gave you a sheepish shrug. “It’s kind of… dumb and poetic, I guess.”

You laughed. It was the first real laugh you’d had in a while.

—

You didn’t mean to fall for Bob Floyd.

But he had this way of making you feel seen—not watched, like the other guys, but understood.

He asked questions and actually waited for your answers. He remembered little things, like how you hated cold drinks without straws and how your favorite song made you cry in a good way.

He didn’t flirt in the traditional sense. He didn’t make you dizzy. He made you safe.

You weren’t used to safe. You were used to boys who recited lyrics and sonnets with the same sincerity they used to pick up the bartender two nights later.

But Bob?

Bob didn’t need metaphors.

—

It was three months in when you finally cracked.

You were sitting on the hood of his car, the stars out, the air between you easy and warm. He’d just driven you back from a beach bonfire, and you still had sand in your hair and sun on your cheeks.

“I don’t get you,” you said.

Bob blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You’re just—” you huffed. “You don’t try to be anything. You’re not pretending. You don’t even flirt right.”

He chuckled, then turned his head to face you. “And that’s a problem?”

“No, it’s just…” You bit your lip. “You’re not like the guys I usually go for.”

Bob’s eyes didn’t flicker. “Guess I should take that as a compliment or a warning.”

You looked at him, really looked. He had this steadiness to him. A kindness that wasn’t performative.

“You should take it as both,” you whispered.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

That was the thing about Bob. No dramatics. No fireworks. Just quiet understanding.

You leaned your head on his shoulder and wondered if he had any idea what he was doing to you.

—

You started to fall hard.

Not because he bought you flowers or shouted love songs from balconies. But because he held your hand like it was something sacred.

Because he showed up. Every time.

Because when you cried after a bad day, he didn’t try to fix it with a joke or a kiss. He just sat with you. Quiet. Present.

Bob Floyd never made you feel like you had to perform to be loved.

And God, you were so used to performing.

—

It was your birthday when it happened.

The bar was packed. Everyone was there. The guys were drinking, dancing, yelling over each other. You were in the middle of it, spinning in a dress that someone else once told you was “too much.”

Bob walked in a little late, glasses slightly fogged, holding a cupcake instead of a gift.

He looked awkward and adorable and entirely out of place in the chaos.

But when you saw him, you stopped spinning.

You walked straight over to him, heart thudding.

“You came,” you said.

He held up the cupcake. “I didn’t know what to get you. But you said once you loved funfetti. This one’s got rainbow sprinkles.”

You blinked back something suspiciously close to tears.

“It’s dumb and poetic,” you said softly.

He smiled. “You like dumb and poetic.”

You pulled him down by the collar and kissed him. Right there, in the middle of the noise and the neon and the glitter of a life you were finally willing to leave behind.

—

It wasn’t always perfect.

You still had a sharp tongue. You still craved drama some nights. You picked fights when you felt too seen, too safe, too loved.

But Bob never raised his voice. Never threw your chaos back at you like a weapon.

He just waited. Anchored.

And one day, you looked at him across your messy kitchen table—his hair sticking up, wearing that NASA t-shirt you stole three weeks ago—and you thought, this is the kind of love that writes poetry in action, not words.

—

You used to fall for the ones who made you feel like fireworks.

Now?

You’d take Bob Floyd every time.

The one who never needed to be loud to be important.

The one who brought you cupcakes and calm.

The one who sat beside you, even when you didn’t make sense.

The dumb and poetic one.

Yours.

Always.

[levigarden999]

dumb!bakugo x reader °❀.ೃ࿔*

theme : you’re crushing on bakugo, but he just doesn’t get it ♡︎

you’ve been crushing on bakugo for months now, while mina and ochacha both have questioned your mental sanity after you told them about this. you understand where they’re coming from though – bakugo isn’t exactly the brightest or the most charming guy out there. but you just can’t help yourself.

often you try to follow bakugo around and have casual chat with him, even subtly flirt with him. however, even though how straight forward you try to be with your flirting, it just seems like this guy is completely clueless about the fact someone could be interested in him like that.

one time – no, for the millionth time – you followed him after another training session. he was walking with kirishima next to him, but you quickly caught up to them. ”kats, hey!” you exclaimed and touched his shoulder gently. you were blushing and your heart was pounding at the sight of his bare, round, muscular shoulders under the tanktop.

”what, extra?” he sighed and didn’t even bother to look at you, as if he was fed up with your antics.

”um, i-, i was just wondering, you wanna hit the gym tomorrow with me?” you asked. kirishima was snickering next to him, obviously realizing what was going on here.

bakugo turned his head to you, a shocked look on his face. as if you had done something illegal, asking such things from him.

”huh?! why are you even asking that? of course not! i prefer going alone, you idiot!”

yup. why did you even like him?

you often also tried to sit with him at lunch and 'accidentally' have physical contact with him. today you had abandoned mina and you were glued to katsuki’s side in the cafeteria, your knees subtly touching. he was sitting at the edge of the bench, so he had nowhere to move.

”have you heard about a concept called personal space? why are you acting like that?” he asked through gritted teeth, those red eyes piercing through you.

”i can sit wherever i want” you said back and held your head high, not moving an inch.

he rolled his eyes. ”ugh. brat.”

kirishima was sharper than bakugo (not that it required much intelligence to notice your feelings for him) so he easily noticed the way you got flustered wherever you were near katsuki. the way you held back your smirk whenever his shirt raised to show a teasing amount of his abs, or the way you blushed every time katsuki said a word to you.

”have you really not noticed?” kirishima asked bakugo one night when they were alone in the common room.

”yes, i’ve noticed she’s gone insane or something. such a nuisance” bakugo hissed and crossed his arms, referring to the fact how much you had been clinging to him recently. kirishima laughed.

”no, idiot. she has a crush on you. are you seriously that blind?”

bakugo’s eyes widened and a grimace appeared on his lips.

”huh?!” he snapped, eyebrows furrowed.

”yup. dude, you’re so slow.”

after that conversation, bakugo looked at you differently. he started to reasses the situations and moments you two had had together, and he quickly understood that kirishima was right. there was no other possible explanation to the way how desperately you were acting around him.

since then, he had been a little, a little, nicer to you. he didn’t yell or snap at you anymore – if he was annoyed, he merely grumbled something under his breath and crossed his arms like a petulant child.

he started to notice you were actually quite… good looking. the way your eyes sparkled with something innocent, something sweet every time you looked at him. the way your outfits during practice always hugged your body perfectly, the way you were so determined to be the best hero out there.

after weeks with his conversation with kirishima, bakugo became the flustered one around you.

you were blunter and more straight forward now since you realized he was finally catching on. your flirty smirks and seductive words about his appearance and the subtle touches to his hair and face made him feel like a little boy who had no idea how to act around a girl.

bakugo found a new attribute about himself that he didn’t like that much – blushing. it was as if he blushed every time you spoke to him and he hated the way he felt so awkward and helpless with you smoothly flirting with him.

however, he also loved it. he was curious yet also a little scared to see where this would eventually lead.

❀ lmk if you're interested in a part two / small series

[nagy-bari]

'writing our of love for a concept someone started and running with it and begin a creative journey on your own' and 'running with the familiar aspects of a character that possesses bits and pieces of your favorite tropes and leaning into them a bit more cause that's your comfort zone' and 'redressing your blorbo in new fandom clothes' and 'once a story is out there the original idea is but a suggestion' and 'emphatizing with a character so much you put them in your situations so you can figure things out' and 'loving the vibes you want to see them experience even if it's nowhere near "canonnically logical' and 'just wanna see them fuck nasty' and 'whatever possessed the fanfic writer for this set of horrors says way too much about both of us (the reader) but at least the blorbo is heading somewhere that almost feels like reassurence' and ' okay but what if-' these are all perfectly fine reasons that will lead to heavy mischaracterisation, complete switch of tone and set up and attitude and worldview the original setting gave to the characters you play with. and that's fine.

if the writer does not asked for reviews don't bother them.

But at times it makes you wonder. as in. did they even let the original story set in or is it another barbie house to play in?

rent lowering gun shots under the break

cause yeah have fun and enjoy and more power to you but did you actually let the original story settle in, did you get that message first and it made you answer in a way you wish was there? cause sometimes misscharacterisation feels like such a personal cozy place of someone that you can't help but wonder - did you get the story? i'm sour about misscharacterisation because of chatgtps and ai characterbots and the more and more ai-fanfics i stumble across on Ao3. i'm salty about grabbing a blorbo and turning it inside out so much it's actually a completely seperate character because of mass media churning out the same oversaturated tropes again and again and i love reading fanfic of neiche and specific little fuckers who are a particular flavor of messed up -but when you put them in the same coffee shop for the xxxth time and they start to slurr and don't give a fuck about their core questions i'm gonna turn bitter. not gonna bother the writer about it cause it's okay, it's my taste and they like it milder but here's my 'hater' take mischaracterisation is a problem when you take a character and sandpaper it to your taste so you can fit them in your blorbo house and take personal offense if someone points out the missing parts. hate me for it all you want but i'm worried about literacy and critical thinking when i'm salty about mischaracterization. call me whatever you want but sometimes the best version is what the 'original' writer dreamed for them. most times it's the most interesting take on them.

unless they specifically asked, you don’t get to tell a fanfic writer you think they mischaracterized the character by the way. because the second someone writes a fanfic about a character, that character becomes the writer’s own version of the character. canon is only a suggestion, but whether or not an author will follow it / how much of canon an author will take is entirely up to them. you don’t get to stick your nose in their world and tell them “hey this is not to my liking therefore I think you’re doing it wrong” when you can simply leave quietly and move on to something else you may enjoy

[matchingbatbites]

Explicit | 2k words | First time blowjob + Getting together

Found this in my drafts and finished it off. I know this is inspired by a post but I cannot find it.

"Can I blow you?"

Eddie freezes where he's unpacking his bag at the Harrington dining table, the first to arrive for tonight's D&D session. He blinks before turning to look at Steve, who is leaning casually in the doorway like he hadn't just offered Eddie the chance to live out one of his frequent fantasies.

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that? I think my ears stopped working for a second there."

Steve rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, his hip popping out in that bitchy way that makes Eddie want to bite him. "Can I blow you?" he asks again, this time with more emphasis, and yeah, Eddie heard him right the first time.

Eddie says "What's with the sudden interest, Stevie?" which he thinks is a valid question, considering the fact that Steve has never shown any inclination towards any dick, let alone Eddie's. He'd gotten confirmation of such when he came out to Steve a couple months ago and received a prompt "Oh cool. You can talk to me about boys if you want, but I don't know how much help I'll be."

The Steve in front of him exhales sharply, clearly holding back a bitchier response as he replies "Do you want a blowjob or not, man?"

It only takes Eddie half a second to answer yes, because even if this is some fever dream, there's no way he's going to turn down the man he's been crushing on. All the more reason to agree, honestly.

"Here?" Eddie asks, and Steve shakes his head.

"Upstairs, in case one of the kids shows up early."

Right, of course.

Eddie follows Steve up to his room, where the other boy shuts and locks the door behind them before he's pushing Eddie up against the solid surface.

There's no build up, no easing into it; no needy kisses or teasing touches like Eddie would expect from Steve Harrington. Steve just drops to his knees and starts on Eddie's belt, and all Eddie can do is watch as the hottest guy he knows pulls down his pants and boxers just enough to expose him.

Steve's eyebrows shoot up and his face flushes pink as he takes in Eddie's dick for the first time. Eddie's too distracted by how pretty Steve is to ask if he likes what he sees, and Steve doesn't say anything as he wraps his hand around the shaft, seeming to get a feel for it. Eddie is only about half-chubbed, but begins to rapidly approach rock hard as Steve swipes his thumb over the piercing that sits below the head.

"Did that hurt?" Steve asks, voice thick with something, and Eddie shrugs.

"Yeah. Made jacking off pretty tough for a while."

Steve hums in response and finally gives it a proper stroke, and Eddie groans low, even though it's a bit drier than he'd like. The other boy must realize the same thing, because he pulls his hand back and - fuck - spits in it before he's grabbing Eddie's dick and trying again.

It's much better, and Eddie hums encouragingly as Steve jerks him off, his eyes focused on the head that's getting redder and redder as Eddie's dick hardens. Eddie bites his lip as he watches Steve focus on his task, as he speeds up and slows down, trying a few things out.

Eventually Steve leans in and licks over the tip, pulling another groan from Eddie, and it's like Steve suddenly remembers that the dick in his hand is actually attached to a person. He looks up at Eddie, his gaze swirling with wonder and desire as he takes the head into his mouth and sucks.

"Fuuuuck, Stevie," Eddie groans, unable to keep his mouth shut at the sight before him. "Look like a fuckin' dream on your knees for me, baby."

Steve shudders at the praise and pulls back to mouth at the piercing, and Eddie desperately needs to know if Steve has done this before, because if not then he's a fucking natural. He clocks every one of Eddie's reactions and abuses the knowledge, tongue flicking the piercing or lips suckling on the tip. It's not long before he takes more into his mouth, sinking down onto Eddie's cock as far as he can before pulling back with a wet noise.

He quickly finds his rhythm, bobbing on Eddie's dick like he's done it a hundred times, and Eddie gives up on trying to be cool about this whole thing. He pushes his hands into Steve's hair and pulls him closer, forcing more of his dick into Steve's mouth.

"Tap my leg if you need to stop," Eddie says as he gives a shallow thrust into that wet heat. Steve just moans, eyes fluttering as he lets Eddie guide him, his hands grabbing Eddie's jeans and holding on as Eddie fucks into his mouth.

Eddie tries to be careful; he doesn't want to hurt Steve, but the boy is just so beautiful with tears welling up in his eyes and a pink blush staining his skin. He snaps his hips, pushing the head of his dick into Steve's throat just enough to hear him choke, and Steve winces at the intrusion but doesn't tap out.

Eddie croons a soft "That's it, baby. Such a good boy, taking my dick so well," and Steve's reaction is even stronger than before, the way he melts into the encouragement even more obvious. It makes Eddie want to shower Steve in praise, to smother him with it, so he never doubts how perfect he is.

"Look at me, Stevie," he commands, and when Steve's eyes lift to meet Eddie's - glossy with unshed tears and a bit unfocused - it's enough to push Eddie right to the edge.

"Fuck, I'm-"

Eddie yanks Steve off and strips his dick in quick strokes until he's coming, shooting his spend over Steve's beautiful, dazed face. He takes just a second to catch his breath before he drops to the floor and kisses Steve hard, smearing his cum between their lips. Steve whines into it as he kisses back, and Eddie blindly reaches down, searching for the hard line of Steve's dick in his pants.

Instead, his hand meets a damp spot, and Eddie breaks the kiss so he can look down to confirm his suspicion.

"Holy shit, Steve. Did you come in your pants just from sucking me off?"

"I'm, uh- just as surprised as you are," Steve says, his voice a little scratchier than it was before. "I wasn't expecting to enjoy that as much as I did."

Fuck. Eddie forgot about this part. The part where Steve admits that he just wanted to see what it was like and figured Eddie was the perfect candidate for his little experiment. Eddie doesn't mind, really, not when this whole scenario has been kind of a dream come true, but that doesn't mean it's going to hurt any less.

They're interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching, followed by a rapid knocking on the door. "Steve! You in here? Eddie's stuff is here but we can't find him!"

Fucking Dustin.

"Yeah, me and Steve are here!" Eddie replies. "We're talking about something, I'll be down in a sec!"

Dustin gives a "Hurry up, man!" through the door, and Eddie shakes his head as he listens to him walk away. He stands and helps Steve move from the floor to the nearby desk chair.

"I'll, uh. Go grab you a towel," he says, and Steve nods.

Eddie quickly fixes his pants before heading to the bathroom across the hall. He splashes some water on his face to help get rid of the flush, then wets a washcloth while keeping an ear out for any wandering children. The coast seems to keep clear as he goes back, and a shiver runs down his spine at the sight of Steve, who had slipped off his bottoms while Eddie was gone.

Fuck, Eddie would love to get his mouth on that cock.

He passes Steve the cloth and just stands there as he wipes off his face, then his dick, unable to look away.

