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sadagios · 5 months ago

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Icarus, and the Sunflower

A Desert Duo/Scarian AU about an avid player meeting his favorite, comfort character in a death loop video game.

I can’t write a fic, nor have time to draw comics like i used to, so we are doing bullet points on a tumblr post

PART ONE: BEFORE THE ALPHA TEST

PILOT: PART TWO

2.1k words below the cut

SOME BEGINNING NOTES: - This AU is only character shipping, and references a lot outside the life series events (evo, hermitcraft, empires, etc). This is not meant to ship the CC’s themselves and if anything alludes to it, it is purely unintentional. - This is not canon-compliant ermmmm i do what i want and i will put every idea i have into this - Tags for this part? Game dev AU, Grian is whipped for Scar, some characters are real and some are fictional, this is only the pilot, absolutely not beta'd i only have one impulsive braincell

A. Gria

Gria is a single man in his late 20s; he works at a game company called E.V.O. Games (Entertainment Virtual for Everyone). He was an architecture graduate who dabbled in game dev in his spare time during his undergraduate studies. Although he didn’t pursue that path, he utilized his skills in level design. He used to work in several indie game companies, one of which was a company founded with friends, before he was hired by E.V.O. Games. He was excellent at his job, and his ideas and inputs always improved whatever project he worked on. Because of this, after a few years, he was promoted to creative director.

His latest project was “The Evolutionists’ Portal,” a 3D pixel-style puzzle game in which the player has to navigate the world to find portals hidden in each level, and these portals progress the game. With each portal traveled into, the world becomes bigger and more complicated, making each portal harder to find. However, with multiplayer, this task is easier through working together (and doing fun shenanigans together).

It had a buggy release, especially for multiplayer, but it built a decent player fanbase; the story itself was short and simple, but it was replayable thanks to its multiplayer mode.

For visualization, it’s 3D with a top-down perspective like “Pokemon Diamond/Pear/Platinum” but has gameplay similar to “Stardew Valley”

Gria and his team get along well, and he is quite close to some of them:

Martyn: an audio engineer. This is the first game he’s worked on since he was first hired in the company.

“Big B”: a VFX artist. He and Gria joined the company around the same time and bonded over stressful deadlines and annoying seniors when they started out.

Jimmy: the project manager. Although Gria takes a lot of joy in teasing him, he is hardworking and great at keeping everyone in check with the calendar. Out of everyone, he is the one Gria is closest with. He also works on another game by the company called “Empires.”

Pearl: an environment artist. She joined the company a bit later in the development. It is her first time dealing with pixel graphics but she did it incredibly well. She also works on “Empires” with Jimmy.

“Empires” is a free-to-play fantasy open-world action gacha RPG. It is the biggest game of the company and their title game.

For visualization, it’s just “Genshin Impact” and “Honkai: Star Rail”.

Recently, there was a buzz around that their game, “Empires”, will have a collaboration event with another big name. Gria was too busy and overworked to take notice of this, though.

The fruits of his labor later came as game nominations for “Best Multiplayer” and “Best Audio Design.” Gria was happy their work was acknowledged by players worldwide, even if they didn’t win.

B. Hermitopia

After so long, Gria finally took a week off. It was foreign to have no obligations for even a day. He doesn’t use this time to travel; instead, he sits at home and lurks on the internet to keep up with gaming news and updates. He uses the username “Xelqua” with a red macaw as his profile picture.

He stumbled upon a “Redstone tutorial” post by the user ”Potatonutshell”. Curious and intrigued by how such a complicated contraption is possible in a game (and bored out of his mind), he asked this user what game it was for. Potatonutshell briefly, and over-excitedly, DM’d Gria with a huge wall of text about this game called “Hermitopia 6.”

In the beginning days of his break, Gria spent time messaging this Potatonutshell fella, named “Mumbo.” Mumbo named himself after a character named “Mumbo Jumbo”, who is one of the most skilled “redstoners” in the game. He related heavily with the character and took a lot of interest in the redstone circuitry game feature as he is a programmer in real life. Gria thought the game was interesting, but not enough to install a 36 GB game for $39.99. He changed his mind when Mumbo told him more about the game, especially its base-building mechanic.

“Hermitopia 6: Hermit Civil War” is an open-world fantasy action RPG known for its base-building core mechanic. It is the sixth game in the franchise, and each game starts in a brand-new world. The player and the lovable NPCs are called hermits, a band of humans, fae, hybrids, and other species who live together on an island and work together to live a sustainable life amidst the hostile creatures that roam the world.

For visualization, it’s like “Skyrim” with “Baldur’s Gate 3” graphics and dialogue UI.

Gria planned to try it for a few hours, only humoring his new internet friend, until he met this beautiful NPC named “Scar Goodtimes” — a human-vex hybrid with scars all over his “handsome face and carved body”, as Gria would personally describe him. He was also a builder who lived near Gria’s very odd underwater base. Throughout the remaining days of his break, and his weekends after that, Gria played Hermitopia 6 religiously.

Scar calls him “GRIAN”, which was a typo error — Gria pressed enter early in the name selection screen and he didn’t realize it until Scar first mentioned his name 3 hours into the game. He can’t be bothered to fix it, though (and he's grown fond of it.)

Gria continued to play the game in his free time, slowly falling in love with the game as he kept on playing. He also kept talking to Mumbo, who he fanboyed about the game with. He found out that Mumbo lived close by too, so they hung out frequently and bonded over the game.

