#long text...but i think is understandable

[delugyu]

by a string

summary: Yeonjun’s got a lot on his plate. Not only does he have to worry about being a star student, but he also has to be the city’s web-slinging hero. And a lab intern. And a semi-decent roommate. And a little bit in love with you.

pairings: yeonjun x fem!reader

word count: 18.9k

tags: fluff, smut (mdni), some angst, spiderman!yeonjun, his webs shoot from his actual wrists like tobey maguire’s spiderman, college au, yeonjun is a cute awkward charming nerd, inaccurate science stuff sorry, blood, physical violence, lots of spidey shenanigans, campy weird action scene teehee, small arguments

smut tags: making out, heavy petting, webs as cuffs LOLLL, thigh riding, edging, fingering, praise, unprotected sex, cum eating, oral (f rec.), yeonjun is so playful and such a tease

notes: omg she’s finally here!!! i am so excited to get this out to u guys hehe<3 tysm for all the love on the teaser, i hope spideyjjun steals ur heart. enjoy the fic !!!

Saving the city can suck sometimes. Homework sucks significantly more. If Yeonjun had the option to zip through the city chasing some bad guys instead of sitting here trying to finish his calculus assignment, he’d be flying out his window in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, responsibility is a virtue, and Yeonjun cannot swing through the city for no good reason.

The one good thing about this tedious, awful calculus homework is that if it’s hard enough, he always gets a text from you. His body springs to life when he hears his phone buzz, rushing to pick it up and check the notification.

[you] have u done the calc homework

[you] how do you solve #4 :(

Do most of your conversations revolve around your shared class? Yes. Does Yeonjun ever get tired of teaching you the concepts? No, never. In fact, he stretches out his explanations as long as possible to keep you talking to him longer. Yeonjun never knew before that math talk could make his heart flutter.

“So, does that make sense?” he asks after a long-winded explanation. He’s almost out of breath after spewing out so much math jargon, but being on a call with you for ten minutes has similarly breathtaking effects.

“Yeah. Thanks, Yeonjun.” He bites back a giggle upon hearing your words. “You should seriously be teaching this class,” you say with a laugh.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t—I mean, I’m—I’m more of a science guy,” he stammers out, lips tightening into a thin line at the embarrassment of stumbling over his own sentence. “Our professor’s pretty cool, too,” he adds as if that saves him at all.

“Is he? Maybe I should start going to his office hours,” you muse.

Oh. Well in that case, your professor sucks. Yeonjun can’t have you stop coming to him for math help; you’d never talk to him at all if it came to that!

“He’s not that cool,” Yeonjun says. You laugh, and he huffs out a short chuckle too.

“Noted. I’m gonna go now, but thanks for helping me. You’re the best.” Your praise goes straight to Yeonjun’s head, making him feel like the greatest man to ever live. He doesn’t even feel this accomplished after going out on his little spidey-missions.

He’s a beat too late to say goodbye or good night to you, the call already hanging up as he opens his mouth to speak. He melts into a puddle over his desk, sighing out as he plays back his conversation with you in his head. He thinks you have the prettiest voice he’s ever heard. You’re so smart, too. He never has to over exert himself to get you to understand, though he would happily do that for you.

He jolts up as his roommate walks into his dorm. Yeonjun glances at him quickly as he straightens out his posture, picking his pencil back up and returning to his homework.

“Hey,” his roommate, Soobin, greets quietly. Yeonjun didn’t know Soobin prior to this semester, but he’s been pretty nice. He’s very quiet, but very respectful of Yeonjun’s space. It’s much appreciated, considering Yeonjun’s hiding a few of his red and blue spandex suits in his closet.

“Hey. How was your day?” Yeonjun asks, only half-interested in the conversation.

He watches Soobin shrug from his peripheral as he slides off his shoes. “Normal,” he answers.

Yeonjun nods. “Cool.” The conversation kind of dies after that, which is fine. Soobin isn’t the most extroverted person, and Yeonjun doesn’t push him to talk more than he’s willing to. He sometimes forgets he even has a roommate with how quiet it gets in the room.

Yeonjun regains his focus a minute into the silence. His eyes widen when he realizes that there’s now a doodle of your face on his calculus homework—when did that get there..? His face heats up as he grabs an eraser from his desk’s drawer. Thank god he didn’t do this assignment in pen.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Yeonjun’s not really paying attention to the professor, finding more interest in taking quick glances at you. You’re wearing a different bracelet today. It’s really pretty—maybe he should compliment you on it. Is it weird to lean in and tell you that? Are you close enough where he can compliment you without looking weird and creepy?

He rests his head in his hand and starts doodling in his notebook, mindlessly scribbling on the page while he waits for the lecture to end. He thinks of quick conversational things to say, something to discuss in a few minutes when it’s time to pack your bags and leave. Interesting class, right? Who would’ve thought—Yeonjun looks up at the projector to see the professor’s notes—the shell method… would be so cool… Maybe he shouldn’t say that, actually.

He’s honestly better off not trying to strike up a conversation with you at all; the chances of it leading to total and utter embarrassment lean greatly towards one hundred percent. He just wishes he had a little more spine, or that he was naturally a little cooler. The only interesting thing about him is something he can’t even talk to you about, or with anyone at all.

Yeonjun barely registers it when the professor dismisses class. He steals one last glance toward you, lips parting like he finally built up the courage to speak, but the words build up in his throat and die on his tongue. He seals his lips and focuses his gaze back on his own things, closing his notebook and shoving it in his bag. It’s not worth it. He decides he’ll just keep his mouth shut.

“Hey Yeonjun?”

Yeonjun almost jumps out of his seat, and he has to fight away his nerves as he turns to you. You’re packing your things back into your bag, not even looking at him. A part of him thinks he might be hearing things until your eyes meet his, waiting for an answer.

“Yeah?” he responds, voice coming out strained. He clears his throat.

“We’re friends, right?” you ask. He blinks, feeling like this is some kind of trick. He analyzes your face, making sure there’s nothing snide or teasing hidden in your question. You look honest enough, which puts him at ease.

“Yeah, for sure.”

“I hope that’s not sarcasm,” you say, getting up from your seat and adjusting your bag over your shoulders.

“It’s not! Really, we’re friends,” he reassures. You walk past him and he follows, leaving the classroom and entering the busy hallway.

“Well, good. I wanted you to go with me somewhere.” Your statement is wildly cryptic, and it leaves Yeonjun’s mind whirling with the possibilities of what you might offer.

“Right now?” he asks. “I-I have class…” As much as he likes you, he really can’t risk dropping his grade due to missed attendance.

You laugh, “No, tonight. There’s this party, and I”—you keep talking, but Yeonjun barely registers it. He’s never partied in college before. What would he even do at a party? He can’t handle his drinks well, and he’s not sure how well he’d blend into that kind of environment. He’s scared he’d make a fool of himself.

As you leave the academic building, you turn to Yeonjun, raising a brow in question. You must have asked him for his confirmation. Yeonjun forces his brain to rack up a response.

“Could you text me the details..?” Yeonjun asks. You relax a little at his words, nodding happily. You pull out your phone, ready to text him now. Yeonjun feels his heart pounding. He catches sight of the time on your phone, noticing he’s only got five minutes until his next class. The hall he’s supposed to be in is at least a three minute walk from here.

“There,” you say, awarding Yeonjun with a grin so bright that being late to class might just be worth it. “I really hope to see you there.” You tilt your head a little, and Yeonjun feels starstruck.

“You will,” he promises mindlessly.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Yeonjun feared he might’ve been in trouble when his professor asked him to stay after class. Turns out, it’s something much worse.

“Yeonjun, do you think you could help in the lab later today?”

Yeonjun doesn’t think much before he nods. “Yeah, of course, how much later?”

“Around 6 this evening,” his professor answers. Yeonjun’s heart drops. That would be perfectly fine any other day, but he promised to go out with you today. Of course the party would start at the same time Yeonjun’s professor wants him to stop by the lab.

“I’m not sure I have the time,” Yeonjun says quickly, suddenly fidgety and feeling antsy to leave the room. “I’ve got this… thing to do.” His professor doesn’t look too convinced. Yeonjun wants to facepalm himself. Yeah, great excuse.

The professor sighs, but Yeonjun starts up again before his professor can say anything. “I can come in earlier! I’m free right now, so I could just go over after this.”

“The cells we’re working with need a full 24 hours in culture for the sake of our research. Are you sure you can’t push your plans forward? Or back?” he asks.

Yeonjun’s stomach twists with guilt. He knows he shouldn’t let his professor down. Yeonjun’s kind of counting on him to write his recommendation letter for a graduate program, too.

“I’ll push the plans back,” Yeonjun says, giving in. He hopes the dejection isn’t too evident in his voice. His professor smiles and pats Yeonjun’s shoulder in thanks. He half-listens as his professor gives him the usual rundown of what to do during and after the process, nodding along and holding back the frown that tries to tug at his lips.

When Yeonjun finally leaves the building, he lets out the heaviest sigh of his life. His shoulders sag, and he feels like he might be the unluckiest person in the world. You finally give him attention outside of just asking for homework help, and the universe just had to intervene. This is laughable. It’s also stupid. Annoying. Frustrating.

There’s a pout etched onto Yeonjun’s face as he walks back to his dorm. He’s got a couple hours until he needs to go to the lab, so maybe he can take a nap or tidy up his room a little. His head hangs low, gaze transfixed on the sidewalk, kicking along a small pebble that keeps him company on the way.

He only picks his head back up as he walks past a certain field of grass, one he often finds you sitting in. Sometimes you’re on your laptop, sometimes you’re taking notes in a textbook, but most of the time you’re just lounging and doing nothing. It’s almost inspiring. Yeonjun would probably benefit from relaxing and decompressing more.

You’re there, sitting cross-legged on the grass, peaceful and silent. You look up suddenly, making eye contact with Yeonjun. His face flushes, but before he can turn his head in embarrassment, you raise your hand and wave. Yeonjun almost stops in his tracks. You’re waving at him, acknowledging his existence yet again.

He smiles and waves back, failing to tame his heartbeat as he takes the sight of you in. He’s forced to look away when he nearly stumbles over the pebble he’s been kicking around—“Oh, shit!” he utters, quietly enough to not draw attention to himself.

He glances back at you casually, making sure you didn’t witness him tripping. Fortunately, you’re on your phone, no longer paying him any mind.

Back at his dorm, Yeonjun stands by his closet, contemplating what exactly to wear tonight. He also has to make sure his outfit is lab-friendly, so the loose sweater he’d been eyeing is a no-go. He sighs, looking at himself in the mirror. Maybe the t-shirt and jeans he’s wearing now will suffice.

Time passes slowly, slow enough for Yeonjun to clean his half of the room, make himself a small meal in the communal kitchen, and even read a chapter ahead in his calculus textbook. He almost feels relieved when his alarm sets off to go to the lab, eager to get his work over with.

He’s determined to get this done quickly enough to still see you tonight. The thought of letting you down the one time you ask him to hang out is almost painful. He imagines the frown you’d wear next time he sits next to you in class. He can’t let that happen; he has to make sure he gets to you.

He throws on his lab coat and adjusts the goggles to fit onto his face. He sighs as he grabs containers of various chemical compounds from the cabinet, leaving them on the counter as he fetches the other materials he needs. With everything set out in front of him, he grabs the petri dish of cells and glances at the procedural note his professor left.

Yeonjun’s done this enough times to get into the swing of things, so he’s not too concerned with double checking his every move. His bigger priority is getting this done as fast as possible so that he can get to you. Lab work is never particularly fun or interesting, so he passes the time thinking about you.

The smell of the chemicals burns Yeonjun’s nose a little, and he wonders for a second if he’d been zoning out too much. He picks up the procedural note and glances over the measurements again, making sure he’s been adding the right amounts of everything. If he does something wrong and messes with the cell culture, he risks not being allowed back in the lab. He should probably slow down a bit, even if it means making you wait longer.

He’s more careful throughout the rest of the process, pushing back the worries that he might’ve messed something up. He continues to reassure himself that everything’s okay as he finishes up his work, placing the lid back on the petri dish and storing it away. He writes the date and time on a piece of tape that he sticks onto the lid, then finally lets his body relax as he steps back.

He cracks his knuckles to alleviate the stiffness that had been building there and rolls his shoulders back, groaning at the soreness of his muscles. All the fine motor movements from working in a lab does a number on his arms and fingers.

He hears a rattle, and he turns quickly to make sure he didn’t knock anything over in his haste. His eyes scan the room, but nothing looks amiss. He shakes the feeling and sheds himself of his lab gear, eager to head to you at the party already.

It’s been over an hour, and the thought of you waiting so long for Yeonjun’s arrival strikes guilt inside his chest. He opens his phone to find the path he needs to walk to get to the house the party’s being held in, eyes bugging out when he sees that it’s a twenty minute walk from the lab. Shit, by then you’ll have been waiting an hour and a half for him to show up!

He groans, trying to think if there’s a better way to get to you. The buses around campus don’t stop at the street he needs to get to, and it’s not like he has one of those electric bicycles or scooters that everyone seems to love. He wonders now if it might be a worthy investment. He pouts and throws his head back, totally drained from everything happening today. His eyes land on the tops of the academic buildings and the tall trees overhead. Maybe there is another way to get there after all.

No, he shouldn’t. That would be way too reckless. He’s already gone through the whole power and responsibility spiel, and he’s not in the mood to get himself in trouble for acting rashly. But if no one sees…

He turns his head and scans for people in each direction. No one’s around. No one would know, and he really needs to get to the party before he makes himself look like an asshole. He checks for anyone one last time, then aims his wrist towards the sky.

“Yeonjun! What’s up!”

Yeonjun startles and brings his arm back to his side hastily. He whips around to see who’s talking to him and lets out a breath when he sees his friend who had just exited the lab building. “Taehyun, hey man,” he says, ignoring the anxious pounding of his heart. That was way too close. Lesson learned.

“Didn’t catch you at the physics meet last week. Everything alright?” Taehyun asks. Yeonjun really hopes this conversation doesn’t take too long. The last thing he needs is another ten minutes piled on top of how late he already is.

“I’m good, I was just”—controlling a fire set by some idiot arsonist, then trapping said arsonist with his webs until the cops arrived—“uh, kind of sick.”

Taehyun hums and nods. “Well, we missed you bro, hope you’re feeling better. I’ll see you around!” Yeonjun waves and returns the smile his friend gives him, then walks as fast as he can to the location you sent him. He manages to get there in fifteen minutes instead of twenty, only at the expense of heavy breathing like he just finished a marathon.

When he gets to the entrance, there’s two men Yeonjun has never seen in his life guarding the door. He almost scoffs. What is this, some kind of nightclub?

“You got the money?” one of the guys ask.

“What?” Yeonjun scrunches his brows and leans his head forward a little, thinking he might have misheard him.

“No money, no entrance,” the other man says.

“Dude, come on!” Yeonjun whines.

“House rules. Stop wasting our time and get out of line.”

“No, no, I’ll”—Yeonjun sighs, reaching into the back pocket of his pants to fetch out his wallet. “How much?” he asks. The men tell him, and he bites back the complaints that almost push past his lips. Yeonjun slaps the bills into the guy’s open palm. They finally open the door for him, and Yeonjun steps inside.

He’s taken aback by how many people are cramped into this place. The house is pretty big, but there’s at least a hundred people mingling around, which makes space tight. He squeezes past the crowd with muttered apologies, but no one seems to pay him any mind. He scans every room for you, but it’s a little hard to do it efficiently when there’s so many faces to check. A part of him fears you might’ve left already.

He pulls out his phone, ready to text you and ask, before he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns at the action and smiles when he’s met with your pretty face. “Hey, you!” you exclaim. “I thought you bailed on me.” There’s no real bite to your words, but it still makes Yeonjun frown.

“I’m sorry. I had to do this lab thing, and”—

“It’s alright, don’t explain. You’re here now!” you say. “Did you have anything to drink?”

Yeonjun shakes his head. “I don’t drink much.”

“Me either,” you say. You look out the window, then grab onto Yeonjun’s hand. His brain short-circuits, and he has to stop his eyes from going all dumb and wide. “It’s kinda stuffy in here. Let’s go outside.”

Yeonjun puts up no fight as you lead him out the back door, walking out into the yard. There’s almost as many people out here as there are inside, but the lack of walls means there’s more space to move. It’s much more breathable.

He takes quick glances at your face, trying to decipher what you’re staring so hard at. Your gaze is fixed on a small group of people just sitting and laughing. All the guys have girls in their laps, and a few girls stand around them, sipping their drinks. They all look happy. And drunk.

“Did you want to join them?” Yeonjun asks. He doesn’t know any of those people, but he’ll go if that’s what you’d like. It’s not like there’s much else to do when you’re not drinking or dancing.

The LED lights that line the house reflect in your eyes, making them dazzle extra bright. Your eyes dart to the group one last time before you shake your head. “Nah. Let’s just sit down and talk.” Yeonjun gladly obliges.

You find an empty spot to sit at, looking up at Yeonjun after you situate yourself. He laughs a little, “You really like sitting on the grass, huh?”

You smile at him and pat the ground next to you. “Don’t act like you’re too good to connect with nature.”

“It’s more about getting grass stains on my pants,” Yeonjun says, but sits beside you anyways.

You turn your head to him, and something about seeing your face this close makes it hard for him to keep eye contact. It’s quiet for a few seconds before you speak up, “So how come you said yes to the party?”

Something about your question strikes fear inside Yeonjun. Did you find him out? Do you know he likes you? Maybe this is some kind of humiliation ritual you’ve set him up for.

“Cause you asked,” he answers, voice a little meek as he fidgets with his hands in his lap.

“And if it was someone else who asked?”

Yeonjun thinks for a second, but he can’t come to an answer. “I don’t know. Like who?”

You hum and look into the crowd of people. Your head turns back to him after a couple seconds. “Like Yerim,” you say.

Yeonjun laughs as if the scenario is ridiculous, mostly because it is. Yerim would never even give him the time of day. She’s notorious for being cold to anyone who she isn’t interested in. Somehow, that seems to attract a bunch of guys to her. Not Yeonjun, though.

“No chance I’d go,” he says.

“So what makes me different?” you ask.

A lot of things. You’re nice, and you’re smart, and you’re down to earth, and you’re a beacon of warmth. Everything makes you different.

“Cause we’re friends,” he says instead. He wants to punch himself after the words leave him. This was his chance to flirt with you, yet he couldn’t even muster up the courage to give you a single compliment.

You nod. “I’m just asking cause… well, I guess I’m just surprised you agreed to come.” Your eyes meet his, warm and kind. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

Yeonjun’s stomach does flips when you look at him like that. “You’re welcome.” It goes quiet for a moment, so he continues, “I think this was worth handing over the last of my cash for.”

You burst out laughing. “They made you pay?! Why didn’t you just say you’re here with me?”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” he says. He bites his tongue after the words leave him. Who is he to assume there will be a next time? He hopes you don’t call him out on it.

“We should just go somewhere else next time. There’s a lot of places downtown that I want to visit,” you suggest, bumping his shoulder with yours. Yeonjun almost explodes.

“We should do that then,” he agrees. He’s not sure what suddenly drew you to him as more than some kind of tutor, but he thanks the universe for bestowing him with all this luck.

“There’s that bakery that opened a couple months ago,” you mention.

Yeonjun lights up. “Oh my god, I’ve been wanting to go there too!”

You squeal in excitement and clasp your hands together. “Let’s do that next. Tell me you’re free on Sunday,” you say.

“I don’t know, things come up last-minute sometimes. I’ll let you know.” It’s hard to make plans when he’s basically living a double life. Then again, he did agree to going out with you tonight on a whim. He’s not very consistent with his rules. He pushes the thought back.

Your eyes land back on the group of people hanging out and laughing. Yeonjun frowns, and he wonders if he’s not entertaining you enough. He doesn’t want to keep you from having fun.

“Why do you keep looking at them?” he asks, curious and soft. He hopes he’s not prying.

“They’re just some friends,” you answer.

“Oh. Why don’t we go say hi, then?” he offers.

You pull your lips into a tight line. “I’d rather not.”

“That’s alright,” Yeonjun says. You give a small smile in appreciation.

“What about you?” you ask. He tilts his head, not knowing what you mean. You continue, “Who’s in your friend group?”

Yeonjun laughs awkwardly and shrugs. “I mostly hang out with the physics honor society,” he admits.

“That’s cool. You must have a good bond.”

“We do,” he says. “How’d you meet your friends?”

You smile at him, and something in your face tells Yeonjun that it’s a complicated story. You sigh dramatically and lean back a little, “I met them at parties. Does that surprise you?”

Yeonjun’s not sure if that’s a rhetorical question. “No. You’re friendly. I can see why people come to you,” he answers.

“Thanks,” you say, voice a little quieter.

“Are you friends with your roommate?” he asks.

“I don’t have one. I live in a single dorm.”

Lucky. If Yeonjun had the extra money to spare, he’d be dorming alone too. It would definitely make heading out as Spider-man easier; he’d just be able to change in his room and jump out his window. Assuming no one is around to see, that is.

“That must be nice,” he says.

You shrug. “It’s alright. What about you? You got a roommate?”

“Yeah. We’re…” Yeonjun struggles to find a word to describe his relationship with Soobin. They’re not exactly friends, but they’re peaceful with each other.

You laugh and finish the sentence for him, “Roommates and nothing more.” There’s a lilt to your voice when you say that, and you wiggle your eyebrows like that’s supposed to suggest something.

“Ignoring your insinuations, yeah, pretty much.”

“I’m just kidding,” you say. He’ll let you make jokes at his expense all you want, it doesn’t bother him. Especially not when it means he gets to see you all giggly and happy. He thinks that you look the prettiest like this. Yeonjun would stare at you smiling up at him forever if he could.

The sound of a guy calling your name pulls Yeonjun from his stupor. He blinks at the man standing before the two of you, then looks at you with scrunched brows as if to ask who is that?

His unspoken question is answered the next second. “Hey, Kai,” you say. When Yeonjun gets a better look, he realizes that this is one of the dudes in the group you kept looking over at.

“Who’s this guy?” Kai asks, jutting his chin toward him.

“I’m Yeonjun.” He goes to hold out his hand for Kai to shake, but quickly puts it back down upon realizing that might be weird.

“Oh, Yeonjun from calculus. I know you,” he says.

“I didn’t know you’re in that class too,” Yeonjun muses.

Kai laughs, “I’m not. Y/n just talks about you.”

Yeonjun nearly melts. You talk about him. This is the best day of his life.

“Anyway,” Kai continues, looking at you again. “I need a couple more people on my beer pong team. You guys down?”

Yeonjun turns to you to gauge your reaction. He can’t really tell what you're feeling, not even when you face him as you contemplate your answer. Yeonjun shrugs, as if to tell you that he’s down for whatever you want to do.

“I think I’m good,” you say.

“Ah, alright, you bummer,” Kai jokes, stepping back and sending you a bright smile. “Continue your convo with the calc lord, I insist.” He’s gone after that, jogging off to the rest of his friends, setting up the game.

“Calc lord?” Yeonjun repeats, amused.

Your laugh is accompanied by a roll of your eyes. “He means it nicely, I swear.”

“Well, depending on how well he does in this game, I might start calling him beer pong lord,” Yeonjun says. You push at his shoulder as your laughter continues.

Yeonjun already knew he likes you a lot, but as the night goes on, he finds out that you’re even better than he thought. Conversation unfolds easily with you, even if Yeonjun’s answers are dorky and awkward at times. He feels exactly how he thinks you look when you sit in the grass alone: content and peaceful.

He’s not sure how many minutes or hours have passed when you ask him to walk you back to your dorm. All he knows is that tonight could have stretched into infinity, and that would’ve been fine. He follows you into the building, then into your room. He’s not sure why. It just feels right.

“Thanks for bringing me back,” you say. Yeonjun smiles and nods. He leans against the wall and stares out the window. You live on the top floor of your building, so the view’s pretty different from Yeonjun’s second story view. This would be a fun room to swing out of.

“Do you need anything else?” Yeonjun asks. A smile slowly takes over your face, and you cross the room to stand in front of him. You blink up at him, and something about it feels flirty. If he wasn’t biting his tongue so hard, his thoughts would have slipped right past his lips: you look cute.

You break the short moment of silence with a giggle. “Just for you to promise me we’ll hang out again,” you say, voice barely over a whisper.

Yeonjun has to remind himself to breathe and be normal. “I promise,” he says. He even holds out his pinky to seal the deal. You curl your pinky around his, accepting the playful gesture.

“Did you want to stay?” you ask. You look out the window, then back at him. “I’m okay with sharing my bed.”

That definitely flusters Yeonjun. “Oh, no, I’m—I was gonna just walk back to my dorm or something. Or take a bus. I don’t know. Thank you, though.”

You laugh. Hopefully not at his sputtering and rambling, but Yeonjun has a feeling that might be why. “Alright, then. Good night, Yeonjun.”

Your soft voice has Yeonjun wanting to backpedal and say he’ll stay the night, but he swallows down the words. He smiles at you as he backs away toward your door. “Good night,” he says, standing in your doorway.

“Yeonjun,” you call, stopping him before he could leave. He turns, waiting for your words. He’s surprised to see that you look a little shy. “I’m really happy I asked you to come with me. Tonight was fun.”

Butterflies erupt in Yeonjun’s stomach, and he feels like he could float from how giddy he is. “I’m happy too,” he says.

He steps out into the hall, thoughts lingering on how overwhelmingly good his time with you was. His mind is clouded with rosy memories of his night with you, and he finds himself repressing the urge to twirl around and jump for joy. He’ll probably be skipping all the way home, imagining all the possibilities of what could come next between you.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

It’s Sunday, and Yeonjun knows exactly why you’re calling. He stares at his phone, then back at the man in front of him tangled up in webs. Yeonjun shoots another web over the guy’s mouth.

“Sorry, gotta take this,” he says. “Stay right here.” He slings himself onto a branch of a tall tree nearby, just to make sure no one can listen in as he accepts your call.

“Hey Yeonjun!” Your voice is so cheerful that it makes Yeonjun giggle. He even swings his feet in the air as he sits on the branch.

“Hi Y/n,” he greets, hoping his voice isn’t too muffled through the mask of his suit.

“Did those last-minute plans end up showing, or are you down to try out that bakery?” you ask. Yeonjun frowns, hating to let you down when you sound so happy.

“I’m really busy today, I’m sorry,” he says, shoulders sagging from how awful he feels. He’s got a whole lab procedure to write once he’s done sorting out the crime scenes of today.

“No worries, maybe we can go after class sometime.”

He frowns. “I wish I could, but I got another class right after ours. Let me check my schedule, I might be able to”—

“Are those sirens?” you interrupt, and Yeonjun looks out to the street. He’s grown so accustomed to the sound of those things that it didn’t even register. “Where are you?” you ask.

“I’m… uh,” Yeonjun stammers, focusing on the cops getting out of the car and making their way towards the criminal.

He tunes into the cops’ conversation. “Looks like Spider-shit’s been here already,” one of them comments in a gruff voice.

The other cop huffs out a laugh. “He’s always meddling in with petty crimes. What do you think this guy did?”

“Jaywalking?” The cops chuckle.

“Not like he can explain with that over his mouth.” He points to the web Yeonjun placed on the man a minute ago.

Yeonjun scowls. He’s not sure why the cops hold so much scorn for him, but if they’d like to know, then the petty crime that Spider-shit helped stop was an armed robbery. If these guys were a little better at their jobs, he wouldn’t have to meddle in all the time.

“Hello?” you ask, and Yeonjun reels his attention back to his conversation with you.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m just coming back from the store. Crazy stuff going on today.”

“Oh. Well, stay safe,” you say.

“Thanks, I will.” He sees the cops looking around, probably trying to spot him, so he flattens his back against the tree and tries to talk a little quieter. “I’ll see you in class, I gotta go.”

“See you!”

Yeonjun sighs once the call ends. His suit doesn’t even have pockets, he just carried his phone with him today in case you contacted him. Stupid? Mildly. Inconvenient? Very. He had one less hand to work with when dealing with today’s crime culprits. To hear your voice, though? Worth it. He smiles like an idiot as he swings over to the next nearest building, making his way back to his dorm.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Yeonjun’s professor accompanies him to the lab today, overseeing the procedures for the day. The feeling of his professor watching over his shoulder is more nerve-wracking than any day spent fighting crime on the streets. He’s usually careful with his work in the lab, but he’s extra, extra careful on these days.