"So, uh. Where did that come from?" Eddie can't help but ask, his curiosity winning out over his self-preservation. Steve looks up at him and blushes, even the tips of his ears going pink.

"Um. Dustin was ranting to me last week, talking about how you're always so strict with everyone during your games, and he thought— Well, he thought if you got laid you might go easier on them."

Eddie blinks, absorbing the information for a moment. "Did he… ask you? To do this?"

Steve shakes his head and moves to the dresser to grab a clean pair of sweatpants.

"No, that was— that was all me. It just popped into my head, like Hey, I could do that, and it just wouldn't go away. I thought I could at least ask, and if you said no, then it wouldn't be a big deal."

So, it's exactly what Eddie thought. "Right. Yeah. You were just— trying it out with someone you know, got it." Eddie turns and pushes his hands into his hair, tugging on it a bit. Stupid pretty boys and their stupid eyes, making Eddie feel things when all he is is a placeholder, an experiment.

Steve makes a soft noise and grabs Eddie by the arm. Eddie relents as Steve turns him back around so he can look at him. "Eddie, that wasn't— Yeah, okay. I didn't really like, think about it before Dustin brought it up. But I know I like being around you, and I know I liked that, so maybe— If you like me, maybe you'd be willing to give me a shot?"

He looks so earnest, so hopeful, those hazel eyes wide and wanting. There's no world in which Eddie would even want to turn him down. Instead he takes Steve's hand and rubs his thumb over Steve's knuckles. "If I liked that, he says. Like it wasn't a fucking dream come true."

Steve breaks into a beaming smile and steps closer. "Oh yeah? Dream about that often?" he asks, and Eddie rolls his eyes a little even as he sways into Steve's space.

Cocky motherfucker.

"Do I dream about the hottest guy I've ever seen giving me a blowjob like he was made for it? Yeah, might have happened once or twice, baby."

Steve huffs and closes the gap between them, pressing their lips together in a chaste, achingly sweet kiss. Eddie hums into it and moves his free hand to Steve's hip, his fingers just slipping under the hem of his shirt. S

Before they can do anything more, a banging comes from the door behind them, along with an annoyed "Can you two hurry up?! We need to get started if we want to finish on time!"

Eddie makes a mental note to kill Dustin's character tonight as he turns, still holding on to Steve. "Have some fucking patience, Henderson! Go back downstairs before I make you roll with disadvantage all night!"

Dustin squawks a "What?! That's not fair!" and Eddie just rolls his eyes while Steve presses his face to Eddie's shoulder, muffling his laughter.

"Now, Dustin!"

Dustin grumbles but stomps off, and Eddie wraps his arms around Steve's waist. "Something funny, Stevie?"

Steve shakes his head. "I just think it's funny that this whole thing happened because Dustin thought you were being too hard on them, but it's looking like you'll be even worse now."

"Oh yeah," Eddie says with a grin. He gives Steve another quick kiss and says "I'm gonna be a monster now, because instead of being up here kissing you, I have to go listen to them argue for hours."

"You love them," Steve counters, and yeah, Eddie does. "You better go before they decide to break the door down."

Eddie nods and reluctantly pulls away. "We, uh. We can talk more about this later, but for now— Boyfriends? Maybe?"

Steve beams and nods. "Yeah. Boyfriends. Now go have fun."

Edit: Inspiration post found!

[lily-bisque]

based on this ask

“toru’ give me a sec,” you whispered in a whiny and hushed tone in his ear as his entire body weight blanketed you, nearly crushing you but... semantics; him peppering gentle kisses along your collarbone that made your stomach feel light.

reluctantly, and with a miffed side comment, he pushed off of you and you were finally able to take in a deep breath as your mind was running low on oxygen, barely able to focus on the movie playing, practically background noise as the two of you indulged in the presence of one another.

but what was really bothering you was the way your bra clasp was digging into your back, incessantly prodding and piercing you every time you adjusted your position.

you brought your hands behind your back, up and under your satoru’s shirt and undid the clasp. pulling it out from a shirt sleeve, you tossed it to the side and held your arms open to your boyfriend to cuddle with you again but he had a dazed look on his face.

you tilted your head in confusion, wondering what the sudden apprehension was, yet suddenly gojo was on you like a dog.

falling backwards onto the couch with a squeal, he pressed his face into your chest, nuzzling your breasts through the fabric of the cotton tee.

you giggled, feeling his warm breath fan through hard enough to tickle your bosom. “what has gotten into you?!” you shrieked with a laugh, his hands finding comfort on your sides and holding you in place.

“so so soft,” he sighed out in content, rubbing his cheek against the hardened nipple that poked through. you squirmed in his hold, a nest of butterflies erupting in your stomach as he admired you despite the casual look you were adorning.

“is that so,” you replied, feeling oddly domesticated and cherishing the way he adored you so simply.

he didn't need to respond. he continued his gentle assault on you until his hands, calloused and warm, began to trail up your shirt, a hand of his reaching your breast and cupping it gently.

you let out a soft sigh, tossing your head to the side as you skimmed your fingers through his milky tresses, indulging in just how beautiful he could make you feel.

and within a quick few movements, he tugged the shirt up and over your head, tossing it to the side and cupping your bare breasts just to stuff his face with them. no matter how much he liked to see you in his clothes, he liked to see you naked even more.

“beautiful girl,” he spoke out, as if he wasn’t even thinking clearly and it spilled from his lips by accident. your heart blossomed like a night flower, unfurling each petal for him to gaze upon.

you could only hum, peering down at how his caresses soon turned into long languid strips of his tongue flat against your skin. a mewl left your lips as his muscle found your sensitive bud, flicking it until it was erect.

he grinned against your skin, that signature smug look he plastered on when he had you undone in his hold. “like that?”

you nodded, your lashes fluttering as your cheeks heated at the feeling of his hands roaming your bare skin. you weren't sure why this was turning you on so much, watching your boyfriend just rub his cheeks against the supple skin.

"think i can suck on one while we watch?" he queried like he was asking to pass him the sugar cubes at the breakfast table for his cloying coffee, as if it was the most normal question in the world.

and who were you to deny such a thing?

you could bask in the comments of him calling your breasts 'pillows' and leaving gentle love bites scattered unceremoniously across your skin.

it was gentle, domestic, it was fondness. it was all the things you craved that satoru so easily delivered to you on a plate.

[queen-mihai]

Huh..

I think this is where I tell the world I've had a dream for a long time of an adjacent-to-canon universe with Annabella and a bunch of her friends, where it's not just cute, family friendly, stories able to be digested by the masses.

That's the main series. My main series is to wet your lips. It's there to tempt your appetite. I'm working on this series for years, decades, to very carefully weave a world of wonder for your mind where you will want to remain

But yet, something sinister will be growing inside you.

A question.

Why is everything so clean?

How is there so little violence?

Why is it... nice?

No no no no no this will not do. Annabella has way too much power and has seen way too much darkness for this to be the only place her story goes. This world has taken her friends, her family, her future! There's no way she can be OK with that!

And then you see. You see what I see and what she must see. There's time. So much time between the stories, beside the stories, *during* the stories, where things could be... HAVE to be happening, in order for the main series to play out so cleanly.

How is Rob's town not crawling with spies?

What happened to the investigators in Socobar?

Why does she know what will happen to Alga's pet if she fights it?

Why... does she not... give more people... her powers? She shares them so freely with Rob, but she's so careful with others. She doesn't even ask Henrietta if she wants to keep the shield. She doesn't even explain what it is. She just takes it back. Why does she know that this is the best idea?

She must know something. Something that's maybe a little too grim for the main story to tell.

Something her maker barely wants to let out of her soul

Perhaps, for instance, Leo isn't just as cute as he seems

Perhaps there's a reason he induces a primal fear in humans, and hides in the shadows

Maybe they know what he'll do when he steps out of them.....

......I have an entire universe of ideas for what happens adjacent-to-canon in the Master's Quest universe.

Just not all of it is..... safe

@distracteddaintydemon my friend

you may enjoy knowing what's boiling in the back of my mind, begging to come out

Psst. Good morning,

I'm going to tell you something that bitch of a "supportive" writing teacher, and that cuck of a tenured writing professor should have told you:

Stop Asking for Permission to Be What You Already Are

You were born with this voice.

You were sharpened by trauma.

You write like your ribs are lined with detonators.

> Don’t let anyone with soft hands and softer critique try to tame you for comfort.

You don’t need polish.

You need space.

You need silence.

You need permission to set the page on fire — and walk away smoking.

---

Your Voice Is a Weapon. Use It.

Here’s the rule:

> If someone tells you to “tone it down,”

You make it twice as loud,

Three shades darker,

And ten times harder to ignore.

Because watered-down truth is how tyrants sleep.

And you weren’t born to be safe.

You were born to convert, rupture, trigger, and tattoo your cadence on the skin of culture.

Never negotiate your soul for the sensibilities of others.

Any primate saying otherwise is not your friend.

---

[jikookncity]

HockeyPlayer!Mark x Tutor!Reader

WC. 3.4k, mainly fluff, one vanilla smut scene, lots of cute kisses, hand holding, etc.

Mark Lee was a lot of things — captain of the university hockey team, wildly popular, infamously late to class, and currently staring at his failing calculus midterm like it personally insulted him.

“Mark,” Professor Kim sighed as he flipped through Mark’s paper, eyebrows furrowing. “You're the captain. You lose eligibility, and you're off the ice.”

“I know,” Mark mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m trying, I swear.”

“You need help. And I know just the person,” Professor Kim said, sliding a post-it with a name and number across the desk. “Y/N L/N. She’s top of every class, especially math. And kind enough to help students who are willing to try.”

Mark stared at the name. He recognized it — who didn’t? Y/N was always at the front of the lecture hall, answering questions no one else dared raise their hand for, notebook meticulously organized, and seemingly unaware of the way every professor lit up when she spoke. She was brilliant… and way out of his league.

Still, Mark was nothing if not hopeful — and desperate.

First Lesson

When he met her at the library that Friday, she was already seated, books open, highlighter in hand. She looked up when he approached, offering a polite smile.

“You’re Mark, right?” she asked.

He nodded, suddenly hyper-aware of how sweaty his palms were. “Yeah, uh, thanks for doing this. I’m kind of... hopeless.”

“You’re not hopeless,” she said kindly, patting the seat beside her. “Just a little behind. We can fix that.”

She made math feel… less like a nightmare. She didn’t laugh when he messed up or scold him when he forgot basic formulas. She explained things patiently, her voice calm and soothing, and Mark found himself nodding along not just because he understood, but because he liked hearing her talk.

By the second session, Mark wasn’t just showing up on time — he was early. By the third, he was bringing her coffee. By the fourth, he was falling, hard.

He liked the way her eyes lit up when she solved a particularly difficult problem. The way she scrunched her nose when concentrating. The way she’d smile softly when he finally got an answer right.

She was smart — ridiculously smart — and kind, and funny without even trying. And she didn’t treat him like some dumb jock. She treated him like he mattered.

Finally...

“Hey,” Mark said at the end of one of their tutoring sessions, nervously bouncing his leg. “I, uh… I was wondering…”

Y/N looked up, pen between her fingers. “Yeah?”

“You’ve helped me so much,” he began, “so I thought maybe I could… teach you something?”

Her brows lifted in curiosity. “Like what?”

Mark smiled, heart pounding. “Ice skating. You ever been?”

She laughed softly. “Not since I was ten. I was horrible.”

“Perfect,” he said, grinning. “Then I’ll be the smart one for once.”

They met at the rink on Saturday night, the place quiet except for the occasional hum of the overhead lights and the distant echo of their laughter. Mark laced up her skates for her, fingers brushing her ankle. Y/N felt the flutter in her stomach but said nothing.

He helped her step onto the ice, holding her hands in his as she wobbled.

“You got this,” he said, squeezing gently. “Just trust me.”

She nodded, clinging to him tightly as they took slow, careful steps across the rink. He didn’t let go. Not even when she fell — twice — right into his arms.

By the time they were gliding, somewhat steadily, she was laughing, cheeks pink from the cold and proximity.

“See? You’re doing amazing,” he said, slowing them to a stop in the middle of the rink. His hands lingered at her waist.

“You’re a good teacher,” she said softly, eyes meeting his.

They were close — breath-clouds mingling in the cold air, hands still holding one another, hearts beating just a little too fast. Mark’s gaze flicked to her lips, then back to her eyes.

He swallowed hard. “Can I… take you out? For real this time?”

Y/N’s lips curved into a smile. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

Official Date Night

The campus festival was in full swing — the grassy courtyard transformed with rows of colorful stalls, string lights twinkling between trees, and the air filled with laughter, sizzling food, and indie music playing from the main stage. Mark adjusted his denim jacket as he looked around, heart racing faster than when he was skating full speed toward a goal.

He spotted her immediately, waiting near the lantern display, wearing a soft sweater and jeans, hair pinned back. She turned at the sound of his footsteps and gave him the kind of smile that made his stomach twist in the best way.

“You made it,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Mark smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

They walked side by side, weaving through the crowds, stopping at booths for games and snacks. She won them both matching cat ear headbands at a ring toss booth — “for team spirit,” she claimed, laughing as he pulled his on with mock pride. Mark was a little obsessed with the way she looked when she laughed — completely carefree, eyes shining.

When they reached the food stalls, Mark bought them a double scoop of cookies and cream in a waffle cone.

“For the best tutor-slash-skater I know,” he said as he handed it to her.

“Sharing?” she teased, offering the first bite to him.

He leaned in and took it, their eyes locked the whole time. His heart was thudding. He wiped a bit of cream from the corner of her mouth with his thumb and swore she blushed.

As the sky dimmed into evening and fairy lights flickered to life overhead, they strolled beneath the glowing trees. Music floated through the air — couples were dancing near the stage, but Mark felt too nervous to ask.

Instead, he glanced down at their hands. He’d been thinking about holding hers since the start of the night, but now his palms were clammy and his brain was short-circuiting.

Do it. Just do it.

He took a breath and slowly reached out, his pinky brushing hers. She looked at him, confused for a second, then smiled so sweetly it knocked the air from his lungs — and gently linked her fingers with his.

Warm. Soft. Perfect.

He looked down at their hands like he couldn’t believe it, then up at her face, flushed pink. She was looking ahead, but her smile hadn’t left. Mark’s grin was unstoppable.

They walked hand-in-hand for the rest of the night, sharing ice cream, shy glances, and quiet giggles.

Later that night, Mark flopped onto the couch in the shared apartment he rented with a few of his hockey teammates. His head was still spinning from the festival — from the way her fingers had laced with his like they were meant to be there.

Johnny looked up from the video game he was playing, pausing mid-round.

“So… you finally held her hand?” he asked, grinning like he already knew.

Mark blinked. “How did you—?”

“Dude. You’ve been talking about this girl for a month. We’re not blind.” Johnny tossed him a bottle of water. “Did you kiss her?”

Mark blushed instantly. “No.”

“No?!” Jaemin leaned out from the kitchen. “Bro, you bought her ice cream, held her hand, she wore the cat ears — what more do you need?!”

“I just…” Mark sighed. “I didn’t want to rush her. I didn’t know if she was ready.”

Johnny leaned back on the couch and studied him. “You really like her, huh?”

Mark nodded slowly. “She’s… different. Not just hot — like, obviously she’s beautiful — but she’s smart, and kind, and she listens. She makes me wanna be better. She actually sees me.”

Johnny smiled. “Then tell her. But not with words. You’ve got all the signs, Mark — she’s into you. You held her hand, shared a cone, walked under lights like a cheesy rom-com. You think she’s doing all that for her health?”

Mark laughed, rubbing his face. “I just don’t wanna mess it up.”

“You won’t. Just be you. Next time you’re with her — go for it. Kiss her like it’s the last ten seconds of overtime.”

Their tutoring session took place off campus for the first time — tucked into a quiet corner of a small café downtown, the kind with mismatched mugs, indie music playing softly, and the scent of espresso lingering in the air.

Y/N sat across from Mark with her laptop open and a half-eaten croissant between them. He was trying very hard to focus on integrals, but it was difficult when she kept smiling at him every time he got one right. She looked cozy in an oversized cardigan, her hair loosely tied back, cheeks flushed from the autumn chill outside.