Gria: I genuinely thought you had a big mustache, y’know, like Mumbo Jumbo. Mumbo: I do too! It’s... it's there! [he shows his very faint mustache] It's there! Gria: sure.

Xelqua started off as a lurker, to an active Hermitopia fan account. He was interested in the base-building aspect of the game and shared his designs online.

Hermitopia is not a dating simulator. There is no romance mechanic in the game. Anyway, Gria installed (and tweaked) a romance mod because no one can stop him from flirting with his fictional vex boyfriend.

Mumbo: Grian, if I hadn't met you personally, I would've pictured you as a crazy Scar fanatic. Gria: Wha— How— I’m not crazy. Mumbo: You downloaded a romance mod just to flirt with Scar and commissioned an artist to draw a scene from it, and now you have it framed on your bedroom wall. So, Grian, I think that’s crazy behavior. Gria: … I do what I want, Mumbo!

Gria's love for the game and Scar grew more as another hermitopia game was released (Hermitopia 7). Then, he, as Xelqua, became a notorious name because of a supposedly harmless poll about the sexiest character in the game. He was known as the insane Scar fan.

He's got every Scar merch, though there isn't much Hermitopia merch released in general. However, if someone posts about a new Scar fan merch, a certain username might appear in their notifications, like a hound trailing a scent. Haters and trolls are also dragged to hell and back because, if they aren't regretful after being berated by this insane man, they will not be able to surf through the web in peace as long as Xelqua holds a grudge.

As insane as this Xelqua person is, Scar had become a popular character within the fandom, compared to his old status as an underrated sweetheart without much attention or fanfare thanks to Xelqua constantly (for years without missing a day) talking about him. Xelqua also organized or helped some Scar fan events and constantly supported merch creators with hermitopia merch (especially if it involved Scar.)

User Xelqua, about Scar: He is my little sunshine, my precious sunflower. He might’ve killed some men, but he was hot while doing it.

C. The Collaboration Event

Back to Game dev stuff, Gria isn’t open about his current obsession with his coworkers. When the collaboration event with the “Empires” games was finally announced, two representatives from the other company came to visit. “Skizzleman” has been a writer for Hermitopia since the 3rd game. A character from Empires, Gemini, will become a new character in the next Hermitopia game, and there will be a DLC that will add a new small map with many biomes and new materials. In Empires, Hermitopia characters will be featured in a limited-run gacha banner and a limited-time story event.

Now a Hermitopia fan, Gria tried to interview Skizzleman about the game (while making it not obvious how obsessed he is with it). Skizzleman was the one who wrote the lore for “Impulse” as well as most of his dialogue throughout the games.

Another representative for Hermitopia, the lead designer Joel, came to visit for the collab event. He is a fanatic of Empires and a diehard “Shadow Lady” fan, which is why he is so excited to work with E.V.O. Games for the collab.

Accompaniment art for this here: link

Gria was never into gacha games, but with a mix of Pearl and Jimmy convincing him to try the game they worked on (not to mention the fact that it is free-to-play), and showing him an initial sketch of what some hermitopia characters will look like in the game (this isn’t allowed, but Jimmy and Pearl found the thought of their serious coworker playing a gacha game amusing), he finally caved. Little did they know, showing a topless concept art of Scar is more than enough to reel him in.

When the collab update was finally released, Gria grinded Empires just to get Scar. He practically paid his own salary back to his company just to get Scar to max level and his additional skins. (He loved his new “HotGuy” skin the most)

With the release of “Hermitopia 8: Moon Collision” and the introduction of co-op multiplayer mode, Gria invited Pearl to play with him with the excuse that they're only going to see how Gemini looks in the game. Gria successfully got Pearl hooked on the game.

D. The Watchers Studio

Before Gria properly applied to a game company, he developed small-scale games with his high school friends. They called themselves “The Watchers.” He met them in a small art club and they bonded over their favorite games. Gria’s favorite game growing up was an old zombie game with a title he can no longer remember.

One of their unfinished games was “The Life Game.” It was a battle-royal death game where the players had to gather resources and have limited lives.

Two of their old friend group recently reached out to Gria to catch up. They said they wanted to work on “The Life Game” again and wanted to ask Gria if he wanted to join again. Of course, Gria already had a job himself, so he declined. However, he hung out with the two and checked in with their progress, nostalgia hitting him as they relived their old game ideas.

The two invited Gria to do an alpha test and asked him to invite any friends who might find it fun. Gria invited Jimmy, Pearl, Martyn, and Big B, as well as Skizzleman and Joel who he’s been acquainted with. He also sent an invite to Mumbo, who was unfortunately busy with his job at the moment.

To Gria’s surprise, the two had turned their game into a VR game. All seven of them played in a medium-sized studio, and although the game was fun, it was nausea-inducing, especially for Joel. They all lost to the Computer-AI characters, which concluded their Alpha Test.

After the meetup, the two lent them their CD copy of the game with the VR Headset they used (which was suspiciously generous of them).

Skizzleman liked the game a lot and asked if they could do it again sometime, which Gria relayed to his two old friends. Pearl shared the same sentiment but is too caught up with work which makes her unable to join their next session.

The gang kept discussing the game they played and its potential to become a hit with a little more polish. This made Gria feel proud of his old team and his past self, reminding him of the time he was passionate about making games despite his lack of experience.

With limited coding knowledge and a little help from Mumbo, he made a server to host “The Life Game” online instead of LAN. He sent copies to Mumbo and Pearl in case they’d join later. According to the two, the game had more improvements to it since the last time they played it, which was months ago.