He pauses when he retrieves the petri dish of cells. He briefly considers the possibility that he’s crazy and just seeing things, but Yeonjun’s pretty sure that the clump of cells just moved. Like, uncanny movement. He holds his breath.

He stares at the clump, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. It doesn’t jerk around anymore, so maybe it was just his imagination. Fear still creeps up his neck at the idea of the research going wrong. He remembers feeling like he messed up at some point last time he was here, and the realization is making his skin grow clammy.

“What is it?” his professor asks, taking a step closer to Yeonjun.

“Nothing, I was just thinking,” he quickly responds, keeping his voice calm and steady. He brings the petri dish to the table and does his best to forget what he saw earlier. Yeonjun fears how his professor would react if he told him something unprecedented might be occurring. It happened so quickly that he can’t even tell if his mind was just playing tricks on him. Maybe he’s just extra nervous today.

He wipes the sweat off his palms onto his lab coat, bringing the necessary materials to the table to continue the research. His professor reads off the instructions slowly, and Yeonjun pretends he doesn’t feel his stomach twisting as he works with the cells.

He tries to calm down as he walks back to his dorm, but there’s a permanent chill shooting down his spine. There’s no way the clump should have moved like that—it shouldn’t show any observable motion at all, not without some kind of electrical stimulation.

Maybe he just jerked the dish too harshly. He was pretty nervous, so it would make sense. He must have been shaking and just didn’t realize. That would explain it. That would put Yeonjun at ease.

He can try to convince himself that everything’s fine, but he can’t stop the anxious thrum of his heart. Apparently the fear reads on his face, too, because Soobin’s quick to notice it when Yeonjun enters the dorm.

“Are you okay?” Soobin asks. Yeonjun’s not sure what must have given himself away. He pays more attention to breathing slowly and talking casually.

“I’m good,” he answers. He doesn’t expect Soobin to push the subject considering how quiet he always is, but Soobin’s gaze isn’t leaving Yeonjun. He must be really concerned.

“Did something happen?” Soobin asks. Yeonjun sinks into his desk chair, covering his face with his hands as he groans. “Sorry,” his roommate apologizes, turning away from Yeonjun to look at his laptop instead.

“No, you’re good, it’s just…” Yeonjun sighs. He might as well get this off his chest. “Some lab thing.”

Soobin nods, not asking any further. Now that Yeonjun’s started though, he doesn’t feel like stopping.

“I think I might’ve fucked up,” Yeonjun admits.

“How?” Soobin’s playing some video game on his laptop as he talks, which actually puts Yeonjun at ease. It feels less pressing, less like an interrogation or a confession and more like a normal conversation.

“The cells I’m working with are being weird. I don’t know. I don’t even know if I saw it right. I just feel crazy now.” Yeonjun rubs his palms against his eyes in frustration and exhaustion, soothing the headache he’s got building up.

Soobin hums. The little shooting sounds and animated voices coming from Soobin’s game fill the room until Soobin speaks again, “Did anyone else see?”

“No. My professor was there, but he didn’t notice.”

Soobin shrugs. “You’re probably fine then.”

Honestly, Soobin’s nonchalance to the situation eases Yeonjun’s worries a lot. He knows he can get in his head sometimes, especially when it comes to doing everything right, so to hear he’ll be fine lifts a weight from his shoulders.

“Yeah, probably,” he agrees. He basks in comfortable silence for a minute now that his heart isn’t beating so hard.

“By the way, have you bought more laundry detergent yet?” Soobin asks.

Ah, shit. “Tomorrow, I promise.”

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Being Spider-man is tasking, but it’s usually pretty cool. Not everyone gets to zip around the city and restore peace in people’s neighborhoods. Not everyone, however, has to worry about getting stabbed by a criminal in the middle of the night.

Yeonjun always stays until the cops arrive. It almost feels essential, just to make sure justice gets served. This time, he can’t.

He has to stop himself from groaning too loud when he feels the knife pull out from his side. The man in front of Yeonjun is already stuck to the side of a building, held there with a thick layer of web, so there has to be someone else. He turns around to look at the perpetrator, but the world moves a lot slower than normal.

Yeonjun blinks hard, focusing on breathing and staying conscious. The coward who stabbed him is wearing a ski mask, and he’s running away quickly. Yeonjun can’t let him leave. He moves forward and ignores the searing pain that sets his body alight. He straightens out his shaky arm and aims his wrist at the man, but the web that shoots out is just as weak as Yeonjun is.

Frustrated, Yeonjun growls and forces himself to move faster. It burns, he’s never felt any kind of pain like this, but he can’t let this man walk free. He can’t let this man stab another innocent person. Even with his staggered pace, limping as he tries his best to catch up to the man, he advances quickly.

He breathes hard and holds the air in his lungs as he aims again at the man, brows furrowed with angry determination beneath his mask. He lets out a loud grunt as he shoots his web out, and finally, it lands. The criminal falls as the web captures his ankle, keeping his leg stuck to the ground.

Yeonjun huffs as he traverses the rest of the way toward the man, nothing but fury in his veins as he shoots another web out. This one’s bigger, covering the man’s back and securing him to the pavement. He picks up his head and looks at Yeonjun with fear in his eyes, but he doesn’t care. He can’t. All he feels is pain and anger and pain and pain and so much fucking pain.

Yeonjun’s not the vengeful type, but getting stabbed really tests a person’s limits. He shoots more webs over the guy, making sure he won’t be able to move a muscle until the cops arrive.

Yeonjun doesn’t waste his breath making snide comments, though he does have a few choice words for him. He takes off the man’s ski mask and resists the urge to deck his face. He’s got fear etched into his expression, but Yeonjun finds it hard to feel sorry for him. The man starts begging for his life, and Yeonjun scoffs. Of course he’s not going to kill this man—no matter what, he doesn’t end people’s lives. A city’s hero shouldn’t get to decide who lives and dies.

Yeonjun stumbles away after finding a passerby to call the police. Now that the adrenaline’s gone, Yeonjun feels less mad and more scared. He’s really bleeding now; his hand comes up soaked when it presses against the wound. What the hell does he do? He can’t die like this.

He can’t go to the hospital with a stab wound. There’s no way for him to make up some alibi that wouldn’t just trace Spider-man’s identity back to him. He hisses through gritted teeth as he frantically scans his surroundings, looking for somewhere to go. The only thing that’s coming to mind is you, and it’s aggravating. He could be dying right now, and all his useless mind can do is think of you. Maybe it’s all the blood loss, and he’s just getting delirious, or maybe it’s a sign. It’s not like he has many good options right now.

There’s not enough time to think about it. He zips through the city and back onto campus as fast as he can, ignoring the splitting pain in his side that shoots up his body every time he moves. It’s getting harder to breathe, suddenly feeling suffocated by his mask, but he has to hold on. He’s not far away now.

He remembers the view from your window. He remembers exactly which room to shoot himself up to. He adheres himself to the wall outside your room and pulls his mask off, leaning his forehead onto the cold glass of your window with a sigh of relief. He catches his breath and knocks with a shaky fist. He’s really sorry for having to wake you up at this hour, but he has a feeling you’ll understand.

He doesn’t wait long. You're trudging out of bed and making your way toward the window, tired eyes blinking slowly. You look really cute. Everything is spinning around him, but he focuses on you. You’re still groggy and out of it until you meet Yeonjun’s eyes through the glass. As soon as you see him, it’s like you wake up immediately.

He watches your jaw drop, your frantic hands racing to open your window. His vision is nearly blacking out, and he tries to blink away the dizzy feeling in his head the best he can.

“Yeonjun?!” you squeak as he drags himself through your window and into your room. He can’t even hold himself up anymore, weak body collapsing to the floor. He groans and leans against the wall, clutching his side. He ignores the sickening feeling of blood dampening his hand, sticky and warm against his palm and between his digits.

You pick him up by the underarms, grunting as you heave him toward your bed. He notices how shaky your arms are, and he tries his best to pick up his own weight, even if it hurts like hell. He’s burdening you enough as is coming here so late.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to go to,” he says, catching his breath as you guide him to lay on your bed. He’s half-aware of how bloody and dirty he is, but you seem fully ready to let him stain your sheets. Concern and confusion fill your wide eyes, and Yeonjun can hear every word that you don’t say.

Luckily, you save the unnecessary questions for later. “What do I do?” you ask. Your hands tremble as they peel the shirt of his suit up, just enough to expose his midriff and the nasty damage to his side. You gasp upon seeing how bad it is, hardly able to stomach it, opting to look into his eyes instead.

He wants to respond to you, if not to answer your question then just to comfort you, but breathing is enough of a chore on its own right now; talking seems almost impossible. Watching you panic about this is shattering him. He makes an effort to move his arm out toward you, just to hold your hand and reassure you, but he doesn’t have enough strength.

You lift from the bed and open up a bottle of water, pouring some of the cool liquid over his head. It’s relieving against his burning skin and keeps him from losing consciousness. It also makes him realize how dehydrated he is.

“Please sit up,” you beg, placing a hand underneath his head to lift it a bit. He comes up just enough to drink some of the water you feed to him, swallowing down the rest of the bottle. He collapses back against your pillow once he’s finished, feeling much better just from that.

You come back with another bottle of water and pour small bits at a time over the gash in his side. He hisses and tenses up each time it hits his skin, but he knows you have to do this. He doesn’t want to make it harder by thrashing around and complaining, so he bites his tongue and keeps his body stiff.

The sheets soak beneath him as you continue emptying the water bottle over the wound. He should help you clean up after this; he doesn’t want you dealing with his mess all alone. A few minutes pass before you discard the plastic bottle and grab a t-shirt from your dresser.

You press the bunched up cloth against his injured skin gently, and he holds back any grunts that threaten to slip out. It’s like you can sense his pain despite his efforts to hide it, because you keep murmuring apologies to him.

“I’m okay, don’t be sorry,” he reassures. He doesn’t think you believe him, judging by the way lips stay tugged into a frown.

A quietness falls over the room. You pull your t-shirt away from his body and observe the wound, and your fingertips on his torso send electricity throughout his body. It doesn’t hurt so much now.

“You’re not bleeding anymore,” you point out.

He hums. “That’s good.” Your hand grazes the skin just outside the gash. There’s a soothing effect in the way your fingers glide against him, pressure so light that it’s barely there.

“You need stitches,” you say quietly, like you hate to break the news to him.

Yeonjun doesn’t mind. “You got a needle?” he asks. You fidget with the fabric of Yeonjun’s suit as you sigh and look away.

“I do,” you say. You don’t sound too confident, though. He doesn’t know what to do to make you feel better.

You grab his hand like it’s second nature to do so, and the action would be romantic if only you didn’t have that nervous look on your face. He can practically feel your heart pounding, and he’s dying to let you know that everything’s okay.

“I trust you,” he breathes out. He makes sure he’s looking you in the eye so you can see how much he means it. He’s risking everything by trusting you, but he’s not scared. He feels safe even with his life in your hands, his secret identity in your knowledge. If there was something more sacred and dangerous to give up than that, he’s sure he’d be okay lending that to you too.

It feels much more real when you have your needle and thread in hand. Yeonjun can’t contain his noises anymore, whimpering in pain when he feels the sharp tip pierce his skin.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you say quickly and desperately. “I’ll do it fast.”

He hisses as he feels the thread start to tug his wound shut. He throws an arm over his eyes, as if not watching you treat him will stop the piercing feeling. All his muscles are tensed up no matter how much he tries to relax, but he keeps his breathing steady and lets you do your work.

It’s not too long before you’re tying off the final knot and discarding your needle onto your nightstand. You run your thumb over the stitch, gentle and slow. Yeonjun takes his arm off his face and fixes his gaze on you, watching you scrutinize your work with scrunched brows.

“It feels fine. You did perfect,” he says, wanting to keep you from judging yourself too harshly. He wants to thank you, but the words feel so awkward building up in his throat.

“I don’t have a big enough bandage to put over this,” you say, still fixated on his injury. Yeonjun tries to sit up, but your hand on his shoulder eases him back down. “Don’t move too much.”

“Y/n…” he starts, but you give him a pointed look, and he decides to shut up and listen. He relaxes against your mattress.

“I wish I had some clothes to change you into,” you mutter after he pulls the shirt of his suit back down. The spandex isn’t super comfortable against his fresh stitches, but it’s easy to ignore in comparison to the searing pain of the open wound. He’ll have to throw out this suit; it’s bloodied beyond repair, and he has plenty of back-ups anyway.

“It’s alright,” Yeonjun says. You shuffle on the mattress until you’re laying down beside him. “Aren’t the sheets wet?” he asks, surprised at how unfazed you seem.

You let out a small laugh, and that frown finally leaves your face. “I don’t mind. I wanted to lay down.”

“I’ll buy you new sheets,” Yeonjun promises. “And a new needle. And I’ll explain everything to you, I swear. Please don’t”—

“Yeonjun,” you cut off. He shuts his mouth. “That stuff doesn’t matter. Are you okay now?”

He nods. “I’m okay.”

“That’s all I care about.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence. Yeonjun stares at the ceiling and wonders how much this is going to change things between you. He has some hope that this will make you two even closer, but a small part of him fears that you won’t want to associate with him anymore. He wouldn’t blame you; it’s not like being close to Spider-man isn’t a riskless situation. He doesn’t regret coming to you tonight, though.

He feels your eyes on him a moment later, and he can only bring himself to look at you for a second before returning his gaze to your ceiling. You must find that funny, because he hears you chuckling beside him.

“You know, I wasn’t expecting this when you said you’d hang out with me again.” There’s a softness in your voice that makes Yeonjun feel lightheaded. Not the losing-too-much-blood kind of lightheaded, but the oh-god-I-really-like-her kind—this one’s much more preferable and much more welcome than the former.

“I’ll have to make it up to you,” he says.

“How do you plan on doing that?”

He turns his head to face you, and something feels awfully domestic about getting to lay this close to you in your bed. It’s hard to breathe when you’re smiling at him so eagerly, when there’s a glint in your eyes that tells Yeonjun you’re having fun. There’s an itch all the way down to his bones that begs him to push forward and kiss you already, but he resists.

“I’ll find a way,” he whispers.

The room gets quiet again, and Yeonjun supposes he should leave. It’s not like he can wait for the sun to rise and walk out of your room in his bloodied Spidey-suit glory. He’s not sure what time it is right now, but he knows that if he doesn’t leave soon and get some sleep, he’ll be passing out in his classes.

“Thanks for fixing me up,” he says, pushing himself off your bed and stretching his limbs. He feels beyond sore, wincing at the pain that shoots through his body. You sit up immediately, scrambling to stop him.

“You’re leaving? Are you crazy? Stay here!” you insist, trying to drag him back to the bed. He turns his head to you and smiles, and something about the silent plea in your eyes lights up his heart. He keeps his feet on the ground and resists your efforts, even though he wants nothing more than to spend the night with you. It’s just not smart and not worth the risk.

“I can’t,” he says. You pout and stand before him, blinking up at him so prettily that he almost changes his mind. “It’s dangerous.”

“I know. I just wanted to keep you.” That makes Yeonjun giggle.

“Sorry. Maybe next time.”

You swat his chest. “Don’t let there be a next time. You almost scared me to death.”

“I’ll make sure to tell the next knife-bearer you said that,” Yeonjun jokes. It gets the laugh that he was hoping for out of you.

“Well…” you start, eyes darting between his own. He barely has time to register it when you press a kiss against his lips, your movement so hesitant and shy. It’s soft. It’s sweet. It’s over before he knows it. He blinks at you dumbly—it’s all he can do to not pass out like a dork in front of you. Your smile is just as soft and sweet as your kiss was. “Just stay out of trouble,” you finish, patting his chest gently.

“I’ll try.”

“I guess I’ll see you in class, then,” you say.

“Yeah,” he agrees. He should go now. He should make use of his feet and back away, but he stays planted in his spot. You sway girlishly in front of him, hands clasped behind your back.

“Good night,” you whisper. Yeonjun can’t help it—he pulls your face in so he can feel your lips on his again, more properly this time. They’re pillowy and dreamy, and Yeonjun could just melt into you. He doesn’t linger longer than he has to, backing up just enough to see your face. You mirror the glee that he feels in his own expression.

“Good night,” he echoes. He backs away and grabs his mask, slipping it back on. He opens your window back up and slings himself to the nearest tree. Each time Yeonjun looks over his shoulder, he sees you leaning at your window smiling right back at him. His heart does a little flip. On second thought, maybe getting stabbed is kind of cool.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Despite how well last night went, Yeonjun wakes up with a heavy weight on his shoulders. Every ounce of confidence that his interaction with you last night might have given him is completely gone the moment he remembers it, and sheds away at itself further when he notices you skipped class. A dreadful thought creeps up his spine: are you avoiding him?

Maybe you woke up regretting it all. Maybe you realized how ridiculous and stupid getting involved with Spider-man is, and you’re just protecting yourself before you can be burdened further. The classroom feels hot and suffocating, and fresh air sounds really nice right now, but Yeonjun stays put in his seat. He doesn’t want to make a scene and start freaking everyone out. To the best of his ability, he pushes his fears down and saves his panic for later—preferably for after he talks to you and gets some answers.

He doesn’t even open his notebook in his last class of the day. He shows up just for attendance purposes, then zones out staring at his desk for the rest of the hour. Time passes far too slowly; Yeonjun’s itching for the lecture to end so he can talk to you already. He’s practically running out of class as soon as it’s dismissed, but finds himself slowing down the moment he’s outside the building.

He’s pretty sure he knows where to find you. The bigger issue is figuring out what the hell he’s going to say. Is there any way to start this conversation without being awkward? Hey, thanks for saving my life last night. Also I am indeed that hero or whatever taking care of criminals in the city, hope you don’t mind! He feels so lame.

It’s wishful thinking to hope that you won’t care about what happened last night—well, except for the kissing part, but that’s probably not as important right now. He’ll push aside that conversation until the more important one happens.

He wants to run away the moment he sees your figure in the distance, sitting exactly where he thought you’d be. His tongue suddenly feels like lead, too heavy and useless to try talking to you. He gathers his breath and walks across the field, not letting himself back out now. You deserve to be given a little peace of mind. He’s sure today must have been confusing for you, that clarity hit you like a train this morning the same way it did to him.

You look over your shoulder when he reaches you, staring up at him and squinting your eyes from the sun. “How’d I know you’d come find me?” you ask, half-amused.

Yeonjun gives you a short laugh, unsure of himself as he sits on the grass beside you. It feels a little like he’s invading your space. He’s seen you sitting alone on this field as if it was all yours so many times.

“I thought I should thank you again,” he says, a little shy. He feels like he owes you a lot for last night. The whole city probably owes you a lot for saving him, honestly.

You look at him with a small smile, leaning your head on your bent knees. “Mhm. Shouldn’t I be thanking you, Spider-man?” There’s a teasing quality to your voice, and it makes Yeonjun laugh nervously. He should probably address that.

“I really hope you won’t tell anybody.”

“I won’t. I’m still finding it hard to believe anyway,” you say. Your sentences are all laced with a tiredness and exhaustion that Yeonjun can’t help but to feel at fault for. “It’s just weird to know it now.”

Yeonjun hums. He can sympathize with you on that—it must be really bewildering to know your classmate is the one swinging around town shooting webs at criminals. He just hopes you can forgive him for dragging you into this.

“Spider-man’s a little less cool now, huh?” he jokes, keeping his voice quiet even though no one’s around.

Your smile is full and genuine, and Yeonjun’s heart skips a beat. “I always thought he was a little lame,” you answer. Yeonjun’s ego bruises at that. You continue, “But I think he’s kind of interesting now.”

He can only hope that you don’t see the blush that takes over his face. He looks away to hide it, but he feels your gaze on him. “I don’t know if I’m that interesting,” he says, acting all humble. It’s clearly bait, and he hopes you’ll catch it.

“I can be the judge of that. Let me get to know you more,” you offer. Yeonjun bites his cheek to stop himself from grinning at this massive win.

“Well, we still have that bakery to go to,” Yeonjun mentions, and judging by the way your eyes gain a new sparkle, you seem to like the idea.

“You don’t have any more classes today, do you?” You already look ready to go.

Yeonjun doesn’t bother hiding his excitement anymore, letting his smile take over his face. “I don’t.” You’re standing up the next second, and Yeonjun’s quick to follow.

The bakery is a cute, cozy little place near some other restaurants downtown. There’s no seating inside due to the lack of space, but that’s made up for by the giant row of sweet selections to choose from. Yeonjun’s stomach rumbles in anticipation as his eyes jump around to look at each confection.

After buying your treats, you lead Yeonjun to a nearby bench. You both open your pastry boxes and bite down on the baked goods eagerly. You hum in satisfaction, nodding at the taste. “Wow, we should go here again,” you say, going in for another bite.

Yeonjun chose a sweet cheese bread, which he completely devours within a couple minutes. You don’t eat as fast as him, but he doesn’t mind waiting for you. He makes conversation in the meantime: “How come you skipped class today?”

You laugh a little around your mouthful of food, swallowing before you answer, “I barely slept. There was no way I could’ve focused if I went.”

Yeonjun hums in understanding. “I barely slept too,” he says.

“But you still went,” you add. “I guess you’re better than me.”

Oh god, he hopes you didn’t take it that way. “Not at all!” he rushes to say.

You smile and pat his shoulder. “I know. You’re just a star student, that’s all.”

Is that a compliment? Yeonjun blushes anyway. “I like to do well,” he says.

“I mean, considering everything you’re balancing, yeah, you are doing pretty well.”

Yeonjun laughs awkwardly in response, barely able to take your praise. He’s pretty sure you’re alluding to what you found out about him yesterday. “Thanks,” he mutters, all humble.

“Do you wanna talk about last night?” you ask, finishing your last bite.

“Sure,” Yeonjun answers, feeling a smidge of nervousness returning to him. It’s quiet for a few seconds. “Did you have any questions?” he asks. He feels more bashful than anything else, but it’s better than coming off as braggadocious.

You hum in thought, pouting your lips while you conjure up some ideas. “Was that your first kiss?”

He’s completely taken aback by your question—and a little embarrassed, quite frankly—and he scrambles to spit out a response. You’re stifling your laughter before he can even get his defense out. “No! I had my first kiss in, like, high school!”

“I’m just teasing,” you admit. “You’re a good kisser.” The compliment goes to Yeonjun’s head, playing in a loop while he floats on cloud nine. You liked kissing him. He should do it again and again, just to keep you happy. And for more selfish reasons, too.

Your voice breaks through his thoughts when you speak again, “Do you feel better today? Are you healing alright?” The joking tone leaves your voice, replaced with genuinity and care.

“I feel fine,” he answers. He pulls up his shirt to show you the wound, all stitched up and starting to heal over.

You wince. “Good thing I finished my food already. That killed my appetite.” Yeonjun laughs at your grimace and releases his shirt, falling back into place. “You should really put a bandage over that,” you suggest.

“I don’t have any.”

You shake your head in disbelief, though your amusement reads on your face. “You should be more prepared.”

Your concern is cute to Yeonjun. “I know,” he says.

“So who stabbed you?” you ask.

He shrugs. “No clue. He’s probably in a cell now.”

“Did it hurt?” you ask, though the answer is obvious.

“Like hell,” he says.

“How’d it even happen?” Honestly, Yeonjun’s not too sure about that either. He can usually sense imminent danger before it comes, but maybe he was too focused on the crimes he’d already been dealing with.

“He came up behind me while I was handling another criminal,” he answers.

You hum, getting off the bench and tossing your trash in a bin nearby. You start walking off then, and Yeonjun follows mindlessly. “Must be tough being Spider-man,” you say.

“Careful how loud you say that.” Yeonjun tenses as someone walks past the two of you, praying they were out of earshot when you said that. He sighs in relief when he sees the person had headphones in.

“Right, sorry. There’s just so much I wanna know now.” You turn a corner, taking a path leading back to campus.

Your curiosity excites Yeonjun, and he’s ready to answer whatever question you come up with. Some of his stories have serious entertainment value to them.

“Ask me, then,” he invites. You twist your head to smile up at him for a second.

“How’d you get like this? Were you just born this way?”

Yeonjun laughs at the idea. He swings his head around to make sure no one’s around when he answers, “No, a radioactive spider bit me.”

“When did that happen?” you ask. Yeonjun reminisces the first few weeks after the bite, thinking back to those initial feelings of fear and dread when he realized something had happened to him.

“In high school,” he says. It was super bewildering back then to change so drastically, yet be forced to act so normal. It’s much easier now—he’s had years to adjust—but he was a teenager when it first happened. That’s a lot for a kid to take on. He had to act like he was the same Choi Yeonjun his classmates had grown up with, and not some mutated superhuman dealing with the stresses of his new identity. Of course, he did that whole Spider-man thing to himself, but it was the right thing to do. He doesn’t regret it.

“Does anyone else know?”

“My uncle did, but he’s gone, so now it’s just you.” He looks at you, lips twitching upward.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you apologize, voice growing soft. He realizes that you’re in front of your dorm building now, and he supposes this is where he should leave. His eyes dart between yours, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to go. To ask him to stay.

“Are you doing anything today?” he asks. Maybe he sounds desperate. He doesn’t really care.

“Catching up on some work,” you say.

“I’ll give you my calculus notes.”

You smile. “That would be nice.”

Yeonjun didn’t even take notes in calculus today. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“Can I stay?” He’s teeming with hope and bravery today. You open the door to your building and signal him inside, and he has to hold back the victorious giggle that almost escapes him as he trails behind you.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of questions and answers. Yeonjun’s never talked so openly about being Spider-man before, and a part of it feels healing. You study hard while he rambles about stories of the little things he’s done throughout the years. Some are funny and make you cackle, and some draw your attention away from your textbook so you can look at him in shock. It’s impossible for Yeonjun to wipe the grin off his face—not when he bids you good night, not when he walks back to his dorm, not even when lays in bed to sleep. His heart never lets up on that jittery rush it has for you.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

A quintessential part of the college experience, Yeonjun’s come to find out, is trying out all the different ramen brands to see which one is the best. He’s a fan of whichever one he’s chowing down on right now, and a 5-pack of this barely puts a dent in his bank account. Seems like a winner.

He glances over at his dorm’s door when it opens, curious to see that Soobin brought someone over. Yeonjun isn’t bothered by that, though; if this guy is anything like Soobin, he’s not worried about getting annoyed.

“You can remember to buy ramen but not detergent?” Soobin asks, chuckling. Yeonjun chooses to read that as a joke instead of a passive aggressive comment.

“Ugh, dude, I keep forgetting, I’m sorry,” he apologizes. Yeonjun points at Soobin’s friend and continues, “This your friend?”

“Yeah, I’m Beomgyu,” the friend introduces. Something about him looks a little familiar.

“Nice to meet you,” Yeonjun greets with a nod.

Soobin grabs some clothes from his closet then turns to the door. “I’m gonna go change and then we can head out,” he says to Beomgyu, then heads off to the bathroom.

When the door shuts, Yeonjun returns his attention to his ramen and ignores Beomgyu’s presence as best as he can. That doesn’t last too long, though, cause soon enough, Beomgyu’s breaking the silence: “Are you still hanging out with Y/n?”

Yeonjun turns in his seat to face Beomgyu. He’s not sure how Beomgyu would know that, but Yeonjun entertains the question nevertheless. “Yeah. You know her?” he asks.

“She’s my friend,” he says. “Kind of.”

Yeonjun already feels something weird in the air. He’s waiting for the turn that this conversation is bound to take. He finally pieces together why this guy looks so familiar; he’s one of the boys at the party in the group that you kept looking over at. Now Yeonjun’s really curious.

“Why do you ask?” The question comes out a little hesitantly.

“I’m telling you this man-to-man, I think you might be getting played,” Beomgyu says.

Yeonjun’s immediate reaction is only confusion. How would you be playing him? You’ve been nothing but sincere with your feelings—or, that’s what it seemed like, at least. Now Yeonjun’s doubting himself. A part of him doesn’t believe it and doesn’t want to indulge in this conversation any further, but he’d start spiraling whether or not Beomgyu explains himself now. Worry swirls in Yeonjun’s stomach.

“Why?” he asks despite himself.