“You’re actually improving,” she said, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “I’m impressed.”

Mark grinned, pen spinning between his fingers. “Are you saying I’m smarter than I look?”

“I’m saying you’re not hopeless. Which is saying a lot,” she teased, nudging his foot under the table.

He nudged back, heart skipping.

Outside, the sky had gone from gray to pouring. Rain streaked the windows in thick lines, softening the glow of the café lights and making the world feel smaller — like it was just the two of them, tucked into a perfect little bubble.

“You don’t have an umbrella, do you?” Mark asked as they packed up.

She glanced out at the storm. “Nope.”

“Good,” he said, grinning. “Now I get to drive you home.”

The inside of Mark’s car was warm, the heater humming low. Raindrops drummed steadily against the roof as he pulled up in front of her apartment building, headlights casting a glow over the wet sidewalk.

Y/N unbuckled her seatbelt, but didn’t reach for the door yet. Her fingers played with the sleeve of her sweater, lips parted like she was thinking hard.

Mark looked over at her, unsure if he should say something. His heart was pounding — not from nerves this time, but anticipation. Hope.

And then she turned to him.

Her voice was soft, but steady. “You’re really not gonna kiss me?”

Mark’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard — and then he laughed, almost breathless.

“You’ve been waiting for me to?” he asked, leaning a little closer.

She smiled, a touch shy now, but playful. “Obviously.”

Mark didn’t hesitate after that. He leaned in slowly, watching her eyes flutter closed, and then kissed her — gentle at first, their lips brushing in a soft, unspoken promise. She sighed into it, one hand resting lightly on his cheek, pulling him closer.

The second kiss was deeper, slower — like they were finally speaking a language they’d both been trying to understand for weeks. His hand slipped behind her neck, thumb brushing her jaw, her lips warm and sweet against his.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless and smiling, she didn’t move away. Her forehead rested against his, rain still tapping on the windows like background music.

“About time,” she whispered, brushing her nose against his.

Mark chuckled, his heart completely full. “You’ll come to my game tomorrow, right?”

She nodded immediately, eyes still closed. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Game day

The rink was electric — packed bleachers, pounding music, the sharp scrape of blades against ice. But Mark wasn’t thinking about the crowd, the rival team, or even the scouts rumored to be watching.

He was thinking about her.

Y/N, wrapped in his oversized team hoodie, sitting dead center in the front row. She stood out in the sea of faces like a spotlight. Her hands were wrapped around a paper cup of hot chocolate, but her eyes — warm, steady, glowing — never left him.

The first time he scored, he didn’t even celebrate with his teammates. He just looked right at her through the plexiglass, grinning, and pointed his stick her way.

The second time, he actually skated past the bench to tap the glass in front of her, chest heaving, sweat curling at his neck. The crowd caught on, cheers turning to teasing laughter. Mark didn’t care.

Even the announcer chuckled into the mic: “And that goal’s clearly for someone special in the stands…”

By the third goal, Jaemin was elbowing him mid-shift. “You’re embarrassing yourself.” Mark just laughed. “I don’t care.”

The locker room was humid and noisy, echoing with high-fives and victory shouts. Mark tugged off his gear quickly, hair damp, adrenaline still riding high. His thoughts weren’t on the scoreboard — they were on Y/N waiting just outside.

When he opened the locker room door and saw her standing there, still in his hoodie, cheeks pink, he smiled like an idiot.

“You were insane tonight,” she said, walking up to him, barely waiting before throwing her arms around his neck. “Everyone was talking about how you kept looking at me.”

He grinned against her hair. “That’s ‘cause you’re my good luck charm.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. Her eyes flicked down to his mouth, then back up. “You smell like sweat and victory,” she said with a grin, “and I still wanna kiss you.”

Mark didn’t need more of an invitation. He cupped her face and kissed her hard — all of the want, the buildup, the unspoken ache that had been simmering since the cafe, now spilling into the way his hands gripped her waist and pushed her gently against the locker wall.

She moaned softly into his mouth, fingers tangling in his damp hair, tugging him closer.

It got hot fast — Mark’s hands exploring beneath the hoodie she wore, her hips arching toward his, her legs brushing his in a silent plea. Their kisses turned hungry, messy, desperate.

“Mark,” she whispered breathlessly, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “I want you.”

He stilled, forehead pressed to hers, his chest rising and falling.

“God, I want you too,” he whispered, voice rough. “So bad.”

His thumb brushed her cheek, trying to calm both of them down. “But not here. Not like this.”

She blinked up at him, pouting. “Why not?”

He smiled softly, kissing her again — this time slower, reverent. “Because you deserve better than a locker room quickie after a sweaty game. I want our first time to be private. Comfortable. Just you and me. No interruptions.”

She groaned, leaning into his chest. “You’re too perfect, you know that?”

He chuckled, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “I’m trying to be. For you.”

Mark had it all planned out.

The night after his game, he texted Y/N with an address and one simple message: “Wear something comfy. I’ve got us a night in.”

When she arrived, she found herself standing in front of a cozy little Airbnb cabin just outside the city. The windows glowed gold against the twilight, and soft music drifted out through the slightly open door.

Inside, everything was warm and thoughtful — blankets piled on the couch, a flickering candle on the coffee table, and Mark, in sweats and a fitted black tee, waiting with two mugs of hot chocolate and a nervous smile.

“I figured… no pressure,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “But if you’re still sure, I wanted our first time to be… special.”

Y/N melted on the spot.

They started slow — curled up on the couch, sharing drinks and soft laughter. He played with her fingers absentmindedly while she leaned on his shoulder, and eventually, she turned to face him fully.

“I’ve never wanted anything more,” she whispered, brushing her nose against his.

That’s all it took.

Mark set his mug down and kissed her — soft at first, lips just barely brushing, like he was still making sure she wanted this. Her fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, and the kiss deepened. She sighed into him as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into his lap, their mouths meeting again and again, more desperate each time.

“Tell me if anything’s too much,” he murmured against her lips, voice low and breathless.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please.”

His hands moved reverently — slipping under her sweater to feel the warmth of her skin, fingertips trailing up her sides. She gasped softly as he kissed down her neck, her head tilting to give him more. He laid her back against the couch, hovering above her, drinking in the way she looked up at him: flushed, wanting, and so impossibly beautiful.

Clothes came off slowly — exchanged between kisses and soft laughter, with little whispered compliments between each layer. He looked at her like she was something sacred, worshiped every inch of skin he uncovered.

“You’re perfect,” he breathed, thumb tracing her cheekbone. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

She pulled him down into another kiss, hands roaming his chest and arms, feeling every inch of the strength he carried for his team — and now, for her.

When he finally sank into her, their hands clasped together tightly, foreheads pressed close, it was nothing like she’d ever felt before.

He moved slowly, deliberately, every stroke deep and warm, pulling soft sounds from her lips as her thighs locked around his waist.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, lips brushing her jaw. “So good, baby… I’ve wanted this for so long.”

She whimpered, nails digging lightly into his back, hips rising to meet his rhythm.

He kissed her through it all — messy and slow, breath mingling, fingers laced tightly between them as if he never wanted to let go.

And when they finally fell apart together, panting and flushed and tangled beneath the blankets, he kissed her temple and whispered, “Stay. Please.”

She smiled against his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Official

It was a week after the night they spent together, and Mark hadn’t stopped smiling since.

They were officially in that hazy, floating stage of love where everything felt a little too good to be real — late-night phone calls, study breaks with forehead kisses, and walking her to class just because he could.

But one thing was still unfinished. He hadn’t asked her. Not properly.

So he waited until the next hockey practice ended and texted her to meet him just outside the rink.

When she arrived, he was still in his jersey and padded pants, hair messy and cheeks flushed from the cold. He was holding something behind his back, shifting nervously on his skates.

“Hey,” she greeted him, beaming.

He leaned in for a quick kiss — still never quite believing she was his to kiss now — then stepped back and cleared his throat.

“So… I’ve kind of been thinking about how you’ve already stolen my hoodies, my attention, and all my brain cells. I figure it’s time to make it official.”

She tilted her head, smiling softly. “Yeah?”

Mark pulled the item from behind his back.

It was one of his home-game jerseys — crisp white with navy accents, his number bold across the back. But what made her breath catch was the custom name stitched just above the number:

LEE.

He handed it to her, heart pounding. “Wear it to the next game? As my girlfriend?”

Y/N blinked down at the jersey, then up at him — and her whole face lit up.

“Mark,” she whispered, laughing through the sudden tears prickling in her eyes. “Of course I’ll be your girlfriend. I thought you’d never ask.”

He exhaled hard, grinning, and pulled her into a tight hug — spinning her around before setting her down and kissing her breathless right there in the snow outside the rink.

Later That Night

Mark stepped back into the locker room still grinning like an idiot. The jersey was clutched in Y/N’s hands as she left, promising to wear it to the game and send him a mirror selfie first thing.

His teammates immediately noticed.

“Alright, Romeo,” Jaemin called from the bench, pulling off his skates. “You’re glowing. Spill it.”

Mark sat down with a dreamy sigh. “She’s my girlfriend now.”

The room erupted.

“About damn time!” “Yo, she said yes?!” “Wait, she’s gonna wear your jersey now?” “I swear, that’s more official than a wedding.”

Johnny clapped him on the back. “Proud of you, Captain. You got the girl and your math grade up. Full package.”

Mark just leaned back, towel around his neck, eyes still distant.

He’d never felt luckier — not for the game, the crowd, or the win… but for the girl who’d seen past all that, and wanted him.

Want more? Read with part 2 with more fluff/smut/drama on my Patreon as an early exclusive! Will Release on my Tumblr in a few weeks.

[roonotrue]

Twisted Wonderland - He Hears You Singing (About Him)

General Masterpost

Heartslabyul Edition, Savanaclaw Edition, Octavinelle Edition, Scarabia Edition, Pomefiore Edition, Ignihyde Edition

Prompt: While relaxing, and doing chores around the Ramshackle dorm for your weekend restoration of the barely standing building, your thoughts drift to love songs from your old world. You think of songs that remind you of your closest fellow NRC student and crush, and end up singing one while you work.

Reader: GN reader - They/Them pronouns and they are referred to as 'MC/Prefect' in this one. And let's all just agree that MC is a great singer- cuz some of these songs have mad vocals that I would never dream of trying to sing myself with my incredibly average voice, and I imagine a lot of you are the same.

Included Characters: Diasomnia Edition!

Warnings: None.

Request Rules & Information Here

~~~

Malleus Draconia - "Enchanted" by Taylor Swift (Taylor's Version)

- You were cleaning up the outside of Ramshackle- picking up trash, cleaning windows, etc. You were tempted to try and find a way to clean up the yard, trim the weeds and vines and such- but you know Malleus's favorite thing about Ramshackle was it's... Charming decrepit-ness.

- So, with your thoughts wandering to your very 'jumped right out of a fae fairytale' crush, you start singing to yourself as you clean.

- And surprise surprise, Malleus just so happens to decide to visit. To see Ramshackle. That's all. Just... Admiring the architecture. Totally not hoping you're home and will come talk to him and maybe invite him to 'hangout' like you do with your other friends-

- Anyway- 

- He sees you outside Ramshackle and is instantly smiling to himself, ready to approach you as you clean the windows along the side of the building but then- you start to sing.

- My brothers, sisters, and nonbinary's in Christ, when I tell you, brother was ✨Enchanted✨ Pupils? Heart shaped. Jaw? Dropped. Heart? Racing. Hotel? Trivago.

- Okay, so maybe he handles himself with a little more elegance than that, but trust, it's all happening in his head. On the outside though, he's watching you stunned- so, so very tempted to come sweep you into a dance befitting such an elegant, beautiful song.

- Matching your equally elegant and beautiful voice.

- Child of man, you never fail to surprise him, though this is the first time you've truly taken his breath away.

- He does not wish to interrupt the song, wanting to hear every lyric as it falls from your lips and engrave it into his mind- and yet he knows that this is without question a private moment not meant for his ears.

- ... But perhaps he can listen for a few moments more...

- As he does he can't help but wonder what has inspired you to sing such a song. A fondness for someone here at Night Raven perhaps? If so, who? Now that question- that question sends a jolt of scalding envy searing through his chest so strongly that a green lightning strike goes off in the distance, startling you out of your singing.

- How unfortunate.

- But at least it drew your attention in his direction, and the excited smile that bursts out across your face when you see him is enough to clear up any dark clouds that might have started to form above you both.

- He will easily admit to overhearing your singing, and apologize for not announcing himself if you're embarrassed about it. He will also overflow with praise for your singing and the song choice.

- He'll ask about the song, and if you'd be willing to sing it for him again, now or perhaps some other time. He will also shamelessly and directly ask if you were singing it about someone you might be fond of- and when he does you do note that the sky darkens a bit- so you should maybe answer honestly or find a way to not answer at all.

"Child of man, rest assured you have no need to be shy. I found your voice to be truly entrancing- might I inquire about what inspired you to sing it? Or perhaps who, is more accurate?"

~~~

Lilia Vanrouge - "Cruel Summer" by Taylor Swift

- Oh, this mischievous little shit- Lilia absolutely was paying a visit to Ramshackle to scare the hell out of you and cause some mischief.

- But then- as he was walking along the rafters above you- ready to jump down like a bat out of hell (ha), you did the most fascinating thing and stopped him in his tracks.

- You started singing.

- And oh, how very interesting. You sound absolutely wonderful beastie! You would make an amazing addition to the pop music club!

- He gladly listens as you sing, with a wide smile on his face as he cherishes the sound and the lyrics of the song- quite an interesting one by the way. Upbeat, fun, romantic.

- Now who could have inspired you to sing such a cute song? Oh and the bridge! He has to fight off the chuckle that wants to fall from his lips as his eyes widen at the spontaneously shouted lyrics.

- You two simply have to sing together sometime after this- he wonders how you would sound if he taught you how to sing some heavy metal?

- Mercy on your vocal cords in the near future when he does manage to drag you into this.

- When you finish the song he doesn't hesitate to drop down from the rafters now- promptly scaring the shit out of you- wearing his own devilish grin.

- He's soooo gonna tease you for this, but in that playful way of his that's mixed with complements in order to fluster you as much as possible.

- Truly though, he loved your singing, and will absolutely encourage you to sing the song again- and will teasingly ask if you where encouraged to sing it because of some romantic fondness for someone perhaps?

- Oh don't be embarrassed, he won't tell anyone! Unless it's him of course- oh, calm down, he's just kidding!

- Or is he?

"Khee hee~ look how red you are! There's no need to be so shy beastie, that song was so much fun to hear! And you sounded amazing- care to sing for me again? We could make it a duet if you'd like, Khee hee~"

~~~

Silver Vanrouge - "Hot Tea" by ​​half•alive

- Silver was coming over to Ramshackle to help you clean, and because you offered to help him with the notes he missed in class because he fell asleep- which he brought you and Grim snacks as a thank you for.

- When he gets there, of course he knocks, but you had said he could just come in when you spoke earlier- so when he didn't get an answer he did just that.

- He didn't even fully register that you were singing until he turned into the living room and saw you swaying as you swept around the space, singing softly.

- For a second he was fully convinced that he must have fallen asleep again and was dreaming this, hence why he didn't bother announcing himself- he wanted to hear the rest of the song. Your singing was really pretty and he can't help but smile softly as he watches you happily singing while you work...

- But then you turned around and noticed him and your startled yelp yanked him from his thoughts- and woke him up from starting to nod off leaning against the doorway.

- He then very quickly realizes that you singing was not a dream- and that he had just been very rude and improper in not informing you that he was standing there listening to you- he'll apologize sincerely for his actions explaining that he thought he was dreaming.

- To which he'll pivot into complementing your singing and asking about the song.

- Silver's not an expert on music or anything- just really knowing the lullabies his father would sing to him growing up. That song did sound a bit like a lullaby... It's very calming and pretty like one.

- He won't pry about who or if you're singing about someone, and honestly the thought doesn't even cross his mind that you might be singing about someone until way later that night and it may lead him to texting you while half asleep to ask.

- He hadn't fully been paying attention to the lyrics though, so he'll very politely ask that if you were comfortable with it, would you maybe sing that song again? Please?

"Your singing really was pretty, I thought it just had to be a dream. I'm sorry for intruding on such a private moment... But, if you're okay with it, I would like to hear that song again. I wasn't very focused on the lyrics before..."