Gria had a small voice in his head telling him this was a bad idea— well, he did get a bit sick in the last session, but everyone had fun. So, he ignored the warning bells and hit “Join World.”

This marks the End of Pilot Part One Next Chapter > PART TWO: UNFIXABLE ERROR

ENDING NOTES: I've been brainrotting and hyperfixating on the idea for a while now, and I don't know how to let it all out so I'm going to try out this format. Hopefully I could add more to this! Thank you if you've read this far into the post. :) Made a spotify playlist too in case anyone is interested (I'm still working on this though)

#desertduo #scarian #trafficshipping #hermitshipping #grian #goodtimeswithscar #life series #mcyt #AU - Scarian Death Game #<< i have yet to change this #my art #my writing #<< ?? if you could even call it that #Icarus and the Sunflower

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rizzyu · 6 days ago

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▵▿— Hold Me Close

— Jing Yuan, Boothill, Gepard, Sunday, Phainon, Mydei, Anaxa, Jiaoqiu x gn!reader

Category: Actually tooth rotting fluff

Synopsis: what is it like cuddling them?

CW: none :D

A/N: when u don’t know which one character to write for... also pls let me know if past or present tense would work better for drabbles like these I genuinely don’t know AAAA

JING YUAN —▵▿

Be prepared to not be able to breathe for the next few hours.

The Luofu General would lay on top of you, with all the weight and muscles he had, cling onto you like a massive cat. How could he not? You were just so comfortable, a perfect mattress for his afternoon nap.

“Jing Yuan- darling you’re crushing me…”

The man would only hum in response as he shifted on top of you to get a bit more comfortable, pressing the last puff of air from your lungs as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His arms looped around your waist as if you’re a pillow. No matter how many times you tried to peel yourself away from him, it was futile.

“Just let me sleep…” He murmured. His voice was deep and gravelly.

You look down to see the man peacefully asleep. His lashes fluttered against his cheek. It was just part of his charm to be able to have you give in to him so easily. You could only sigh in defeat before bringing your hand up to comb through the General’s wild silvery mane, eliciting another content hum from him.

BOOTHILL —▵▿

Despite being 90% metal, the cowboy was oddly comfortable to cuddle with. Boothill enjoyed having you lay on his chest as he gently combed his metal fingers through your hair. One of the best parts about cuddling with you was being about to yap just about anything with you. What he did on the day… how fun it was to gun down IPC guards… how that secret stash of bullets in his pocket always tasted better with you on his mind.

Boothill loved nuzzling his face against you. It was the one way he could feel you, your body heat, and the smoothness of your skin. Somehow, it all made him feel so human.

“Darlin’… yer’s so soft. Wish I could feel ya all over.”

Often times, Boothill would nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck and kiss all the skin he could come in contact with before parting his lips and just gently bite on your skin with his teeth. Nothing sexual, he just wanted to feel and taste you. You were the one who made him feel whole, after all.

GEPARD —▵▿

Great at cuddling, especially after one long, tiring day of work.

The Captain of the Silvermane Guards would just haphazardly remove his armour, not even bothering to change out of his uniform before flopping into bed and cuddling you. With his face buried in your chest and arms wrapped around your waist, the man was finally able to let himself relax in your embrace.

Stroke his hair, pepper him with kisses, whisper sweet nothings to his ear, he’d let you do anything to him while cuddling. No words were needed to be exchanged either. He loved the peaceful silence shared between the two of you. But of course, if you wanted to talk, he would listen. If you asked him how his day went, Gepard would undoubtedly share all the wonderful and not so wonderful things with you.

SUNDAY —▵▿

Although being together for so long, Sunday still couldn’t help but feel flustered and giddy all over whenever receiving attention form you. Cuddling wasn’t an exception.

Sunday would be blushing and everything as you hold him close. His legs were tangled with yours and his face was buried in your chest as you idly groomed his wings. He could feel your fingers gingerly fixing every individual feather. He couldn’t help but let it flinch in your hands, and every time it did, he could hear you snicker softly. It was such a lovely melody, he would listen to your laugh for the rest of his life.

You would sometimes tease him for his adorable blush while you were cuddling, peppering his cheeks and making his cheeks heat up even more until the Oak Family head was all putty in your arms.

“Must you tease me so much? Ah… dear, please, this is so humiliating…”

PHAINON —▵▿

Phainon patiently waited for you on the bed. His armour was already removed. Upon seeing you enter the bedroom, he outstretched his arms, an adorably wide smile hung on his face as he gave you the puppy eyes.

“Cuddle?”

You swore he was going to be the death of your poor heart.

The moment you get into bed, he would cling onto your waist and bury his face in your stomach. You didn’t even get the chance to properly lay down yet and the man would be shamelessly attached to you, molding his body with yours. The feeling of you against him was everything that he could ask for.

The cheeky man would sometimes tease you out of nowhere, pinching your side or tickling you, just to make you flinch and giggle. You weren’t about to let him off the hook so easily. A cuddle session would all of a sudden turn into the two of you rolling around the bed, trying to tickle the living daylights out of one another.

By the time you two laid panting, Phainon would pull you close and bury his face at the crook of your neck before finally letting you fall asleep.

MYDEI—▵▿

Mydei was perfect to lay on top of. His body was broad and warm, your perfect heater. Not to mention, he would let you rest your head against his ‘pillows’ (ahem ahem).

Mydei gently traced random shapes on your back as he felt your chest rise and fall against him with every breath you took. The feeling grounded him. It reminded him of your comforting presence. Mydei let you trace his red markings as you cuddled. Your feather-light touch would send tingles down his spine.