“This is just what I’ve heard, but apparently she had a thing with Kai, and he started talking to another girl, so she wanted to get back at him. I don’t know, though.”

Kai. That boy who came up to you at the party. Yeonjun remembers him.

He doesn’t want to show how much those words affect him, but shit. Hearing that hurts. His body feels weightless, like he’d be falling over if he wasn’t sitting at his desk. He nods as he exhales slowly, keeping his heart from going haywire.

“Huh,” is all he says. Soobin comes back the next second, and Beomgyu heads out with him after that, and the world keeps spinning on, but Yeonjun feels trapped in that moment. He waits to wake up in a sweat, hoping this is all some nightmare that’s going to end, but the wake never comes. He’s forced to deal with his whirling thoughts instead.

None of this can be true. It wouldn’t make sense. You kissed Yeonjun. You said you were interested in him. If this was all a lie, how will Yeonjun ever trust anyone again? When he came to you bleeding out, you saved his life. When you found out his secret identity, you kept it safe. Yeonjun miscalculated something that night—there is something more sacred and dangerous to trust you with than those things: his heart.

He doesn’t even want to finish his ramen anymore. His fingers brush against the wound that’s healing pretty well thanks to you, and a thought crosses his mind. The night that you kissed him was the night you found out he was Spider-man. An especially sickening question starts to haunt him. Did you only start liking him because of that?

Yeonjun feels played. He’s always known that he was a fool, so he doesn’t know why he’s so surprised, but really? Beer pong lord?

Five minutes is hardly enough to process the information Beomgyu dumped onto Yeonjun, but that’s all he gets, because now his alarm is going off and telling him to go over to the lab. He drops his head to his desk with a groan. It’s like an anchor’s been tied to his heart, sinking further and further until it makes him his stomach churn.

The fresh air feels good in Yeonjun’s lungs as he walks over to the lab. A permanent pout is etched onto his lips, unable to stop thinking about you. Good things. Bad things. Everything. Each memory hurts now.

He probably looks like some depressed college kid, walking around with his hood up and head down. He should be less pathetic, pick himself up and get himself together. It’s not like you two were really anything anyway. A kiss doesn't always mean something to everyone. Maybe it’s his fault for assuming that for you, it did.

It’s not just that, though. Yeah, kissing you made Yeonjun feel alive in a way that only swinging through the city could compare to, but there’s so much more to you than that. It’s the way you talked to him, the way you cared for him, the way you looked at him. How the hell do you fake that kind of connection? Hurt splits him at the seams like he’s being torn in two, but he keeps walking like nothing’s wrong.

“Yeonjun!” He recognizes that voice immediately. He pulls his eyes off the sidewalk and catches sight of you walking up to him. He almost forgot that he walks past your little field on the way to his lab.

It feels like he’s the one keeping a secret, palms clamming up as you stand in front of him. He stops in his tracks to allow you the conversation. “Hey,” he says.

“What are you up to?” you ask. He fidgets with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Should he just act normal? Should he let you get away with using him? When he thinks about it like that, it puts a sour taste in his mouth.

“I’m headed to the lab. Got some stuff to do, and it’s time sensitive, so…” he trails off awkwardly, looking off into the distance instead of at you.

“Oh, okay,” you say, sounding a little dejected. Yeonjun shouldn’t be feeling bad for you right now, but he can’t help it. It makes his chest clench to hear the joy leave your voice. “Maybe we can hang out after? Just to study or something,” you offer.

Yeonjun sighs, “Maybe.”

You’re quiet for a second as you assess him. “Are you okay?” Concern fills your voice, and when he brings his vision back to you, he can see it in your eyes too.

“I’ll talk to you about it later,” he says.

You frown, taking in his flat expression. You must gain some insight from that, because then you’re asking, “Did I do something?”

He wants to hold his head, feeling defeated and frustrated and sad and a million other different things. He’s not sure how to label it. He’s never felt emotions this complex before, probably because he’s never liked anyone this much before.

“Oh god, did I?” you repeat, more fear in your voice at Yeonjun’s lack of a response. It strikes him and deflates his will to be dismissive about it, not wanting you to sit here worrying for the rest of the day. Curse his soft heart.

“Just come with me,” Yeonjun says, continuing on the path to his lab building. You follow beside him, taking long strides to match his quick pace. He notices you struggling to keep up, so he slows down, even though it might make him a few minutes late.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. He can feel you looking at him, but he keeps his eyes ahead.

“You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for,” he mumbles.

“Tell me then,” you plead. The thought of having to talk about this with you makes him feel sick. He doesn’t know if he can even choke up the words without getting nauseous.

“Let me clock into my lab first.” The rest of the walk is silent; you keep quiet even as you enter the room with him, watching him take off his sweatshirt and put on his lab coat. You’re quiet even as he goes through the study procedure, not even lingering near him to see what he’s doing. He feels a little cruel for it, wondering if he’s just torturing you by forcing you to stand silently and worry about what he must be upset at you for.

He steals a glance at you. You’re leaning against the wall by the door, so many steps away, keeping so much distance. He bites his lip and looks away, figuring it’s time to start the conversation.

“I want to talk to you, but I don’t want you to lie to me,” Yeonjun says, breaking the long stretch of silence. He walks toward you, stopping before he gets too close.

“I won’t. I’m not gonna hide anything from you.” It’s funny you say that.

“Do you like Kai?” His question catches you off guard, your frown leaving your face.

“No,” you answer.

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay. So why did Beomgyu tell me you used me to get back at him?”

He watches you stiffen at the question. “How do you know Beomgyu?” you ask.

“Please just answer me,” Yeonjun says. He doesn’t want to run around in circles, he just wants to hear the truth from you.

“I don’t like Kai anymore.” Something about that sentence hits like a stab to the gut. Yeonjun would know the feeling.

He tsks and shakes his head, ready to walk away and end the conversation, but you continue, “Please let me say the whole story.” Yeonjun sighs and meets your eyes. He decides to hear you out, only because a part of him is dying for you to make this right.

“Go ahead,” he says.

“I invited you to the party because you’re my friend, and I think you’re cute, but also for really petty, stupid revenge. It was so dumb and I’m so sorry, I feel so fucking bad for that now,” you explain. Yeonjun thinks back to how excited he was when you asked him. He remembers the rush of butterflies, the nervousness that pooled in his stomach, the adrenaline through his veins when he realized he finally had your attention.

You continue, “But I swear on my life, Yeonjun, the second we went outside at that party, I realized how unfair it was. I wanted to make Kai jealous, but when we were standing out there, I couldn’t do it. You’re a good person, and I felt fucking awful, and I didn’t go through with anything, and I’m glad I didn’t. You gave me one of the best nights of my life that day. I mean that. Seriously.”

There’s sincerity in your eyes, so Yeonjun knows you’re not lying. The ache in his chest is dull now, but still there. He can’t believe you planned to use him as some pawn to get back at Kai.

“Why’d I have to hear it from someone else? Why couldn’t you tell me yourself?” he asks. It’s pathetic how his voice carries more heartbreak than anger.

“Cause I didn’t want you to misunderstand and leave!” you explain, desperate. “Yeonjun, please. I don’t care about Kai anymore. I haven’t even talked to him since the party.”

Yeonjun wishes he could feel comforted by your words, but all he feels is hurt. He has this terrible thing where he can’t stop asking questions that will only batter him worse. “So you didn’t really like me?”

You take a step closer to him, placing both hands over your heart. Yeonjun’s not blind; he can see the fear in your eyes, the worry that he might walk away. He doesn’t have it in him to relieve your stress right now.

“I always liked you. I like you more every day,” you answer. There’s honesty in your words, which Yeonjun appreciates. It doesn’t quite melt away his insecurities, though.

Yeonjun can’t bear looking at you any longer, dropping his gaze to the floor and stepping back. He’s ready to leave, thinking he needs the night to himself to stare at the ceiling and contemplate this whole situation.

You stop him before he can get too far. Your hand hooks onto the sleeve of his lab coat, shaking as you cling to him. It’s so pitiful that it ruins the monstrous image Yeonjun’s trying to fit you into in his mind. Against his better judgment, his eyes meet yours again.

He’s about to speak—maybe to console you, to get some of that sadness out of your eyes—but the sound of glass breaking behind him makes him turn with wide eyes, searching for the damage. He’ll be the one stuck replacing any broken equipment; he can only pray that it wasn’t a more expensive piece.

His eyes flit across the room, but he finds nothing. Is he seriously losing his mind? Every time he’s in this lab, there’s something new giving him a mini heart attack. He brushes this off as some kind of paranoia. He considers talking to his professor about taking a break from the lab, just until he can restore his sanity.

“Let’s just head out of here,” Yeonjun says, unable to rid himself of the chill down his spine.

“Do you still like me?” you ask, unable to move on from the conversation. You stay planted in your spot as Yeonjun takes off his lab gear. He groans internally at your question—of course he still likes you. Do you think his feelings are so malleable? His adoration for you feels like an immovable boulder. He can’t even stay mad at you for as long as he wanted to, though he tries not to let you win too easily.

He sighs out your name instead of answering. He waits for you at the door as he throws his sweatshirt back on, and you trudge forward with a pout. Once his sweatshirt is slipped over his head, he catches sight of something behind you, heart stopping entirely.

“What the hell—?!” he emits, eyes growing wide as the cell clump he’d been working with expands out past its storage spot, spilling out onto the floor. The broken glass earlier must’ve been from the petri dish—shit, he should’ve checked. It’s discolored now, so dark it’s nearly black, and growing more rapidly than it should be able to.

You spin on your feet to see what Yeonjun’s looking at, yelping when you see the growth. You back up quickly and bump into Yeonjun’s chest. “What’s happening?” you ask, turning your head back to look up at him.

“I don’t know,” he answers. He has to think fast, because it doesn’t look like the cell replication is stopping any time soon—if anything, it looks like it’s growing exponentially. The clump is a goo-like substance, slowly spilling out further and further onto the floor, looking something like tar as it expands out. “We’ll have to trigger rapid apoptosis,” he says.

“How do we do that?” you ask. Yeonjun’s not sure either, so he doesn’t bother to answer. He opens one of the cabinets and pulls out all the different liquid chemicals he can find. One of these is bound to do something.

You hold yourself and watch him carefully, still looking shy and desperate and nervous from your argument. Yeonjun’s not sure why you seem to be more bothered by him not reassuring you that he likes you than by the clump that grows behind you. Your attention remains on him the whole time.

“Are you mad at me?” you ask.

“No,” he answers sharply and quickly. He has bigger issues to be worried about than staying mad at you.

“I promise I wasn’t lying. I won’t talk to Kai ever again.”

“Why are we having this conversation right now?!” Yeonjun asks, frustrated.

“Because it’s important to me that you know!”

He ignores you in favor of unscrewing the lid to one of the acids, hoping it could digest the cells. When he pours it onto the clump, a loud hiss rings through the room and smoke comes up from the mass. It doesn’t seem to dissolve the cells, though.

He emits an exasperated groan, opening the lid to another chemical substance, and you rush to do the same. He can’t stop to think about how dangerous this is, too focused on controlling the problem before it gets irreparable. You and Yeonjun pour chemicals onto it at the same time, and it seems to react. The tar-like blob thickens now, erecting itself up from the floor languidly.

You and Yeonjun back up, watching with fearful eyes as it stands. It moves like it’s alive, like it’s a living organism. It’s eerily silent for a room as you two stare at the mass in shock. Then, rapidly, it comes charging at you, attaching itself to your cardigan as you shriek. Yeonjun acts fast, running to you and grabbing your waist, adhering his feet to the floor to keep you from getting dragged any more. You shed your cardigan quickly before tugging it back from the blob. It tears from how harsh you pull it, but you don’t seem to care, chucking it to the opposite side of the room.

This is an unfortunate time to see you in a tight-fitting tank top. Your chest heaves from the panic of being grabbed by the organism, rising and falling as you start to steady your breath. You look over at him, and he finds himself blushing and removing his gaze from you in embarrassment. God, now he’s the one struggling to focus on the bigger problem.

Yeonjun directs his wrist at the blob, shooting a web at it to keep it from charging at you again. The web sends the mass flying back until it collides with the wall. Though it can’t remove itself from the confines of the web, it still slowly grows, and it will be able to expand enough to attack again soon. Still, this should buy you two some more time.

“You should leave,” Yeonjun says, coming to you and cupping your face. His eyes beg you to go, strung up on the possibility of you getting hurt.

“I won’t,” you say, grabbing onto his wrists.

“Please. You’re too important.” His hand strokes through your hair like you’re something precious.

You take his hand and kiss it. “You are too. I won’t leave.”

He sighs. He knows he’s not winning this, there’s too much determination in your words. Before he removes his focus from you, he thinks he should tell you one last thing. “Just so you know, I like you too.”

You’re barely able to hold back your smile, but Yeonjun can’t stay and watch your reaction. The mass continues to grow over the confines of the web, and he has to find a way to control it before it overcomes the binds. He opens the binder that holds the descriptions of all the lab materials, hoping he can find something useful in there. His eyes flit across the words, scanning for the chemicals that will be his saving grace.

He stops when he reads the description for nitric acid. The words digest and dissolve kick his body to life, hope stirring inside of him. “Come here with the nitric acid!” he shouts over his shoulder.

“Which one is that?” you ask hurriedly, scanning through the different bottles of chemicals.

“It’s in a brown translucent bottle. Quick!” Before he can panic further, you’re racing to his side with a bottle of the acid. Yeonjun quickly pours it over the mass, watching it shrivel when the liquid hits its surface. A weight lifts off Yeonjun’s shoulders when he realizes he finally found something that works. The bottle doesn’t hold nearly enough, though, because Yeonjun empties it out before he can melt the organism completely.

He turns to you expectantly, and you’re rushing back to the counter where all the chemical substances are held. You’re turning each to read the labels, growing more aggravated as you fail to find another container of nitric acid. You curse as you swing the cabinet doors open, checking if there’s any stored away in there.

You pull out a bottle from the cabinet, reading it quickly. “Would sulfuric acid work?” you ask, looking at Yeonjun like you need him to say yes.

“It would react with the nitric acid,” he answers. You groan.

“You think I know any of this stuff?!” You go back to searching through the cabinet.

“Yes! You’re, like, the smartest girl I know!” Yeonjun exclaims, equally as frustrated.

“You must not know a lot of girls then,” you huff. You finally pull out a bottle that seems to match, running over to Yeonjun. He takes it from your hands and pours the liquid over what remains of the clump, watching it dissolve until all that’s left is a murky puddle on the floor. He plops the nitric acid onto a table, finally letting himself take a full breath. He tastes the chemicals swirling in the air, but he can’t bring himself to care about any toxins filling his lungs. He’s worn out, crouching down in exhaustion with a groan.

When he picks his head up from between his arms, he searches for you. You’re bent over one of the tables, head tucked between your arms as half your body rests over the surface. You must be just as drained as him. He stretches his body out as he stands back up, then approaches you at the opposite side of the table. He rests his elbows onto the tabletop, leaning forward to be closer to you.

“You get feisty when you’re working under pressure,” Yeonjun teases, breathless laugh escaping him. You lift your head to look at him, and he can see how you hold back your amusement.

“I could say the same about you,” you respond. You seem winded, still breathing hard as you push yourself off the table and pick up your cardigan from the floor. You hold up your cardigan and examine the damage. It’s stained and ripped and looks disgusting. You pout. “This was my favorite one…”

“Don’t worry, you’re pretty good at stitching things back up,” Yeonjun says, coming up to you and taking the cardigan from your hands to tie it around your waist. You look up at him, something fond shining in your eyes.

“I guess I am,” you say, tugging on Yeonjun’s sweatshirt to pull him closer to you. You wear a dopey smile as you stare at him, hands resting on his shoulders, and Yeonjun really hopes that you do what he knows you’re both thinking about right now.

You don’t leave him waiting long; your hand comes to his jaw to bring his face to yours, and the next second, Yeonjun’s having the best kiss of his life. It feels like a reward after the shitshow that today’s been. For it to come to this, he’d relive it a dozen more times.

“Wait,” Yeonjun says, pulling back. “Are we dating now?”

“Haven’t we been dating?” You look at him like he’s a fool, and it endears Yeonjun endlessly.

“I mean, boyfriend-girlfriend dating,” Yeonjun explains.

“Oh, I’ve already told, like, three people that you’re my boyfriend.” There might be real hearts in Yeonjun’s eyes right now.

“Good,” he says, coming in for another quick kiss. “I’m all yours.” His words are uttered against your lips, since he can’t seem to pull himself away from you.

You gladly accept his kisses, and he has to keep himself from getting too drunk off your taste. He has to remember he’s still in a lab with a bunch of chemicals filling the air—it’s probably a good idea to get out. Even though he doesn’t want to, Yeonjun steps back and looks around at the mess throughout the room. Given everything that happened, it’s not awful. A mop would take care of ninety percent of the problem.

“We should clean this up,” he sighs.

“Yeah,” you agree. Neither of you make a move. You start laughing after a few seconds, and Yeonjun returns his attention to you with a cheeky grin.

“No, let’s just leave,” he suggests. He’s exhausted. He’ll explain everything to his professor tomorrow, he can’t take any more of this today.

“Should we go back to my place then?” you ask. Yeonjun does a very poor job of hiding his excitement. He wants more than anything to hold you to his chest and zip across campus to get to your dorm, but alas, he does the smart thing instead. A ten minute walk has never felt more like ten hours in his life, and seeing your dorm building finally come into view has his heart racing in anticipation.

Yeonjun’s all over you the minute your door closes behind him. He doesn’t let your lips disconnect for a second—not to talk, not to breathe, because nothing’s more important than tasting your lips on his.

Your back falls to your mattress, and Yeonjun’s mind briefly wanders to the last time you two were here. Having you sprawled out beneath him is quite different than you patching him up above him. In a way, that moment felt like the start of something bigger between you. The initial spark came long before it, but that night is what caused fire to catch. He feeds the flame now, fingers untying the cardigan at your waist and throwing it to the floor. Your shirt’s the next thing to go, and he only pulls away long enough to shed the cloth off of you.

His mouth on yours is ravenous and unwilling to waste any more time. He feels up your stomach, cherishing the warm flesh with eager fingers. He trails his hands up to your chest, feeling your breasts over your bra. You gasp when he squeezes experimentally, and it encourages him to continue, movements growing hungry.

You break away from the kiss, panting for air while Yeonjun latches onto your jaw. He’s insatiable, sucking your skin and placing kitten licks over the mark after. He hovers his face over yours, biting back his grin when he sees how hazy your eyes have become.

You catch his face in your hand, cupping his jaw and thumbing his cheek. The action makes his heart soar, and he leans into your warm touch. Your smile turns from soft to wicked when you push your thumb between his lips, and he engulfs the digit without a fight.

“I like you,” you say as he sucks your thumb, blinking up at him adoringly like he’s not doing some lewd act right now. He swirls his tongue around you before popping it out of his mouth, kissing your fingertip then taking your hand in his own.

“I like you too.” His free hand goes behind your back to search for your bra clasp, fumbling with it clumsily until he gets it to disconnect. You pull the material off, and Yeonjun’s cock twitches in his pants when he takes in the sight of you. A part of him feels wrong for doing this, like this is too dirty, but a larger part of him can’t wait to indulge in you. He’ll just make sure to take you out for dinner after.

Yeonjun throws his sweatshirt and shirt to the floor, pride swirling inside him when he sees the way you ogle at his skin. You lay your hand over his chest, trailing your fingers over the expanse teasingly. He takes your wrist and drags your hand away.

“You don’t deserve to touch me. I’m still upset about Kai,” he says. It’s a lie, but he’s in a playful mood. Your hand makes its way back to his chest despite that, so he grabs it and brings it to the bed, shooting a web over your wrist so you can’t move it. He giggles. The whole web-slinging thing comes with some perks.

“Oh, come on,” you sulk as he does the same to your other wrist. He leans back for a moment, looking down at you all proud. A few different sights flash through his mind, endless possibilities of how he could make the most of your hands being restrained. Maybe he should punish you for ever liking Kai in the first place, keep you on the edge until you’re chanting apologies into the air. He could also just indulge in your body greedily, taste every inch of you without your hands pulling him away. The ache in his pants grows at the thought.

You sigh in satisfaction when his hand meets your clothed core. Your hips grind against his hand, and he allows you to use him to find your pleasure. Your hands close into fists as Yeonjun lets you ride his open palm, still fighting against your restraints.

“How much do you like me?” Yeonjun asks. His free hand holds your waist, fingers brushing against your skin gently.

“So much,” you answer, never abandoning your rhythm. “You’re so smart, and handsome, and funny, and—nngh—and good to me…” Yeonjun’s hand travels from your waist to your chest in reward, thumb rolling over one of your nipples.

“Yeah, I am good to you. I stay with you even though you’re mean to me.”

You shake your head at his statement. “I’m not mean to you,” you say.

He laughs at how you try to control yourself, how serious your tone gets. Your hips slow, so he takes measures into his own hands and moves his palm against your cunt instead. If he presses down hard enough, he can feel how wet you are even through your pants.

“You are,” he says. “You use me to get other men.” He knows that’s not true now, but a part of him is still a little bruised by the idea. He figures that airing out his insecurities like this might help him, and it makes him feel less vulnerable.

“No! That’s not true!” Yeonjun ignores you and takes off your pants, letting them join the other articles of clothing on your floor. He short circuits when he sees the wet patch on your panties. A sense of shame must fill you then, because your legs clamp shut to block his view.

“Hey, be nice,” he says, opening your legs back up. He holds you open as he presses his knee to your folds, and he can feel your arousal even through the fabric of his sweatpants. He’s squealing internally, overjoyed to have you soaking for him, but he keeps his calm on the outside.

Your hands push against the webs again, shaking the mattress a little. You pout at him. “I want to touch you,” you whine.

“Sorry about that,” he says. He matches your pout as his hands smooth down your legs, lazily exploring your flesh. He grabs your hips and positions them up a little so that you’re pressing into his thigh. He hears the moan that gets caught in your throat as he drags your cunt against him, holding back a satisfied smirk.

“Should I tell you what I like about you?” Yeonjun asks, something silky and smooth in his voice. You nod, rolling your hips over his thigh. “Say pleaseeeee,” he prompts.

“Please,” you echo. He giggles.

“Again.” He’s having fun.

“Please, Yeonjun,” you beg, sweet voice dripping with need.

He releases your hips so he can pull off your panties, tugging you back onto him once you kick the cloth off your ankles. He can really feel how wet you are now, and it makes a knot form in his stomach. He wants you more than anything.

“I like how pretty you are,” he starts, leaning over you to press kisses against your neck. “And I like how cool you are.” His mouth travels a little lower, sucking at your collarbone. “And I like how I can talk to you for hours and never get bored.” His lips smother your chest, just above your tits, familiarizing himself with every inch of your skin. Your hips buck against him when he presses his thigh more firmly between your legs. “And I like how wet you get,” he laughs.

His mouth finds your breasts then, tongue swirling teasingly around one of your buds. Your nipples perk up, begging for his attention. He drags his tongue over to your other mound, sucking at the swell of flesh, moaning against you. The taste of your skin in his mouth makes him feel high.

You whine, hips rolling more fervently against him, chasing your approaching high. Yeonjun busies himself with delivering kitten licks to your nipples, watching the way they glisten with his saliva after he runs his tongue across them a few times. He peels himself off of you when your rhythm gets unsteady, not wanting you to cum yet. There’s a look of betrayal on your face as he disconnects from you, not touching you at all anymore.

“Yeonjun,” you moan, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him in. “I need to cum.” Your needy cunt grinds against the tent in his boxers, hungrily trying to get yourself off. He lets you have your fun for a minute, enjoying the feel of your warm, wet slit coating his clothed cock, before holding your hips still and keeping you from moving. That doesn’t stop you from digging your heels into his back, pushing him harder against you.

He removes your legs from him, holding you open as he plunges two fingers into your cunt. Your heat takes him in so nicely, the slide of his digits inside you made so easy from how slick your cunt is. You arch your back, moaning out as he curls his fingers inside you.

“Tight girl, gotta stretch you out,” he says, scissoring his digits to prepare you. Your arousal pools out of you, dripping onto the mattress as Yeonjun fucks you on his fingers. “Need to get you ready for me.”

“Mhm, need your dick,” you say. You look so helpless like this, laying back and letting Yeonjun fuck his fingers into you however he wants. He increases his speed just because he can, knowing you can’t pry his hand away, grinning when you emit a surprised gasp. Your walls start tightening around his fingers, a warning of your orgasm, and Yeonjun pulls his hand away before you can get there.

You’re whining his name again, thighs clamping shut to relieve the pressure. He shushes you as he tugs his boxers out of the way, stroking his cock as he watches the way you tremble. Poor thing.

“You want me to fuck you?” he asks. Your legs spread open immediately in invitation. He watches as a glob of arousal drips out from your core.

“Yes,” you breathe out. He pumps his shaft a few more times before bringing it to your folds, letting your wetness coat his tip. “Put it in,” you beg, jerking your hips up. He ignores your plea, bringing the head of his cock to your clit to tap on it a few times. The stimulation sends a buzz through you, and Yeonjun coos at you sweetly.

“Want you to feel so good,” he says, aligning his tip to your hole and starts pushing in. You throw your head back and groan, and he gives your neck a wet kiss. “Wanna be the best you’ve had.” He sinks in slowly, letting your walls adjust to him inch by inch. You feel like heaven around him, and his fingers dig into your hips to keep himself from losing his mind. He wants to meld himself into you.

He grinds his pelvis against you when he bottoms out, steadying his breaths so he doesn’t lose himself too quickly. His moans are deep and airy, while yours are whiny and pathetic. He trails a hand up your body until he’s cupping your face, bringing your attention to him. You look dazed, and he wants to watch you fall apart. He needs to see your perfect face scrunched up with pleasure, eyes glassy and mouth open, going stupid from how fucked out you are.

He presses a light kiss against your lips, then leans his face into the crook of your neck. He finally starts pulling back, slamming back into you with a whimper. Your cunt takes him so readily despite how tight you are, your arousal making him glide in and out of you so easily.

“Gonna be perfect for you,” Yeonjun promises. “Be a good boyfriend. Fuck you every day. Keep you happy.” He lifts himself up to watch your mouth fall open as he thrusts into you. He presses against your stomach to feel himself inside you, moaning whorishly when he does. It makes him fuck you harder, desperation coursing through his system.

You can barely speak from how far gone you are, stuttering out curses and whimpers of his name. He brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing at the swollen bud to get you clenching around him. He groans at how tight you get, sucking him in like your body was meant to take him.

“Need you to cum now,” Yeonjun says, feeling his high looming over. “Gotta feel you milking my cock, let me see it.”

“Kiss me,” you say breathlessly, mouth hanging open as you wait for him to take it. He obliges eagerly, shoving his tongue into your mouth with a needy whine. He licks into you as if this will coax your orgasm out, and it does. Your walls clamp around him, and he’s barely able to move from how tight you get. He circles your clit diligently, only letting up when your body jolts in overstimulation.

He pulls out soon after, only having to stroke himself a few times before he’s spilling his seed onto your stomach. He groans as he milks himself for every last drop, hand shaking as he releases the last of it. You look hot painted with his cum; he bites his lip and squeezes your thighs, needing more and more of you.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he says, making you turn your head away shyly.

“Thanks. You are too.” His stomach flips, feeling proud that he earned your praise. He lowers himself to your torso, lapping at the milky strands of his cum. He cleans you nicely, swallowing down his own release until your stomach’s coated in only his saliva. He brings himself to your slit to lap at it languidly, loving the little whines you emit at the sensation.

“Did so good for me, thank you,” he murmurs into your cunt. He pushes his tongue into your entrance, slowly fucking the muscle inside you. You sigh and roll your hips against his face, relaxed and melting into the feeling.

“Y-you’re good too,” you praise. He licks his way up to your clit, taking it into his mouth and letting his tongue roll over the bud. He likes to hear that he’s being good for you, it makes him feel like he’s worthy of you. He thrives off your happiness, so he feels content as he pleases you with his mouth.

He never wants to let you go. He wants you in his arms forever, he wants to stay in this room and live the rest of his life with just you by his side. This much is enough for him. He glides his hands down your thighs, letting his fingers lightly drag along your skin. He opens his mouth a little more to taste more of you, to kiss your folds more hungrily. He presses the tip of his tongue to your bud, focusing the pressure right against it until he hears you mewl.