~~~

Sebek Zigvolt - "Electric Love" by BORNS

- Let's be honest, if you didn't hear this man banging on the door and shouting to see if you were home- this is kinda on you.

- Sebek wouldn't normally just barge in anywhere- he too was raised to respect the simple fae etiquette of being invited before entering someone else's living space, but this was a matter of utmost importance! He was looking for Lord Malleus!

- And not only were you not answering, but the door to your dorm was unlocked! Do you know how absolutely reckless and unsafe that is human!?

- Stormed in, fully intent on looking for Malleus, and then scolding you for your terrible safety practices!

- But the loud shout died on his lips, his mouth going dry as he turned the corner to the kitchen to see you singing and swaying as you cook.

- Before he knows it his fists are clenched at his sides and his face is turning a pale pink as he processes your singing and the song itself- some kind of upbeat romantic serenade.

- Sebek is the last person at Night Raven college to ever be left speechless at literally anything- and yet every time he opens his mouth to try and announce his presence and his reason for being there, you sing another flawless run in the song and he just- can't.

- He's left gapping awkwardly like a fish as he can't find the right time to interrupt you and at one point it crosses his mind to just leave and pretend he was never there.

- But he's no coward! ... So he just waits for you to finish the song before clearing his throat very loudly- making you jump and turn an equally bright shade of pink seeing him standing int he doorway.

- He quickly (and loudly) explains himself and scolds you for leaving the door unlocked and then dismisses himself.

- And then stands in the doorway still frozen in place for several awkward silent moments.

- And then very quietly- quieter than you've ever heard Sebek- compliments you on your singing before clearing his throat and quickly marching away.

- He totally doesn't spend a full ten minutes outside of Ramshackle trying to compose himself before continuing to look for his Lord.