You would sometimes prop you chin in your palm as you silently admire the Kremnoan prince. Your gaze would trace every feature of his handsome face, a smile gracing your lips, until Mydei adverted his gaze to hide his blushing cheeks.

“HKS…” He mumbled.

You could only giggle at his reaction before leaning down to pepper kisses all over his face.

ANAXA —▵▿

Anaxa was never the first to cuddle you, but he would always wait for you.

The moment he felt the mattress dip and your arms wrap around him, he would put away the scroll he had been reading and reciprocate, slipping his arms around your torso, letting you tangle your legs with his, and bury his face in the crook of your neck.

Anaxa lived for the feeling of your hands gingerly combing through his hair. It calmed him from one long day of dealing with his annoying students. The professor would rant on about his new theories, or how his students wouldn’t stop calling him atrociously ridiculous names.

“’Prof ‘Nax?’ Tsk. The sheer audacity of those children.”

Anaxa could feel your chest moving against his as you laughed, and he hugged you closer. The feeling of you by his side grounded him. He let his eyes droop as he relaxed against you. You were his solace, his sanctuary, the only deity he would devote himself to.

JIAOQIU —▵▿

The purpose of a fox’s tail was to keep itself warm. Jiaoqiu’s tail was for letting you hug like a pillow. He didn’t mind as long as he could feel your warmth around him. The two of you would lay side by side, you back against his front and his tail could curl to the front of you for you to hold.

Jiaoqiu wrapped his arms securely around your torso. He tended to slip his hands beneath your clothes to gently trace your skin as you cuddled. He loved how you soft you felt, and he’ll be damned if he wasn’t able to feel you for even a second. He would trace invisible shapes and rub gentle circles on your stomach or waist, or gently massage the muscles of your body.

“Your muscles are too tense… may I help you, my dear?”

The foxian would brush your hair to the side and litter your neck and nape with tender kisses and teasing bites, leaving little red marks over your skin. Every sensation of his lips and fangs on your skin sent shivers down your spine.

“Jiaoqiu… people are gonna see those marks…”

“Hmm…? Was that not the idea?”

OH GOD MY HANDS

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moyazaika · 2 months ago

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housewife syndrome

yandere! rockstar x fem! reader

cw; possessive + obsessive behaviour, severe mental instability, paranoia, anxiety, violence, heavy nsfw themes, mdni 18+

genie's notes; commissioned piece by a very sweet anon ♡ thank you so much for trusting me with this absolutely stunning idea. i’ve always been a fan of domestic horror, especially of the spiralling housewife variety, so it was fun to explore a new dynamic and fresh writing style. <3

"welcome home, sweetheart!" the television runs on low volume in the background as you greet your husband with a knowing smile. you run through the motions as you always do, make sure to ask with the most innocence you can muster, "how was your day?"

feroze can make out the sound of gallant applause that indicates you'd been watching reruns of last night's award ceremony.

"such a fucking drag." your husband pulls you into his arms, buries his head into the crook of your neck with a long, satisfied sigh and takes his sweet, sweet time to breathe you in. "couldn't fucking wait to come home to you, meri jaan."

his answer remains the same as it is every other day, and you can't help but smile against his lips when he pulls you in to steal a little kiss; you sigh into his mouth, and feroze is so fucking overwhelmed by gratitude for the familiarity and comfort of this little routine the two of you have seemed to settle down into so well.

"i love when you call me that," you confess; my life.

you know just as well as him that, well—it wasn't always this easy.

"yeah," feroze hums. "i know you do, baby."

you weren't always so lovely for him, were you?

you're quiet.

though the two of you are sitting across from each other at the dining table, your attention is clearly elsewhere. conversation is slow, if not stagnant. it's a far cry from how talkative you usually are; and though he would never fucking admit it, least of all to you, he worries, for a fraction of a second, that things are slipping.

"meri jaan?" he sets down his fork very carefully, reaches for your hands over the table.

you blink, pulled away from wherever you'd been lost in your mind and back down to this moment that stretches on before you.

"oh, sorry, my love. what was that?"

feroze watches your eyes quietly track the movement of his fingers, sliding over your wrists, lingering, momentarily, on your pulse—nice and steady—before they intertwine with your own.

your gaze lands on him, then, expectant. he drags his thumb over your knuckles, glad to find they're soft; unmarred by any labour. he loves having you here, tucked away within the walls of this home he built just for you, away from the rest of the rotten world.

such a darling girl like you deserves to have everything taken care of for you. as far as he's concerned, the only thing on your mind should be him.

which is why the silence is beginning to irritate him, now. he's not really upset with you, doesn't have a reason to be, just yet—he's just wondering what it is you're so focused on. where do you keep going back to in that head of yours, and why aren't you here with him?

is this where it all falls apart?

—again?

"rosy?" you try. "is everything alright?"

"yeah," feroze's hazel eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, endearingly patient. "i just wanted to know how your day was."

"ugh, don't remind me." you stick your tongue out. "it was so boring. i woke up so late today and didn't really do anything interesting."

"shit, i'm sorry to hear that, baby."

your husband nods towards the television, still playing from inside the living room across the hall; the screen's bright colours reflect against the glass windows that take up half the wall. though the program is muted, he can still hear the echoes from the cacophony of applause ringing loud and true.

the four hour program's been running on loop on some of the smaller channels, and you really seem to enjoy tuning in, he's noticed.

it would be more difficult not to notice this new habit of yours, really. because if he's been counting right, this is the seventh time you've seen the whole thing through to the end.