“Right there!” you gasp out, pressing yourself further into Yeonjun’s face. He hooks his arms around your thighs to keep you in place, making sure you don’t jolt away when your orgasm creeps up on you. He flicks his tongue over your clit repeatedly, feeling your thighs shake in his grasp. He doesn’t stop until you’re releasing on his face, coating his mouth and chin with your essence.

He detaches himself after a minute, licking his lips and letting go of your legs. He sits up and smiles at you, taking in how pretty you look. He holds your jaw so he can kiss you, and he can’t help but to giggle into the kiss. This is so surreal. He would have fainted if he knew one month ago that this would be happening to him.

“Hi,” you say when he finally pulls his face from yours. This feels like a dream.

“Hi,” he echoes, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. He cherishes the smile you give him.

“So when does this dissolve?” you ask, tugging at the webs holding your arms in place. Yeonjun scratches his neck bashfully. That's enough of an answer for you. “Yeonjun…” you sigh, body deflating.

“Less than two hours!” he rushes to say.

“Two hours?!”

“It’s not that bad. I think we can pass the time,” he says, failing to hold back his smile.

Your eyes flit down to his stirring cock. “I guess I have nothing better to do,” you give in. Yeonjun sees right through your nonchalant act, but he lets you get away with it. He has better things to busy himself with than arguing about that.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

You bring Yeonjun to the market after learning about the laundry detergent debacle. You place the item in your basket, shaking your head at him as you do. “I can’t believe your roommate had to tell me to get you to buy this.”

Yeonjun raises his hands in defense. “I get busy sometimes,” he says.

“With coming to my dorm every other night?” you ask with a raised brow, walking into the next aisle.

Yeonjun drops a candy bar into the basket alongside the detergent. “No, with lab stuff, and class stuff, and Spidey stuff,” he corrects. He picks up a bottle of your favorite drink as he passes by it on the shelf. “And with girlfriend stuff,” he adds sweetly.

“Right,” you say unconvincingly, smiling as you nod your head.

Yeonjun grabs a pair of sunglasses off a rack, placing them on his face and turning to you with a grin. “How cool are these?” he asks, pointing at himself.

You laugh and lift the sunglasses up so they rest on his head. “So cool,” you answer. You tilt your head to check the price on them. “You should totally spend the last of your money on them.”

He pulls the glasses off his face to check the price tag, eyebrows raising in reaction. He puts them back on the rack. He can’t get rid of the smile on his face as he watches you shop, endeared and swooned by every little thing you do. It’s small moments like these that make him feel like the luckiest guy on earth.

“We should get bandages. I can’t believe you don’t have any,” you say, looking for where the item would be in the store.

“There’s a lot of things I don’t have. I’m operating on a limited budget,” he explains. It’s not like he can tackle a job on top of everything else he does. He’s grown accustomed to his ways of living, accepting that he’s become the male college student stereotype.

“I’m glad I stepped into your life then,” you say, throwing a box of bandages into your basket. “I’m actually scared you’d die without me.”

Yeonjun can’t help but to laugh at that. “I would die without you,” he agrees. He follows you as you continue walking around the store, aimlessly searching for anything you might need. You stop when you feel your phone buzz, pulling out your phone upon receiving a notification, checking it curiously. He reads the message over your shoulder; it’s an alert from your local news station about some rescue mission for a bunch of dogs that ran loose from their shelter just now. You turn to him with a knowing smile.

“That’s your cue, Spider-man.”

notes: god i loved writing this so much…. i hope u like spideyjjun just as much as i do<3 i would love to hear ur thoughts if u have anyyy!!! tysm for reading hehe

taglist: @ambsphoria @bananasdiary @beaabz @beomgyusluver @beomsdoll @brrytears @bumgyuz @dawngyu @enhastolemyheart @estrnrea @fancypeacepersona @fatbixchwithanopinion @heejamas @heesmiles @insanityz @i4tzy @jellyyjn @kejingken @lilbrorufr @lovesickchoi @mrsjohnnysuh @raspberrii @sanscupid @saraalovestxt @soobinieswife @starrynightgyu @starstrucktae @taebatu @taysfairies @tubatukimoa @tyongyuta @usuallyunlikelyfox @verco @vvjolyneee @xylatox @younbeanz @yourenzoo @yunverie 🤍

© delugyu 2025, do not translate or reupload

[tillinghastcorporatemedia]

I hate to be that guy but since there's only three people and a game screenshot this is a bit stilted but im starting to think this idea of not voting and only revolution is kinda within the tenet of white supremacy that falls under the either/or thinking section

Because Lenin did lead the revolution but he also advocated for voting as well

"

To understand why, between 1906 and 1914 Lenin directed Bolshevik election campaigns for participation of its elected deputies in Russia’s four state Dumas. The “Address” taught that elections, to repeat for the umpteenth time, were only a means for the Bolsheviks — “to count their forces and to lay before the public their revolutionary attitude and party standpoint.”

The document also informed Lenin’s stance on the ever present lesser-evil/splitting the vote issue. Engels’ Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State taught as well to regard elections as a “thermometer” that “registers boiling point among workers.”

In his single most detailed writing on non-party elections, an assessment of those for the First Duma in 1906 — an 80-page text that’s as long as his more famous Left-Wing Communism — Lenin previewed in broad strokes exactly what he led in 1917. His instructions to the Russian Social-Democratic Labor Party (RSDLP) deputies who were elected to the Duma in which the liberal Cadet party was hegemonic are all-so revealing:

“Our task is not to support the Cadet Duma, but to use the conflicts within this Duma, or connected with it, for choosing the right moment to attack the enemy, the right moment for an insurrection against the autocracy. . . As a means of testing public opinion and defining as correctly and precisely as possible the moment when “boiling point” is reached . . . but only as a symptom, not as the real field of struggle. . . . Our task is to use the respite that will be provided by an opposition Duma (and as the proletariat needs time to rally its forces properly, this respite will be very much to our advantage), to organise the workers, to expose constitutional illusions, and to prepare for a military offensive. Our task is to be at our post when the Duma farce develops into a new great political crisis; and our aim then will be, not support for the Cadets (at best they will be only a weak mouthpiece of the revolutionary people), but the overthrow of the autocratic government and the transfer of power to the revolutionary people.”

Also this post fails to bring up Malcom X's speech "The Ballot or the Bullet"

"Malcolm X advised African Americans to judiciously exercise their right to vote, but he cautioned that if the government continued to prevent African Americans from attaining full equality, it might be necessary for them to take up arms."

Also Martin Luther King Jr. advised to also vote

so did the Black Panther Party

I'm having trouble finding information on voting blocs or voting powers for Mao himself but it does look like before his rise to power there were votes that he would have casted

The thing is we are fighting a battle against a multi pronged unit of authoritarian and oligarchal powers

We need to be doing *both*

Not voting is what is allowing all of these extremist actions in each individual to go unchecked, and we will need to follow up each of these votes with some form of armed uprising to ensure the needs of all those who didn't vote are within the reality of the rights of those who did, and make the system count the votes of those who legally can't (felons, immigrants without voting rights, non violent offenders, etc.)

we cannot fall into the Either/Or section of thinking because that upholds the systemic ideals of white supremacy in this country and the ideals of westernization across the globe. This is something that has been laid out long before most of us here on tumblr were born and we need to realize that.

Vote, then rise up, then vote, then rise up until we have reached full egalitarian response to the bourgeois control of our country

really kinda wild to watch on the words have meanings website

Communists voted, liberals voted, marxist-leninists voted, hell im pretty sure Stalin even had elections (regardless of how forced or non forced the proletariat was in voting for those stances)

The lesser of two evils shit is true and has gotten us to this point of full hell in america but to not vote is giving almost of these shitbags some form of uninformed consent to fuck shit up

This especially goes to my fellow white people of all demographics, we got here because our ancestors threw away our diasporas in form to assimilate into the mainstream ideals of whiteness and cut us off from the cultures we were originally from.

This isnt the 1800s anymore and we're fighting against multiple militarized groups, we need community, infrastructure, food, supplies and many people willing to fire some shit off to truly achieve some form of american proletariat due to the many ways classes have been forced upon this society we call home.

the reason military power worked against nazi germany was because we had people silently throwing a wrench against most forms of naziism in silence while the militaries fought. there are many stories from paper pushers to workers to even the average german citizen of large or small ways of dragging out the powers.

we're in a hell of our own making and we need every front from desk workers to militias to gardeners to mechanics to post office workers to work in concert.

The russian revolution that lead to communism didnt appear out of thin air and there was infrastructure that allowed power to be consolidated after the revolution was started before the revolution and we need to start organizing that power here.

To wrap up my point more succinctly, not voting is dangerous but voting isn't the only place we need to putting power in.

there are more of us than there are of them and we also are gonna need many prongs of force.

voting is one of many things we need to be doing, the uprising will take many forms and we need to work in every one of those forms.

Not every artist is a marksman and not every marksman is an artist, we will need both and more

Don't allow the systemic ideals of white supremacy to influence our positions of revolution, either/or thinking is one of them

many things can be true at once.

[fruitiesss]

bob reynolds !! sfw alphabet

let me know if ur interested in an nsfw alphabet! enjoy <3

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

bob comes across as very shy and closed off with newer people, but with his friends he's very touchy and sweet. he wants the people he cares about to understand how much he cares about them with hugs and gifts and acts of service. he needs the reassurance so he assumes everybody else does.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

kind of like how the thunderbolts took one look at this sad wet cat and decided 'that's mine now', he kind of has that affect on everybody. he trusts you a lot.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

he would cuddle with an s/o or a best friend. bob loves the contact, it grounds him and makes him feel human so best believe he's all about cuddles when he's comfortable enough with you. He likes to spoon the most, he doesn't mind being the big spoon but he prefers little.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

as i've said before, bob can't cook great. he makes decent sandwiches thanks to his horrible upbringing but he's used to survival foods since he spent most of his time high or backpacking and homeless. he's hesitant to have kids though he does want one or two if you're interested.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

he would hate himself for it, but it would take a LOT for him to even consider it. like a lot. he wouldn't end it over text, he'd want to treat you first with dinner and maybe let you down easily, staying friends if it wasn't an absolutely horrible thing.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

you're gonna have to propose. he's a nervous wreck, scared of committing in case he messes it up. he has a lot of past trauma and baggage that he doesn't want to put on anyone, despite you telling him it's okay. once you're over the first part of your relationship and he's comfortable with casual affection, he'd 100% want to get married.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

he's very gentle. like you're fine china gentle. after he voided out and learned what he was capable of, he was scared of himself for so long and would hate himself if he was even a little rough with you. emotionally, too, he's very hesitant to share his feelings and emotions, he's very much a push over and easily manipulated.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

when the thunderbolts defeat the void with the power of friendship. send post. yes, he likes hugs. yes, he initiates them often and he is very soft and warm, he runs hot.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

he says it platonically, so he's fast to say it with his partner. his friends are very close to him and he truly does love them all.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

bob doesn't get jealous, he just gets really sad. he needs the reassurance. if you're touchy with a stranger, he's stuck in his head and thinking that he's not doing good enough for you, or he doesn't satisfy you enough.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

he loves forehead kisses but regular chaste kisses on the lips are great too, makes him flustered when you pepper them all over his face. he wasn't so experienced when he kissed you at first since he's never had time for anything romantically charged, but he gets it quickly!

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

he likes children, he's good with them, but they make him uncomfortable when he's babysitting or have to be around them a lot. he hates children in restaurants.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

mornings are slow. he gets out of bed late, slips out quietly and reads a book with a mug of tea. very calm, very nice.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

nights are also slow, very relaxed and sweet. he likes to cuddle in bed and is very touchy when he's tired, his hands glued to your hips or waist. the physical contact helps him feel like everything is real.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

he does it very slowly and needs to be prompted. he works through things with his therapist, helping him with his memory issues. those would be a big hurdle in getting to know much about him.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

he gets angry and sad at the same time. like the shaking with tears. if he's being annoyed nonstop he will cry, but if something's happening to his friends and he can't do anything about it. boom. void.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

he tries his best, bless him, he's not the best with remembering things. he knows your full name, birthday, but that's pretty much it. unless there's something big about you that's similar to him, he's already forgetting it.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

he loves the little things but his absolute favourite moment is when he was trying to bake cupcakes for you because you told him you liked them, and absolutely making a mess of the kitchen. you caught him in the act and helped him clean up the mess. the look on your face when he told you he's done this for you is burned into his retinas. he loves your smile.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

bob's protective in his own way. he's always got his eyes on you whenever he's concerned or worried, and if you're out of sight he'll text every 30 minutes or so to check up on you. he's not too bothered with being protected, he knows he's safe and he wouldn't purposefully put himself in danger again.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

he sets reminders on his calendar for things like these, and yes he absolutely goes all out. he likes to be romantic. he wants to give you everything he's got. it's really sweet. everyday tasks are really all he has, so yes he goes above and beyond for these too.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

he picks and bites his nails. it's a habit he's had since he was small and he has no interest in trying to stop, so his nails are always short. he also still gets withdrawals from meth so he scratches at his arms or tugs on his hair when he's feeling them and hides it from you because he's ashamed.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

he's not too concerned. he's looked much much worse than he ever will again so he's just happy to be healthy again.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

yes. once you're in a relationship with him you are a part of him. his arms feel empty when you're not there and his heart aches when he's not with you. he's clingy and it's sweet.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

he's very specific with his hair. he likes it cut a certain way and he doesn't like getting it dyed (he only did it because valentina really wanted him to).

he loves fidget toys.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

drugs, alcohol, anything with an addictive nature. it scares him. otherwise he can adapt, he's happy to take what he can get, and he loves you too much for something to get in the way of it.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

he doesn't sleep much. a lot of the time he lays awake and still, it's quite creepy when you wake up and he's just staring at you wide-eyed. he sleeps more when the sun's out than when it's dark because he doesn't feel safe when it's dark.

[cheftsunoda]

secrets are no fun (unless shared with everyone)

part six

extremely wordy

lewis hamilton x !sister reader

max verstappen x hamilton reader

part one here

part two here

part three here

part four here

part five here

ayana hamilton, the younger sister of seven-time world champion lewis hamilton, has seemingly achieved everything she could ever desire— a successful career as a music producer and artist, been all around the world, has a supportive family and a loving husband—however, that’s a secret that no one, not even her brother, knows about—her husband is also an f1 driver. lewis has always made it his mission to prevent ayana from dating a driver— but is it technically considered dating if they are married? ;)

fc : tyla

—

It started with my phone vibrating violently on the marble kitchen counter.

Three missed calls from Solana.

One from my publicist.

And a text from Carmen that just read

'Babe- don't look online just yet.'

So, naturally, I did.

I opened Instagram and saw it.

A blurry, long-lens photo of me and Max, not a tabloid rumor or a gossip item this time, but undeniable proof. Me tucked into his chest on a balcony in St. Barts. A kiss at the corner of my jaw. His hand across my belly. The caption didn’t need to say much.

EXCLUSIVE: Max Verstappen’s Secret Wife and Their Baby on the Way — Close Source Confirms It’s Lewis Hamilton’s Sister-- Ayana Hamilton.

Underneath, the watermark: Provided by Jos Verstappen.

My knees buckled. Literally. I had to sit down.

I stared at the screen, heart thudding, the walls of the apartment suddenly feeling like they were pressing in.

Max’s footsteps came from the hallway a second later. “I just got off the sim—what happened?”

I didn’t say anything. I just turned the screen toward him.

His eyes scanned the headline. His jaw locked so tight it looked like it hurt.

He didn’t say “What the fuck?” or “How did they get this?” or even “Are you okay?”

He stood still.

Too still.

He mumbled.

“He crossed the line.”

I’d seen Max angry before. At races, at strategy decisions, in traffic.

But this was different. Quiet. Controlled. Dangerous.

He pulled out his phone, thumb moving fast over the screen.

I stood slowly. “Max. Don’t call him when you’re this mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he said evenly. “I’m done.”

He pressed the call button.

I could hear it ring through the speaker. Once. Twice.

“Max,” Jos answered, tone neutral, like he didn’t just nuke our privacy.

“How could you,” Max said, calm but sharp. “How could you do that to her? To us?”

There was a pause. “You weren’t being honest. I had a right to—”

“You had no right,” Max cut in, voice rising. “You sold your son’s life to a gossip rag for what? Control? To punish me for not dragging Ayana through a public circus like you dragged my mom? Like you dragged me?”

My throat tightened.

“You think leaking our private life would scare her off? Embarrass her?” Max’s voice broke a little. “She’s stronger than you’ll ever understand.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. And then—

“You’re making a mistake.”

“No,” Max said. “I’m protecting my family. And that means keeping them far from you.”

He hung up. Just like that.

He turned toward me, eyes burning — not with rage now, but with something that cracked my heart open.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve cut him out months ago. I thought maybe if we stayed quiet, he'd stay out of it. I was wrong.”

I crossed the space between us and buried myself in his chest. “This isn’t your fault.”

He held me tighter than ever. Then we heard the door. Lewis walked in like a storm — sunglasses still on, hoodie pulled low, phone in his hand. He didn’t say hello. Just marched straight into the kitchen, laid the phone face down, and looked between us.

“He really did it,” he said.

Max nodded once. I watched Lewis carefully. There was something unreadable in his eyes, some quiet calculation. But instead of saying “I told you so,” or unloading his own fury, Lewis stepped forward and looked Max square in the face.

“You’re not walking away from her, right?”

Max blinked. “What? No.”

“She’s pregnant. And I know the last twenty-four hours just exploded, but if you’re in this for real, Max…” Lewis paused. “Then I need to know you’ll fight for her harder than anyone.”

Max didn’t hesitate. “I’d give everything for her. You already know that.”

Lewis looked at me, then back at Max. And finally, finally, he nodded. Not a small one. A full, deliberate tilt — the kind of unspoken approval that meant more than words ever could. Then he pulled me into his chest, and I nearly cried.

“You’re not alone in this, Ayana,” he whispered. “Whatever happens next, I’m here. You’ve got me. And you’ve got him.”

He looked at Max again.

“Just don’t make me regret it.”

Max reached across and gripped Lewis’s hand.

“I won’t. I swear to you."

And in that room, beneath the storm of headlines and betrayal, we found something stronger. Family. Chosen and blood. United. And ready to face whatever came next.

—

It was late — that heavy kind of late where the city outside the windows had gone quiet, and the only sounds inside were the occasional soft clink of a mug or the rustle of fabric as someone shifted on the couch.

I was curled up in my favorite oversized cardigan, knees tucked to my chest, a mug of peppermint tea going cold in my hands. Max sat close beside me, one arm draped across the back of the couch like it belonged there. Solana was perched on the edge of the coffee table, in leggings and a hoodie, eyes wide and thoughtful. Lewis leaned against the kitchen island with his arms crossed, quiet but present. My phone sat on the coffee table. Still open to the email from Vogue.

‘We’d love to offer Ayana a full cover profile. Her story, in her words. No restrictions. Print and digital. Let us help her take back the narrative.’

It had been sitting there for two days. But now… it was time.

“I think I want to do it,” I said softly, voice steady even though my chest felt like it was caving in a little.

Solana was the first to react — her hand shot up immediately. “YES. Finally. It’s time the world hears your version, not Jos’ nasty leak or the tabloids stitching together guesses.”

Lewis’ eyes didn’t move from me. “You sure?”

I nodded. “I’ve been thinking about it nonstop. Every time I see another headline or some tweet with ten thousand likes from someone who thinks they know me… it just—” I sighed. “It’s exhausting. And now that I’m… carrying this baby, it feels bigger than just me. I want to own the story before it owns me.”

Max reached for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “I’ll support you no matter what you decide. But if you do this, I want it to be on your terms. No filters. No fake narratives.”

I squeezed his hand. “Exactly. I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to talk about the music, the marriage, the baby. And I want to talk about what it means to love someone in this world who people think I should never have been with.”

Solana let out a soft “mmm” like she was already planning the visuals. “You in a sheer custom gown with your belly barely showing, candles everywhere, soft lighting… You and Max holding hands in one shot, but the focus is on you. Centered. Empowered.”

Lewis finally moved, walking toward us with the kind of calm that always meant he’d been processing something deeply.

“If you do this…” he started, then looked at me with that older-brother stare that never softened, “you need to be ready for every reaction. Good, bad, cruel. Once it’s out there, it’s out there. No take-backs.”

“I know,” I said.

“I’ll stand behind you no matter what,” he said. “But just remember: the world will try to define you the second you give them something to hold.”

I looked at him, at Solana, at Max — at the family I had built and fought for and bled with.

“They’ve already tried,” I said. “But this time? I get to speak.”

Max kissed the back of my hand. “You were born for this.”

Solana reached for her phone like she was already texting a stylist. “We’re manifesting an iconic shoot. Pregnancy power. Music royalty. Married to a four-time world champion? Oh, the girls are going to SCREAM.” I laughed for the first time all night.

The story wasn’t breaking — I was telling it.

—

ayanaaa

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ayanaaa : gettin lost in u

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—

We left before sunrise, the city still asleep beneath the soft amber haze of streetlamps and mist. Max didn’t say much — he just tossed our bags into the back of the convertible, handed me a decaf coffee, and drove.

He always knew when I needed silence more than reassurance. And right now, I didn’t want words. I just wanted air. Stillness. Something that didn’t ask me to explain myself or perform or brace for impact.

We drove for hours along the coast, the ocean to our right turning bluer with every mile, cliffs and wildflower-covered hills rolling past us like scenes from a movie I didn’t want to end. My curls whipped around my face, my hand trailing out the window, catching the breeze like I could bottle it for later.

By the time we pulled into the tucked-away little cove, the sun was high and warm. It was hidden between rocky cliffs and overgrown brush, no signs, no luxury yachts — just sand and water and a peace I hadn’t felt in weeks.

“This used to be my hideout,” Max said, killing the engine. “Before F1 got loud. Before the world started watching.”

I turned to him, raising a brow. “And now you’re sharing it with me?”

He shrugged, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You are the world I want to disappear with.”

God, this man.

We kicked off our shoes and walked barefoot down the winding path, bags slung over our shoulders, silence stretching golden between us. The sand was soft and pale, the waves calm and endless, glittering in the sun like someone had poured champagne over the horizon.

Max laid out a blanket and sank onto it, legs stretched, arms propped behind him. I joined him a beat later, leaning back against his chest, his arms wrapping instinctively around my middle. My hands rested over his, just above the place where a new life had quietly started to grow.

It was still surreal sometimes.

Not just the baby but the fact that we’d managed to hold onto this… us.

“I keep thinking about the Vogue interview,” I murmured after a while, watching the clouds drift lazily above us. “How much I should say. How much I want to say.”

Max didn’t respond right away. He just rubbed small, slow circles into the side of my arm, like he was tracing thoughts into my skin before speaking them aloud.

“You don’t owe anyone your full story,” he said softly. “But if it helps you to tell it, if it gives you power back — then do it. But only if it’s for you. Not for the headlines. Not for their forgiveness.”

I turned in his arms, resting my chin on his chest so I could look at him. “A part of me is tired of hiding. I want to say it. All of it. The love, the fear, the mess, the joy. I want them to know it didn’t just happen to me — I chose it.”

He smiled gently. “Then say it. Loudly. Clearly. And know I’ll be right there when you do.”

Later, we walked along the shoreline, waves crashing around our ankles. I let my skirt get soaked, laughing as it clung to my legs, and Max reached for my hand, swinging it playfully between us.

We found a tide pool full of tiny, glinting shells. I crouched down to inspect one, and Max watched me like I was the most fascinating thing in the world — not anyone’s sister or secret. Just… me.

That night, after the sun slipped beneath the horizon and painted the sky in rose and indigo, we lay tangled on the blanket under a thousand stars. No noise. No cameras. Just the ocean breathing steady in the dark and the feel of Max’s heartbeat under my cheek.

“Whatever happens next,” I whispered, “don’t let me forget this. How quiet the world can be. How simple.”

He kissed the top of my head, his hand on my stomach. “This is ours, Ayana. The noise can’t take it.”

—

I woke up before the sun, my body buzzing with nerves long before my feet hit the floor.

Today wasn’t just another shoot. It wasn’t another press obligation or fashion moment or music roll-out. This was it — the day I stopped letting the headlines speak for me. The day I chose to show up in every form I’ve ever been: wife, sister, daughter, artist… and now, quietly, a mother-to-be.

The Vogue team had taken over a private estate in the hills above Cannes — stone walls wrapped in ivy, gardens blooming in wild disobedience, glass-walled rooms washed in soft morning light. The kind of place where stories were meant to be told.

I was already in the makeup chair when Lewis arrived. He slipped through the door in sunglasses and a navy hoodie, greeting the crew with quiet smiles, then came to stand behind me. He didn’t say anything for a while — just looked at me in the mirror.

“You ready?” he asked, voice low.

I looked back at my reflection — skin glowing, curls pinned in soft loops, my cheekbones a little sharper than usual, but my eyes steady.

“I think I’ve never been more ready for anything,” I said, and meant it.

He smiled then — proud, soft. “Let’s make them listen.”

His eyes darted down to my exposed stomach and I watched as his smile grew.

"You're showing." He said and on instinct I reached for my growing bump.

"I guess I am." I said with a small smile.

Solana arrived next, wrapped in a cherry-red trench and a silk headscarf. She immediately took over a corner of the dressing room, talking to the stylist about fabric and lighting and “emotional texture.” Leave it to her to make vibes a tangible art direction.

Then Max.

He slipped in without fanfare, dressed down in a soft sweater and jeans, hair still slightly wet from his morning shower. He caught my eyes from across the room and gave me a look — gentle, grounding, full of the quiet pride only he ever gave me. Just because I was his.

The shoot began with wide garden shots — the kind of romantic, painterly scenes Vogue loved. The gown they put me in was custom: sheer and golden, made of layered silk and hand-sewn crystals that caught the light with every movement. It wasn’t maternity-wear, not exactly.

I stood barefoot in the grass as the photographer adjusted his lens. I could feel Lewis watching me from just off-frame, arms crossed, head tilted. Solana had climbed up onto a stone bench and was directing angles like she was running the set herself. Max stayed back, just behind the cameras, hands in his pockets, eyes never leaving me.

“This is your power pose,” the photographer called. “You’re not looking at us. We’re just lucky to be here.”

I turned my face toward the sun. I let the wind take my dress, the light bathe my skin. And for a moment — I didn’t think about the headlines, the leaked stories, the judgment. I thought about the baby. About Max’s hand on my belly the night before. About my music, my future, my truth. This was my moment. Not stolen. Not handed to me. Claimed.

The interview came later, indoors, where the estate’s library had been transformed into a soft-lit studio with velvet chairs and cameras hidden behind warm lamp glow. The writer, a soft-spoken woman with kind eyes, let me speak freely.

“First of all,” she began, voice warm, “thank you for doing this. We know it’s a rare thing for you to sit down in front of the camera.”

I smiled. “It’s a rare thing for me to stop moving.”

We both laughed, and then she gently leaned in, recorder balanced on her knee.

“Let’s start here,” She said. “You’ve been a successful producer and artist for nearly 6 years. But most of the world only recently started calling you by name. Was that by choice?”

I nodded. “Absolutely. I love being behind the curtain. I always have. When your brother is Lewis Hamilton, you learn early what public life takes from you. I didn’t want the spotlight — I just wanted the music.”

“But now the spotlight is very much on you,” she said. “Is it uncomfortable?”

I thought for a moment. “Sometimes. But I think what’s shifted is... I’m choosing it. And that makes all the difference.”

She flipped a page in her notebook. “Let’s talk about the headlines. The ones about Max. The secret relationship. The secret marriage. And now... a baby on the way.”

My heart fluttered, but I didn’t flinch. Not anymore.

“Yes,” I said simply. “All of that is true.”

“How did it start?”

I smiled to myself, glancing down. “It started quietly. We met at an event in Monaco, and I don’t know what I expected, but... he was calm. Gentle. A little intense, but in a way that felt safe. He didn’t care who my brother was. Or what I did. He just asked me what I loved. And then listened.”

She tilted her head. “When did you know it was real?”