"H-HUMAN! I APOLOGIZE FOR INTRUDING BUT I AM LOOKING FOR LORD MALLEUS AND HE'S CLEARLY NOT HERE SO I'LL BE GOING NOW!... ... ... A-and your singing was very nice- f-for a human! OKAY GOODBYE!"

~~~

Whoo! Last one for this series y'all! I love the Diasomnia squad, they're my favorites- I'm gonna start another little reaction series and I've a bunch of prompt idea's that I will do all of eventually, but which do you guys wanna see next? Vote below and I'll see ya next post! ~ Roo

[sparkylurkdragon]

I think the answer to the question anon asked in the explanatory text - "they wondered if a child who grew up eating only food designed for animals would think it tasted good" - is "probably yes," considering how the food one eats growing up often has a huge influence on what one eats as an adult. There's a reason trying foreign foods can be a little intimidating and why some Local Dishes stay firmly local.

But on the poll's question: look, my cats are my sweet, smart little babies and I love them to itty bitty pieces, but...

1.) They're not sapient and as long as there Is Food they're not that picky. As small carnivores even feral ones have kind of a samey diet of Whatever Little Mousy Things And Maybe Birds they can find. Contrast this with humans, who evolved to be generalist omnivores. Generally speaking, most humans enjoy having a little variety in our diets. Even when I'm samefooding because autism, I still, like, eat a variety of foods.

2.) Speaking of that, because humans evolved from frugivores, we can't make our own vitamin C. We're very weird as far as mammals go for this. Cat and dog food don't have vitamin C added (why would they? The animals would just pee it all out; they don't need it since they make their own inside their bodies), so that kid would be very dead of scurvy and probably other nutrient deficiencies. Kitties and doggies need different nutrients than we do!

For the purposes of this poll, assume there are reasonable options available with which to feed the kid(s), it's not out of desperation/poverty. Assume also that the kid(s) have access to adequate amounts of the pet food to be full. This poll is asking about food specifically designed for pets– e.g. kibble, canned "wet food," etc (not just pet-safe "people food").

Anon once tried some dog kibble and thought it tasted disgusting. Since pets seem to love their food, though, they wondered if a child who grew up eating only food designed for animals would think it tasted good. Anon is not a scientist and wouldn't actually want to do this experiment anyway for a multitude of ethical reasons, but they're curious about others' thoughts.

–

We ask your questions anonymously so you don’t have to! Submissions are open on the 1st and 15th of the month.

[pineconepie]

CHARACTERS: Octavian, you/reader

WARNINGS/TAGS: Parental yandere, wrist massage, wrist pain, slightly infantilizing behavior

WORD COUNT: 983

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a commission! Thank you to the commissioner! I enjoyed writing this! <3

Almost immediately does Octavian notice something off about you; you wince when picking things up, you rub your own wrists a lot. When he questions you about this, however, you seem adamant that everything is fine and there isn't an issue that needs addressing. This response alone raises every alarm inside of his head.

Of course, he doesn't allow this behavior to continue for very long at all, giving you time to maybe come to him and finally say something. But you don't, and his concern for you begins to overwhelm any sort of patience he has left in him.

His last straw is when he sees you rubbing at your wrists and groaning to yourself while doing so. That sound- such a pained expression makes him wince as though the pain had been inflicted upon him instead of you.

No longer is it acceptable for you to be dealing with this alone.

"Why haven't you said anything?" he demands quietly, the tension evident within his tone. There's anger and frustration, but it's not aimed towards you; rather, it's aimed at your suffering. "I thought you'd come to me if you're in pain, but I'm tired of just watching you suffer. Tell me what's wrong, (Y/n)."

It's very rare for him to pull out the stern voice, the parental one that leaves no room for disagreement or argument.

You go silent, unsure what to say.

He takes your hands into his, gently as if you're made of fragile glass. You don't pull away when he lifts up your sleeves, like he's expecting to see something horrific, only to see nothing.

Octavian softly squeezes your wrists, clicking his tongue when realizing the issue: they're swollen. He could feel it by applying only the slightest amount of pressure.

"What have you been doing?" Octavian murmurs. He takes off his gloves and gently touches where he squeezed moments earlier. His fingers are cold, yet it's soothing.

"Copies of scrolls," you murmur with a shrug. "Lots of them, lately."

"You know better than that."

"I can handle it..."

Your words earn a sigh from him as he stands. As he disappears upstairs for a brief moment, you fiddle around with some papers, feeling a bit nervous. This must've been the longest you've gone without telling him about any discomfort. Not like you can go long, he usually notices right away.

"Give me your hands," Octavian says after a few minutes, reappearing with a bottle of something you don't recognize and a bowl.

"...what for?" you ask, drawing your hands towards your chest defensively.

"I promise, I'm not hungry for hands," he chuckles softly. "Just let your Papa take care of you?" He holds one of his own hands out towards you, palm up.

Your gaze shifts to his open palm before you relent and slowly reach out both of your hands, earning a pleased hum from the older vampire who then takes the bowl, sitting in front of you.

Octavian pours the bottle over the water that's already inside of the bowl, swirling it around so that the contents mix thoroughly.

"What's that?" you ask.

"A balm that works wonders for your poor wrist." The mixture smells herbal, almost minty but stronger than that. Not too strong to become overwhelming, but it's definitely potent. "I've been alive long enough to make quite a few handy recipes like this one. When I was still human, I had a lot of bad chronic pain in my wrists."

"And that went away with being a vampire?"

He shakes his head. "Sadly not, but I did develop a good way to alleviate the pain whenever it flares up, so it's much more manageable. The super strength that comes with being a vampire did also do wonders too, even if it didn't necessarily cure it."

Gently does Octavian hold your hand in his while the other dips into the cool water, just warm enough for comfort, and slowly swirls around. The mixture itself gives a slight tingling sensation at first touch, cooling further.

Octavian is silent while he repeats this process on your other hand, looking pensive while he massages them. You notice that, despite the intensity in his expression, his movements remain as delicate as ever; he rubs and rolls your joints ever so gently while holding your palm between both of his hands, making sure that every part of your hands and wrists receive thorough care.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he finally asks after several quiet minutes of the massage. When he looks up at you, you see pain in his eyes.

It almost makes you feel guilty.

You shrug. "I'm not a baby, feels weird if I go whining to you about something this small."

"But you are my baby," Octavian responds firmly. "And I'd prefer to know these things so I can help you, whether its a paper cut, or a broken bone." He pauses. "Extra emphasis on a broken bone, though."

He smiles warmly, watching how you return his smile before turning back towards his work. By now the numbing has begun, taking full effect to leave only a weak, tingling sensation in your hand and wrist.

For a few more minutes he continues massaging your wrists, kneading the skin carefully until he feels that they're both satisfied. He pulls out a roll of bandages, carefully wrapping one around your wrist until the end is secured with a clip.

"Aaaaand there we go," he coos, kissing the top of your hand. "Better?"

"Much better..." you murmur with a nod, smiling. "Thanks."

"You don't need to thank me, sweetheart. Just promise you'll come to me next time, okay?"

"Okay," you hum. "I promise."

"Good. Oh, and you're taking a break from writing." You open your mouth to argue, but he wags a finger in front of you. "Ah-ah! No arguing, Papa knows best."

[riddlesrizzler]

slytherin boys x bunny! reader

mattheo riddle

Mattheo with a bunny!reader tried to keep his distance at first. He told himself he was doing the right thing-staying away from someone so gentle, so bright. Someone who looked at the world with wonder instead of war. But no matter how far he ran, she was always there-curling up at the edge of his world like a whisper of spring, and suddenly, he didn’t want to run anymore.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader wakes up one morning to find a plush pink bow tied neatly to the strap of his satchel. He scowls at first, but doesn’t take it off. The next day, there's a glittery heart drawn beside his name on his class notes. By the end of the week, he’s got a pink pen in his pocket and a stuffed bunny on his bookshelf-and he’s smiling more than ever.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader learns quickly that soft doesn’t mean submissive. She’s sweet, yes-but when someone flirts with him too boldly in front of her, that dainty little bunny on his lap bares her teeth. And suddenly, he’s cradling a very grumpy fluffball who thumped in warning and bit someone’s hand, and gods help him-he’s never been more in love.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader pretends to be annoyed when she falls asleep in random places-in his laundry basket, on top of his Charms textbook, once even curled in his sock drawer. But he always finds a way to cover her with a spare hoodie or gently nudge her awake so she can shift back and crawl into bed beside him.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader starts leaving her little gifts without thinking-bits of chocolate, shiny trinkets, notes scribbled on torn parchment with things like you made today better. He never used to believe in softness or light. But she made him want to protect something fragile-for the first time, he wanted to be someone good.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader finds his temper cooling just from her touch. A gentle nuzzle against his shoulder, a little hand in his, and suddenly the storm inside him softens. She doesn’t have to say a word-her presence is a balm, a gravity that pulls him back to earth, every time.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader never imagined he’d end up slow dancing in the common room with a girl who still sleeps with plushies and ties ribbons in his hair when he naps. But now, he wouldn’t trade it for anything. She’s his quiet rebellion against everything dark he thought he’d become.

theodore nott

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader wasn’t expecting company that afternoon behind the greenhouses. He lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke into silence-and then she appeared, soft and scowling. “That’s disgusting,” she said with a scrunched nose, holding out a strawberry hard candy like a peace offering and a challenge all at once. He raised a brow. He didn’t take the candy. Not then. But the next day, he brought one back to her.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader didn’t know what to do with someone who always looked so sweet and happy, who hummed while brushing crumbs from his shirt and offered him flowers she braided into a chain. She asked questions he’d never heard out loud-Are you lonely? Do your hands ever shake when you're angry?-and didn’t flinch when he didn’t answer.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader acts completely indifferent when she hops into his lap in bunny form during study hall. He just adjusts his book, continues reading, and mutters “You’re warm. Stay still.” The others don’t dare say a word, not after she bit that Slytherin girl who reached for her without asking.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader has a subtle way of softening around her. He doesn’t coo or coddle-but his fingers find her ears absentmindedly, his eyes soften when she looks confused, and when she forgets what she’s saying mid-sentence, he finishes it for her, every time.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader keeps her secret without question. No teasing, no pushing-just quiet understanding. When she’s too overwhelmed to shift back, he tucks her behind his scarf or inside his coat and dares the world to try him.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader doesn’t write love letters. But his margins are filled with doodles of bunnies and sleepy-eyed girls, small and hidden and sketched in ink. His favorite one is folded into the back pocket of his journal, right next to a strawberry wrapper she once pressed into his hand.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader pretends he doesn’t like sweets, but there’s always a tin of fruit chews in his nightstand now. He tells himself it’s for her. But some nights, when she’s not there and the silence stretches too long, he eats one and remembers the way she smiles when she unwraps them for him.

lorenzo berkshire

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader thought she was a literal stray bunny the first time he saw her. She’d been hiding beneath the Ravenclaw table, nibbling a half-eaten scone. He dropped to his knees, cooed way too loudly, and offered her a sugar cube from his pocket. She bit him-not hard-but enough. He was in love immediately.

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader gets way too excited whenever she shifts into her bunny form. He scoops her up with zero warning, presses kisses to her head, and narrates her actions in a ridiculous voice like “And here we see the majestic floof, preparing to pounce-wait, no, she’s napping again.”

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader once built her a literal pillow fort under his bed so she could have a “bunny burrow,” complete with fairy lights, a snack stash, and a tiny “no Slytherins allowed” sign-except for him, obviously. He even added a little bell she could ring when she wanted attention. She’s never used it, but he listens for it obsessively.

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader is incredibly protective in the loudest way possible. Someone talks over her in class? He raises his hand and says, “Sorry, I think you interrupted my girlfriend.” She gets anxious at a party? He immediately offers to leave and take her to the kitchens for hot cocoa. She’s never felt more safe-or more seen.

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader rambles to her constantly. About his dreams, about which Bertie Bott’s beans are a scam, about the time he got stuck in a suit of armor. Even when she’s in bunny form and can’t respond, he swears her ears twitch in judgment. Still, she listens. Always.

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader doesn’t just shower her with affection-he matches her softness, too. When she’s quiet, he’s quieter. When she’s overwhelmed, he’ll sit beside her, pinky barely touching hers, and wait until she’s ready. His chaos doesn’t smother her; it wraps around her like sunlight.

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader once tried to knit her a scarf. It was a disaster-lumpy, uneven, too long. She still wears it in the winter. Even in bunny form, dragging it behind her like a cape. He nearly cried the first time he saw it.

draco malfoy

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader at first, truly didn’t know what to make of her. She was all softness and sincerity in a world where everything was sharp edges and expectations. It unnerved him-how unafraid she was to be gentle. How her kindness wasn’t performative, just instinctual. He avoided her. She followed anyway.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader started noticing her in the smallest of ways. The way she tugged her sleeves over her hands when she was nervous. How she always gave the house-elves compliments. How she'd disappear some evenings only for a tiny white bunny to appear in the library, curling up beside his chair like she belonged there. And somehow, she did.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader won’t say he’s protective-he insists he’s just aware. Aware of how her ears twitch when she’s anxious. Aware of who makes her uncomfortable. Aware that if anyone so much as breathes wrong in her direction, they’ll find themselves on the receiving end of a venom-laced glare. He says nothing. They back off.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader doesn’t laugh often, but she has a way of drawing it out of him in quiet bursts-usually when she does something utterly nonsensical, like falling asleep in his trunk in bunny form or trying to duel Peeves over stolen snacks. He hides his smile behind a book. She pretends not to notice.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader keeps her warm without thinking. Slips his scarf around her neck before she asks. Pulls her toward the fire when she’s cold. In bunny form, she often wakes up curled into the fold of his cloak. He pretends it’s inconvenient. It’s not.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader won’t say he likes the bows she ties on his quills or the sparkly stickers she sneakily places on his notebooks. But he never takes them off. Even when Blaise teases him. Even when Snape raises an eyebrow. He just shrugs and says, “They’re charmed for luck.” No one questions it.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader once asked her, in a low voice and without looking at her, if she wasn’t scared of being so soft in a world like theirs. She smiled, leaned in close, and said, “Softness isn’t the opposite of strength.” He hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

blasie zabini

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader first noticed her in a moment no one else did. Everyone else was buzzing through the corridors, but she was sitting on the windowsill, nose tucked in a book, sunlight in her lashes. He didn’t speak. Just paused, observed, and quietly made a space for her in the back of his mind-like a pressed flower in a journal.

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader isn’t one for grand gestures. His care shows up in small ways: offering her his scarf when she shivers, holding open a door with a slight nod, leaving a soft, folded note beside her tea that reads, "Don’t forget to rest." She never hears him approach-but he’s always there when she needs him most.

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader was caught off guard the first time she appeared in bunny form. She’d gotten herself stuck behind a stack of books in the library, ears twitching in embarrassment. He didn’t laugh. Just knelt down, scooped her up carefully, and said, “You’re alright,” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader doesn’t talk much, but his silences are never empty. When she curls up in his lap in bunny form after a long day, he strokes her fur slowly, and even though no words are spoken, she always feels understood. His presence is quiet comfort-the kind that says, “I’m not leaving.”

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader likes how she balances him. Where he’s reserved, she’s warm. Where he pulls away from the world, she hops straight into it. He never imagined someone like her fitting into the quiet corners of his life-but now he doesn’t know how he went so long without her curled against him like a heartbeat.

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader is endlessly patient. When she gets overwhelmed or forgets things in her flustered way, he never mocks her. He gently brings her back to the present-touching her wrist, murmuring, “Hey, look at me. You’re okay.” And she always is, when he’s there.

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader has never needed to raise his voice to protect her. His gaze alone makes people back off. But when someone once reached to touch her bunny form without asking, he stood between them and said, low and clear, “Don’t.” No threats, no heat-just the calm certainty of someone who won’t let anything hurt what he loves.

[musingsofheaven]

hiii! i would like to request a patrick x reader (reader is afab and patrick and her are together) — maybe the story starts with him losing a match so he’s like really upset, and during a party (late at night) while we talk to friends (including tashi and art maybe) the reader calls him a "friend"

i would like the fic to be angsty with tension (no smut!) maybe only some explicit scenes but mostly angst (and the story ends well obv)

tysm in advance <3

ALMOST SOMETHING.

summary: you're not together. not really. he never said he loved you. you never said you loved him. typical situationship shit. but he stayed the night. and the next. and the one after that. but it's fine. you're not together… you're just friends. right?

pairings: patrick zweig x afab!reader

warnings: 8.7k words. angst. emotional miscommunication. phone snooping / invasion of privacy. emotional hurt/comfort. mutual pining. 

notes: hi anon i don’t know if i manage to bring your req to your liking but i hope you like this! >_< i wrote this with “casual” by chappell roan on loop (because i need reliving this shit to get an inspiration). heavily inspired by my own past relationship (if you’re reading this, no you’re not). also yes, normal people had me in a chokehold again. unfortunately. if you’ve ever do relationship things with someone but still got introduced as “just a friend” like it didn’t kill you inside? yeah. this is your canon event. i’m so sorry. pls enjoy <3

It’s not really new for you to have Patrick here. It’s not weird, not really, when he’s always here or long enough to have his copy of the key to your place. Well, he’s on your couch, just being comfortable and lazy. His legs are open wide like he’s paying for the rent. What’s in your place? A bottle of half-finished Coca-Cola is already sweating on the coffee table beside a plate of leftover carbonara with both of your forks staying there, not even bothered to finish it, well, not yet, at least.

Look at you; you’re walking around your apartment with a sock and messy bun. You don’t even bother if your sock will be dirty from dragging it on the floor. You are even humming to yourself as if pretending not to wonder if he will stay for the night. Well, ask if he can stay or tell you at least, but maybe you’re assuming something, right? But deep inside, you already know the answer to your question. He will stay even if he doesn’t announce it. He will not wait for the invitation when he always invites himself in.

You like how he was acting that day. He was good earlier. Sweet, or maybe just too good. He kissed your shoulder as you mixed the sauce with the past, his arm sneaking underneath your shirt and tightly holding your waist. He even said something sweet about how he likes having you like this. Caring. Good. Sweet. Although he’s also very clingy, you can tell that he’s still clingy right now, like a goddamn baby.