"seems like you were at least watching the music thing again."

"well, when my stunning husband won half of the awards," you shrug coyly. "how could i not?"

"flattery won't get you anywhere," feroze deigns, though neither of you mention the involuntary curl to his lips as they lift into a small, self-satisfied smile.

"huh, that's strange," you frown, pull your hands away from his own and make a show of examining the elaborately stacked engagement ring and marital band wrapped around your finger. "if i seem to remember correctly, flattery is exactly what got me this ring."

"oh," he laughs. "is that so?"

"uhuh," you nod, still admiring the rings. they're big and they're flashy and there's no fucking chance anyone could ever miss the sight of them; make the mistake of misunderstanding what they mean. you're so obviously his, and fuck, it suits you so perfectly to belong to him.

i love you, he thinks fiercely. i fucking love you.

"you've got an ego, rosy." your knowing gaze flickers back to him, accompanied by a teasing smile. "bit of a praise kink, too."

"and yet, darling wife," he'll never tire of calling you that; never really overcome the thrill that overwhelms him when he sees you adorned in the markers of his devotion and tucked away all safe and sound. "you're the only person whose words mean anything to me."

"ohh, is that so?" you taunt, "whatever happened to 'flattery won't get you anywhere?'"

feroze takes in the sight of you. you're dressed casual, donned in a baggy old shirt and a pair of his softest sweats hanging low off your hips. comfortable in your own home, as you should fucking feel, you have no makeup on, and your hair is unkempt; overdue for a shower; but fuck if he cares.

feroze decides, within a moment, that he needs you—

now.

"come here, meri jaan. i'll show you."

"you greedy, greedy man," you chastise lightly, rising from your seat. "i've just fed you dinner and you're still salivating at my table."

feroze watches you make the small effort of pushing your chair in, before turning on your heel. you pause in the doorway for a second, spare him a knowing glance over your shoulder; "well? aren't you hungry, darling husband?"

he knows that none of it evades you; the nervous bob of his adam's apple as he swallows. the way his fingers are digging into the edge of the table to keep from sinking inside of you right here. his heart is racing; his pants are tight. though you're so willing to be his now, he remembers it wasn't always this easy.

"my love." feroze grits out, "i'm fucking starving."

you disappear into the hallway, mellifluous laughter like the loveliest song, echoing off the walls—inside of his head, for fuck's sake—as your husband follows faithfully behind you when you lead him into the bedroom.

dinner goes cold on the table. you never touched your plate.

upstairs, minutes later, your husband bottoms out inside of the welcoming warmth of your sweet cunt, just as your fingers brush against the butcher's knife tucked right underneath your pillow.

feroze gets you to come twice before he decides he has his fill. he's rummaging through your nightstand for the contraceptives he knows you keep in there. it's got less to do with what he wants and more to do with what he believes is best for the two of you.

it's not that he doesn't want children; he dreams of them often. a little baby swaddled in the softest fabrics, wrapping its entire hand around just one of his fingers. the sound of a second pair of footsteps excitedly running down the hall every time he comes home from the studio, from tour. something more to take care of. to keep you busy.

but your husband knows you.

and though he's always been selfish, he can't risk kids until—well, until he knows you won't try to kill them.

it's taken you years to accept him. he won't undo that.

feroze, so caught up in his thoughts, only really registers the blade until it's slicing into his skin, the sharp edge of it pressing against the side of his neck with just enough pressure to draw blood.

he is disappointed, though by no means surprised, to find you on the other end wielding the knife.

he turns to face you, abandoning his search. you're holding onto the hilt of your makeshift weapon with trembling hands, and though he's suddenly overcome by exhaustion—because, baby, how many more times are you going to pull this—an involuntary shiver runs down his spine at the sight nonetheless.

"jaan," he tries to reason with you in hushed tones; oh, love. "what are you doing?"

you dig the knife in just a little deeper, and he winces; "i hate you, feroze." the words sting, though the relative lack of conviction they’re laced with serves as a promising sign of reconciliation.

"i know, baby. can you please just put the knife down so we can talk like adults?"

he glimpses the almost imperceptible change immediately.

the lines of hesitation on your face; a flicker of uncertainty in your eyes. when your hold on the weapon looses just the tiniest fraction of an inch, he wastes no time in gently but firmly prying the knife from out of your trembling hands; tosses it underneath the bed where it lands out of your reach.

he’s getting better at this. gets through to you so much sooner than he used to.

you’re listening, now, aren’t you?

the thought of it makes him oddly proud.

"there we go," feroze says. you're still shaking, and though he wants so fucking desperately to pull you closer and console you—he's learnt to tread the waters carefully in times like these. you're evidently scared. obviously upset with him. he can give you a little room to breathe. “now do you want to use your words and talk to me properly?”

“i keep rewatching the awards show. every other winner had someone there with them. some girlfriend or wife they kissed before they went on stage. you’re the only one who—” you swallow, voice wavering. “i’m the only one who wasn’t there. i’m the only one who’s kept hidden away.”

“you don’t want to show me off.” the tears fall almost immediately. “you’re ashamed of me.”

there are millions of words in the english language, and millions more in his own. he’s put into words every fleeting feeling you’ve made him feel; spun both the most magnificent and mundane of emotions into beautiful songs and compelling lyrics and composed entire albums from nothing—and yet, somehow, in this moment all of it evades him.