I looked toward the window for a moment, the memory still soft and gold in my mind. “After a long studio session, I was exhausted and stressed, and he just sat on the floor beside me while I mixed a track. Didn’t talk. Just sat there, doing nothing, like being next to me was enough. I think that’s when I knew.”

She smiled. “And marriage? That was in Vegas?”

I laughed lightly. “Yes. After the Grand Prix. It was impulsive, but it didn’t feel reckless. It felt... like we were finally doing something for us. Not the press. Not the teams. Not the families. Just us.”

She hesitated, then asked gently, “Were you scared to tell Lewis?”

I nodded. “More than anything. He’s my best friend. My anchor. And I knew how the optics would look from the outside — Max and Lewis haven’t always been easy to put in the same sentence. But Lewis loves me more than he hates the drama. And he saw the way Max treats me. That was enough.”

A pause between us.

“And Jos?”

I shifted slightly. “I won’t speak much on that. I’ll just say this: not everyone has the emotional capacity to understand a love that doesn’t benefit them. Max has made his choice, and it’s not conditional.”

“Was the pregnancy planned?”

I exhaled, a smile tugging at my lips. “No. But it’s the best surprise I’ve ever received.”

She waited a beat. “And now? What are you most afraid of?”

I blinked at the question. I wasn’t expecting it. But I didn’t shy away.

“Losing myself. Or more honestly — being misrepresented. I’m not some dramatic headline or backroom scandal. I’m a woman in a powerful position, who dared to love someone unexpected, dared to protect that love, and dared to build a life on her own terms. I just don’t want to be flattened.”

“And what are you most proud of?” she asked.

I didn’t even need to think.

“That I kept choosing love. Even when it was hard. Even when it cost me quiet. Even when it wasn’t ‘smart.’ I kept choosing it. And it kept choosing me back.”

Silence followed. Not awkward, but reverent. Like the moment deserved room to echo.

Then she smiled.

“I think the world’s about to meet the real Ayana Hamilton.”

I smiled back, hand drifting gently to my stomach.

“About time.”

—

After the interview, the crew drifted out, the photographer hugging me goodbye, the writer thanking me for my honesty. But I barely heard them. My head was spinning—not with panic, but with clarity. I turned to find Lewis, Max, and Solana waiting across the room. My people.

Lewis stepped forward first. He opened his arms without a word and wrapped me in a hug so fierce and silent I felt tears sting the back of my throat again.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispered against my hair. “That was everything.”

Solana pulled me into her arms so tight. “My best friend is Vogue cover material and carrying F1 royalty. I’m sorry, is anyone else doing it like you? I’ll wait.”

She made me chuckle and pressed a kiss lightly to my cheek and twirling me towards Max. He didn’t say much. He just came up behind me, pressed his hand gently to my back, and kissed the top of my head.

“You did it, liefde,” he whispered. “And the world heard you.”

And for the first time since everything exploded — the marriage, the baby, the leaks — I felt… calm. No more hiding. No more waiting to be found out. This was the beginning of the story we were finally writing ourselves.

—

By sunrise, the world knew. The Vogue piece had gone live at midnight sharp. The images, sun-drenched, golden, untouchably soft, flooded every feed. My name, my words, my story. Not speculation. Not rumor. Me. It was everywhere.

On my phone screen, the notifications blurred into a constant vibration. Mentions. Shares. Headlines.

Ayana Hamilton Steps into Her Power.

Secret Wife. Soon-to-Be Mother. Producer Royalty.

I wasn’t hiding anymore. And it seemed… people didn’t want me to. Some posts praised the quiet strength in my words. Others dissected every quote about Max, every emotion on my face, every layered meaning behind lines that had taken me months to live and minutes to say. Most were kind. Some weren’t. But I’d made peace with that.

Lewis sent me a text first.

'You did what only you could do. You told the truth and made it art. Proud of you always. Love you more than words, A.'

Solana called after sunrise, yelling joyfully down the line while her assistant shouted about streaming numbers for the album.

“Girl, you shut the internet DOWN. Like… Vogue.com CRASHED. You made history and looked fine doing it.”

But I didn’t feel chaotic or overwhelmed. I felt… still. The kind of quiet you get when the storm finally passes and you realize you’re still standing. And then I turned — and saw Max in the doorway of our bedroom, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, holding a mug of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.

“Morning,” I said softly.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just crossed the room slowly, set the tea on the nightstand, and knelt beside the bed. He placed the phone down and took my hand.

“I read it twice,” he said quietly. “Then again out loud.”

“Too much?”

He shook his head, eyes on mine. “It was perfect. You were perfect.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “People are going to have opinions.”

“Let them,” he said without hesitation. “They don’t get to define you. They never did.”

I studied his face — the quiet tension in his jaw, the pride that softened it, the subtle emotion that clouded his eyes.

“You’re crying,” I whispered.

“No,” he said, with the smallest, sheepish smile. “I’m just sweating. From my… eyes.”

I laughed, and he leaned forward, resting his head against my stomach. His palm followed, splayed gently over the small swell.

“You told the world,” he murmured, lips brushing the fabric of my shirt. “And you didn’t hide me.”

“I never wanted to,” I said softly, threading my fingers into his hair. “But I wanted it to be ours first.”

He looked up at me. “Thank you for letting me be yours. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when it got hard.”

I smiled, eyes full. “You always deserved it. We just had to fight for it.”

And then, with the world still spinning loud outside, articles updating by the minute, paparazzi likely camped outside the gates — we stayed there. In the center of our chaos. In the quiet.

—

maxverstappen1 started following ayanaaa.

ayanaaa started following maxverstappen1.

—

ayanaaa and vogue

liked by maxverstappen1, lewishamilton, sza and 14,975,467 others.

ayanaaa : the whole story told my way—thank you @/vogue.

maxverstappen1 : The love of my life. I am so fucking proud of you. You will be the best most beautiful mother on the planet. I love you now and forever.

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lewishamilton : The proudest big brother and future uncle there ever was. Much love for you, Max and the little munchkin.

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danielricciardo : I knew before any of you !!!! but seriously so happy for you both and so excited to be an uncle:)

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username : oh my maxiel heart

sza : actually i knew firsttttt

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lando : oscar owes me 50 buckssss

oscarpiastri : for what??? minding my own business, not snooping and waiting for them to tell me on their own terms?? scuse me.

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oscarpiastri : Huge Congrats to you both!

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lando : YAY BABY VERSTAPPEN-HAMILTON!! hopefully i am retired from the track by the time they make it to f1

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username : this baby is part hamilton, part verstappen- everybody is cooked.

sza : my beautiful angel—i am beyond happy to be on this journey with you. you are already the best wife and i know you will be the best mommy! so excited to be an auntie. love you guys!

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kaliuchis : Congrats on motherhood beautiful!! Much love

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victoriaverstappen : so so excited!! best sister in law ever.

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yukitsunoda0511 : Congratulations Big Daddy!! and Ayana:)))))

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username5 : YUKI

username14 : the fact that she would date and MARRY her brothers rival in secret for so long just does not rub me well

lewishamilton : Good thing she is not your sister and it isn't your life! Leave please.

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redbullracing : Congratulations to you both!!

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scuderiaferrari : Congratulations!! Working on tiny newborn merch rn.

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ayanaaa : not so sure big daddy will like that

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maxverstappen1 : big daddy sounds a lot better coming from you than yuki

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yukitsunoda0511 : :(((((((((

maxverstappen1 : and baby will support their uncle and their dad

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alexandrasaintmleux : you look so stunning—we all started planning the baby shower already!!

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charles_leclerc : Congratulations to Mama, Papa and Uncle Lewis!

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—

p6 complete:) next part will be the finaleeee

hope you guys have enjoyed and leave me ideas for next series:)

tag : @klauslovemepls, @omgsuperstarg @msliz @samanthaofanarchy , @mayax2o07 @goldenstrawberryx , @hannahmotors10 @alireads27 , @1800-love-me , @htpssgavi @cmgmikealson , @babygirl-4986 , @star73807-blog , @glow-ish , @just-tingz-virgo , @majapapaya4@lina505 , @hc-dutch , @lost4lyrics , @angelluv16 @dilflover44

[clouji]

Shotgunning

+ hamzah x reader, first time vaping, making out, one shot

💟

Loud music and drunk people everywhere..... it wasn’t really your type of scene. But your best friend Mandy begged you to come, and you didn’t want her to be alone, so you said yes.

You were already two drinks in, standing alone on the balcony as the party inside remained colorful. You've been here for a while, drumming your fingers in your red cup. You weren't drunk, a bit buzzed. Mostly, you were bored.

The door behind you slipped open. You looked around and saw a tall man walk out. He's fixing his hair and holding a vape. He looked at you, gave a slight nod, and then rested against the balcony railing a few steps away.

You watched him take a hit and blew out the smoke slowly.

“You don’t look like you’re having fun,” he said, not even looking at you.

You laughed a little. “I don’t really like parties.”

"Same,” he said.

It was quiet for a few moment. He kept vaping. You kept looking at him and the city lights in the distance.

“What kind of vape is that?” you randomly asked, just to break the silence.

“Geek bar. Miami Mint,” he said. Then he looked over you. “You want?”

You looked at the vape, then at him. You had never tried before. But something about him made you feel like… why not?

"I've never vape before.... but sure."

He smiled and stepped a bit closer. “Okay, just think of it like you’re sipping from a straw. Don’t go too hard or else you’ll cough.”

You did what he said, but oh well… you coughed. A lot, actually. He laughed softly.

“Yeah,” you said, voice raspy, “fuck- that was so bad.”

“It was your first time so it's understandable.” he said laughing,

Silence fills the space, those long lashes, the curve of his nose, those curls you wish you could touch. You glance away, but it’s too late.

He passes you his vape again like it’s nothing. You’ve inhaled it enough times now that coughing doesn’t even happen anymore.

“Wanna try something different?”

You gave him a look. “What?”

“It’s called shotgunning,” he said. “I take a hit and blow the smoke into your mouth. You just let it happen.”

You look at him confused, “Like… a smoke kiss?”

“Yeah, I guess” he said, “Wanna try?”

You looked at him. His cute smirk, the way he was already kinda leaning in so you just nodded.

“Fuck it,” you said.

He leaned closer and exhaled smoke through your parted lips. It was minty and sweet. You closed your eyes for a second, and when you opened them, he was still there, watching you softly.

“Not bad, right?”

You nodded. “Not bad.”

He looked at your lips, then back at your eyes. “Can I kiss you?”

You froze. You barely knew him. You don't even know his name.

I mean, he's cute... and there was something about the moment... the quiet balcony, the lingering taste of blue raspberry and minty that dragged you in.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “You can.”

He kissed you. Gentle at first, then deeper as you lean in. His lips were warm, hand wrapped around your hip, pulling you in like he was starving for you. Which made you forgot about the party for a second. You forgot about everything.

“There you are!”

You pushed him away as Mandy stepped onto the balcony, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you! We’re leaving.”

You looked at her, lips still tingling.

The guy stepped back slightly, clearing his throat.

Mandy gave him a side eye, then looked at you. “Oh?” she mouthed.

You ignored her, turning back to him. “ I'm y/n, What’s your name?”

“Hamzah,” he said with a smile.

“Well....” he said, scratching his lips, “if you ever wanna hang out again, I mean outside of the party. I'm down.” He handed you his phone and waited for you to put your number in.

You smiled, already backing toward the door. “Maybe I will.”

Hamzah waved at you with his vape, “I'll text you later.”

You waved back, heart still pounding, and followed Mandy out into the noise of the house.

“Okay what the hell was that!” she asked loudly once you were outside while waiting for the ride.

You giggled as adrenaline rushed through your body. “Just tried something new.”

💟

[dark-wackademia]

Concerning the NI bit, as an INTJ, this is true to a point. If I feel like I can actually share openly, I'll keep getting more relaxed at being myself, sharing myself, getting longer and deeper with my texts and convos until I see something that tells me more of who you really are, and if that is not in alignment with essential parts of who I am. Usually, that’s eventually where the disconnect comes into play and shifts how I interact. Seeing this and allowing it to click makes me not give the same energy, not as a dig at them in any bitterness but in knowing they won’t get it. It’s like being in one place in development and trying to talk to someone that is nowhere near that place, you can’t knock 'em for being uncaring about the matters that they haven’t danced with as you have. I guess, for me, always finding out people are who they say they are still is something that I cope with in a grieving sense, being that I believe we are so much more than what we think we are.

Anyway, yeah, I'm an open book of the flux and flow I philosophize my way through but only with people that are receptive, show enjoyment and engagement with, and or get what it is I’m sharing. Otherwise, it feels like I'm being vulnerable in seeking a deeper, real connection and expression of authentically living and being, only to feel disrespected, disregarded, and undervalued—or, on a very soul level, rejected like they are rejecting the parts of themselves I’m trying to show them… but my answer is right there. I understand I’m just a mirror and what they reject of me, is just reflective of what they reject in themselves. It’s sad how many are unhealed to the extent of rejecting their possibility, especially in the aspect of healing, growing, and rebuilding themselves, of their power. If they’re rejecting parts of themselves, and not abiding by themselves, then how do I expect them to offer me a sliver of such a thing? Which I am learning to more quickly acclimate to, as an INTJ, despite my proclivities for holding out hope, since I just hate feeling like I'm wasting my time and energy. And it’s nothing against them for just not being there, but it’s still disheartening.

So, often I'll go back to concise and “normal” speech because I don't have the energy to share something that doesn't matter to them, that they’re not ready to do something with. What’s the point? I was just talking to my super spiritual sister in law who's some type of ExFx, I can't recall. But we do still get each other because she is proactive with her life/cycles and is always willing to face the truth and facts, however upsetting, however raw and brutally honest, to better work her way through it to heal. I relate with that. Which to me, is the BIGGEST part of knowing if a dynamic will work long term or not, for me. IDC how long you cycle in your loops, I’m the type that’s in control of my emotions enough to deal with any frustration of you not taking advice and it coming to fruition (ie. making a mistake) to keep helping you via hours upon hours, days upon days, forever, through your journey because I know THAT’S life. That is living. And I know we all have them, our own loops. I get that we’re all learning and relearning, dismantling and rebuilding, imperfect and trying. But, in this, we recognise the difference between saying and doing. She and I are doers. We love this death and rebirth cycle and chase that growth, changing for the better, no matter how hard the work ahead is. That is the main plus someone can have in my book. Courage, determination, and self-accountability for the things you say matter to you. A deeper consciousness that you do something with. Escaping the loop. But I thankfully am learning how to not people please and let go when I recognize something isn’t working for me and letting a relationship just be what it is. Sometimes, the best thing we can offer is the space and time for that person to decide on their own, who they are and what work matters to them in their life. I have to do the same, regardless, so sticking with that has been helpful. Which is to say, learning and relearning how to keep abiding by myself. Plus, doing something that makes me just feel further alone and misunderstood for the sake of others is people pleasing and the type of self-sabotaging/self-defeating behavior I've worked, and continue to work hard to not fall into. I have to do more of what makes me feel like I'm actually doing something of substance with my time and energy. I have to do what's right for me, and they, as well.

Acceptance is always the key though, and I’m finally really learning how to keep hold of that key in every situation, and in this, my peace, contentment, and embracing of all, as it is, while still accepting me and what is and isn't working for me.

MBTI Types & Texting Styles

Perceiving Functions

xNxP | High Ne: uses run-on sentences and parentheses (to maximize info-dumping and clarification via extraneous details, respectively)

xNxJ | High Ni: Short and simple sentences. It’s not intentionally “dry”, it’s just effective word choice.

xSxP | High Se: lowercase letters/free form sentences and p much any slang they wanna use bc its just texting and not deep enough for proper spelling and grammar

xSxJ | High Si: Breaking up responses to multiple topics into separate paragraphs.

It’s easier to keep track of what you’re talking about this way.

—

Judging Functions

xxFJ | High Fe: traditional/safe emojis and slang for effective communication ie. lol, brb, ☺️, 😅 periods in the middle are okay. Periods at the end are intimidating so it’s best to avoid those

xxFP | High Fi: Using creative combinations of emojis ( 🙏😩 | 👁️👄👁️ | 🥺👉👈) for the ultimate range of personal expression

xxTJ | High Te: Capital letters, and advanced punctuation; they exist for a reason. Big fan of the Oxford Comma.

xxTP | High Ti: Correct spelling and grammar is mostly a byproduct of autocorrect unless its absolutely necessary. it doesnt have to be perfext just understandable

[pythonmoth]

cw: a bit self-indulgent. implied age gap. as a reminder, reader is in her early 30s. briefly suggestive price x simon. military inaccuracies. author cannot stand alejandro’s spanglish so they don’t even try. author is mexican. mexican mafia. slightly explicit descriptions of death and remains (a mafia special, if i may)

primary simon x f!reader. poly tf141

wc: 5.1k

First | Last | Next

Things have been rough. That’s probably the best way to put it. 

Back when you were still home and Simon took a few extra days to assure you they were okay after a mission, you’ve gotten so worried you couldn’t keep yourself from reaching out —truthfully, your suspicions were right, but that was it: worry. But now? To see Johnny coming back with a fucked arm, to see Gaz so exhausted and knowing that Simon’s helmet was the only thing that saved him from a bullet through his brain… it puts you back in perspective. It’s a painful reminder. War is real. Your missions are real. You all can die.

Deep down, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not, your body knows you lost part of yourself these past months, and it’s impossible to get it back. Being sheltered at home for months made you forget, in a way, that this isn’t just waiting for a text. You thought you’d never forget all the bullets you’ve taken, all the times you’ve seen your friends and comrades nearly die in the battlefield —or those who didn’t make it, but you got too comfortable. You lied to yourself, and now you’re left with nothing but fear and regret.

In a way, you’ve already accepted Price wasn’t wrong when he said you should’ve changed teams, but you’re still pissed at him for encouraging you to do so. Who is he to even insinuate you’re too damaged to be with them, when it’s because of him that you are? He’s the one who didn’t believe you, the one who didn’t even try to ask you and just assumed that nearly ten years of working with them meant nothing to you.

Somehow, you get it. You are the new addition, from nine years ago. Even though you know now that he followed orders and tried his best to understand what was going on, who can blame you for resenting him? Even if just a little.

Simon shifting in his sleep has you snapping out of your thoughts, the blooming anger slowly diminishing as his arm curls around you. His breathing is slow, too controlled, and it pulls a soft huff from deep in your chest. “Why are you awake? It’s like three in the morning.”

“I can hear you thinking,” he mumbles, lips brushing your bare shoulder. “Why are you awake?” Simon’s strong arm tightens, guiding you onto your side so he can look at you. With the little light in the room, his eyes look like those of an attentive cat; if he had a tail, you’re sure he would be curling it behind him —stalking. The image is forever sealed in your mind just thinking of it and it makes your lips twitch in amusement. Despite everything that happened, Simon hasn’t changed. He’s a good lover, and an even better friend to those around him. “Hm?”

“Nothing. Come on, let’s just sleep.” Your hand pushes on his shoulder, gently forcing him to shift until he’s facing the door. Not wasting a single moment, your arms wrap around his middle, your cold nose buried deep in his warm back, inhaling the faint traces of his body wash there. “Perfect.”

Simon’s chest rumbles with a low chuckle, fingers interlocking with yours as your hands rest right over his stomach. He’s soft and warm, and it feels perfect to be the one holding him; Simon’s the one who’s presenting himself to you like this —like a puppy on his back, belly up and vulnerable. The trust you two used to share is slowly building up, but the days he spent at your home helping you and simply being there filled your heart, making you comfortable enough to accept him back into your life.

You’re not sure when you actually fall asleep, but Price’s long gone from your mind by the time you’re awaken by the alarm in the morning. Simon’s half-ready before you get up from the bed, eyes alert and ready for the day. The bed is warm and cozy, limbs begging you to take another five minutes, but you’re used to this, so it takes you little to no effort to leave the comfortable bedsheets.

Training. So. Much. Training.

It’s not a surprise that the world doesn’t stop while Kate is getting things ready, but it’s a little jarring not to be out there helping Alejandro already. Being forced to wait has never been your strongest quality. For now, training will have to do; training, and more training. Bags are almost always at the ready, so there’s not much to do but to wait for Kate to be back and take you all with her.

Gaz and Johnny are nowhere to be seen, so you spend most of the day laying on the training mat, Simon’s weight is heavy on you as he reminds you how easy it is to lose to his strength. You’ve always put up a good fight, but he’s still too strong for you, too heavy. Truth be told, you’ve taken soldiers heavier than him, than the whole team, but it’s the adrenaline of the battle. With the boys, before, it was just… trust. Your body couldn’t force itself to pretend you were genuinely in danger, because you were sure they wouldn’t hurt you. Now, with him holding you down like this? You’re not sure. A little bug in your mind tells you you’re scared he’s being serious, that he genuinely wants to hurt you again, but you only push it away.

It’s been months since you last seriously trained, so Simon takes it upon himself to make sure your reflexes are good for what’s to come. The sicarios will definitely shoot on sight, but it’s always a good thing to know how to physically restrain them if put on the spot.

Your legs bounce on the mat everytime Simon manages to make you trip, his clear eyes mischievous and observant behind the mask. He’s walking in circles around you even before you stand back up, making sure you can’t read him properly —and it’s getting on your nerves. It’s hard to focus, the dragging of his feet on the rough mat and your harsh panting keeping your mind on edge.

Despite your gaze being firm on his face, you’re too aware of his feet, the flexing of his fingers, and the ridiculous tilt of his head. Johnny pointed it out once, and you’ve never forgotten. Neither of you told Simon you noticed it, because he would’ve gone out of his way to correct his little habit, but it’s there, clear as day. 

Tilt to the left, he’s moving right. Tilt to the right, he’s moving left. He’s cocky with it, too. Simon doesn’t even notice, but it’s pretty much useless, anyway. Doesn’t really matter you can prepare a moment before, when you end up falling on the mat not even ten seconds later.

Only when your arms and legs are sore and shaking like jelly, does Simon lift his hand, signaling you it’s time for a break. He sits next to you as you nearly choke on your water. “Not bad. Nearly a minute before I beat you this last time.”

With a huff, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Worst is, you can tell he means it, and isn’t just teasing. Simon is worried you won’t be able to defend yourself and only rely on your knives —even if they do work—, so you take it. Still, you steal his bottle, standing up. “You’ll bite the dust next time. For now, I really need a shower.”

As soon as you leave his sight, Simon quickly grabs his phone, expecting a complete mess from his chat with Garrick and Johnny.

He’s been planning this since he knew you’d be back on duty by the time your birthday came around, and couldn’t leave the rest out, so he decided to be unwise and let them help. Even though there are urgent things they have to take care of, Simon would be damned if he didn’t at least get you a cake for your day. He’s been keeping your mind off the fact that it’s your birthday, going as far as to delete the notification from both your phone and his, and ordered everyone to not even mention it.

Really, it isn’t so hard, since Garrick and Johnny are busy baking and they aren’t here to fuck it up for him. Now, he’s fully aware they should be training properly and getting ready to depart, but it’s you, and he knows that even Price is avoiding you like the plague because Simon will not have you thinking they forgot if the Captain can’t hold the secret in. He finds it ridiculous; Price can commit war crimes without batting an eye, keep major secrets from the military and even give orders he doesn’t like, but Gods forbid he has to keep his mouth shut around you.

Of course, the only real problem is that Simon doesn’t trust Garrick in the kitchen, and Johnny… he loves Johnny, but that man’s walking danger if he’s near the stove. There’s a reason why him and Price are the only ones allowed to cook if they have the luxury to choose —you don’t suck that much, but it’s easier for them to cook anyway; so, he isn’t surprised to see so many texts and pictures from Johnny. 

Garrick messed up the food coloring, and now the frosting of your cake is mold green for whatever reason, and somehow they got the wrong flavor and it’s gonna be a bloody carrot cake instead of vanilla. Simon knows there’s no time and they will have to work with that, so he only tells Johnny to hurry up and go to the common area.

Usually, if this were anybody else, they would’ve probably gotten some beers and cake in the room and called it a day, but the lasses refused to make it so simple, so Simon let them do whatever they wanted with the common area. He’s gonna have clean it up anyway and they know what they’re doing, so he’s not gonna be a dickhead about it. Besides, the lasses made sure to remind them that they use 3n1 shampoos, own two t-shirts each, and know nothing about decoration. 

Fair, Simon thinks. He doesn’t understand what the 3n1 shampoos have to do with it, because they just work, but he’s not going to question that. “I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be fine”, is all he thinks to himself.

Not even two minutes later, Simon’s in the common area, and things go south thanks to Garrick.

The cake is already mess enough, but when Garrick tries to connect his phone to the speaker to surprise you with your favorite songs, music ends up blasting through the entire base. The girliest pop Simon’s ever listened to suddenly makes his ears hurt, though he only grimaces under his mask. Even the lasses flinch as Garrick tries his absolute best to stop the music, his phone slipping from his fingers in embarrassment and only turning the volume up by mistake —because of course he does. What Simon isn’t expecting is that you suddenly walk over, hair still damp over your shoulders. Everybody freezes, wide eyes looking in your direction. Garrick manages to stop the song, pursing his lips as he stares up at you with big puppy eyes.

“Was that Twice?” 

“Likey is a bop” Johnny quickly retorts on the other side of the couch. The rest, mostly Simon, can only stare as you walk to the middle of the room, half of the balloons on the floor and confetti bags on the table.

“Knock Knock is better, but you’re not ready for that conversation. And… What the hell is this?” You raise an eyebrow, head tilting. Before anybody can say a word, you yelp, looking scandalized. “Shit, whose birthday is it? It’s not Price’s, is it? I didn’t get him anything.”

Deep down in his mind, Simon is incredibly worried you don’t remember your own birthday, but the way your eyes light up when it finally clicks for you, makes the entire day worth it. Hell, he doesn’t even think you’ll mind the ugly mud cake the two idiots set up for you, nor the fact that the beer isn’t cold anymore. Garrick beats them all, grabbing you in his arms and nearly judo flipping you in a loud, smacking kiss.

“Harry birthday, darling.”

Price arrives a few minutes later after Simon sends him a thumbs up on the phone, arms packed with gifts; a new sleeping bag, a box of tampons wrapped with a little ribbon, face masks, and an otter plush that reaches down below his knees. It takes no time for Johnny to let everybody know he got the big stuffed otter for you, and Simon’s heart mends itself the moment your arms wrap around the sergeant’s neck so suddenly that he stumbles back to the table. Johnny’s entire palm makes contact with the cake in his haste to hold you both up and, even if Garrick yells at him for fucking up their hard work, you’re laughing. 

It’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard, and he doesn’t care the party he was planning pretty much got ruined. If you’re laughing, if you’re happy, that’s all he genuinely cares about.

And, for a while, nothing else matters. Simon has you on his side, Johnny still licking his fingers clean instead of washing his hands like a normal person, and Price and Garrick are deep in conversation. He can’t really tell what they’re talking about, but Simon’s eyebrows raise up to his hairline under the mask when Garrick grins and pats Price’s thigh, leaving his hand there. 

Well, then.

Despite you being next to Simon, your full attention is on the lasses, your voices drowning out his thoughts, but he doesn’t feel like talking anyway —not when he finally feels like his life is coming back to what it used to be. You no longer flinch around him, or Johnny, and even if he can tell you two aren’t exactly back together, the bond seems to be growing back. He’s willing to cling to anything he can at this point.

The thing is, Simon is happy. And he’s absolutely terrified because of it.

The thought of you being in danger, of him fucking up and making you panic and rightfully hate him again keeps in on edge, petrified. There’s little he can do to keep you from freaking out, except whatever he can control directly, but there’s no way to tell if they’ll somehow make you so upset it sends you into spiraling down the hole. They dug it up themselves, that’s true, but he’s really trying so, so hard to fill it and make it up to you in ways you can see and feel. Mostly, he’s putting effort in becoming a better version of himself for you, for Johnny and the team. And for himself, too.

Following orders is something he always keeps in mind —his body reacts to a direct order without a second thought sometimes, he can’t change that, and fuck, Simon did try that day. He really did. Despite that, he’s been considering retiring so he can stop that configuration in his brain. He’s not so far from being able to do so anyway, and if it doesn’t work, well… He can just accidentally step on a bomb, or fall on his knife with his knee a few times.