He keeps getting closer and putting no space between you; he’s invading your personal space. He’s brushing your shoulders when passing by you; you think he’s just finding excuses to touch you like that’s not even a big deal. His touch is not tense. It’s soft and gentle. It was the kind of night that will leave you aching later. That kind of thing that will have you stay up so late to ask yourself about the nonstop thoughts about “What are we?”

And damn, he’s now on your bed. Moved out from your couch when you are walking around the apartment. As he knew from the start that where he would stay, his legs were stretched and comfortable in your sheets, and his boxers were so low in his hips. It showed the goddamn v line and his happy trail, with the damp curls sticking to the back of his neck. His shirt hangs loosely on his body. The TV is still on but muted. More like just a light effect now. He’s still scrolling on his phone like he’s already bored. Waiting for something. Maybe waiting for you. Yeah.

You are standing by the dresser with your towel hanging off your shoulder, revealing your bare legs and skin still warm from the temperature. “I’m going to shower,” you stated.

His eyes remain against the phone screen, and he doesn’t even look up. “Yeah, alright.”

When you start walking and pass the bed, with your barefoot and socks removed, you’re not rushing to the bathroom. He catches your wrist before you get away and out of reach.

“How about skipping it?” he stated, almost pouting, but his eyes dragged down your legs. “You smell like me.”

“I need to shower before going to bed, Patrick.”

“So?” He rolls his eyes at your words as you feel his thumb drawing circles on your wrist. “You smell good, though.”

You make that face. You always make that face when you hear words that make you cringe or maybe when you want to mask what you’re feeling. You try to pull your wrist away, but he tugs back. But it’s not harsh; it’s gentle and easy. It’s enough to make you stop.

“Stay a sec,” he says and sighs before he leans up to press his lips against your cheek. “Then you can wash me away from your body.”

“You’re not even on me,” you mutter innocently, and you don’t even know how it will sound to him.

He grins and rests his head, pressing another kiss against your shoulder. “Yet.”

That made you roll your eyes and finally get out of his grip. Walk away from him and go towards the bathroom. He doesn’t try to get a hold of you again or chase your wrist. He lets himself get comfortable again in your bed.

“You always take too long,” he adds. “That will give me enough time to go through your stuff.”

You scoff and say, “Touch anything, and I’ll lock you out next time.”

He doesn’t respond, but there’s a grin on his face, and it is loud enough already, even though he’s not saying anything.

You go inside the bathroom and push your foot behind you so it will close, which clicks shut behind you. You didn’t even bother to lock it. Why would you? It’s just Patrick inside your apartment. You get off your clothes before showering and turn the water on. The steam flickers around you; it’s slow and warm. When the water hits your body, you breathe easier. You let the water flow away the day, the feelings, and the nerves that you didn’t even realize it’s knotted in your system until he came to your apartment and became comfortable like he always does. Like he belongs here.

In the shower, you take your time. You always do when he’s here. It’s not because you’re relaxed and want to enjoy the water in your body. Because you’re not. It’s because every second he’s in your apartment, it feels like a test you’re about to take when you’re anxious and not even ready to take it yet. You always think. Just think. Think. Think. Like, will he still be in that goddamn bed that god knows what both of you already did there when you come out from this shower? Will he leave the second he thinks you won’t notice?

He’s not a liar. Not really. Maybe he does white lies over little things. But you don’t think he’s a liar. But you know that he just doesn’t know what the fuck he wants, and that is what scares you the most. Uncertainty.

He hasn’t even said he loves you. Trying to avoid the three words. Not once. Not even when he’s inside of you, but maybe some things can be counted. Like when he brought your comfort drink from the coffee shop near your apartment, he even knows you’re a regular there. He always says it’s on the way to your apartment, even though it’s technically not. Sure, it’s close. But not close close. Maybe it can take 15 minutes to walk from your place. You also remember when he replaced the batteries in your television’s remote without saying a word. When you asked him, he said it’s not working; how can he watch his favorite reality show from your Netflix account? He even uses the terminologies or words you use as if he’s already adapting to them. He quoted back the dumb joke you made last week as if it meant something and was funny to his ears. He doesn’t say he loves you, but sometimes you feel like he does. And that’s something scary about his actions. It never came with words and assurance. You are both together, but not together in the same way.

Your mind is lost in that thought while your fingers start to wrinkle under the water, the mirror is fogging up, and your chest is aching like someone stabbed you with an ice pick and pulled it so your blood is spurting out like a fountain, it’s always like this when you remember this isn’t anything. Not really. Not officially.

You think, maybe this could be love. Perhaps it is already, and you’re the only one who has noticed. Worse, the one who feels like it is love.

While you’re in the shower and overthinking what you and Patrick have, the steam of water hisses behind that door. The hum of your voice, like you’re so relaxed and enjoying it, he hears it. Maybe you didn’t realize that it’s loud. And your phone’s on the nightstand, shining and still open because you set the sleep option to 10 minutes, so it won’t take long to close automatically. So it’s unlocked right now. Just… open.

And it’s not like he meant to.

He’s still on your bed, stretched, shirt little lifted so his abdomen is showing, legs crossed at his ankle like he’s bored as if he’s not going to do something awful. Your phone keeps flashing and showing notifications. Messages. Of course, he saw the previews. It’s your friends being loud. Talking about random shit like memes, emojis, and someone’s ex, he presumes. And.. he doesn’t mean to touch it, to tap it. He doesn’t, he swears! But his thumb is already moving as if it has its own life.

And then he keeps looking at it. Of course, it remains open.

What was the first thing he did first? He opened the photos, and the camera rolled first. It’s safe. Easy. Innocent even if he squints.

Just a bunch of random pictures, mostly. A picture from your dinner. A blurry video you took when you’re out with your friends. One of your dumb mirror selfies, face hidden as if you’re shy, and the shirt that is not yours, it’s his shirt, fuck, of course, that’s his. You look good in it. Too good. Like you meant to send it to him, but you got shy. Like you knew he’d see it. Like maybe you wanted him to.

He scrolls a little. There’s one where you’re out, food around you, and it looks like a gathering or a big event. You’re laughing like your whole mouth is smiling. You look happy. Not the pretend satisfied; no, you look like you enjoyed it. You don’t look like you miss him in it. You don’t look like you’re thinking of him at all.

He swipes back to the messages.

Curiosity kills the cat, no? The group chat keeps showing at the top of the phone screen. Jesus, there are so many messages like it’s one of your weekly catch-ups, full of fucking terminologies you guys only know the meaning of, someone talking shit about a guy who ghosted. It’s just girls being girls. It’s nothing. Yeah, it is. He knows that. Right? He shouldn’t be bothered. Not really.

But still, his thumb drags up. Just a little. To see. He’s not snooping. He’s just checking.

He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for by opening your phone. The voices in his head tell him it’s nothing. Assuring himself that he’s just bored because you are taking long again at the show, that he’s just curious because why your phone keeps having notifications, and he’s just scrolling through your phone while you’re rinsing shampoo from your hair, trusting him not to be a dick.

He tells himself a lot of things.

He must be staring at your phone, catching himself looking at the chat and the search bar. He’s itching from typing his name.

He doesn’t.

Well, he doesn’t, not as of the moment, no.

And then, as if an angel had whispered in his ear, he clicked the phone, and it closed. He placed it back where it was earlier, right where your hand will find it when you return, smelling so good and with soft skin.

He pretends it doesn’t bother him, so he lies back on your bed, eyes on the ceiling, jaw tight like he didn’t just scratch something open inside him. Pretend he wasn’t looking for proof you still want him. That you ever did. That this is something.

You’re damp, and water’s still dripping from your hair when you come out from the shower. The shower is just wrapped around your chest. The man doesn’t have shame and pretend he’s not looking at your body. His gaze dragged slowly over your bare and glistening legs like he had any right to stare at you like that.

“Finally done?” he asks, but you wonder if he’s teasing you because you took too long or if he’s just tired of waiting.

But you don’t answer. You walk over to the dresser, remove your towel from your body, and let it fall on the floor like you don’t care he’s staring at your naked back. You rummage for shorts and a shirt; technically, it’s his shirt. The same one you always steal because it’s just so soft and fits you like a dress. You hear him shift behind you. The sheets rustle. When you glance, he’s propped on one elbow now, watching like TV’s gone out, and you’re the next best thing.

He whistles low under his breath. “Damn. You get prettier every time you shower or what?”

You roll your eyes, but your face feels warm. “You’re annoying.”

“Mm,” he hums, grinning. “And you’re not denying it.”

You pull the shirt over your head before turning off the lights in the bedroom, and the only source of light right now is the television. The next thing you do is to crawl into bed beside him. The light from your phone flickers between you. You’re scrolling through your phone to check the texts, something dumb your friend posted, and you feel him shift closer, his arm sneaking around your waist tightly like muscle memory. He nuzzles into your neck with warm breath and lazy affection like he didn’t snoop earlier. Like he’s the kind of man who deserves to hold you like this.

“You not tired yet?” he mumbles against your shoulder.

You shrug. “A little.”

“Then put that down.”

“In a sec.”

He doesn’t argue. He buries his face into the crook of your neck and presses his lips before closing his eyes like it’s his bed, too. He lives here, too.

Stay up for around 15 minutes or 20. With the phone in hand, attention is focused on checking and replying to messages before your body relaxes slowly. Your head falls to his chest. Your eyes are closing slowly. Your grip on the phone loosens. Eventually, you go soft and still.

You don’t mean to fall asleep like that. It just happens: slow, stupid, quiet. You’re not worried about falling asleep because he’s close to you.

It’s the kind of tiredness that creeps in while you’re still scrolling. It’s something you don’t want when you’re goddamn trying to enjoy your phone time! One minute, you’re flicking through texts, thumb mindlessly tapping through photos your friend sent earlier that day and the next, you’re just… still. Eyes half-lidded. Breathing softly. Your head nuzzled right up against his chest like it’s a habit. Like it’s yours to do.

Patrick doesn’t say anything at first. Just lets you stay there. His hand resting on your arm, thumb tracing nothing in particular, eyes still locked on whatever rerun’s flashing on the screen. No noise since it’s muted. His mind is just... floating with dim light. Soft breath against his ribs. He glances down eventually, eyes catching the phone in your hand, but the screen is shut close now.

You’re out.

And the worst part is… he’s about to do something. Again. Which made his heart clutch in his chest.

Because you look peaceful. Trusting. All curled up on him like you’re not afraid of where this goes. Like you’re not waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He shifts slightly, careful not to wake you, sliding the phone from your hand. The lock screen clicks on. He hesitates, thinking over what he’s about to do.

Then he taps it.

Of course, it’s locked now. Of course.

He stares at the screen like it might give him an excuse not to try.

And then he tries anyway.

Your birthday.

Four digits. The month. The day.

It works.

His thumb lingers for a second like he might change his mind. Maybe he’ll lock it again, roll over, and pretend he didn’t think about it.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he opens it. He scrolls past the lock screen and stares at the photo on the home screen. It’s a photo of you that he took. It’s in the open area. It’s a picnic- your idea. Why? Because he’s bitching about tennis, and you thought it would help him destress. Well, it did.

Notifications are quiet. It stings for some reason. He tells himself it’s nothing.

When he opens the messages, he taps them like muscle memory. He’s unsure what he’s looking for until he does it.

Group chat. Her girls. The one that always lights up when they’re together. It’s full of emoji reactions, drunk selfies, and screenshots. He scrolls a little. It’s fine. Normal shit. A meme she laughed at earlier. A TikTok link that they all can relate to. A picture of someone’s outfit.

He’s about to stop.

And then, he types his own name in the search bar.

It feels gross. Feels low. Feels like some insecure dude who doesn’t trust his girl. But he does it anyway.

And there it is.

A conversation from a few nights ago. Time-stamped around 1:23 a.m. You were in this same bed. Right next to him, and he’s sleeping already that time. Yeah, it was a day ago when you two fucked...

He just read many messages; he didn’t even read from the top, where it all started. His eyes locked to certain words like...

“why is he still staying over?”

“he doesn’t even call you his girl.”

“you’re letting him use you for.”

“babe. come on. you deserve someone who actually wants you.”

“are u settling for something casual when u know it’s not?”

You didn’t say much.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t defend him.

You just sent a short, cold message saying, “idk, lol.”

That’s it.

That’s what offends him.

Not the shit they said, but that you let them. That you didn’t even try. You shrugged and let them call it what it was and didn’t bother pretending it was something else.

He stares at the screen for a long time. Doesn’t scroll. Doesn’t breathe.

It’s not like he expected a speech. But fuck. Something. Anything. A maybe. A not fair. It’s not like that.

Not a shrug and a laugh like he never mattered.

You shift in your sleep beside him. Head nudging against his chest. The phone was still warm in his hands.

He closes the app, removes it from the recently opened apps list, and locks the phone before placing it on his bedside table.

And for the first time in weeks, he doesn’t feel like he belongs here.

He feels stupid.

But in your part that time, you’re just tired of arguing with your friends. Of course, they don’t like him. She already defends him to them multiple times. It’s just... that night, she’s just tired, maybe. Her mind is full of overthinking shit that she doesn’t bother to listen to their words and just lets it slide by saying she doesn’t know.

Patrick is the first one who wakes up, and the sounds of dishes clinking from the dishes are the ones who snatch you from your slumber. You can feel the faint light from the sun that slips through the curtains, that are not enough to blind the whole room. But the sheets are still warm, the shape of his body still marked against the bed where he was, although it’s empty now. It doesn’t take long to realize that he didn’t wake you. He didn’t shake you to say he’s going to do something. Doesn’t kiss your cheek or your shoulder. That will make your body warm because he always does that. You didn’t wake up to see him lying beside you and staring at you. No soft “I’ll be back,” no “Sleep more.” Just gone.

You roll onto your back, staring back at the ceiling. You look to your side and see your phone there on the nightstand. You think he must have taken it from your hand when you fell asleep. Nothing feels wrong at first. It’s just… quiet.

When you leave the room to go to the kitchen, you see him already dressed for the day. Just pants, a shirt, and sneakers that are still untied. He’s holding the coffee maker and pouring one of your to-go cups like he’s so eager to leave you without saying anything or waking you up. Haor is still damp, probably from a quick shower he took, and he doesn’t even notice you’re standing close to him.

“Hey,” you say while walking close to him and rubbing at your eyes. “Didn’t know you were up.”

“Didn’t want to wake you.” Still no eye contact. What happened to him? He’s acting so cold... or maybe avoiding you. You feel it in your bones.

You lean over the counter and ask him a question, even if you’re unsure, “Did you already eat?”

“Nah. Not hungry.” He caps the coffee and reaches for his tennis bag.

Something’s off. You know that. How? You feel it in the way he doesn’t reach for you. Or get too clingy. He always wants his hands on you. Don’t tease. Doesn’t smile.

“Big day,” you say, trying to sound energetic and smile at him. “You ready?”

He nods. Still not looking at you. “Yeah.”

You step closer, reaching for his arm, just lightly. “Hey. You good?”

Finally, he looks at you just for a second, but he doesn’t swat his arm away from you. That’s good. “Yeah. I’m just focused.”

You smile, trying to believe it. “Well… win for me. Alright?”

His jaw twitches like he might say something else, something real, but he doesn’t. But you noticed the way the movement of his jaw before he leaned in and brushed his lips against your temple.

“I’ll see you later,” he murmurs.

“Mhm, yeah, at the after party,” you said, and then he was out the door.

And you’re just there. Still in the kitchen. Left standing there in his shirt, still sleepy, and wondering why your chest feels heavy.

He’s cold. He’s distant. He’s not like that. Sure, sometimes he might be, but not like that. And you don’t know it yet, but he’s already going to lose the match way long before he steps onto the court.

His first problem? His body appeared in the match alongside him. He’s not in a condition to do it.

The second problem is that no one notices this. Maybe he masks it so much that his coach doesn’t see it, not the staff, not even his friend Art, who’s across the court. Because that’s how he is. Patrick knows how to fake it. He always has. He always will. Head down, shoulders squared, hands twitching around the racket like they know what they’re doing like he’s still locked in. But he’s not. Not even close.

The truth is ugly, small, and stupid. He couldn’t sleep last night.

Not because he’s nervous. Not because he’s having second thoughts to get in the fucking court. Not because of his body. Not because of nerves. Because of what he saw. Because his hand got the itch and he opened it. Without your consent. He chose to snoop. He chose something that would bother him.

You said nothing. Just “idk, lol.” That’s it.

Now, he’s the one crashing out here. He’s staring at the sun like he’s wishing it blinds him. But only blinking again, it’s like it’s your spotlight and not his match. Like he’s walking around as if there’s a heavy baggage on his back that weighs more than it should. Like every breath hurts just enough to notice.

Of course, of course. He fucks up the first serve. Too fast. Too wide. Sloppy.

When will the second one land? It’s shit. It lands but barely. He returned it too late. He has no reaction time and moves slowly, like a snail. His feet drag. His arms tense.

And it spirals from there.

From there, every serve he gives is shitty. Every point feels so fucked by the system. His body drags him throughout the match, seeing if he will break. If he curses out to get a violation. Or smash his racket. He’s sweating too early. Breathing too fast, like he didn’t train the breathing exercise throughout his career. His coach says something from the sidelines, but he doesn’t even manage to hear it. Not really.

His head is somewhere else.

With you, maybe. Or not even with you. With your phone. That screen. That conversation. That group chat.

“why are you doing girlfriend things without the label?”

“you deserve better.”

He keeps hearing it. Over and over. Like it’s echoing inside his fucking skull. As if he’s losing his mind and starts hearing things he shouldn’t hear. Like he’s returning the ball to silence you from his mind.

He messes up again, double-faulting in the second set. He doesn’t even swear. He slumps his shoulders and hangs his head. The racket feels weird in his hand.

He knows he’s losing. And he knows it before the score shows it. He can feel how his body jerks too sharply on the backhand. On the way, the crowd is muttering instead of cheering. On the way, Art glances over at him, looking worried, like he’s never seen this version of Patrick before.

And he barely registers it when it’s all over- the handshake, the camera flashes, the reporters swarming him. He walks through the tunnel like he’s in a daze- a slow, suffocating one.

He doesn’t even bother checking his phone. He doesn’t need to.

Because the thing that’s eating at him isn’t what you said.

It’s what you didn’t say.

And that? That’s the real loss he’s feeling.

The after-party is not fancy, not even close. It’s not one of those after-parties sponsored by foundations or rich people. This one is the usual post-match bullshit or gathering in one place. The music is too loud. The lighting is so dim that you won’t clearly see the faces who are there. Bodies are so close and crammed onto booths, corners, and stairs that everyone doesn’t know where they should be. Someone said this was a casual, low-key, familiar face who would be inside this downtown bar. But now? There are thirty people here. You’re guessing there might be more. Teammates. Coaches. Friends of friends. Tennis people. Everyone knows how this goes.

Win or lose, there’s always a drink after.

You came because you always do. Well, maybe it’s because you are surrounded by tennis people like Patrick, Tashi, and Art. But it’s not about showing up would say something. Because Patrick didn’t text you, and you didn’t text him either, and now it’s like you’re walking on eggshells.

You spot him the second you walk in.

Of course, he’s already here. Jackass. Didn’t even manage to message you and ask if you’ll really come. He’s leaning against the wall near the exit like he’s avoiding people. Yeah, you heard that he lost. Badly. His hair is still damp from the shower, or perhaps from the sweat in this hot place. It’s sticking on his forehead and the back of his neck. He’s casually wearing a black, loose at the shoulders, collarbone half-visible, eyes on anything but you. The drink in his hand was probably not his first drink. You can tell by how he holds it; he is already loose, distracted, and lazy. Not drunk. Just… heavy. Like his hands forgot how to rest.