"i spend all day stuck here w-waiting for you to come home, and when you do—i keep thinking about all those ceremonies and galas and parties you go to, rooms i can never follow you into—and i hate you. i hate you for how much you hate me—”

“i’m sorry,” feroze’s hands run up your spine, to lightly curl his fingers around the back of your neck. he tilts your head up so that you’re meeting his gaze; leaves you nowhere to look away, “meri jaan.”

his touch is so soft and so, so cold against your skin. you've always run warmer than him; but he thinks you might be burning up right now. maybe you've got a fever; or maybe you're just this delirious even without one. it doesn't fucking matter, doesn't change anything.

“i’m sorry for ever leaving you alone long enough to even think that. let me make it up to you. let me show you how much i adore you. let me build you back up again.”

“you can’t fix this,” you whisper.

he smiles, but it’s strange; doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “so you said the last time.”

hours later, you’re less of a sobbing wreck when he’s got you perched in his lap, and all curled up under his chin. “okay… then…” you sniff. your words are somewhat muffled as you bury your face into your husband’s chest. “i’m sorry, too. i didn’t mean to hurt you, rosy. i was just scared, i-i promise.”

"i know.” his knuckles wipe away the tears drying on your cheeks. “give me a kiss, please.”

and ever the sweet wife, you do; but your lips are trembling.

fuck, that’s—

shit.

—not going to work, is it?

with a gentle but firm hand, he pushes you down onto the bed and watches you land on your back amidst the dozens of pillows that decorate the bed. even then, the softest thing here is you. he forgets that, sometimes. let this be a lesson, he thinks to himself, to keep your fragility in mind. this is only further proof that you need him more than he'd even realised.

but you picked the right man, didn’t you? because none of that scares him.

the two of you have faced far more difficult times together; this is just a little hiccup in your life as a married couple. some story you’ll look back on and laugh about, when you’re all better.

so when you look up at him with wide, wet eyes and ask, "its just—can you promise me you still love me one more time?”

feroze regards you closely. you’re so beautiful. so fucking perfect that it overwhelms him. sometimes, he wishes you could see yourself the way that he sees you. though he’s always believed that may just scare you; knowing how deep his devotion really runs. things are fine as they are now.

well, mostly.

he has decided that he will retire from music completely, but the two of you can broach that topic when you’re in a better headspace for it. it’s been a long time coming. work keeps the money coming in, and he wants to spoil you but—he wants you to be happy, above all. you don’t really know what you’re asking for right now, but he has every intention of giving you exactly what it is you wished for.

he can’t give in when you beg to come along with him—but he can come and hide away next to you in this little pocket of the world that solely belongs to the two of you.

"you drive me to madness, my love. nothing about this life means anything if i can’t keep you happy.”

the two of you never had a white wedding; because he wanted to honour your union the right way and celebrate you as his culture deigned. so, yes, he never got to read you any vows, but he'd like to think you've come to know him well enough to understand he doesn't necessarily need to say something so sacred out loud for it to hold true.

"do you understand? i love you," he lowers his forehead against yours. “till death does us apart.”

you put your heart in his hands one more time, looking so small, so vulnerable beneath him. "you promise?"

"i promise," he closes his eyes and revels in the soft, sweeping feeling of your lashes fluttering against his own. "always and forever, meri jaan."

feroze loves you, of this he's certain.

he also knows that you fucking terrify him.

it's a small price to pay, if it means keeping you—

besides, he thinks, reaching once more for the contraceptive pills on the nightstand.

—marriage is all about compromise, is it not?

#feroze #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere x you #yandere oc x reader #yandere male #male yandere #yandere male x reader #male yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n #yandere x willing reader #male yandere x you #male yandere x y/n #male yandere x darling #yandere male x you #commission

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matt-murdockk · 2 months ago

Text

Nine-Nine!

an extremely self indulgent brooklyn 99 and criminal minds crossover

pairing: spencer reid x reader (with a tiny bit of almost jake peralta x reader for funsies)

words: 3.0k

warnings: none, this is fluff and comedy <3

summary: Spencer Reid’s grip on sanity? Loose. (Y/n)’s patience? Tested. Jake Peralta? Accidentally in the middle of a romcom finale with no snacks. There’s banter, jealousy, a tasered vending machine, and one (1) emergency love confession.

a/n: crossover episode my beloved; this was extremely fun to write lolllllll, hope you like it <3

Spencer was already three tangents deep into the geographic profile, talking fast, hands moving like the words were trying to escape faster than his brain could handle. (Y/n) had learned years ago to just let him go. He’d loop back around eventually. Usually.

“The spacing of the disposal sites suggests he’s sticking to a routine. All within a tight radius— three miles or so. That kind of pattern almost always means it’s familiar territory. Could be work, could be home base. Most likely night shifts, given the dump times— between 2:10 and 3:30 a.m. Which means fewer witnesses, less traffic—”

“Or he just likes moonlight and solitude,” (Y/n) said absently, scribbling something in her notebook. “Creepy guys tend to romanticize the weirdest stuff.”

Spencer didn’t look up. “That’s�� statistically consistent with other narcissistic or compulsive offenders, actually.”

She glanced over at him. “You know you could just say ‘you’re right.’ It won’t kill you.”

He did look at her then, quick, with the faintest smirk pulling at his mouth. “I’m not sure I’ve tested that hypothesis thoroughly enough to risk it.”

She snorted. “Tragic. I thought you loved me.”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “I do. But not enough to sacrifice academic integrity.”

“Wow.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Wounded. Devastated. Utterly betrayed.”

“Noted,” he murmured, turning back to his screen with an annoyingly smug look.