Simon doesn’t think you’ll follow him, but maybe, deep down, he is hoping you would be willing. Never in his life did he consider asking you to step down, but taking you away from all of this, safely, is an idea that’s been clouding his mind for a while now. The problem is, Johnny, Gaz and Price are here too. It’s not just him you care about, and even if he tried to deny it for years, he has killed and would die for everyone in the team. 

The lasses love making fun of him, and have never been scared of his reactions. Simon finds it ridiculously amusing, and he likes them; they’re the little sisters he never had. Distantly, he makes a mental note of spending more time with them at some point, because they’re usually at base, or out /committing war crimes/ in secret missions, and they barely speak. All he knows is that two of them are dating, and that Johnny got slapped by one of them once.

Simon gets so lost in his thoughts that he only realizes you’re talking to him when you gently pat his knee, meeting his eyes. The lasses are sitting on the couch, all surrounding Gaz; they seem to be adding songs to the playlist, and he wishes he could zone out again. Johnny and Price are sitting on the table, eating the smashed cake with plastic forks.

And you? You’re raising an eyebrow at him, cuddled up against him with your hand still on his knee. Simon doesn’t know what you said and he doesn’t hide it, only staring at you with all the love he’s been reining in for the past months. Whatever little retort was about to leave your lips dies in your throat when he leans forward, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to your forehead over his mask, too lazy to move more than that.

“Hm?”

“You weren’t listening.”

“No.”

Your pretty hand slides from his knee to his thigh, face completely calm. He keeps very still, only raising an eyebrow —there’s no way you’re about to do that in public, and he knows it—, but then your fingers squeeze his thigh, making him curl up on himself, leg jumping. The yelp that leaves Simon’s chest is so unlike him that everybody fucking turns to the two of you as you tickle him.

“You little shit.” Simon’s not fast enough, and doesn’t manage to grip your wrist as you spring up from the chair, running over to Johnny to seek protection from him.

The sergeant doesn’t disappoint, all too content with letting you sink in his arms, one of his big legs covering yours so you’re in a little cocoon, only your forehead visible over his biceps. Simon’s heart trembles, meeting Johnny’s eyes. He looks relieved, satisfied and smug at the same time —it’s been really a long time since he saw Johnny so content. Price chuckles next to them, still munching on the ruined, muddy cake. 

As Simon leans down, grabbing some of the mold green frosting with his finger —the intention of wiping it across your forehead just to make you squeal forming in his mind—, another person joins them. The music comes to a stop and Price is on his feet in just a second. The newcomer has her eyes firm on Price, shoulders tense. The lasses stare at each other, hesitating for a moment before they grab their stuff, nodding at Laswell as they silently move to leave the common area. Part of him wishes he could tell them to stay, trying to delay this.

Kate walks in, giving the lasses a nod as they walk past her, and then places a big, heavy file in Price’s hands. Her expression is so severe that Simon’s gut fills with dread, his instinct screaming at him not to go. “Everything’s ready. You leave at dawn.”

“Do we have a name for the other cartel yet?” Price questions her as the rest of the team gets closer. “Alejandro only mentioned Las Sombras.”

“Las Sombras is a faction of El Cartel de Sonora,” Kate explains. The rest stand around Price, staring at the big file in his hands as he slowly checks through the pages. Simon’s eyes are on Laswell’s, encouraging her to continue. “They have inside problems, which is not unusual. Factions are common.”

“Too many people. It gets stuffy,” Gaz huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. Johnny nods next to him, the tension in his shoulders and his jaw painfully obvious. As Kate continues talking, they all pay attention to her.

Las Sombras have been killing and making members of Los Menéndez, another faction of the Cartel, disappear —definitely dead already, too. They’re clearing the border, monopolizing the secret entries to the U.S and shooting the immigrants who come with the coyotes who refuse to work with them. Over two hundred deaths within the cartel in a single week, not counting the innocent citizens getting caught in the crossfire.

Considering the corruption, Alejandro’s only real choice is getting in contact with the U.S, but they all know better than that. After that time with Valeria in Las Almas and Graves, he wants nothing to do with the U.S if he can help it; though the orders aren’t always what they all want to hear. Still, he decided to contact them directly, so Simon is ready to assist.

Apparently, from what Alejandro gathered thanks to the people he has inside, the leader of Los Menéndez, Raúl Menéndez, isn’t in bad terms with the Mexican Special Forces, cooperating in many things, but there are traitors everywhere and they’ve been an easy target with some of the soldiers pointing fingers to save their own heads. It’s been a massacre; firepits filled with human remains found deep in the desert, semi-public executions every other day and a lot of shootings within the towns. People have been fleeting their homes, rushing to get to safety. The U.S government even decided to open its doors to mexican citizens who seek refuge from the situation, though they’re only allowed in a specific town.

Capture and secure the leader of Las Sombras, and leave. That’s all Alejandro is asking from them, and they’d be damned if they didn’t respond.

Needless to say, the celebration is cut short. 

Since the day didn’t go as planned and the lasses couldn’t decorate as they wanted at first, Simon makes a quick work of cleaning up. He turns down offered help, sending the rest to finish packing as he tries to distract himself.

The anxiety is killing him. There’s a ball of pure fear in his throat and he can’t seem to swallow it down. Even if his fingers are careful taking down the balloons to make sure there’s no tape on the walls, his mind is racing, stumbling with the possibilities. He could fuck up. Johnny could fuck up, or Gaz, or Price. His mask could be a problem. Maybe it’s better now, because you control when the skull mask is over his face, but in the middle of the battlefield… There’s no telling. And so, Simon makes a decision. 

Back in his room, finding you asleep on his bed, he takes the skull mask out of his backpack, folding it and stuffing it to the back of his drawers with the rest of the old clothes he never wears. He won’t risk it, and if he can help by bringing just a plain black mask instead of the one that gives you goosebumps, he will do it. Simon has no plans on putting it back on, even if he’s gotten used to your little help. Your distress is just not worth it.

Content with his decision, Simon joins you in bed, one of his arms wrapping around you, his left hand tucked between your body and the mattress. He makes sure the hour of his alarm is correct at least five times before he’s satisfied and buries his face in your back, hoping the anxiety eases like this. 

Against all of his expectations, it isn’t the alarm waking him up, but your hand on his shoulder. Simon jumps up from the bed, disoriented and sweat rolling down his nape. “What time is it?”

“We’ve time. I woke up a bit earlier than the alarm,” you chuckle, running your gentle fingers through his blonde hair. You decide not to tell him, but he has pillow wrinkles all over his cheek, and he’s left to just stare at you in confusion at the softness in your eyes. “We leave in twenty.”

Sleep hangs heavy on him, rooting him in place despite himself. His anxiety is growing deeper, panic setting in his bones, and it doesn’t matter how hard he tries, it doesn’t stop. There’s no logical explanation, but his head’s been in full alert, overthinking ever since the day Laswell came to tell them about the mission, even if Simon didn’t share his worries with the rest.

He doesn’t share them as they get on the plane, all of them looking grim.

He doesn’t share them when he ends up between you and Johnny, both of you passing out on his shoulders. They’re all used to the snoring, and they have a long flight to go, so nobody says anything, focusing on their own things.

He doesn’t share it twelve hours later as they walk out of the plane.

Nor does he share it when Price personally comes over, hand firm on his shoulder as the rest walk to the vehicles. They go way back, so Simon isn’t at all surprised the Captain is the first one to ask about his silent anxiety. “It shouldn’t take long. Are you worried?” 

“I’m fine.” Simon’s hand is trembling, but he manages to hide it by adjusting his mask over his face, fidgeting. Price nods, patting his back —he doesn’t believe him at all, and Simon’s aware, but he doesn’t explain himself, knowing the Captain understands him regardless.

“Care to join me tonight?”

Tempted, Simon considers it. You did mention you’d be staying with Gaz and Johnny for the night, so why not? He turns to Price and nods, humming. There’s little in Simon’s life that’s easy, but his relationship with Price is; he’s safe and comforting, both in the battlefield and the warmth of his bedsheets. He doesn’t think he can pinpoint the moment it started, the little flirting, lingering touches that changed one night, but Simon does remember Price gave him one of his best.

Hell, the Captain had his legs shaking —not that he’s ever gonna admit that if asked. 

Price did know, of course. He had been so smug the next morning that the bastard didn’t even bother putting on clothes after getting out of the shower, smirking behind his coffee mug. Simon did try to keep his groans to himself, but Price had to help him get up.

From then on, it just kept going, and it didn’t change even when you came into the picture, already aware of the little tension in the team —and so, he would end up showing up at Price’s door more often than not. 

Now, nine years later, everything aches, so they had to adjust, but he likes it that way. Even if things change, it doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing. 

In the morning, both of them wake up with the beeping of John’s alarm, taking a small moment to sigh before they get up from the bed. Simon realizes just then that the anxiety hasn’t left but it’s easier to breathe now, and the panic that was so stubbornly settled in his throat has disappeared. John made sure to make him talk last night, to let go of whatever was happening in his mind, and then took it away from his body like it was nothing. 

There’s no need for ‘thank you’ between them, not when it comes to this. Simon rarely seeks physical comfort from the rest, usually content with being everybody’s comforting shoulder, but John really is just that person for him. It’s not that he’s better than you, or than Johnny, he’s just different, and it works for him, and for everybody.

And so, the flight to the north of México doesn’t take long; Johnny has less than an extra hour of good snoring before they start getting ready to descend. 

The base is just like Simon remembered: big and scorching hot. The sun is so harsh it has the entire team grimacing, but Alejandro greets them with a bright smile, hugging them all tightly. He doesn’t seem one bit bothered. 

“Welcome back, brothers.” Alejandro’s smile is bright when he hugs you, his hand less rough when he pats your head. “A sight for sore eyes, preciosa. Come on, let’s get moving.”

You’ve never been to México before, but the sweat rolling down your spine doesn’t make you all too happy. The moment you saw trucks packed with armed people in the back, you instinctively reach for the gun, only to be stopped by Gaz’ hand. “It’s normal here.”

“Guns on the street are jurisdiction of the police,” Alejandro calls from the front seat, his eyes twinkling. Price lets out a soft chuckle from where he sits next to him at the front, as if that was funny for some reason.

“So where’s the police?” you ask, letting go of your gun, not minding when Gaz interlocks your fingers, smirking down at you. They all seem all too calm about this, and it’s creeping you out a bit.

“Hard to say,” Alejandro shrugs, reaching out to adjust the mirror so he can look directly into your eyes for a moment. “If they’re not corrupted, dead on a ditch.”

“What about the military then?” You frown, completely confused as to why they all look amused at your questions, but nobody interrupts you both.

“We’re all well trained, so many are recruited by the narcos,” Alejandro explains calmly. “Don’t worry your pretty head about that. It hasn’t changed since I was a kid, and it probably won’t change even when we’re all dead.” 

The conversation comes to an end when he turns left, leaving town. It’s quiet for a while, Alejandro and Price talking among themselves. It gives you some time to look out of the window, taking in the amount of cacti and big mezquites running along the path. As Alejandro drives, another five Ocelots join, informing the Colonel of the leader of Las Sombras; he was seen arriving to the town they’re driving to a few hours ago, no more movement after that. 

Only when you meet Simon’s eyes, who’s sitting in front of you, all of your loved ones holding rifles tightly, prepared for battle, does it hit you. Again.

If you don’t make it, if you screw anything up, they’ll die.

And it’s gonna be your fault.

There’s no coming back.

-ˋˏ✄——————————————————

all information written above is fictional and/or of public knowledge. 

toda la información escrita anteriormente es ficción y/o de conocimiento público.

just in case y'all didn't see my post, we have two chapters to go :) im honestly excited!

buy me a coffee

taglist: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic @silas-fanfic-favs @nina-from-317 @an-ever-angry-bi @kittygonap @adventurerabby @defronix @sheepispink @iambuttwodaysold @blackhawkfanatic @malevolentghoul @thriving-n-jiving @literallegendicon @echo9821 @angel-bugz @ssc7514 @clickbait-official @hades--baby @blackhawkfanatic @sirbonesly @saki---chan @skeletonsucker @nnsissys @tessakate @honestlymassivetrash @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @rayrayyio @diseasedclitoris @alex1011sdzfgh @thebumbqueen @hyunjaebaby @jillvalentinesrealwife @sodavrr @kneelforloki @vioxsoo @l4vstrr @leon-thot-kennedy @t3a-bag @dotmistbird @littlezarp @eclipsedcherry @babydoll-143 @viennakarma @exitingmusic @lockofspades

[papayainsectorone]

Teach me more

════════════════════════

summary: Weeks after the tender one-night encounter, Oscar reaches out, sparking a quiet, intimate reunion where vulnerability and longing open the door to something deeper.

content: 18+! smut, nsfw descriptions, oral sex, praise kink, Soft angst, gentle intimacy

word count: 6,5k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

a thought: this was just screaming for more parts

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4

════════════════════════

It’s been a few weeks.

Not that you’ve been counting. Not exactly.

Life moved on, at least on the surface.

You're sitting in bed, the dull glow of your phone lighting up your face, when a message flashes across your screen from a number you don’t recognize.

Hey. Um. It’s Oscar. I think I forgot to get your number that night.

A pause. Then another bubble.

Unless you meant not to give it to me. In which case—sorry for texting. I just. I’ve been thinking about you. A lot.

You freeze for a second, thumb hovering over the screen, a little breath caught in your chest. His name feels strange here, ordinary among the chaos of your inbox. Like a secret slipping into the light.

The night at the hotel hadn’t exactly ended with a plan. Just soft kisses, flushed skin, words whispered against each other’s mouths before sleep pulled you both under. You left the next morning with a kiss to his shoulder, the room still warm with his scent. He had stirred, but only slightly. You didn’t think much of it at the time.

You hadn’t expected this.

Another buzz.

I didn’t mean to wait this long. I kept thinking I’d find the right time. But I think I was just nervous. I don’t know what I’m doing. But I want to talk to you again. Is that okay?

You stare at the message a little longer than necessary. The honesty in it—awkward, gentle, completely unpolished—makes something flutter quietly in your chest.

You type a reply, then delete it. Try again. Keep it simple.

Hi, Oscar. Of course it’s okay. I’m glad you reached out.

A moment passes. Then another.

And then your phone lights up again.

Can I see you?

That’s when it hits you—not just the memory, but the weight of what it felt like to hold him, guide him, watch him break apart in your hands. You remember the way he looked at you, like you were something fragile and holy all at once. And now he wants to come back. Or maybe not just come back—maybe he wants something more.

You glance around your room. It’s quiet. The night is early. You’re not wearing anything special—just soft joggers and a loose shirt—but your heart’s thudding like something important is about to happen.

You type:

You free tonight?

The reply is almost instant.

I can be.

You give him the address. No more questions. No hesitation.

Just a quiet understanding settling between you.

And as you set the phone down and head to the mirror to check yourself, brush your fingers through your hair, adjust the curve of your lips—just a little—you feel it.

That same spark from before. But different now.

Not a reunion.

A continuation.

He doesn’t knock like someone unsure of their welcome.

It’s more like a quiet question at your door—three light taps and then stillness. You open it to find Oscar standing there in a hoodie too big for him and jeans that hang a little loose on his hips, like he forgot how to be casual and dressed in what made him feel safest. His hair’s a bit messier than before, curls that weren’t quite tamed, and his eyes meet yours for half a second before they dart away.

But he smiles.

It’s small, sheepish, and utterly sincere.

“Hey,” he says.

You step back to let him in, and he walks past you slowly, the space between you briefly electric as his shoulder brushes yours. He smells the same—something warm and quiet, like fabric softener and something you can’t name but remember instantly.

You both stand there in the soft light of the living room, the quiet stretching between you—not tense, just... full. He’s hovering like he’s not sure how to greet you. His arms shift like he’s thinking about hugging you but second-guessing himself.

You tilt your head and smirk a little, stepping closer.

“Oscar,” you say, a lightness in your voice. “Come here.”

He goes scarlet.

It blooms up his neck to his ears, blooming across his cheeks. But he laughs—half-breathless, half-mortified—and finally, finally moves in.

The hug is shy at first. He steps into your space and wraps his arms around you like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to hold tight. But when you press in, close and warm and solid against him, he exhales. His arms tighten just slightly.

You feel him sink.

Not all the way, not yet—but it’s a beginning. His cheek rests just briefly against your shoulder, and for a second, you just breathe together.

Then he pulls back, eyes still pink around the edges, and says with a crooked smile, “That... might be the best welcome I’ve ever gotten.”

“Then you should come over more often.”

You guide him toward the couch. He hesitates before sitting, like he’s still not sure what this is—what you're expecting, what he's allowed to want. But he follows, folding down onto the cushions with a little exhale like he’s been holding something in since the second he texted you.

You sit beside him, close but not crowding. The silence stretches again—comfortably this time—and you just let it. You can see him working something out behind those soft brown eyes. Turning it over. Trying to get brave enough to speak it.

You don’t push. You never have to.

Finally, his voice comes quiet and tentative. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he says. “Since that night.”

Your heart gives a little stutter, but your smile stays easy, inviting. “Yeah?”

He nods. Then: “I… I wanted to text you. Right after. But I didn’t have your number. And I didn’t want to ask at the front desk, because…” He flushes again. “I think I forgot how to function as a person for a few days after.”

You laugh, soft and low.

His smile flickers wider for a second before his expression turns shy again, his gaze dropping to his hands. He fidgets with a thread on his sleeve, and when he speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper.

“I want to return the favor.”

You blink, then tilt your head slightly, warmth blooming low in your chest. “You want to…?”

He looks up—eyes big, cheeks pink. “Do something for you. Like you did for me. Not because I feel like I owe you or anything, just… I’ve never done it before. Not properly. And I—” He swallows.

You let the quiet sit between you for a few seconds longer before reaching out and laying your hand gently over his. “You sure?”

He nods, quick and eager. “I’ve been thinking about it. About how you made me feel that night. And I want to do that for you. If you want to teach me that is.”

That earnestness in him is still there—the nervous edges, the twitch of uncertainty—but there’s something steadier underneath it now. A real desire to learn, to explore, to care for you the way you cared for him.

You squeeze his hand gently. “Okay,” you say.

You shift a little on the couch, angling your body toward his, your knee brushing his. He hasn’t stopped glancing at your mouth—not in a lewd way, more like he’s curious. Hungry, maybe. Definitely nervous.

You smile softly and nudge him with your shoulder. “So… do you want to do it now?”

Oscar’s eyes snap to yours. “Wh-what?”

You laugh under your breath. “You want to try, right? Giving. Touching. All that?”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. No—I mean yes. Fuck.” He rubs his hands over his jeans, like he’s trying to wipe the nerves off his palms. “If you want to. But you obviously don’t have to. I didn’t mean like right now unless you—unless you're cool with it. Not that I expect—shit.”

You tilt your head at him, smiling slowly. “Oscar.”

“Yeah?”

“Last time I had your dick in my mouth. You really don’t need to be this nervous.”

He turns a vivid shade of red and drops his face into his hands with a groan. “You cannot just say that so casually.”

You lean closer, bumping his shoulder with yours. “I absolutely can. Come here.”

When you open your arms, he hesitates only for a second before melting into your hug. He’s warm, solid, and still a little tense—but there’s a relief in the way he exhales against your neck that makes your chest squeeze. Like this is the part he didn’t know he needed. Just being close. Just being held.

You murmur against his ear, “So… do you want to?”

His voice is a whisper. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” You pull back slightly, enough to see his face. His cheeks are flushed, lips parted. “Then let’s start with a kiss.”

He swallows. “You mean like… now?”

You don’t say anything. Just smile and wait.

He swallows again, the nervousness still there, but his eyes search yours for permission. It’s all in the way he’s leaning in just a little, testing the waters. You don’t say anything at first, letting the silence hang for just a beat longer than necessary. Then, you give him a soft nod.

“Yeah,” you murmur, “just kiss me, Oscar.”

It’s like a switch flips inside him. His hand, still on your waist, moves to the back of your neck, pulling you just a little closer. He pauses there, waiting—his lips brushing lightly against yours. Soft. Almost unsure.

You smile against him, keeping it light but encouraging. “Relax. Let go a little.”

His lips move gently over yours again, this time with a little more intent, a little more pressure. He’s still a little tentative, but his breathing’s deepening, and his hand around your neck gives a small tug, pulling you closer, testing the boundaries of your proximity.

You let him guide you, not rushing him but making sure he knows what feels good. As he leans into the kiss more, you shift slightly, tilting your head just enough to show him the right angle. You let your lips part a little, just a breath away, enough to encourage him to follow your lead.

“Open your mouth a little,” you whisper, just above a breath. “Not too much—just enough for a kiss to deepen.”

Oscar does it—hesitant at first, but you feel the way his body relaxes into the movement, his chest pressing against yours. He gets it. The tension is starting to fade, but he’s still figuring it out. You kiss him back slowly, just enough to keep him moving in the right direction, giving him the confidence to let go of that nervousness and trust his instincts.

You pull back for a second, just enough to look into his eyes. “That’s good. Now, try this: gently move your lips over mine. Like you’re tracing a line. Just… feel the way my lips feel against yours.”

His brow furrows in concentration, but he does as you say, shifting his lips against yours slowly, like he’s mapping out the motions. It’s clumsy at first, but there’s something so sweet in the way he’s trying. His hands, a little unsure at first, are now gently guiding you closer. His touch on your neck is warm, secure, and his other hand—after a moment’s hesitation—moves to your side, resting there.

You can feel the way his breath stutters when you respond to his kiss, your hands moving to his shoulders and guiding him closer. “Good. You’re doing great. Now—try to move with me.”

His eyes flutter open for just a moment, unsure but eager. “Move with you?”

“Yeah.” You grin softly, guiding his hands with yours so they settle around your back, your body shifting a little, pressing him closer. “It’s not about thinking too much. Just feel the rhythm. When I move, you move. Follow my lead.”

Oscar takes a deep breath, his hands tightening around you, and he follows your motion. It’s like a dance. A slow, soft one where every shift, every touch, feels like a conversation between your bodies. His kiss deepens again, but this time with more trust, more confidence.

“You’ve got it,” you whisper, and the words seem to fuel him more than you expect. He lets his lips linger longer this time, his hand moving from your back to the side of your face, cupping it gently. You can feel the way he’s starting to get lost in the moment, the way he’s learning to just let go and feel what you’re doing together.

“You’re really good at this,” you murmur, a teasing edge to your voice. His face flushes, but he doesn’t pull away, leaning in even more, following the rhythm you’ve set. His lips press firmly against yours, his movements more fluid now, like he’s finding a way to match your pace.

You can feel the intensity growing, and you guide his hand—gently, slowly—down your body, just showing him the way. “Let your hands move, Oscar. It’s okay to touch. Just pay attention to how I react.”

He hesitates only for a moment before he slides his hand lower, his touch tentative, like he’s still unsure of himself. You let out a small, satisfied hum against his mouth as his hand brushes against your waist, and that seems to be enough to push him forward.

You pull back again, just a bit, watching him. “That’s it. Just keep following. Trust your instincts.”

As Oscar’s hands slide under your shirt, his touch is careful, almost reverent, like he's trying to navigate uncharted territory. He’s already getting the hang of kissing, but the way his fingers hover, hesitant, grazing lightly over your skin, tells you he's still not entirely sure of what to do next.

You break the kiss, just enough to murmur softly against his lips, keeping him close. "You're doing great, Oscar. Just take it slow." Your voice is warm, reassuring, the kind of softness that encourages him to keep going, but without rushing him. “The touching, the way you move... it gets easier when you lose some clothes. Let your hands explore, but do it slowly, okay? You’ll find the rhythm.”

He nods, the nerves still there, but his gaze is a little more focused now, more intent as his hand inches higher, moving carefully up your side. There’s a slight hesitation, then his fingers brush over the curve of your breast, just the faintest touch, and you can feel the way he holds his breath, waiting for your reaction.

Your hands slide up his arms, guiding him a little, showing him the way. “You’re almost there. Don’t overthink it. Just feel the way I react.”

His fingers linger for a moment longer, like he's trying to figure out if that’s okay, but you can feel the way his thumb moves in small, tentative circles over your skin, testing the response. It’s delicate. He’s waiting for some sign that it’s right. You let him feel the way your body leans into his touch, how your chest lifts slightly under his hand as you breathe deeper.

“Good,” you whisper, “Keep moving like that.”

Oscar’s breath quickens, and the kiss he presses to your lips is a little more urgent now, as if he’s feeding off the way you respond to him, the way your body relaxes under his hands. His fingers trace the edge of your bra now, still tentative but searching for the next step.

You pull back slightly, enough to look into his eyes. “Don’t be afraid to touch more, Osc. I want you to feel confident. You don’t have to rush, but trust your instincts. Just let your hands go where they want to go.”

His eyes flicker with uncertainty, but there's something else there too—a flicker of curiosity, of determination.

“Relax,” you murmur, a soft smile playing at the corners of your lips. “You’re fine. You don’t have to worry about making a mistake. Just take your time.”

The moment is quiet except for the sound of his breath and the gentle rustle of clothing. He shifts again, this time pulling back a little to give himself a moment to think. His fingers tug lightly at the hem of your shirt, pulling it up slowly, cautiously, as if waiting for a sign from you.

You let him do it, your hands resting on his shoulders, letting him feel the movement, feel the control shift a little more in his favor. The shirt comes off, tossed to the side, and you stay close, your bodies pressed against each other, both of you warm, hearts racing a little faster. His hands, now bare against your skin, move with more confidence, cupping your breast gently.

“Good,” you say again, your voice soft but filled with approval. “You’re doing great.”

Oscar’s fingers flex slightly, still unsure but starting to gain more confidence. The kisses become deeper, slower, and as his thumb brushes against your nipple, you feel a small gasp escape you, your body responding instinctively to the sensation. You shift a little, pulling him closer as your lips move against his, offering more encouragement.

“See?” you murmur, lips still on his, the breath between you hot. “You’re getting it. Trust yourself.”

He kisses you with a new sense of purpose now, the nervous tension still present but not overwhelming, replaced by something else—something softer, more intimate. His hand moves again, cupping your breast more fully, his fingers kneading gently, exploring. You feel the way his thumb traces slow, deliberate circles, and it makes your breath hitch slightly.

His lips part from yours just long enough for him to whisper, “Is this okay?”

You smile softly, cupping his cheek with your hand. “Yes, Osc. It’s more than okay.”

You guide him, letting him learn the rhythm of your movements, the way you react to his touch. He’s learning, discovering how to move with you, how to match your pace. There’s a new sense of confidence in him now, the kind that comes from knowing you’re there, guiding him, encouraging him with every movement, every kiss.

And when his lips press against your neck, when his hands move to the small of your back and pull you closer, you know that this moment—the slow, tentative exploration—is becoming something more. It’s not just about giving. It’s about feeling each other, learning each other’s rhythm, and trusting in the connection you’re building together.

“Good,” you whisper against his ear. “You’re doing everything right, Osc.”

And with that, he kisses you again, his movements a little bolder this time, more assured, as if he’s finally letting go of the last bit of hesitation. And you welcome it, savoring the feeling of him learning, trusting, and most importantly—letting himself be the one to give.

He pulls back slightly, lips still tingling from the kiss, his chest rising and falling with a little more urgency. His hands hover over you, not quite sure where to go next. The intensity in his eyes is undeniable, but there’s still a trace of nervousness that’s impossible to miss. His voice is quiet, barely a whisper, but filled with eagerness.

“I want to do more,” he says, the words tumbling out with a kind of vulnerability that makes your chest tighten.

You smirk, a playful glint in your eyes. “Okay,” you reply, voice teasing as you lean in just a little closer. “But how’s that gonna work with my pants still on?”

Oscar’s face flushes instantly, his gaze darting down to your pants as if he’s just realized the physical barrier between you. His breath catches, and you can see the way his mind works overtime, trying to figure out the next step.

You watch the way his hands twitch at his sides, clearly debating whether or not to move, before he hesitantly mutters, “Okay, so... uh, how do I... do I just pull them off?”

You laugh softly, leaning back a little to give him space, your voice smooth and teasing. “It’s not complicated, Osc. You can just take them off.”

His fingers tremble as he watches you, his breath quick and shallow. There’s an eagerness in the way he shifts his weight, but also an unmistakable hesitation, like he’s testing the waters, unsure of the next step. His hands hover near your waistband, a question in his eyes as he looks up at you, searching for some kind of reassurance.