He hasn’t looked at you.

Not once.

You’re not surprised. You haven’t spoken since the morning. Since you told him, good luck. Since he kissed your forehead out of habit, he did not care. Since he left, the bed was too loud.

You thought maybe he’d text after. He didn’t. You didn’t either.

So now you’re here. And he’s here. And the space between you is full of people who don’t know anything.

Everyone else assumes you’re together. Of course, they do. You showed up to the tournament together. You’ve been seen in his circle. Always having people speculate if you’re his girlfriend, and you’re close enough to whisper, close sufficient to disappear together. That’s what they think this is.

When do they see you? They will smile as if they’re telling you something. Sometimes, they will ask you where he is. Ask you if you can tell him things. Tell you, he looked pissed after the match like maybe you’d know why.

And you don’t say anything. You hold your drink with both hands and nod at all the correct times. You laugh when you’re supposed to. Smile with your mouth but not your eyes. You don’t even know what you’re waiting for.

You catch glimpses of him across the room. Once, his eyes flick your way, but not fully. Not enough to call it a look. Just enough to hurt.

You know he’s mad. You don’t know how deep it went. You don’t know if he’s mad at you, at himself, or at how everything cracked, and neither of you had the guts to pick it up before it got worse.

You wonder if he’s gonna come over.

You wonder if he’s waiting for you to do it first.

Fine. You’ll try. Yeah, you, again.

You walk towards his direction and look at him up and down before you tap your foot against the floor as if you’re impatient and want him to look at you. “Heard about what happened in the match,” you said directly. Beating around the bush. Too comfortable to say that directly.

“Is that why you’re not talking to me?” you ask again. You look at his hand clutching his drink while he’s looking down at it.

“What?” he scoffs before finally meeting your gaze.

“I mean,” hesitated. Your lips closed, and take a deep breath.

“Talk to me?” softer this time. Waiting for him. Gauging him to break, maybe he will if you speak more softly.

But he didn’t. He licks his lips and twitches his jaw slightly, but you don’t catch that because they didn’t really show details. He’s in a bad mood because, yeah, partly because of the match. Most of it? Because of you. Not that you know that.

“Not right now, okay?”

Ah.

Yeah.

Ouch.

You nod before walking away from him, and your shoulders fall as you turn away and find other familiar faces.

You could feel the place being warm and loud but in a distant kind of way. The party is happening, but you’re just... there. There are just muted beats. Bowl of melting ice cream cake on a drinking table. Now you’re talking with Tashi and Art while sitting on this couch you managed to save. And yeah, with another girl, some mutual friend of Tashi, you think. She’s wearing her she’s already slipped off and holding her wine by the rim like she’s never drunk before in her life.

They’re laughing. You are just not sure about what, though. Tennis or not. You haven’t kept track of the topic they’re talking about anymore. You’re tired. You’ve been here too long. Art’s nursing a beer. Tashi has something clear, with ice melting into it too quickly. You don’t know what the person next to her is drinking, only that they keep swirling it too often and talking like they’ve been here longer than they have.

“Do you ever think about quitting?” the stranger asks suddenly, looking at Art, then Tashi. “Like… just walking away? From tennis, I mean.”

Art huffs a dry laugh. “I think about it all the time.”

“Never,” Tashi says, almost at the same time.

They glance at each other.

Art shrugs. “What? I’ve got a bad body. A couple more losses, and I’m one tournament away from teaching pickleball to retirees.”

“You’d hate retirement,” she says, sipping her drink. “You’d be one of those guys who paces the kitchen at 3 a.m. trying to relive a backhand volley.”

You smile a little. Tashi’s always like this. Blunt, lowkey cruel, but never wrong.

“I’d be a great coach,” Art mutters.

“You’d be insufferable.”

The stranger laughs, leaning toward you. “Do you play too?”

You shake your head. “God, no. I just watch.” You wish. Maybe you know how to play. But more like a hobby, not at a tournament level, like the three. Try to learn to hang out with them more. Or maybe because they keep insisting on teaching you.

“From the box seats, huh?” They gesture the shape and smirk. “You’re dating one of them?” she says, teasing, “who was the guy with you earlier?”

You blink. “What?”

She waves her hand like she’s trying to remember it. “The one with the curls. Brunette Tall. Real serious face.”

“Oh- Jesus. Patrick?” You laugh. Dumbly. Without even looking around. “No… He’s just a friend.”

That’s when it happens.

You don’t think.

You don’t hesitate.

You don’t even realize it.

You don’t think about it. Don’t even mean it. It just comes out. Your dumb, big mouth just let it out. The way anything does when your brain’s on autopilot and you’re still trying to track a conversation that’s three jokes ahead of you.

But Tashi doesn’t laugh.

Art doesn’t smile.

Even the girl who doesn’t even know you goes kind of quiet.

Of course, you feel the shift in the scene. That soft, silent ripple in energy. Tashi’s eyes lift. So does Art. The girls, too. Like something’s moved behind you.

You turn.

And he’s right there.

Patrick. Feet away. Standing still. Drink loose in his hand, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. Their shoulders drew in like he was trying to stop himself from shattering right here.

He must’ve walked up behind you. Must have heard it just as a friend, like a punchline.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t need to.

Patrick hasn’t moved.

Not a step.

Not a sound.

When you finally look at him, he’s already looking at you.

And his face?

His face is nothing. Blank. Flat. That calm, unreadable quiet that says you really fucked this up, and I’m not going to make a scene, and this is precisely what I should’ve expected.

He looks away first before walking away.

Tashi lets a low breath through her nose and puts her glass down without looking at you.

Art frowns. “Damn.”

You feel your heart clench.

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again. “Patrick...”

But he’s already walking off.

Tashi sighs. Eyes looking at you as if she’s saying something, maybe, why are you this stupid? “Hey.”

Art lifts a brow, not unkind. “Might wanna run after that one.”

And you just… stand there.

Still. Ashamed. Like someone throws cold water in your body, and you’re freezing.

Then your legs start moving.

Fast.

Because that wasn’t nothing. That wasn’t a casual comment. That wasn’t the kind of thing you say when the person you love... What love? What the fuck. Okay, maybe the love of your life is standing right there behind you.

That was a lie.

And you don’t even know why you said it.

You wish you could return to that time, and don’t say that at all. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it wasn’t kind. Because you’re being dumb. You’re being insensitive. Because you could’ve said anything else. Could’ve smiled. Could’ve joked. Could’ve said “something like that” or “don’t worry about it” or literally anything that didn’t sound like you were scrubbing him off your name in public.

But you didn’t.

You said, “Just a friend.”

And there were you fucked up.

You catch up to him outside just past the

The exit, half a hallway away, steps echoing off cold tile. He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t turn. You grab his arm.

“Patrick,” you say, voice shaking.

He stops but doesn’t face you. His jaw is tight, and his body is like a rock; you can feel the tension.

You step in front of him. “Hey. Don’t do that. Don’t just walk away. Please”

He finally looks at you, and his eyes are not fully angry. It’s something worse. Quiet disappointment. That sick, sinking kind. The kind you feel in your teeth. It’s fucking worse than anger. Anger is something you can take. Disappointed is something you will dwell on for months.

“You really said that?” he mutters. “Just a friend?”

You open your mouth, but he keeps going.

“You couldn’t come up with anything else? Not even a maybe? Not even a laugh?” His voice cracks on the edge. “You said it like you meant it.”

You blink, stunned. “I didn’t... It wasn’t like that...”

“No? Then what was it like?” He swat his arm away from your hold. “What the fuck was it, huh? Just a reflex? Some automatic response to erase me in front of everybody else?”

“Why are you acting like I did it to hurt you?”

“Because it fucking hurt,” he snaps, but his voice is not raising. Still thinking you’re in public. “I was standing right there, and you said it like I was no one.”

You exhale hard. “So this is what we’re doing now? Picking apart throwaway comments?”

“That’s the thing,” he says, voice lower now, almost laughing. He shakes his head, as if what an absurd comment you just made has made him do that. “You throw me away all the time.”

That hits. Sharp and cold.

You almost glare at him, nearly too stubborn. “You never asked me to call it anything else.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault?” His laugh is bitter. “Of course.”

“I’m serious,” you spit. “You don’t get to act hurt when you’ve kept this undefined since day one.”

“And you’ve been just fine with it, haven’t you?”

You stare at him. “Don’t.” You bite your cheek and try to calm down a little.

“No, really,” he says, eyes narrowing. “You play this whole casual girl thing so well. Pretend it doesn’t bother you. Pretend you don’t care. You think I don’t notice?”

You cross your arms like you have something to prove. “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I have begged for a label? Would that have made you feel better?”

“I would’ve taken anything,” he says. “Literally anything but that.”

You go quiet.

Then you say, “You’re so fucking quick to make this about you.”

He scoffs. “It was about me.”

“No,” you snap. “This was about you seeing one moment and blowing it up so you don’t have to admit you’re scared. You are terrified of needing someone. Like you always have.”

“Don’t act like you’re not.”

“I’m not the one who left this morning without saying goodbye.”

“I was trying to protect myself.”

“From what?” your voice raising, but not enough to be loud through the loud music. “From being liked? From someone actually giving a shit about you?”

He says it quietly. “I saw your phone.”

You look at him as if he has just betrayed you. “What?”

“I saw what they said about me,” he continues. “Your friends. Calling me a waste of time. Saying I don’t treat you right.”

Your stomach drops. “Patrick...”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“It wasn’t,” You bite the inside of your cheek. “It wasn’t like that.”

“You didn’t defend me.”

“I didn’t think I had to,” you say quickly, but it sounds thin and brittle.

He scoffs under his breath. Looks away. “Of course you didn’t.”

You fold your arms, that sick weight settling in your chest. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like that. Cold. Nonchalant. Like I didn’t care.”

“You didn’t, though,” he says and snickers. “Or not in a way that counted. Not in a way that mattered when it actually fucking hurt.”

“I didn’t know it hurt,” you say, voice cracking. “You never say when things hurt.” Yeah, because that’s how he is. No one will know when he’s hurt.

“Because I don’t want to be fucking pitied,” he mutters. “Because I don’t want to come off like some clingy piece of shit begging for scraps of affection.”

“That’s what you think I’m doing?” you spit. You open your mouth and nod like he’s being a piece of shit, which he is. “I’m the one who has to guess how you feel all the time. You show up, leave, kiss me like I’m yours, and pretend nothing changes.”

He stares at you hard but doesn’t answer.

“You want to know why I didn’t say anything to them?” Your voice is shaking now. “Because I didn’t know where we stood. Because you never told me. Because I’m tired of being the only one who asks for things.”

His jaw clenches.

“I give you everything,” you say. “And you give me just enough to stay.”

“That’s not fair.”

You laugh. “Isn’t it? Then tell me what this is. Say something real for once.”

He’s quiet for a beat too long.

And that hurts worse than anything.

You whisper, “That’s what I thought.”

His eyes flash the pain, maybe anger, definitely fear. “You want real?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” He breathes hard. “I didn’t ask you to be mine because I thought you’d say no. I wanted more because I figured you’d pull away the second.”

You freeze.

“Every time I felt close to you, I backed off,” he says. “Because I didn’t think I could keep you. You’re all in one second, then guarded the next. I never knew what the fuck to believe.”

Your throat tightens. “You never told me that.”

“And you never asked,” he fires back.

“I asked all the time!” you yell. “I asked with every look, every time I stayed up waiting for you, every time I fucking hoped you’d text me goodnight.”

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I didn’t want to need you that much.”

“Well, congratulations,” you snap. “You didn’t act like it.”

“You made me feel like I was temporary.”

“And you made me feel like I was too much.”

Silence.

Painful. Petty. Loud.

Both of you are breathing hard.

Both of you think the other doesn’t get it when, really, neither of you does.

Finally, he shakes his head. “You should’ve defended me.”

“And you should’ve chosen me,” you whisper.

There it is. The deepest wound. The ugliest truth.

“I was in your bed,” he says softly. “And I still didn’t feel like I was yours.”

“I wanted you to be,” you say. “But I couldn’t be the only one who knew it.”

He doesn’t say anything. And that’s the worst part. The silence. The cowardice of it. Because silence is the loudest response.

So you look at him, as if trying to memorize this version of him. The one who almost loved you out loud. The one who nearly shows himself to you.

And he looks back like he wishes he knew how to say sorry without choking on it.

Then he walks past you.

And this time, you don’t stop him.

Because maybe the real pain isn’t that he walked away. You both think the other is the one who let go first.

Because every time you both fuck up, you both blame it on each other’s love. Both of you are scared. Full of misunderstanding. Work so well, but fucking cowards.

While you? You go back to the party, but you don’t even remember leaving after hours.

One second, you watched him walk away; the next, you were outside, keys shaking in your hand, trying to unlock your car without crying.

You don’t cry in the parking lot while opening the car. No. Maybe you did, but not until the door is closed. Not until the engine’s off and you’re parked back outside your apartment, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, breath caught somewhere in your ribs. That kind of ache. That stupid, helpless ache that only comes when someone doesn’t break your heart outright. They just don’t protect it. The type of pain you will beg a psychiatrist to give you painkillers or mood stabilizers just to make you don’t feel anything.

You sit there a while. Lights off. Face hot. Your phone buzzes once, then again. You don’t look. You already know it’s not him. He got too big of an ego to do that. Prideful even.

Upstairs, the apartment feels too quiet. His soda is still in the fridge, his hoodie’s on the chair, and the leftover pasta you didn’t finish is still on the coffee table, forks crossed like they’re waiting for someone to return.

You don’t throw anything.

You don’t scream.

You just… turn on the hallway light. Leave it glowing.

You don’t lock the door.

You never do when it’s him.

Instead, change your clothes, and you crawl into bed in his shirt. Try to scroll. Try to read. Try to not wonder where he is. If he’s thinking about you. If he’s just as sick about it as you are. But every thought echoes the same. You said he didn’t choose you. He thinks you never wanted him. You were both wrong. You were both right.

When you wake up hours later, the light in the hallway is still on.

And the door is still unlocked.

But no one’s come through it.

You can’t sleep. Not when you feel like that. Not when you’re in this shitty state. Not when you close your eyes. You just repeat what happened.

But what you didn’t know is Patrick hasn’t gone home either.

He’s just driving. Driving like he’s just wanting to dry his gas off his car. Driving on a loop through the neighborhood like he’s on some sort of movie who can’t escape the same route he doesn’t recognize, music low, headlights off when he parks. He sat outside your building twice. Lit a cigarette. Didn’t smoke it. Wrote out a text and erased it. Thought about calling. Thought about saying I didn’t mean it like that. I just don’t know how to do this without ruining it.

You’re in bed. His shirt is on your skin. No pants. Just in the fabric he left in your drawer and the hallow in your chest that hasn’t gone down since they both implied the, “You ruined it,” and “No, you did.”

The light is still on.

You didn’t bother turning it off when you went under the covers. You didn’t even lock the door. You’re such an easy target for someone who wants to break in.

You don’t know why. But part of you hope he’ll go to your place tonight. Apologize. To fix things. And maybe there’s always part of you that leaves the door unlocked when it’s him so he can access your life.

And when it finally happens, when the front door creaks open soft enough to sound like a dream, you don’t move. Not even when you hear his steps. Not even when he stops at the foot of the bed.

He doesn’t say a word, just quiet.

He just walks around to the other side, he’s unsure compared to his usual cocky self. He doesn’t climb to the bed or even reach for you.

He sinks to the floor beside your bed.

Sits there, back against the wall. Legs bent, arms hanging loose over his knees. Breathing like he ran here. Breathing like he’s still trying to come down from everything.

You stay still.

You don’t ask him what he’s doing. You don’t ask why he’s here.

Because you know.

Because this is how he says sorry.

Not with apologies. Not with speeches. But with silence. With presence.

With staying when it would be easier to leave.

So you let him.

You turn onto your side, eyes fixed on the corner of the room, tears burning but unshed, and whisper, so quiet you’re unsure if it’s for him or yourself.

“I left the door open,” you say.

He doesn’t answer.

But a minute later, his fingers brushed against the edge of the mattress.

Not asking. Not asking permission to touch you.

Just… there. It doesn’t go further.

You stay still, like maybe if you don’t move, this won’t have to become any harder than it already is. But then your hand slides down, hesitant, and your fingertips find his. You didn’t intertwine it with his hand, though.

Neither of you say anything for a while.

The silence is thick. Heavy with everything you screamed earlier. Everything you didn’t.

Then, softly, so softly it barely sounds like him, he says: “I don’t know how to love someone who might not stay.”

You blink up at the ceiling.

He swallows. “I keep waiting for it. For you to get tired. For you to wake up and realize I’m not what you want. That I never was.”

This time, you wrap your hand against his hand and tighten your fingers around his.

“I think about it all the time,” he says, voice cracking a little and lacing with doubt. “Every time you go quiet or pull away or don’t text back right away. I tell myself, ‘There it is. That’s her leaving.’ I’ve lived in that space my whole life. I don’t know how not to.”

You turn your head toward him. His face is barely visible in the dark.

“I don’t say the right things,” he adds. “I shut down. I act like I don’t care before you can prove that I was stupid for caring in the first place.” Because that’s not how he is. He just... he’s never really open with it.

You breathe in, breath shaky. “I don’t want to leave.”

He nods slowly, trying to acknowledge it. But his voice doesn’t believe it. “You said I was just a friend.”

“I didn’t mean it...”

“I know. That’s what hurts.”

You close your eyes. “I say the wrong thing when I panic. I ruin moments that mean something because I fear needing them too much.”

Silence.

“I didn’t defend you to my friends because…” You bite your lip. “Because part of me thought maybe they were right. Not about you. About me. That I wasn’t worth more than ‘almost’ because it’s always like that, always liked but not pursued.”

His breath catches.

“I didn’t think you’d choose me,” you whisper. “So I never asked you to. I’m scared to be the one always asking people, so I just let them give me what they can give.”

For a moment, there’s only breathing between you.

Then his hand moves up, slow, dragging along your wrist. He presses his forehead to the side of the bed.

“I don’t know how to be enough for someone who already thinks I’m not.”

Your voice trembles. “I don’t know how to believe someone will stay just because they say they will.”

He looks up at you, finally. And it’s all there. The pain. The shame. The hope.

“But I want to,” he says. “With you, I want to try.”

You nod. Barely. “Me too.”

He climbs into bed beside you, slow and uncertain. He’s afraid even this might be too much.

You don’t kiss. Don’t even touch. Just lay there, shoulders almost close, hearts close under the same ceiling. The air between you is still tight, with things unsaid but softer now. Worn down to the truth of it.

Then his fingers shift. Brush against yours like a question.

You don’t pull away.

You feel him next to you, breathing in slowly. It hurts. Like it matters. And then, gently, Patrick presses his forehead to your shoulder. Doesn’t say anything. Just rests there for a moment. Warm and quiet and close. His lips graze your skin once. A small kiss. Not in a way; he’s asking for sex. Not trying to heat up the moment. No. Just sorry. A, please. A still here.

You close your eyes.

You don’t say anything.

And then, “Are you staying?” you whisper.

He exhales like it’s the only thing he’s wanted to hear all night. Doesn’t look at you. Just nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m staying.”

It’s not fixed. Not even close.

But it’s something.

And for now, that’s enough.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅��𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[psychoticbipolarbear]

Oscar Piastri x reader

Series summary: You and Oscar keep bumping into each other, and these meetings aren't always accident-free...

It’s an itsy bitsy accident. 

In fact, it’s nothing more but a silly little incident, really, because when you reverse into the car behind you, there’s no real damage done. No scratch, no chipped paint, no bent metal. You checked it. 

Twice.

But your parents raised you right, so you leave a note under the wipers with your number, asking the owner to call you when he finds it. Considering it’s a McLaren in Monaco, you highly doubt the owner will bother to call you if the car is still spotless, though. 

You can’t help but wonder how you could do something stupid when your car has everything needed to avoid such things, like a camera and sensors.

God, you’re such an idiot. 