Derek leaned forward from his seat across the aisle. “Are y’all gonna do this the whole flight?”

JJ didn’t even look up from her file. “They’re gonna do this the whole case.”

“I’m sitting right here,” (Y/n) called over.

“And yet, you keep doing this,” Emily muttered, sipping her coffee. “Every case. Without fail.”

Spencer turned his tablet toward (Y/n), pretending not to hear them. “There are five possible buildings inside the comfort zone. Abandoned commercial spaces, all accessible. No cameras.”

She leaned closer, squinting at the screen. “That one. Tucked behind the construction site. No visibility from the road.”

He nodded. “I had that ranked third.”

“I outrank your list.”

“You outrank logic?”

“I outrank you, Reid.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Bold claim for someone who once tripped over their own shoelaces during a takedown.”

“You’re never letting that go, are you.”

“Absolutely not.”

(Y/n) sighed, grabbing her coffee and slumping back in her seat. “You’re lucky I find your chaos charming.”

Spencer, without looking up, murmured, “You’re lucky I find you charming.”

And just like that, she paused.

It wasn’t even the words— it was the way he said it. Like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t meant to land the way it did.

Her fingers stilled on the coffee cup. Just for a second. Then she shook her head, eyes narrowing. “You trying to throw me off before we hit the ground? Because that’s a dirty tactic, Reid.”

He smiled, faint. “If I wanted to throw you off, I’d bring up that time you accidentally used your taser on the vending machine.”

“That was one time.”

“I still have the video.”

Derek threw up his hands. “Okay, I need noise-canceling headphones or a fire alarm. One or the other.”

“Let them have their foreplay,” Rossi grumbled from behind his paper. “Just as long as it doesn’t slow down the case.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, but she didn’t stop smiling. Not even a little.

And Spencer? He didn’t say anything else.

But his knee brushed against hers under the table.

And he didn’t move it.

——————————————————————————————————

The precinct was pure, barely-contained chaos. Phones ringing, printers jamming, someone yelling “I said decaf!” from the breakroom. (Y/n) stepped in behind the team, her eyes scanning the flurry with the kind of calm that only came from years of being thrown headfirst into crime scenes that smelled like old pizza and adrenaline.

Then— like he was summoned by the gods of caffeine and chaos— a voice cut through the noise.

“FBI? Oh thank god. Tell me you’re the FBI. If one more lieutenant hands me a case file on raccoon-related vandalism, I’m going to start speaking in riddles.”

The guy had two coffees in one hand, a folder under his arm, and the kind of face that said yes, I’m sleep-deprived, but I’ve made it part of my personality now.

“Detective Jake Peralta,” he added, stepping forward and immediately handing one of the coffees off to a passing officer. “You must be the reinforcements. Welcome to our deeply unfortunate circus.”

(Y/n) stepped forward with a polite smile. “Agent (Y/l/n), BAU.”

Jake looked at her and forgot what vowels were.

“Oh. Cool. Yeah. Wow.” He blinked. “Hi. Sorry. That was… a very professional reaction to a federal agent. I’m super normal.”

(Y/n) raised an eyebrow, amused. “Totally. You look extremely normal.”

Jake pointed at her like he was confirming her existence for himself. “And funny. She’s funny, too. Great. Just awesome.”

Spencer, two steps behind her, tilted his head the tiniest bit. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that Emily, walking next to him, noticed immediately.

“So,” Jake said, already spinning on his heel and motioning them toward the evidence board, “we’ve got three victims, matching M.O., a dump site triangle, and a ton of questions. I’d love to walk you through it. Bonus: I also know where the best snacks are hidden in this precinct. Critical intel.”

“Let me guess,” (Y/n) said, falling into step beside him, “you keep gummy bears in a murder folder?”

Jake gave her a wide-eyed, deeply serious nod. “Listen, I can’t solve murder with low blood sugar. That’s just biology. Forensics and fruit snacks— two pillars of modern justice.”

She actually laughed, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. “That’s what you’re going with? Fruit snacks and felony charges?”

“Look,” he said, glancing at her with a grin, “some people have badges, some have instincts— I have a snack drawer and a vibe.”

(Y/n) shot him a look. “And a lot of confidence, apparently.”

“It’s the only thing holding me together.”

Spencer, still watching from behind, clenched his jaw and stared very intently at the murder board— as if sheer willpower would make Jake Peralta spontaneously combust.

Derek leaned over slightly. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Spencer said. Way too quickly.

“Uh-huh.”

(Y/n) looked over her shoulder, smiling. “Spencer, you coming?”

Spencer blinked. “Right behind you.”

Emily raised an eyebrow as he passed, giving him that look— the one that meant I know, and I’m about to say it out loud.

He walked faster.

Behind them, Emily whispered to JJ, “We have now entered full-blown Jealous Spencer territory.”

JJ winced sympathetically. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”

——————————————————————————————————

The dump site was taped off, abandoned and eerie in the late afternoon light. A narrow alley backed by cracked concrete walls, discarded furniture, and silence— except for the occasional buzz of Spencer’s pen clicking in his pocket. Repeatedly.

Jake and (Y/n) were walking ahead of the rest of the group, ducking under the tape, their steps crunching through gravel.

“Okay,” Jake said, scanning the alley. “I know it’s not exactly a five-star view, but I promise this is the cleanest murder site we’ve had all week. That’s a weird sentence.”

(Y/n) laughed. “It’s fine. We spend half our lives in parking lots and basements. Honestly, this is kind of charming.”