“You’re doing great, Osc,” you murmur, offering a gentle smile to calm the nerves still showing on his face. You can see the uncertainty in his eyes, but also a quiet determination, like he’s ready to move forward.

With a soft exhale, he nods and slowly lowers his hands, fingers brushing lightly over the fabric of your pants. He pauses, and you can tell he’s still figuring out the rhythm, unsure of the exact moment when it’s okay to go further. The tension between you both is palpable now—his body language speaks volumes, his eyes wide and still a little shy, but his touch more deliberate.

“Just... take your time,” you add softly.

He swallows, his throat tight with nervous energy. “Okay...” he whispers, more to himself than to you, before gently pulling at the waistband of your pants, easing them down just a little at first. His movements are hesitant at first, then grow more sure as he pulls them further down your legs.

As your pants fall to the floor, Oscar stops, eyes flicking between your face and the exposed skin of your lower body. His breath is shallow, chest rising and falling as he hesitates, unsure of what comes next.

His lips are still close to yours, but he pulls back slightly, a flush creeping up his neck. He clears his throat, then, with a nervous glance, his voice barely audible, he asks, “Can... can you take your bra off?”

You smile softly at his shyness, the way his hands are still unsure, his movements delicate like he’s handling something fragile. You giggle, the sound light and teasing as you reach up and tug at your own shirt. “You can do it too, Oscar.”

He looks at you, cheeks flushed a deeper red, embarrassment making him fumble slightly with his words. “I—I don’t know, I think that’s complicated.”

You gently guide his hand, placing it against your back, your fingers trailing over his skin, feeling how his breath catches at the contact. "It's that easy," you whisper, giving him a reassuring smile.

Oscar’s hand trembles slightly as he reaches for the clasp of your bra, and for a moment, you feel a hint of hesitation from him again. His fingers brush over the fabric, then find the clasp. The tension in his hand is almost cute, a stark contrast to the quiet confidence he’ll soon find in himself.

With a soft click, the clasp releases, and you help him slip it off your shoulders. He watches you carefully, almost mesmerized by the movement, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and awe.

You let the bra fall to the floor, your skin now exposed, and Oscar’s gaze lingers on you, his breath quickening as he takes in the sight of you before him. You notice how his eyes darken, the uncertainty still there, but now there's a spark of something else—a hunger that's new to him, but unmistakable.

His hands, once hesitant, now hover near your waist, fingers grazing the soft curve of your body as if he's unsure where to touch next, the weight of his touch still gentle, unsure.

Oscar’s eyes flicker downward—just briefly, but enough that you catch it. His gaze lingers at your chest, hesitant, as if he’s thinking something but unsure whether he’s allowed to want it. It’s shy, not presumptuous—like he’s asking without speaking, uncertain whether it’s okay to take that next step.

You smile softly, reading him with ease. No need for him to stumble over the words. You lift your hands slowly and place them gently over your chest, just above your heart, then slide them outward in a quiet invitation.

“It’s alright,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “You can touch them.”

His throat works as he swallows hard, eyes darting up to meet yours—like he’s making sure you mean it. And when he sees the patience there, the warmth, he nods a little, more to himself than to you. Slowly, his hands come up, tentative at first, brushing lightly against your skin. His touch is feather-light, reverent, almost like he’s still trying to convince himself this is real.

You can feel the faint tremble in his fingertips, but it doesn’t distract from the care behind every movement. He’s paying attention—watching your breathing, your reactions, adjusting as he goes.

“You’re doing great, Osc,” you murmur, your voice a steady anchor.

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

He leans in again, and this time, his mouth brushes over your collarbone, tentative and soft. You feel the warmth of his breath before the touch of his lips, the slow press of his mouth moving down, finding new terrain with care. When he brings his lips lower, there’s a pause again—checking, gauging.

You tilt your head and say gently, “Try using your mouth. Just… go slow. Feel what I do.”

His eyes meet yours once more, wide and focused, and then he nods. The next kiss he places is more deliberate. Then another. His lips find their way over your skin, curious, unhurried. His mouth is warm, his movements careful, and when he finally brings them to the soft curve of your chest, there’s a deep inhale from him—like he’s taking in the gravity of being allowed this closeness.

You rest your hand lightly on the back of his neck, a steady presence as he explores. The gentleness in him is unmistakable—every motion driven not just by want, but by intent to care, to learn, to give. And though there’s still a touch of awkwardness in his pace, there’s something so earnest in it that you can’t help but be moved.

When he looks up again, your eyes meet, and you catch the flicker of a question there—half uncertainty, half hope. You don’t need him to say it aloud. Instead, you brush your thumb gently across his jaw, nodding once. Go on.

He dips his head again, slower this time, guided not just by your reassurance but by something beginning to settle in him—an instinct, a quiet want to understand what makes you feel good.

His mouth finds your nipple, warm lips pressing gently against the softest part of your chest. Then, after a breath, he lets his tongue move—tentative at first, a careful sweep over the most sensitive skin.

You exhale sharply, your body reacting before your mind can catch up, and a soft moan escapes you—quiet but unmistakable.

Oscar freezes.

He pulls back a little, wide-eyed, almost as if he’s afraid he did something wrong. But you can see it—behind the surprise, there’s something else. A flicker of pride, of wonder, like he hadn’t expected to cause that sound. Like he’s just realized what it means to have that kind of effect.

You don’t make him wait in the silence. You rest a hand against his cheek, anchoring him again.

“That was so good,” you say softly, breath still uneven. “ Keep going.”

His lips part slightly. “Oh.”

There’s a flush creeping up his neck again, but now it’s mixed with something else—something less uncertain. Like he’s starting to believe he can do this, that he’s allowed to want to make you feel good.

He nods a little, almost to himself, and then lowers his head again. This time with purpose. His mouth moves more deliberately, tongue tracing over your skin in slow, careful motions. He listens—truly listens—with his whole body. To every shift in your breath, every sound you make, adjusting, learning.

His hands stay light on your waist, grounding him, giving him balance as he explores, and you let yourself feel the sincerity in each movement. There’s no rush in him, no ego. Just a quiet, growing desire to understand what it means to give.

Your breath comes quicker now, soft and uneven, as his mouth lingers and learns. He’s warm above you, steady in a way that grounds you—but you can still feel the slight tremble in his limbs, like all of this is still so new and so much.

Your hips shift gently beneath him, a quiet arching of your back, searching for more contact, more of him. A soft sound escapes—his name, just a murmur: “Oscar…”

He pauses for a heartbeat, breath brushing your skin, eyes flicking up again like he’s listening with his whole body.

You reach for his hand resting at your waist—warm and tentative—and guide it slowly with yours. There’s no resistance, only his quiet breath hitching in his throat as he lets you move him, trusting the way you wordlessly teach him what you want.

You draw his hand lower, inch by inch, between your thighs, your own fingers still covering his. His palm presses against you over your underwear, and even through the thin fabric, the sensation is enough to pull another quiet sound from your throat.

His whole body stills at the sound, like he’s memorizing it.

He swallows, nods once, and his thumb shifts slightly under your hand, tracing gently, carefully. It’s not practiced—but it’s focused. He’s tuned into every reaction you give him, like you’re the only thing in the world he wants to understand right now.

You press your hand gently over his again, showing him the motion, the pressure, how to move just right. Each small adjustment draws more breathless sounds from your throat—soft, unfiltered, real—and he absorbs every one like a secret meant only for him.

Then, in a hush, like it’s just dawning on him:

“You’re… wet.”

You can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips, even through the haze of building sensation. “You did that,” you murmur, tilting your head so your nose brushes his.

Oscar blinks once, like he’s not sure he heard you right. But then something shifts behind his eyes—like pride, like wonder—and it warms his expression all the way through. He smiles, shy and stunned, and the sight of it makes something tighten in your chest.

His fingers hesitate again at the edge of your underwear, barely grazing. He looks at you, asking without words—but his voice follows anyway, low and reverent:

“Can I take them off?”

Your breath catches. You nod, brushing your lips over his. “Fuck yes.”

His hand trembles as he hooks his fingers at the waistband, and he moves slowly—like he’s still making sure it’s okay, like the act itself feels like more than undressing. Like he’s unwrapping something delicate, something he wants to treat with reverence.

And even though he’s the one undressing you, he looks the most undone.

Oscar’s breath stirs the space between you, shallow and uneven. His eyes flicker over your face, like he’s trying to commit every expression to memory. And even as he keeps touching you, something shifts—less uncertainty, more instinct.

You feel it in the way his fingers move—still careful, but surer now, guided by the sounds you make, the way your body leans into his. He’s learning you like a language he’s just begun to understand, but one he’s determined to speak fluently.

And then—like his hand has a mind of its own—you feel his touch dip lower, sliding down with a growing sense of purpose.

You inhale sharply, your hips shifting on instinct. Oscar freezes for just a second, eyes searching yours as if silently asking: Was that okay?

You nod, biting your lip, breath catching as you whisper, “Keep going.”

His fingers flex, moving carefully, reverently, like he’s trying to match every movement to the rhythm of your breath. And when he brushes right where you’re aching for more, a soft sound escapes you—one you weren’t planning to make.

It hits him like a shot of light. His gaze flashes up, cheeks flushed, lips parted in quiet awe. He doesn't speak—but you can see it in his face. He felt that. Felt you.

And he wants more of it.

You guide his hand a little more, hips lifting instinctively as you press his fingers exactly where you need them. Oscar watches, lips slightly parted, stunned again by how much you trust him with this. With yourself.

Your breath hitches, and so does his.

The position is a little twisted now—your legs parted, his arm angled awkwardly between you. He hesitates, glancing down, then shifts with quiet determination, settling lower. His body moves between your thighs, shoulders easing into place like he’s not even thinking about it—just following the path you’ve traced out for him.

And then his head dips, hovering just above you.

You watch the realization settle on his face—how close he is now. His breath is warm against your skin, uneven with nerves but anchored by something steadier underneath. Curiosity. Want.

He looks up at you again, seeking something wordless.

You nod.

He exhales through his nose, slow and shaky, before leaning in—not rushed, not certain, but ready to try.

His eyes flick up at you again, wide and a little wild with nerves—and something else. Hunger. Wonder.

You whisper, soft and sure, “Just like you did with my nipples, Osc.”

Something clicks.

He nods slowly, almost imperceptibly, and then he lowers his head again. You feel the first hesitant brush of his mouth—warm, gentle—like he’s still testing what this means, what it does to you. His lips part, tongue moving with cautious care, mirroring the rhythm he found earlier.

Your breath catches.

That’s all the encouragement he needs. His hands tighten slightly on your thighs, anchoring himself there, and he does it again—more confidently this time. You moan, soft and open, and you feel the way he reacts to it, the way he leans in, driven by every sound you make. It’s almost as if he’s listening with his whole body.

You shift your hips just enough to guide him, not too much, not to overwhelm. He gets it—he always gets it. That focus, that eagerness to learn, to give, pulses in every slow stroke of his tongue. He’s shaky, but present. Nervous, but determined.

You thread your fingers through his hair, murmuring praise, letting the sound of his name fall like a reward. And even through the nervous tension in his shoulders, you can feel it: the beginnings of confidence. He’s starting to feel the effect he has on you.

Your hips twitch under his mouth, a stuttered gasp escaping as the feeling mounts—his tongue moving with growing rhythm, driven by each sound you let slip. You murmur his name again, soft and unguarded, and something in it must hit him because his grip tightens slightly at your hip, like he’s holding on for dear life.

But there’s still one of his hands, fisted in the sheets like he doesn’t know what to do with it. You reach down, unraveling his grip with care, your fingers weaving between his. He hesitates, lips still working against you, until you guide his hand lower.

You line up his fingers, just where you want him, and press gently, urging him inward. It’s slow—you’re slow—because this part matters, too. Not just what he’s doing, but that he’s learning how to do it, that he’s feeling it.

When the tips of his fingers slip inside, you let go.

He stills for half a breath, mouth never leaving you, and for a moment you think he might ask again, but then—you feel it. The tiniest movement. A slow, tentative curl of his fingers, careful and attentive. And then again, a little deeper, more sure.

Your body arches up, a soft, broken moan slipping from your lips.

That sound does something to him—you can feel it in the way he leans in more, how his tongue and fingers begin to find a rhythm, syncing with the rise and fall of your hips. He’s watching, even when he’s not looking. Listening, even when you can’t speak.

There’s reverence in his movements, but also a growing hunger. Like now that he’s seen what he can do to you, he wants more of it—wants all of it.

And then it hits.

When he feels it—really feels it—the way you clench around his fingers, the way your body pulses and quakes, and a groan escapes him, low and guttural. It vibrates against your core, deep and unfiltered, and the sound alone sends another jolt through you. Your hand still tangled in his hair, fingers twisting, and he responds in kind—tightening his grip around your thigh like he needs to ground himself just as much as you do.

Like a slow, rising wave that suddenly crashes—your breath catches, your back arches, toes curling tight as that first ripple of release rushes through you. It builds and breaks again, and again, thighs tightening around his shoulders as if your body can’t bear the intensity of it without anchoring to him. You hear yourself—soft, desperate sounds leaving your lips without permission—and he doesn’t stop. Not until the tremors begin to crest.

He rides it out with you, mouth still pressed to your skin like he’s drinking you in, letting you unravel completely beneath him.

You’re still catching your breath, body loose and trembling, when he finally slows down. His fingers still for the first time in what feels like forever, and he leans back slightly, face flushed, chest rising and falling. His lips glisten, his cheeks are pink, and his wide eyes search yours—hopeful, almost stunned.

You laugh—a breathy, wrecked kind of sound—and run a hand through your hair. “Fuck, I— I never felt it that hard, Osc.” You’re not sure your voice even sounds like yours. “That was… that was amazing.”

His whole face lights up like he’s just won something he didn’t think he could. “Really? Oh my God—really?” He sits back on his heels, grinning helplessly. “It felt so good—doing that. I’m just… I’m glad it was good for you.”

You nod, still trying to catch your breath. And then you notice—his face, painted in the evidence of what he’s just done. He looks blissed out, messy, proud. You barely have time to say anything before he glances down at his fingers—still slick—and without thinking twice, lifts them to his mouth, licking them clean.

Your eyes widen. “Oh fuck…”

He grins at your reaction, clearly pleased with himself now, and you reach for him—pulling him in until he’s draped over you, your hands moving gently over the warm, freckled expanse of his back. You kiss the curve of his shoulder and whisper, “Do you want me to do something for you too?”

He lets out a small, flustered laugh against your skin. “Uhm,” he starts, shifting his hips a little—and that’s when you see it. The small, darkened patch near his waistband. “I think you already did enough,” he says, cheeks turning crimson again. “I really… I really loved the sounds you made and when you - .... when i felt it.”

You blink—then let out a soft, incredulous breath of laughter, overwhelmed and charmed in the same breath.

“Holy shit,” you murmur, hand curling protectively around the back of his head as he nestles against you.

He hums.

The room is quiet now, save for the soft sound of your breathing, both of you still trying to come down from the intensity of what just happened. Oscar rests his head against your chest, his body warm and solid against yours. You run your fingers through his hair absentmindedly, lost in the feeling of him close to you—like it’s all finally starting to settle.

You both know what just happened, but neither of you rushes to fill the silence. Instead, you just hold each other, the weight of the moment still fresh, both of you feeling the aftershocks of the closeness you just shared.

Oscar sighs softly, his voice a little rough when he speaks. “That was… wow. I don’t even know how to say it. I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

You chuckle softly, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “It’s okay to be speechless. I think I might be too.”

His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining, and you squeeze gently, your voice soft as you look at him with a playful, yet sincere grin. “I can’t believe this is really the first time you’re doing this.”

Oscar meets your gaze, his cheeks flushed as he smiles. “I have a great teacher.”

Your heart skips at the sincerity in his tone. “Well, you’re a quick learner, Osc,” you tease, reaching up to gently ruffle his hair. “I think I’m impressed.”

Oscar chuckles softly, the shyness still there, but it’s mixed with a sense of quiet pride. “Guess I had a good example.”

The warmth between you doesn’t fade. It lingers, soft and steady, as you both settle into the quiet, the world outside fading away for just a while longer.

And for the first time, it feels like something more than just a shared experience. It feels like connection. Like the beginning of something deeper.

Oscar squeezes your hand, pulling you a little closer. “Can we… just stay like this for a bit?”

“Of course,” you whisper, your heart a little lighter than it was before.

And in the comfort of the quiet, you both drift into a peaceful silence—knowing there’s more ahead, but for now, content just being here.

[aussie-engene]

Best friend!Sunghoon x fem!reader

Fluff

Best friends to lovers

Warnings: rain, reader is called an idiot and earns a smack by Sunghoon

It was Froday night, and it was raining heavily. You never really liked the rain, but you didn’t hate it either. You and Sunghoon were supposed to meet up at your apartment for your regular movie night. You never actually cancelled the gathering, but you thought that he wouldn't risk catching a cold just to watch a movie with you.

You and Sunghoon have been friends since middle school and inseparable since then. You did everything together and shared everything as well. It was obvious that you had a crush on each other, but none of you spoke about it, not wanting to sound delusional.

Time went by, and the rain was getting heavier. You checked your phone to see if Sunghoon had texted you, but nothing. You sighed and relaxed on your couch, starting the movie you were supposed to see with Sunghoon. Suddenly, there was knock on the door, but you ignored it, thinking that it was the wind. Again. You stood up and opened the door only to find a soaked Sunghoon in the front. You stood there with your mouth open about to say something, but you were cut off by him.

"You started the movie without me?" He pouted. Sunghoon wasn't from the people who showed many emotions, but that was different with you. He acted like a kid with you and let all his emotions show.

Still dumbfounded you respond

"Are you crazy?!"

He chuckled

"No! I'm in love!" He didn't break eye contact while saying it and your eyes widened even more

"Now, are you gonna let me in, or am I gonna stay here for the rest of the night?" He chuckled again, and you moved a bit to let him in

'What did he say?' You thought that you were the crazy one at this point. You pushed your thoughts away and rushed to give him some clothes. He had many stuff of his at your apartment just like you did at his.

Once he was done changing you both sat on the couch and started the movie again. You cuddled close something that you always did but this time it felt different. His words were almost tattooed in your brain.

'No! I'm in love!' He couldn’t have meant you right? He probably meant someone else! Right?

During the movie, you were insanely quiet, and Sunghoon caught onto that. Usually, you would make comments about the bad acting or how the main character is a pick me. He looked at you and noticed that you weren't even looking at the screen but at your hands, fiddling with something nonexistent.

You were curled up against him, and he had one hand all around your small frame. His other hand just resting on his thigh. He studied you for a bit more and took one of your hands in his free one. You looked up at him, snapping out of your thoughts. You were lost in his eyes until he spoke up. Voice sweet like honey.

"Hey,is everything okay?" He looked concerned and you understood that you were the reason behind that look. You put on the best fake smile you had and responded

"Yeah, everything's fine!" He didn't look convinced and you cursed about how well he knew you

"Mhm right" he paused the movie and turned fully to face you

"Spill it all out come on"

"Spill what out? I don't get what you mean"

"Oh come on Y/n I know you long enough to understand when you are lying!"

You let out a sigh and he furrowed his eyebrows

"You can tell me everything. You know that..."

"Sunghoon what did you mean by the thing that you said earlier?"

"About letting me out in the rain?"

"Nope...the other one..."

"Oooooh" he smiled leaving you confused

"You mean the fact that I'm in looooove"

"...yeah...that one..."

"What I meant by that..." he took both of your hands in his now "...is that I am in love with a really close friend of mine"

Your heart dropped. He didn't mean you and you were sure. He totally meant someone else. Your thought kept going on until he continued.

"Woooow you're not that smart after all" he chuckled earning a side eye from you

"I thought you already knew. I'm pretty sure I gave all the signs needed"

You swore that you were crazy! You couldn’t understand a thing of what he was saying.

"Okay I'm convinced! You're an idiot!" He said smiling at you

"Why am I an idiot?"

"Because I literally just confessed and your still looking at me like I'm an alien trying to marry you!"

"WHAT?!"

"Gosh don't yell!" He said covering his ears

"Wait wait wait"

"I'm waiting I'm waiting I'm waiting"

"YOU are in love with ME?!"

"How many times do I have to repeat myself?" He laughed while looking at you waiting for the moment you will actually understand what he said

"WHAT?!" You stood up scaring the poor boy. "That can't be!"

"Girl just confess at this point! I know that you feel the same way..."

"How...?"

"Well haha...I may or may not...you know have heard you...saying it to bff/n..." he was whispering literally scared for his life

"I quit!" You said while throwing your hands in the air

"So is that an 'I love you back' or like an 'I hate you'?"

"First"

"F-first?" He said wide eyed and shocked. Yeah he had heard you saying it but it wasn't to him!

"Yep!"

"Ugh..." he was too stunned to speak

"Since you can't talk why don't you just kiss me? Be useful for once!"

He didn't waste no time and slumped his lips on yours

No matter how shocked you were, you would never lose the chance at teasing him. You acted cool, but internally, you were screaming both at the fact that he liked you and for your random dose of boldness.

Once he pulled back you smiled at him and said

"By the way, if I were to choose between you and the alien that would try to marry me... I would definitely choose the alien!"

You earned a light smack on your head but he just signed up for his last words...

[towasdandelion]

HAI AGAIN <333 I KNOW I WAS JUST HERE . SO PLEASE tell me if i am pitching too many ideas i feel like im in your inbox a lot (┬┬﹏┬┬) THANK U FOR ALL THE WORK U DO (∩^o^)⊃━☆

this is an angstier one so if u arent in the mood PLEASE SKIP SKIP SKIP

what about,,, reader and the ghouls just had an argument, and immediately after they split up to cool off reader is texting them about how they're so sorry and how they want to make up nd they hate fighting with them. like reader is really sensitive to rejection so much so that they're crying at the thought of the ghouls not loving them anymore because they saw the Bad sides of reader T0T

IM SORRY I GAVE THIS TO YOU IDK WHY MY BRAIN MADE A HARD ANGSTY TURN. if u feel uncomfy about it feel free to delete (づ￣ 3￣)づ

(if you do decide to write this you should do whatever characters you want!! i dont want you to get tired of ritsu LMAO) have a good day youre the best (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

Hahaha you can stay in my inbox as much as you want! Some coffee or tea? I have cookies too! (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧ I like the idea, as angsty as it is heh. I decided to just pick the ghouls randomly and Ritsu just so happened to be one of them, what a coincidence right? (I really don't mind writing for him!)

They see your bad side during an argument

Jin didn't expect to see this side of you but he's aware how strong emotions can affect the way we behave. He doesn't feel any resentment towards you, if anything he's happy you reached out to him. Of course he wants to make up too. As soon as possible. But first, he needs to tell you how much of a dumbass you are for thinking one petty argument is all that's going to take for him to break up with you. You really don't realize how much you mean to him huh? Well, then get ready to be showered with most expensive gifts a man can find. (Yes, he prefers that over saying it out loud I guess he's not that good with words after all.)

Jiro's eyes widened when you just stormed out like that after coming to an agreement to cool off a bit. The whole argument definitely touched you more than usual. Instead of getting angry, he's going to focus on the causes of your behavior. He feels a bit of relief when you text him. But still, he needs to get to the bottom of this. He needs to feel that he understands you completely. Him not loving you anymore? Just where did you get that idea? Looks like he really needs to have a talk with you. And a cuddle session of course. He's not going to leave until he makes sure you know he will never stop loving you.

Romeo is too stunned for a moment. He never thought you could reach this level of anger. Usually he is the one with a bit of... anger issues stronger reactions. Just as he was thinking about this whole argument, a text from you pops up. Weird or not it makes him smile how you seem to be so embarrassed about getting angry. You're so silly it hurts... But how dare you think he's going to leave you!? He's going to abandon this whole 'cool off' thing just to storm over to you and demand an explanation. Though once he notices you cried, he will soften considerably, offering to hold you until you're ready to talk.

You're scared he's going to leave you after seeing you angry? Then imagine Rui. That guy is terrified. You're so going to break up with him aren't you? And after so much effort put into breaking his curse and finally being able to hold you... A message from you appears and it's all it takes for him to break down, but also to feel incredibly relieved. So you just want to make up too. He's surprised when you tell him you're scared he's going to leave you. How can you think about such thing when you're his whole world, and the reason he pushed forward to break his curse? After you talk it out he will come over and hug you tight.

Ritsu is taken aback but not for long. He will now sit and analyze which words of his were the most likely to make you feel this angry. He almost reached the conclusion but then a 'ping' pulls him out of his thoughts. It's a message from you. Naturally, he's ready to make up at any moment. And it's not only because he possesses good conversation skills. He just hates getting into arguments with you. He'd rather have your daily study session instead of wasting time on petty arguments! Wait, you thought he's not going to love you anymore? I guess carrying mock forms of marriage certificate in his briefcase means nothing hmm?

Sho is already used to Leo's nasty personality, so your outburst doesn't affect him as much. Sure, he doesn't like to argue with you but things happen and he's not going to be hung up on that. You're too precious for him to stay mad so he'd rather focus on making up with and- oh, a text from you. He's relieved to see you're on the same page but then you say something unexpected. You're afraid of losing him. Over an argument like that, really? He will really need to remind you that your relationship and his feelings for you are stronger than that.

[msookyspooky]

I need to know what your headcanons are on modern dating of Billy, Stu and or Randy 😊💕

Oooh nice ♡ (I hate modern dating sm and will be single for life before doing dating culture. lol I was designed for dramatic darkest soul proclaimtions, letters of yearning and long drawn courting that last a season before even dating and even dating we're not dating long if I know ur it. I wasn't designed for 'what's ur snap' and was made to send Polaroid nudes in letters with dried flowers and my perfume and...Other things not 'showering? without me?' text... Lmfao but I'll try! 😅💖)

Modern 2025 Dating HC's for Scream Guys

Characters: Randy Meeks, Stu Macher, Billy Loomis

TW: Sex Mentioned, Modern Sexism/Discourse.

Randy Meeks

♡ He's sadly a Reddit user but not in an incel 'niceguysforum' way but in a Dad jokes and we arguing with a 15 year old with a big titty anime pfp on a thread over the symbolism in Hellraiser kind of way.

♡ May also be into the Softmaledom and GFD groups on there and gets ideas from it (He gives nerdy but sweet kinky boy once yall are doing it ya know he does)

♡ Met in Fandom Spaces or at a Horror Con (Dare I say...He'd also be into anime too? 👀 If he was it would be Monsters or Hellsing or anything by Junji I'm JS.)

♡ Would send you horror movie merch/buy it and it arrives on your doorstep. Expect matching couple merch.

♡ Sends you voice notes randomly of "Oh my God, babe. These freaking assholes don't understand that The Babadook was a fucking metaphor-" and it's embarrassingly long before he tries to delete and when that fails he acts like he was talking to himself and accidentally pressed record

♡ Constantly finds new horror movies to watch even cheap ones and FT you to watch it with him till you fall asleep

♡ Definitely FT nightly if you're long distance till one of you falls asleep

♡ Would have a YT channel, Tiktok channel or Podcast on Horror Movies or Crime

♡ Would call you something cringe but meme like pookie bear ironically (and unironically) also calls you 'kitten' as a joke because you both think it's funny acting like a discord Daddy and his kitten girl for the disgusted reactions

♡ Has you both hugging as his pfp and rubs it in other nerdy redflag incels faces like 'Oh no one loves you? 🥺 Damn, someone does me-' in internet arguments when he gets told 'She wont let you hit bro' when defending someone

♡ Became a damn germaphobe after Covid and makes you put your hands out to put sanitizer on. Flinches still when someone coughs w/o covering their mouth cause he had it and doesn't ever want it again

♡ Plays Outlast with you and you both are screaming and laughing hard all night long over the headset

Stu Macher

♡ Stu Macher too bad you died in 96; you would've thrived online

♡ Met you on an app like Tinder, Insta or Snapchat (Or asked for it)

♡ FT you doing random shit in silence + random dumbass noises to fill the silence like boy why tf you fting me while boiling water???

♡ Is so much harder to murder now so either he won't do it but be oddly fascinated by it or he will and is just extra careful

♡ Is such a troll with a keyboard. Only refers to women as bruh, bro, bby, baddie, bih, bop. Uses terms like fine shyt to describe you. Just over does '*xyz* Ahh', 'The huzz are watching', 'What the Sigma??', 'She mid' in comment sections just because he likes attention and knows ppl will be like 'sybau'...He'll even do it to you as his S/O just to rile you up.