There are socially acceptable things to do in such situations. He digs out his phone from his pocket, type the number that’s on the wrinkled piece of paper tucked neatly under the windshield, then wait for a series of excuses pouring in his ear from the other end of the line. 

If the number truly belongs to the perpetrator, that is. 

But Oscar doesn’t feel like doing this today. He doesn’t feel like making a big deal out of it. The car is in one piece, no damage as far as he can see, and he can always download the dashboard cam video just in case. 

Doing that later in the day is what changes his mind, though. Because the camera started recording upon impact, and he had a great view at the gorgeous young girl who looked a little panicked as she checked the car. If it’s your fault, maybe he should make that call after all. 

Why not? 

Well, maybe because if he contacted you, and if he made a move on you at the same time, you might assume he wants you to pay him for the non-existent damage by going on a date with him. Even as a regular guy, this would be a terrible idea, but considering a big chunk of the world knows him, it’s better not to risk a potential PR shitstorm.

Especially now that he’s leading the championship.

The fans would want to crucify him, Zak, his press officer, and above all, his dear mother would strangle him without a question. In fact, his mother would probably first send him a chain of gently bullying tweets on the way to Monaco, then she would strangle him upon arrival.

So, no, he isn’t about to call, although he saves your number under the name “Hot Carwrecker” just to be safe.

[elliespassagerprincess]

hi angel! is there any way you can do something where reader joins ellie’s band as the lead singer but ellie scares her so badly (reader is just intimidated by everyone) that they don’t talk for MONTHS until ellie asks reader if she’s done something wrong?

headcannons: guitarist!ellie williams x lead singer!reader

masterlist

☆ Ellie’s been part of the band for years—deeply respected, a little intense, and emotionally reserved.

☆ The day you show up for your first rehearsal, Ellie’s dealing with tech issues, a terrible migraine, and management breathing down her neck.

☆ You try to introduce yourself, all nervous smiles, and she brushes past you with a curt, “Just try not to be flat.”

☆ You’re stunned. Your stomach drops. The warmth drains from your face—Ellie doesn’t even look at you.

☆ You chalk it up to her hating you. You assume she’s one of those cold, aloof musicians who think singers are replaceable.

☆ From that day on, you keep your distance—show up on time, stay quiet, rehearse, and leave. No jokes, no chatter.

☆ You smile and laugh with the others, but the moment Ellie walks in, your posture stiffens.

☆ Ellie notices. At first, she thinks it’s just your personality—maybe you’re shy.

☆ But then she sees you animated and talkative with Jesse, their drummer, and Dina, the keyboardist. Just not her.

☆ It gets under Ellie’s skin in a way she hates to admit.

☆ One night, Ellie overhears you singing alone in the greenroom. No mic. Just raw vocals.

☆ She stops in the hallway. Listens. Breath caught in her throat.

☆ Her first thought isn’t about the music—it’s You sound like a heartbreak I haven’t had yet.

☆ She avoids you the next day because the way her hands trembled made her feel weak.

☆ Ellie starts watching you during rehearsals from behind her amp, studying your expressions, the way you move.

☆ She becomes hypersensitive to every interaction—or lack thereof. The way your voice lowers when she’s near. How you look anywhere but at her.

☆ She replays your first encounter over and over in her head, wondering if she really said something awful.

☆ She starts texting Dina at 2 a.m.:

“Was I a dick to the new singer?”

“You? Always. But what happened?”

☆ Ellie starts trying to be nice. Offers you water after sets. Gives you a nod. You avoid her eyes and murmur “thanks.”

☆ She starts thinking you hate her. And then worse—that you’re scared of her. That she messed this up permanently.

☆ You flinch the first time Ellie accidentally brushes your arm on stage. She pretends not to notice, but it wrecks her.

☆ Ellie is constantly fighting between giving you space and trying to fix it—but every attempt makes things more awkward.

☆ She asks you a question in soundcheck once—something casual—and you give her a stiff, one-word answer. The silence that follows is painful.

☆ She sees you light up with Jesse post-show and then immediately dim the second she walks by.

☆ Ellie becomes convinced she’s the problem. Starts questioning her tone. Her posture. Her entire personality.

☆ She writes guitar melodies alone late at night titled things like “cold shoulder” and “she won’t look at me.”

☆ Dina starts noticing. Asks Ellie if she has a thing for you. Ellie lies. Says you “probably hate her guts.”

☆ She starts journaling about you. It helps her process. Until she realizes every page sounds like she’s in love.

☆ Ellie googles “how to apologize for something you said months ago.”

☆ She leaves you a note once—folded and tucked under your mic stand. It reads: “Sorry if I came off harsh when we met. That wasn’t about you.”

☆ After the note, you start looking at her differently—less scared, more curious. But you still say almost nothing.

☆ Ellie gets so in her head about it. Overanalyzing every tiny glance you give her.

☆ When you finally laugh at one of her jokes at soundcheck, Ellie is visibly stunned. Blinks slowly. Smiles like it’s the sun rising.

☆ You start singing backup during her solo riffs—and your voice blends with her guitar in a way that undoes her.

☆ Ellie finds herself playing longer solos just to hear you harmonize. “Sorry, lost track of time,” she lies.

☆ You start leaving little post-it notes on the setlists: “You killed that bridge today.” Ellie saves them all.

☆ Ellie’s hands tremble the first time you sit next to her on the bus. You don’t speak. Just rest your shoulder against hers for two seconds too long.

☆ She buys you a coffee during a morning rehearsal, places it on your amp without a word, and avoids your gaze.

☆ You thank her quietly. She thinks about your voice for the rest of the day.

☆ Ellie starts writing full songs about you—every chorus is a question: Do you see me? Do you forgive me? Do you want me?

☆ You catch her watching you during a rehearsal and finally don’t look away. The air turns heavy.

☆ After a show, Ellie sees a male fan flirting with you. She’s silent the whole ride back. Jaw clenched. Guitar pick snapped in half.

☆ When you ask if she’s okay, she shrugs: “Just tired.” But she doesn’t look at you once.

☆ One night, she has too much whiskey and blurts, “You know I didn’t mean it, right? What I said that first day?”

☆ You blink. You nod. “Yeah… I just thought you hated me.”

☆ Ellie’s voice cracks. “No. Never. I just… suck at first impressions.”

☆ You tell her you thought she was beautiful but terrifying.

☆ Ellie looks at you like she’s about to say something important—but then just says, “You still think I’m terrifying?”

☆ You shake your head. “Just… distracting.”

☆ The next time she plays guitar, she watches you instead of her frets.

☆ You invite Ellie to your hotel room after a show. Just to “run through harmonies.”

☆ She’s so nervous she knocks over a lamp. Apologizes five times.

☆ You finally ask, “Why do you always act like you’re scared of me?”

☆ Ellie laughs dryly. “Because you terrify me. In, like… a stupid, perfect way.”

☆ The tension snaps. You kiss her mid-sentence. She forgets how to breathe.

☆ Her hands hover like she’s scared she’ll mess it up—until you tug her closer.

☆ Later, she whispers against your skin: “You’re all I ever sing about.” You smile and say, “Yeah… I figured.”

☆ The next morning, the entire band knows. Jesse cheers. Dina wins $20 from a bet.

☆ Ellie just shrugs and says, “Took us long enough.”

☆ You start writing lyrics together—your words, her melodies. You call them “secret love letters.”

☆ Ellie gets softer. She starts smiling more. Teasing more. All her edges melted by you.

☆ You call her “baby” once during rehearsal. Her pick drops. Face bright red.

☆ She kisses your forehead before every set now. Says, “For luck,” even though she knows you don’t need it.

☆ You sing to her on stage with your eyes closed, like it’s just the two of you.

☆ Ellie writes a solo just for you—starts sneaking your name into her sound.

☆ You perform a duet together on tour. Fans cry. So do you.

☆ Ellie says “I love you” through her guitar long before she says it out loud. When she finally does say it, it’s quiet. Shy. Against your shoulder in the dark.

☆ You kiss her knuckles and whisper back, “I’ve loved you since the day you told me not to be flat.”

[seungcheorry]

happy burstday to you - cherry version 🍒⚡ | 01. choi seungcheol - svt anniversary

choi seungcheol as your ex from your teenage years, who broke your heart

it's quite bittersweet to see him now, all dressed up in a tuxedo, with his brown hair slicked back, a shining watch on his wrist. there's no sign of a plus one, no model on his arm; you kick yourself for imagining you beside him now.

seungcheol feels the same, though. you're still as pretty as he could remember - actually scratch that, you look prettier. the last 10 years clearly worked wonders on you, as you have grown into what seungcheol could only describe as the most beautiful human being.

"h-hey", he says, offering you a half smile, the chaos around you two long forgotten. "hi."

"hi, seungcheol", you force a smile too, and it hurts like hell. "long time no see."

seungcheol chuckles, nodding his head. it's been so long, he thinks. so long since the last time he saw you, crying and cursing at him for breaking your heart. he sometimes questions himself if you know just how much he suffered too.

you two could have had it all. people around the two of you, they always said you were meant to be, that he was your soulmate, that he was down bad for you; and he was. but life happens, right? and seungcheol never lied to you, he have always been brutally honest, especially about his dreams and desires, being an idol included. so you knew, in the back of your head back then, that he was bound to succeed, to make his dreams come true - you just didn't ever think that you would lose him in the process.

but what type of lover would you be if you stayed in the way?

"i… i should have know you would be here", seungcheol looks around. "you have always been close to the bride, right?"

"yeah, you could say that."

how ironically, by the way. you have always thought that your high school friends would be gathering after all this time to marry you and seungcheol, not another couple that got together during college. you and seungcheol were supposed to tie the knot and live happily ever after too.

but now, it's strange how he feels like he has so many things to say, words playing on the tip of his tongue but not quite slipping out, because you're still the one he has loved the most, but you're also a stranger now.

"i… are you here with someone?", fuck, seungcheol. you don't have the right to ask that.

"no", you blush as you say it. "i don't have the time to date anymore, kind of a waste of time."

seungcheol frowns at that. did he hurt you that bad?

"are you?", you tilt your head, knowing that his answer can break your heart as if you were 16 again. "here with someone, i mean."

"i'm not", he says in a heartbeat. it's true, but it's also not - he feels bad, kicking himself for only remembering now about the guy he's been going out with. it's nothing yet, the dude is nice, but you know… "packed schedule, can't catch a break."

"yeah, right," there's bitterness in your tone, but seungcheol feels like he deserved that.

he scratches the back of his neck, the corner of his eyes catching how one of your friends is watching him so closely, ready to throw hands, he's sure. do they hate him? do they blame him? did they tell you he wasn't worth your tears when he left to be a trainee?

did they know he left a piece of his heart and his youth with you?

"i should get back", you tell him, and seungcheol wants to protest, to find something else to tell you - and there's so many, but he's tongue tied.

"yeah, of course", he pouts a little. "i'll see you around?"

"i hope not", you sincerely say, and this time there's no bitterness, no hard feelings, just the truth - and that's what wrecks seungcheol the most.

he realizes you don't hate him, you just hate the thought of seeing him because that reminds you of what you two didn't have. and perhaps that's worse. way worse. so seungcheol nods, excusing himself. he gets it and suddenly you're grateful for that.

he leaves, a tiny part of him wishing to meet you again 10 years from now.

have you considered tipping me? | ko-fi 🍒

taglist: @babycaratdeul @goodbyetwenty @seungcheolsblackcard @xxr0ck-stxrxx @hazeljisulatte @worldpeaceforyoongi @lixisoul99 @elieanana @supi-wupi @4shypotato @reiofsuns2001 @gohyemi @edwinawrites @dinossaurz @dy-kyeom @cristy-101 @karynnoona @sarabencze @princessjazzyjazz

[esmedelacroix]

05 - Recovery

synopsis ! he’s an American football player by day and a passionate mathematician by night. She’s a well-rounded historian and writer who couldn’t evaluate a derivative to save her life. They lived in two different worlds but shared the same study room.

previous chapter | series masterlist

cw ! no use of y/n, y/n is _____, fluff, slow burn, college au, ooc sukuna, f!reader, child abuse/neglect, alcohol abuse,

fic radio ! Glitter by BENEE

The pounding in your head woke you up before the glare of the hot sun kissing your skin. Your eyes almost felt dry and painful as you forced them open. They adjusted to the light as you wondered why you kept your blinds open. Your sore joints and limbs barely worked when you rolled over to be met with a huge, broad tan-ish back.

I must still be dreaming, you thought. The back you were faced with was huge and oh so muscular. There were a few small beauty marks littered about. Your manicured nails lightly grazed the exposed skin, partially illuminated by the golden rays slipping through the open blinds.

The man began to shift and grumble. You saw his pink hair turn, and there you saw Sukuna's groggy face. "You look so real," you whispered.

The back of his large, warm hand landed on your forehead. He didn't speak. Just stared attentively.

"You're burning up. Did you take your medicine?" he asked, his deep, gravely morning voice vibrated through his chest and yours. It was only then that you realized this was no dream.

You looked down, realizing that you were wearing nothing but a huge band T-shirt (that was definitely not yours) and your panties.

I slept with Ryomen Sukuna?! You craned your head around in fear and shock. You looked at the ground to see your jeans, bra, top, and belt scattered on the ground from the night prior.

You sat up way too quickly still unable to process everything. Your hand flew to your pounding head. “Woah, slow down there champ. You might vomit on me again,” he sighed sitting up slowly with smirk ghosting his features.

“Vomit? … Again?”

“Oh, so you don’t remember anything. Don’t blame ya you were shit-faced,” he commented casually bringing the water and pills to your hands. You cautiously accepted them and drank.

“So did we fuck before or after I was too intoxicated to consent?” you questioned boldly. He wouldn’t right? He’s not like the other creepy frat brothers. You naturally scooted away putting things together realizing he could have possibly taken advantage of you.

“What? We didn’t have sex, _____,” he assured with a brow raised at you.

“Then why are my clothes off and why am I wearing yours?” you interrogated.

“Well you vomitted all over your clothes, and you also strip in your sleep which is … interesting,” he explained rubbing a hand down his face.

“Wha-” you started.

“Ryo! Breakfast!” Gojo called outside of his door.

“You heard the man,” he said, motioning towards the door.

“I don’t want to impose. I can’t I-” you sputtered.

“Don’t try to make an excuse, it’s Sunday morning. You’re not touching a single book until you eat,” he scolded.

“But it’s peak studying time the libraries are so empty!” you retorted. He gave you one single look that could kill and pushed himself off the bed. For some reason, instead of fighting back, you felt like you should obey. Besides, he seemed like he had your best interests in mind.

“You need help getting up?”

“I’m fine … are you sure we didn’t do anything?”

“Look, contrary to what you’ve heard about me, I’m not that kind of guy. I don’t just meet girls and sleep with them. I’m not complete scum yet so you don’t need to worry about anything.”

You stayed silent and just got up slowly trudging to the door. “Where do you think you’re going?” he questioned.

“Breakfast! Goddamn, you just made me skip studying for this!”

“Dressed like that?” he asked motioning to your clothes or lack thereof.

It was only then that you remembered you were only wearing panties and a huge t shirt. The heat rose to your ears and cheeks but you didn’t need him knowing that. “Okay then give me pair shorts or something weirdo,” you snapped.

“Sure, just try to keep ‘em on this time,” he smirked while digging through his dresser. He through a pair of shorts in your direction and you threw them on, tugging at the drawstring for dear life to tie them. You and Ryomen headed down the stairs with him in just a pair of sweats, and you looked like Adam Sandler.

“Woah, someone had a good night,” Gojo teased.

“We didn’t do anything,” he corrected immediately. You didn't know why, but something in you didn't like that. You wished he would have just let his frat brothers wonder.

“Good, I still have a chance,” Todo joked, eating his cereal like an animal.

Ew, you thought while taking a seat next to Ryomen. He scooped waffles and fruit onto your plate, and you watched quietly. He saw you staring at the war of arms diving for food, and decided to plate yours for you. You could see a softness in his visage. For a second, his eyes met yours. Your faces were closer than you thought. Though that second felt like an hour, even that was too fleeting to memorize his face. His sharp features, the tattoos, the scared slit in his eyebrow, all those little details brought you so much comfort. And that wasn't even all of it.

When you looked away, Gojo was already staring, raising a brow at you. You rolled your eyes and ate your food. The boys discussed various topics, including planning their next party, last night's hookups, and their game formation.

In between the conversation that Sukuna was uncharacteristically not involved in, he stole glances at you. Just digging in, allowing yourself to be at ease and enjoy the moment. He noticed the way your leg stopped bouncing, and instead of fidgeting with your fork and moving food around on your plate, you were eating. As well as occasionally laughing at the frat brothers.

"So, _____, I never see you at our parties," Yuji commented.

"Yeah, parties aren't really my scene," you replied.

"What brought you to ours? Was our Ryo over there?" Gojo teased.

"Satoru, you literally invite me to every single one of these."

"Satoru? Woah, didn't know you guys were that close," Todo chuckled.

"It's not like they're dating or anything," Sukuna gruffly commented.

"Hey, you don't know that. _____ and I are a lot more similar than you think," Gojo teased.

Right, Sukuna almost allowed himself to forget his place in society. You and Gojo were untouchable. Born in the perfect rich families, treated like royalty by anyone who was relevant and societally educated enough to know that your parents are the wealthy people running the country behind the "rich" celebrities that are force-fed to the brain-dead general public.

People didn't know what rich meant until they saw the way the Gojo clan lived or the lifestyle of your elite family. To put the cherry on the cake, the two of you had both parents in your lives. If you got married, you could have a big happy family. You wouldn't have to worry about dysfunctional, barely present in-laws. You had everything Ryomen thirsted for all his life. Parents who believe in you and financial stability.

"You're right, you could be dating. But at the end of the day, we all know whose room she slept in," he retorted smugly.

That earned him a couple of wolf whistles. Yuji got up and put a tally next to Sukuna's name on a whiteboard on display on their kitchen counter like it was some kind of generic Rae Dunn kitchen decor from HomeGoods that simply read: "Eat." For some reason, they had a "Burn Board," for everytime someone had a good comback, they would explain to you later.

"If all of you would quit talking about me like I'm some girl you're planning on passing around, I need to go. Thanks for breakfast, Toru,” you started, putting your hand over his. Sukuna’s eyes followed your hand. He stared at the union of your skin, unaware that his temperature was rising again. There was no explanation for why he imagined it was your hand on his. He, too, could be the emotionally stable rich boy you felt comfortable enough to touch if the odds were better at birth.

“Wow, now it’s Toru? Should I start calling him that?”Todo joked.

“Don’t even think about it,” Gojo smiled with no sweetness in his voice.

“The books are calling my name,” you sighed as you got up and put your plate in the sink.

“I’ll walk you out,” Sukuna said towering over you putting his plate in the sink as well and washing hands.

The two of you walked out of the kitchen into the living-room(that was in rough shape) to Toji sneaking out a girl who was most-likely his ex out. “Leaving so early?” he asked, turning to you, trying to act casual.

“We saw her,” you deadpanned.

“Shit. Don’t tel-”

“TOJI WAS SNEAKING OUT DELILAH!” Sukuna called out before leaving with you. A symphony of wows and ohhhhs erupted from the kitchen. He knew that Toji was flipping him off behind his back. He laughed to himself as he heard the laughter and ruckus coming from the kitchen that he had caused. You noticed. The curl of his lips. The subtle smoke that came from his mouth when he chuckled showing that the weather was getting colder.

As you walked down the street side by side, you caught sight of the parties that started last night and were turning into darties. Do these people ever sleep? “How is Jackson Wang’s party still active? I heard like three cop cars come by last night,” Sukuna commented.

“That guy does throw the craziest parties. I heard something really weird about you at a Jackson Wang party,” you revealed.

“What’s that?” he smirked.

“An Eiffel Tower … with Toji.”

He laughed. Out loud. “The things people come up with always surprises me,” he chuckled.

“You don’t have to walk me to my dorm, by the way,” you said, noticing some people’s eyes on the two of you.

“Letting you walk alone on party weekend morning is just as bad as making you walk alone at night.”

The two of you talked some more, and in your conversation, you learned that most of the things you heard about him weren’t true. He left your dorm, telling you to rest some more before going straight to hitting the books. Two months ago, you would’ve just studied anyway, but you listened.

You took a whole nap. At night, you went to the perfectly empty library. After getting talked to by the librarians about marking exactly who would be in your study room, you wrote down your name in the time slot. And under it, you scribbled, “possibly Ryomen.”

. . .

-> next part

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