♡ Giant troll even when dating. He sees a prank on TikTok? He's doing it and might record your reaction too

♡ Will send risky texts all day everyday. You've seen his dick at every angle. You've seen every surface from tailbone to tip. He always asks for pics in return and constantly pushes his luck wanting your face in them or video

♡ Uses emojis and reaction gifs

♡ Texts you good morning and it's Russian Roulette...Sweet or Surprise Morning Wood?

♡ Netflix and Chill Regularly

♡ Takes Selfies to send 24/7. He just messaged himself eating a McChicken to you...Probably some nasty sex joke in there somewhere somehow istg

♡ Likes when you borrow his clothes and take selfies to send to him. Is like '😍' at you in his oversized sweater for bed

♡ Surprises you with shit he saw on pornhub/horny side of X and sometimes its fun and other times you're like 'Hey, no. Nuh uh I don't bend like that.'

♡ Can be sweet in a funny way using heart eyed reaction images to ur selfies or 'Oh mmyyy Shaylaaaa! 😭💘😫' to something he finds cute

♡ Will text you at 1am 'you up?' or 'I'm bored :(' and if you answer and he lives close he will be at your door with food

♡ Would think all women are either bops/thots, femcels or baddies (srry I fear misogyny is somehow worse/more open now like wtf happened)

♡ Claims Human Centipede or Tusk was hilarious and he might actually think that but he could also be lying bc he knows it will get a reaction from you

♡ Constant reaction pics to what you say like he's on X comment section

♡ Is rich enough he'll get those heartbeat rings/bracelets then forgets to wear it with you

Billy Loomis

♡ This mfer is a pretty boy edgelord incel (Travesty rlly) I am sorry; sad but true

♡ Still kills or has fantasy of it but would have to be way sneakier

♡ Met you organically because he doesn't like apps and claims it and hookup culture have destroyed society (...He says as he's scrolling X/Twitter)

♡ Will randomly send you sad qoutes and ur like 'oh god are you okay???' thinking he's in danger and he acts like he accidentally sent it

♡ If you're a girl; he constantly claims you're 'not like other girls' madonna whore complex kicks his ass everytime

♡ Will get petty if you miss his text or don't respond right away

♡ Talks to you about movies but is like 'Sorry...You probably never heard of it' then quizzes you bc he refuses to believe you *understand* an artistic *masterpiece* like Clockwork Orange (Sarcasm on my part)

♡ Would either listen to 90's grunge, Indie Rock or like $uicideboy$ type stuff

♡ Never sends you a selfie of himself smiling its always him looking tired or mad or blurry

♡ FT you at the worst angle ever like a 50 yr old man

♡ Doesn't use emojis except 🖤 if ur lucky

♡ Gets so pissed at Stu who pisses him off on purpose like 'WHAT THE HELL IS SKIBIDI TOILET I'M GONNA PUNCH YOU-"

♡ May have moments where he genuinely lets his walls down by sending those reaction pics with words on them like you see on Pinterest and that's the only way he knows how to say stuff w/o saying it, ya know?

♡ Does have Spotify playlist that remind him of you and Pinterest boards too but wont admit it

♡ If you text him and use a petname he's like 'shut up' while ttly smiling at his phone since you can't see

♡ Wants to know ur location on ur phone or when u get home safe (...He's hiding outside ur house, babe.)

♡ Will fully let his walls down talking for hours to you about movies but his taste can get dark

♡ Surprisingly is more honest/open through text than in person

♡ Total Agoraphobia and uses his phone for dopamine escape while acting about it all. Only time he feels content is you in his bed or arms

[greatwritenorth]

Some Thoughts On Sunrise on the Reaping & Haymitch Abernathy

I haven't written anything on any of my tumblr accounts in years. However, I had a shower thought that I simply had to shout into the void, in case anyone saw it too, and tumblr still seemed like the best form to do it.

So, like many people, I read Sunrise on the Reaping, and then immediately had to reread the entire Hunger Games universe. I took a while to get into Sunrise (I wasn't emotionally ready when it came out), so I've only just finished re-reading the first novel, and, of course, consuming any media that shows up on my accounts (usually Pinterest these days). As I was showering tonight, I started thinking about things, and had a bit of a moment that I had to share. So, here I am about to write a text post that's going to get so long no one will actually read it.

All through the original The Hunger Games series, the parallels between Haymitch and Katniss are endless. Katniss is the one who understands him in the arena. He and Katniss are both "difficult people", and of course, Peeta insists that Katniss is Haymitch's favourite. It's true, at this point in his life, Haymitch is more like Katniss. He understands her, some of her trauma, and her general wariness of people. If you love people, they can hurt you, and be used to hurt you. That is a lesson that, sadly, by this point, both Katniss and Haymitch have learned.

However, the Haymitch that we see in Sunrise on the Reaping, isn't Katniss. He isn't angry (at least not as much as Katniss is), or guarded. He doesn't struggle with people. Before the hunger games, Haymitch wasn't Katniss—he was Peeta.

Haymitch wanted his death to mean something; he wanted to end the hunger games, stick it to the captiol. For most of the games, Katniss just wanted to survive. Peeta was the one who was thinking about his identity, how the capitol was using them, and how he wanted to do something to stop that.

Haymitch understood almost immediately, once he was told, why he needed to play to the audience during his interviews, and he fell into his role as "the rake" easily. He was nervous, but he did it. Katniss, initially, couldn't play the charm game for the cameras before her interview to save her life (literally). Peeta knew exactly what he was going to do and how to play it.

Most importantly of all, Haymitch loved a girl with a beautiful singing voice (and did things her own way) more than his own life. He connected with Katniss. He understood her pain, and he couldn't help seeing Louella in her style (and, likely, her father who he once loved too). However, I think he empathized with Peeta. Haymitch would have lost his mind if Lenore Dove was in the games instead of him. And, in the second novel, when Peeta expresses frustration with having to pretend to love Katniss when he really loves Katniss, Haymitch can emphasize with his pain in a way that Katniss (who is still struggling with her feelings, and sees things in a black and white way more often then not) cannot. I'm sure he could imagine what it'd be like to play act a life with Lenore Dove, for The Capitol of all people, when she didn't seem to care for you (or so you think), but you love her "like all fire".

I also think that this, among other factors (the right time, and more support), is what made Katniss and Peeta "smarter or more lucky". Yes, Katniss became the face of the revolution, but she couldn't have done it without Peeta. Peeta brought what Haymitch already had in his games, and Katniss brought the survival instincts, the anger, that Haymitch has an an adult.

[pankowcrumbs]

As Many Times as You Need X Joseph Quinn (Requested)

MasterList

Joseph Quinn Masterlist

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

AN: This one hit a little too close to home for me cause to be honest I need to hear this myself.

It had been one of those perfectly average nights. The sort that makes you feel like everything’s alright, even if you’ve done absolutely nothing worth remembering. We were curled up on the sofa well, I was curled, and Joe was more or less draped across it in that lanky, dramatic way of his. The telly was on, some show we weren’t even really watching. Just background noise, filling the comfortable quiet that tends to fall when two people know each other inside out.

He was warm, his arm slung loosely around my waist, thumb idly stroking over the fabric of my hoodie. One of his, obviously. I always nicked the comfiest ones. His hair was slightly messy, curls flopping onto his forehead, and I’d spent the better part of the last half hour absently carding my fingers through it while he laid his head against my chest.

The world was still.

So when he spoke, it caught me off guard.

"Why are you with me?"

I blinked, half-glancing down at him. “Hmm?”

He didn’t look up. “I mean really... why? Besides the money.”

I laughed softly, ready with some sort of joke probably something cheeky about his ability to order uber eats without glancing at the price.

But then I felt it.

His body had tensed slightly. His hand had stilled. His breathing was shallow.

And when he finally looked up at me, I saw the tears in his eyes.

My heart sank.

Not in a dramatic, movie-scene kind of way. In the real way. That sudden drop in your stomach when someone you love looks like they’ve been carrying a weight too heavy for too long and they’ve only just let you see it.

“Oh, Joe...” I whispered, sitting up straighter, cupping his face with both hands.

He tried to blink the tears away, but one escaped, trailing down his cheek, and I caught it with my thumb before it could fall much further.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, voice thick. “I don’t mean to be that guy. I just I’ve been trying not to say anything for weeks. But it’s there. Always. Just... sitting.”

I nodded slowly, not rushing him. His eyes were bloodshot now, and he looked genuinely exhausted.

“You think I’m here for your money?” I asked, gently.

He gave a helpless little shrug. “I don’t know. Not just that. I mean no. Not you. But it’s happened before, you know? And she...” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “My ex used to tell me people only liked me now because of who I am. That I was boring, or too sensitive, or anxious. That the attention would fade and no one would actually stay.”

He let out a shaky breath. “And I don’t want that to be true. But part of me’s still terrified that it is.”

I leaned in, pressed my forehead against his, and closed my eyes for a moment.

God, I hated her. Not in the petty way, but in the way you hate storms that knock down people’s homes. She hadn’t just hurt him she’d rewired him. Made love feel conditional. Fragile.

“Look at me,” I whispered, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes.

He did. Barely. But he did.

“I don’t love you because of your money,” I said softly. “And I’m not with you because of your face, or your name, or because you can buy fancy wine when I’d be happy with a £3 one.”

He let out a tiny laugh, tear-wet and broken. “You do love the wine, though.”

I smiled. “Sure, but I’d still love you if we were sharing chips on a park bench.”

He went quiet again. I could see the battle in his expression the one between wanting to believe me and not quite knowing how.

So I told him the truth. The whole truth. The messy, soft, unfiltered truth.

“I love you because you talk to animals like they understand you. I love you because you rewatch the same five comfort films like they’re sacred texts. I love you because you overthink everything and still find time to make everyone feel seen.”

He blinked at me.

“I love how you double-check your texts to make sure they don’t sound too blunt. I love how you cry at films you’ve already seen, how you say sorry too much, and how you play with the edge of your sleeves when you’re nervous.”

He swallowed.

“I love that you let me in,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when it’s hard. Even when your past is louder than your present. I love you in all your anxious, overthinking, late-night-thinking, soft-hearted chaos.”

By then, he was crying again. But it was different. Softer. Almost peaceful.

“And I will tell you every single day, in every single way you need to hear it that I’m not here for what you have. I’m here for who you are. And if that means repeating myself a hundred times a day, I will. Because that’s what love is, Joe. It’s not just kisses and smiles and stolen jumpers. It’s sitting in the dark with someone and reminding them that the monsters aren’t real even when they’re convinced they are.”

He pulled me into him then, arms wrapped so tightly around me it nearly knocked the breath out of my lungs. His face was tucked into my neck, and I could feel the warmth of his tears against my skin.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

“Shut up,” I whispered back. “You deserve all of this and more.”

We sat there like that for a long time. The telly still buzzed in the background, but we weren’t watching. We weren’t doing anything, really.

Just being.

Existing in this quiet, sacred space where fear and love met in the middle.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at me again. His eyes were still red, but the panic had settled.

“You’re not going anywhere?” he asked.

“Only to the kitchen for snacks,” I said, smiling softly. “And I’ll come back.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “Promise?”

I held up my pinkie. “Promise.”

He linked his with mine. That stupid, silly little gesture we’d started doing early on, almost as a joke. Now it felt like an oath.

“I love you,” he said, voice still trembling.

“I know. I love you, too.”

He nodded. “Tell me again in the morning?”

“I’ll tell you in five minutes if you want.”

He grinned, cheeks still damp. “Yeah. I might.”

“Then I’ll be ready.”

We curled up again, this time with him holding me like he needed to make sure I was real. And I let him. Because he did need it. And I didn’t mind.

That was the thing, wasn’t it? Loving someone like Joe someone who had been burned and bruised by love meant being gentle where others hadn’t been. It meant repeating yourself, proving yourself, standing firm in the face of every doubt his past had drilled into him.

And I would.

As many times as he needed.

Forever, if it came to that.

Because when someone like Joseph Quinn gives you his heart, all battered and unsure you don’t just take it.

You protect it.

You prove it’s safe with you.

And that’s exactly what I planned to do.

Some mornings are soft by default. You wake up to sunlight creeping through the curtains, the kind that paints the duvet golden. There's the weight of him next to me, always warm even when it’s cold out. Sometimes he sleeps on his stomach, arms stretched above his head like a starfish. Other times he’s tucked in close, his leg hooked around mine, mouth slightly open.

But this morning felt... still.

Not peaceful. Just still.

I blinked awake, the way you do when your body knows something's off before your brain catches up. The bed beside me was still half-full, but it was obvious Joe hadn’t been sleeping. He was sitting up, back against the headboard, his phone in his hand. His brows were drawn, his jaw tight. His thumb kept swiping, but the look on his face made it clear nothing he was seeing was doing him any good.

“Hey,” I murmured, voice hoarse with sleep, reaching out to touch his arm. “What’s wrong?”

He flinched a little not away from me, just like I’d pulled him out of something deep. He looked down at me, guilt flashing across his features like he’d been caught red-handed.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, voice low.

“You didn’t. What are you looking at?”

He hesitated, thumb locking his screen before placing the phone facedown on his lap. “Just... the usual shit. Some tagged posts. A few threads.”

My stomach sank. I didn’t have to ask what kind of threads. I knew the tone of voice he used when he’d been reading things he shouldn’t have. Not because he didn’t have the right, but because they never gave him anything helpful. Just noise. Cruel, unfiltered noise.

“What did they say?” I asked gently, pushing myself up so I could sit beside him.

He ran a hand through his hair, looking away. “That I’ve gone quiet. That I’m boring now. That I’m losing it. That I don’t look the way I used to.”

I waited.

He hesitated. “That you’re with me for status. Or because I’m ‘safe’. Or because you’re settling. That I’m lucky you haven’t left.”

My chest ached.

It had been years. Years of love and laughter, of slow Sundays and shared meals and stolen kisses backstage. Years of healing and growing and building. And for the most part, Joe was steady now. More confident in who he was. More at home in his own skin.

But healing isn’t a straight line.

Sometimes, it loops back around when you least expect it.

And today, it had.

He glanced at me, eyes glassy. “I thought I was past this,” he whispered. “I thought I didn’t need it anymore. The reassurance.”

I reached for his hand, lacing my fingers through his.

“You’re allowed to need it,” I said softly. “There’s no expiry date on needing to be reminded you’re loved.”

His shoulders dropped a little. He leaned his head against mine.

“Still feel stupid, though.”

“You’re not,” I said firmly, brushing a thumb over his knuckles. “You’re human. And humans bruise. Even when they’re healing.”

He didn’t say anything, but I felt his grip tighten ever so slightly.

So I told him again. New words, because love isn’t static. It grows, shifts, expands. And there were so many more reasons now.

“I love you,” I began, voice soft but steady. “I love the way you talk about your work. Not for the fame, not for the clout. But because it matters to you. You care so deeply, Joe. About everything. About everyone.”

He stayed quiet, but his head tilted slightly, listening.

“I love the way you read not just scripts, but books, articles, anything that makes you think. I love how you send me links at 2am with things like ‘this made me think of you.’ I love how you listen. How you really listen, even when you’re exhausted.”

He sniffed, and I looked up to find tears in his eyes again. Softer this time. Quiet.

“I love how you are with my family. How you remember everyone’s birthday, and how you let my dad ramble about old films you’ve never seen. I love how you fold my clothes when you think I won’t notice. I love how you always make sure there’s oat milk in the fridge.”

He gave a small laugh at that, wiping at his eyes.

“I love your voice in the morning, all gravelly and confused. I love the way you still get nervous before interviews, but do them anyway. I love your hands, and your heart, and the way you still look at me like I’m the best thing that ever happened to you even when you’ve just read comments that try to convince you I’m not.”

By now, his chin had tilted slightly, eyes locked on mine. Vulnerable. Open. Listening.

“You’ve worked so hard to love yourself again,” I whispered, resting my hand over his chest. “And you don’t have to do that alone. You never did. I’ll carry it with you. Every time. If your brain gets loud, I’ll talk louder. If your past comes knocking, I’ll be at the door with you.”

He blinked rapidly, tears slipping silently down his cheeks. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“You loved me,” I said simply. “You let me love you. You showed up even when it was hard.”

He leaned forward then, and I caught him in my arms. He held on tightly, like the words had cracked something open in him and now he just needed to be held while it settled.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against my neck. “I really thought I was doing better.”

“You are,” I murmured. “But you’re still allowed to wobble. You’re allowed to have moments. You’re allowed to ask.”

He exhaled shakily.

“I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not. You never have been.”

I pulled back gently, hands cupping his face.

“You never have to pretend you’re fine when you’re not. Not with me. If you need reminding if you need reassurance ask. No shame. No guilt. I’ll say it as many times as you need.”

He smiled then, tear-streaked but sincere. “Even if it’s three times before breakfast?”

“Especially if it’s three times before breakfast.”

A quiet laugh left him. The tension in his shoulders eased. And I knew he’d be okay again soon. Not fixed not perfectly pieced together. But okay. Safe. Loved.

We sat there in the golden quiet for a while longer. The phone stayed face-down. The world could wait.

He had what he needed right here.

And so did I.

[npookie0]

NATHAN, my king- you've broken my heart so much with the 'gone without a trace' headcanons and my dude... I've gotta ask this to save my fragile aorta- could we maybe get some headcanons of the Lis finally finding they're partners after so long? Like they find a single clue that Leads them to their Partner's trail.

Please and thank you, love your work also you dropped this -> 👑

A Trace Found

Headcanons for Killer Chat! love interests x mc who they found after they (mc) went missing

have your free therapy gays

Finding a clue about your whereabouts :

Ronin

When he found that clue, that one little piece of information he needed, Ronin through that he went completely insane, like he's actually lost it and his mind was playing tricks on him. "No fucking way it's real... after so long and I find it now? Fuckin' hell, you're playing tricks on me now aren't ya?" To Ronin it would also feel like God has challenged him, like he was the one to take you from your murderous lover and now he's throwing him a bone after so long.

Angel

For Angel it was like regaining hope, the light returned to her eyes and she wasn't going to give up now. She held onto that hint and shook up all of her contacts to get all knowledge she could.

Misaki

For them it was like a newfound will to live. It was a hint on your location, they weren't crazy, they didn't make you up with their crazy mind. Misaki was going to pour her whole heart into finding you, use any means necessary to get to you and tell you how much she missed you and ask you why, why would you leave so suddenly and not tell her.

V

In the moment V saw the clue on where you could be, he moved all of his sources and informants, threw money at them and follow with his own investigation. He has to find you, he has to see you and make sure that you're safe.

Finding you :

Ronin

He stood still the moment he saw your face, then he started laughing, a shaken sound mixed with some barely hearable sobs. "So this is where you were! Wow, darlin', you overdid yourself." He grabbed you by your hand and pulled you closer, buried his face in the crook of your neck. "You played your game well, took me a while to get to ya."

He felt desperate, starved for your presence. He felt somewhat panicked, scared that he fucked up to a point of you escaping and erasing every sign of yourself.

He brought you back with you and for a week he didn't lose the sight of you, he didn't want to lose you for the second time, he didn't want to lose another partner.

Angel

She broke down completely, ran to you and cried while holding you tightly. Finally you're back with her. She never felt more relieved in her life, or at least that's how she felt in that moment. "I... I'm sorry for whatever I did, but please, never do that again."

She blamed herself for your disappearance, like it was her fault for you leaving. It was normal for Maria to throw all blame at her even if it was clearly not her fault.

She would check up on you daily, ask you for calls and meet ups at her place, sometimes she'd come to you herself, she just needed to see you and know that you're there.

Misaki

"No fucking way." She dropped to her knees in front of you, wrapped their arms around you and just held on. There was sobbing and bunch of questions, but they honestly didn't want to hear the answers, they just needed to hold you for a while longer.

They asked you if it's something they did, if you left because of her. She'd think that she disappointed you or that you were afraid of them because of their job as an assassin.

They'd stick around for a while, trying to not show their anxiety at the idea of you leaving again. She would calm down after a while, but still would text you even more often that before you were gone just in case.

V

He held your face between his hands, standing still and stiff in front of you. His eyes were travelling over your whole form, he couldn't form any words, he just looked at you and tried to understand the situation. "It... it really is you, my love."

He'd question you about the reasons behind your disappearance. He would feel differently depending on your answers, but the feeling of heartbreak would be the same no matter of your words and reasons. His whole world was ruined when every trace of you was gone and he will let it show.

Maybe he wouldn't cage you or put security all around your house to watch you, but Valentin would keep close to you and spend time with you, even his vigilante work could be pushed back just so he could get used to having you around again. All he needed was time to heal after losing you.

They found you yay

I hope it's happy ending enough <3

[meirimerens]

Do you have recommendations on reading sth more experimental? 👀

fair warning a lot of the experimental shit i've read i've read in art school context so i have no idea if the classmates who made it published it somewhere + it is kinda hard to recommend experimental shit by virtue of it being experimental so i'm going to rec stuff that i consider like. "mainstream" experimental as in yeah an author wrote this. also the "actually unconventional" bar is pretty low starting from the stuff i was moaning about so well also ☝ love pushing upon people books i've read + i know for a fact i've pushed them before lollll so

mainstream as it goes: House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. like you know?

unconventional in essence through shape. it is one book of ergodic literature and if you dig into ergodic literature you will find unconventionality that's kinda Its Thing. i understand by standards for "unconventional prose/pacing" get pretty high once you've put your eyes on this but like. i got more conventional in shape that still are unconventional in prose of pacing.

still mainstream-ish? if you're French? she was an author well-known and important in her time and place (she's still alive it's just that she was important as an author of the literary feminist wave in the 60s & 70s), Anankè by Hélène Cixous. i've read it in french and have no idea how it fares in english (or translated otherwise) but if you want unconventional pacing and prose you're getting unconventional pacing and prose. it is full to the brim with homonyms (hence why idk how it fares in english), of subject-to-attribute uncouplings (a verb conjugated for "I", a subject as "she"), words straight up made the fuck up through homonymy (like "téléfaune", from téléphone and faune [faun/satyr]). some sentences are 2 full pages long, reading them feels like trying to ride out an engine startle. it has no plot, it is about an internal trip, a self-actualization from girl to woman, or from chaperoned woman to free woman. you don't read this for plot, you read this to feel like you've traveled with your head through the open window, and for the imagery, god the imagery i find so very great. unlikely associations, quite sensorial. it's a short book but i've needed multiple tries to get through it because, as i've said, the long sentences feel like trying to hold onto a hand-cranked engine start. the pacing feels cyclical, like an endless stop and start, expressing the internal conflict. you have to hold onto it.

mainstream-ish again if you're french, Le Corps Lesbien [The Lesbian Body] by Monique Wittig. it's one of those where if you're not on that crazy shit you're gonna get yucked, it is endlessly violent in grotesque ways that make you horribly aware of all the anatomical details of your body. it alternates horrible and grotesque neverending violence with horrible and grotesque neverending tenderness (& sometimes neverending tenderness in/through grotesque violence or vice-versa). another one of those where the english translation cannot truly do it justice because french has "elles [female plural they]" and "ils [male plural they]" and wittig goes out of her way to never use ils [french has "masculine as default" grammatical gender]. in the french text, "je" (subject "I") is cleaved in twain: "j/e". In english, they've just italicized it; i think they'd have done well to use something like the polish ł to figure it. anyways barely a plot either. cyclical destruction in grotesque ways that both are anatomical impossible and yet horrifyingly anatomically-anchored. re:the violence in this i'm sure if you've read like. "extreme horror" novels by whichever male author of the month it is you probably won't flinch but i've read this after a long streak of nonfiction & poetry.

i think a bit less mainstream because i've been told about it in art school lol after i had partaken in a collective performance and my stuff had for base a poem about a roadkill that neverendingly dies then is reborn only to die again anyways Jaguar Harmonics by Anne Waldman. closer to poems than literature-in-prose (even if it is in prose instead of rhyme) it is about/from the yagé (ayahuasca) ritual by waldman, poet & buddhist & activist who brings in the text a lot of subjects and themes (the anthropocene, colonization, environmental and feminist concerns,...). it is poetry, so technicallyyyyyyy unconventional by nature as far as literature goes, + spoken poetry at that, i know for a fact there is a bandcamp where you can listen to the poems spoken/sung.

what else. since i'm on the topic of poetry check out Guillaume Apollinaire's Calligrammes i guess

you'll hate me for bringing it up again + it's poetry also againnnn LOL but The Oresteia as transladaptated by Tony Harrison. i find it's great english it uses words that brother i've never seen used. and i loooooove a made-up compound word the people know this about me. let's liven this shit up let's make words up!

French has l'Oulipo ("Ouvroir de littérature potentielle", "opener of potential literature") with representatives such as Raymond Queneau who made a book of poems that looks like this

OH AND HE MADE "EXERCISES DE STYLE" which i quite like also (99 times the same story written with different stylistic/literary constraints)

[fuck-customers]

TW: potential sexual harassment, adult in diaper, potential exposing of oneself, aggressiveness,

This is a really weird and long one so I totally understand if it doesn't get submitted. A couple months ago I was working as a pizza delivery driver. I knocked on this guys door (as I had his pizza delivery) and he opened the door wearing a diaper and a short shirt (almost crop top length). I saw that a bit TOO much was hanging out of the diaper. I won't go into detail but I could see his genitals and felt very uncomfortable and afraid. Anyway, I went to hand him his pizza and I said the total. He had a card ready and I said "oh was this meant to be cash?"

So, this is my mistake here - our dockets said 'cash delivery' in big font at the bottom of every order not paid online, but when it was to be paid on the portable card machine there is a smaller text below 'cash delivery' that says 'eftpos machine'. I hadn't seen the 'eftpos machine' text when I was getting in my car so I didn't take the eftpos machine with me.

When the guy brought out the card, I looked at the docket and said 'I'm sorry, I've misread and not brought the eftpos machine, I'm going to call my store and ask what to do' (just as an add on, this was during my second week working there so I was relatively new which was why I didn't know what I should do in this situation). He was starting to get agitated and kept staring at me so I just called my store, and my manager told me that the customer could either pay over the phone with his card number or I could come back to get the eftpos machine. I told the customer this, and he started yelling at me, saying things like 'you're trying to rob me of my fucking money' 'what is your problem are you stupid' and 'how are you going to make this up to me' and heaps of random shit. I just stood there in shock and tried to calm him down but he kept going and going. I kid you not this guy probably yelled at me for like two-four minutes straight.

I ended up saying that I would drive back to the store to get the eftpos machine (the store was literally the street over from this guy's house) and that I would be back in 5 mins. He started yelling at me again saying that I was going to take his pizza and that his food was going to get cold. I told him that I wasn't going to take the pizza and that I was going to leave it with him, and then I left to get the machine.

When I got back to the store my manager was pissy with me that I hadn't brought it in the first place. I told him that the customer had made me uncomfortable because he had pretty much exposed himself to me and then yelled at me for about five minutes (which my manager heard all of over the phone call!) and my manager said he didn't give a fuck and told me to go back to the house.

I came back to the house, and I knocked on the door. The guy called out 'come in!' and I'm thinking hell fucking no I'm not walking into this guys house. He keeps calling out 'just come in! come in!' but I just stand at the door. Eventually he comes to the door and I hand him the eftpos machine. He looks at me and he says 'you know, you have to be better at your job, because SOME people would yell at you for something like that'. And then he closed the door.

I have had no idea what to make of this situation. I really want to believe that this guy had something like dementia which could cause him to not realise that his attire was inappropriate and could also cause the aggression and feelings of persecution. He looked to be about 50-60, so this could definitely be the case. When it happened I felt so uncomfortable and scared, which was mainly because I could see some of his genitals. A part of me is afraid that he had malicious intent behind opening the door to me with his stuff partially hanging out, but I'm just not sure. I know that I fucked up with not reading the docket correctly but I just really don't think that I deserved all of that for that mistake. I think I'm actually more mad at my manager who just told me to go back there alone, even after I told him what had happened and that I was uncomfortable. Also for context I am a 22 year old woman so I was quite afraid lol. Anyway, I've quit now, so thank god for that.

Posted by admin Rodney