Jake pointed at a tipped-over dumpster. “Ah, yes. Classic small-town ambiance.”

She crouched near a drainpipe, tilting her head. “He’s dumping at night. No cameras. But the dumpster’s too obvious— too accessible. He’s not just hiding the bodies, he’s watching them.”

Jake blinked. “Okay. That’s… both creepy and very insightful. You do this a lot?”

She looked up at him, playful. “Solve murders? Yeah. Flirt at them? Not usually.”

He smirked, a little lopsided. “Hey, I haven’t even started flirting yet. That was just me being charming.”

“Oh, just charming?” she teased.

Jake leaned against the wall, watching her. “Let me know when you’re ready for the full Peralta experience. It includes sarcasm, emotional baggage, and an impressive knowledge of Die Hard trivia.”

(Y/n) stood, brushing off her knees. “That’s a lot to take in on a first crime scene.”

He grinned. “So you’re saying there’ll be a second?”

A beat. Just a pause. She didn’t answer right away.

Spencer, across the lot with Derek and Emily, had stopped mid-sentence, his entire expression shifted from mildly focused to openly horrified.

“She’s laughing,” he said flatly.

Emily glanced up from her notes. “Yeah, that tends to happen when people are enjoying themselves.”

“With him.”

“Oh no,” Derek muttered. “We’ve lost him.”

The rest of the team returned to the SUV, but Emily stayed behind, as if she knew this wasn't done yet.

“She’s laughing at his jokes,” Spencer repeated, eyes still locked on the two figures across the alley.

“She laughs at yours,” Emily said.

“That’s different. She knows mine are objectively not funny.”

“Okay, you know what?” Emily snapped her folder shut. “We’re doing this now. Let’s go, Genius.”

Spencer blinked as she grabbed his elbow and dragged him toward the SUV.

“What? No— I’m working.”

“You’re spiraling,” she corrected. “And doing it in a crime scene, which is new.”

Behind them, (Y/n) was still talking to Jake, standing closer now, arms crossed and leaning in like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

Spencer’s voice dropped. “Emily, I’m fine.”

“You’re jealous,” she said, eyes sharp. “And for a guy who can read microexpressions from thirty feet away, you are shockingly bad at clocking your own.”

“I don’t get jealous,” he said, almost insulted.

She gave him a look.

“…Okay, I am jealous,” he admitted under his breath. “But I don’t know what to do about that.”

Emily leaned against the SUV, watching Spencer like she was trying to figure out whether she needed to slap sense into him or hug him. Maybe both. Probably both.

He was pacing. Not frantically, just… tightly. Hands in his pockets, jaw tense, doing that thing where his eyes tracked the ground like the answers were written there.

“I mean, it’s fine,” he said finally, like he was trying to convince the air. “She’s allowed to laugh at someone else’s jokes. I’m not— entitled to anything.”

Emily stayed quiet.

He glanced back at the alley where (Y/n) was standing with Jake. She was leaning on one foot, comfortable. She looked happy. And it gutted him.

“It’s just— he’s charming,” Spencer muttered. “And funny. And he’s got that whole casual swagger thing going on. I mean, who even has swagger in 2025? Apparently, Jake does. And she’s… she’s smiling.”

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Emily said, her voice soft, even.

Spencer didn’t answer. His hands were twitching in his pockets now.

“I’ve had… crushes,” he said finally, like it was painful to admit even that much. “A few. Not a lot. But some. And usually they’re easy to understand. You think someone’s cute. You like their voice. You want them to notice you.”

He shook his head.

“This isn’t that.”

Emily just watched him.

“I notice everything,” he went on, his voice quieter now. “Not because I’m profiling her. Not because I’m analyzing anything. I just… do. I know when she’s about to make a bad joke because she gets this look— like she’s proud of it already. I know she only pretends to like black coffee when we’re around local PD because she thinks it makes her look tougher.”

A pause. His voice dipped even lower.

“I know the sound of her laugh when it’s real. I know when she’s tired, even if she’s smiling. I know when she’s faking being okay. And I know when she’s actually okay. And I know that right now…” He looked up, eyes fixed on her across the lot, where she and Jake were still talking, still laughing.

“…She’s really okay. With him.”

Emily stepped closer, gentle. “Spence.”

He didn’t look at her.

“I think about her all the time,” he said, like he was just realizing it out loud. “Not in a way I… planned. Just— suddenly I’m at a bookstore and wondering if she’d like the cover of something. Or I hear a song and I can’t tell if I like it until I know if she would. It’s— constant.”

He laughed once, breathy and humorless. “And statistically, I know crushes fade. The brain adjusts. The novelty goes away. But this? This has been over a year. Maybe longer.”

Emily tilted her head. “And?”

Spencer blinked.

“…And I think I’m in love with her.”

A pause. Then—

“Oh,” he breathed. “Shit.”

Emily smiled, just barely. “Took you long enough.”

He ran both hands over his face. “I don’t— what am I supposed to do with that?”

“You tell her,” she said gently.

“What? No, I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Emily, she's quite possibly the closest friend I have. What if it ruins everything?”

Emily didn’t answer for a second. She just looked at him— really looked at him— and said, “Spencer. You're already miserable. At least ruin it with some dignity, damn it.”

He looked back at (Y/n). She was saying goodbye to Jake now, walking back toward the team, tucking her hair behind her ear like she always did when she was distracted. She looked like home.

Spencer exhaled. “Yeah. Okay. I’m completely screwed.”

Emily nodded. “Yeah. You are. Oh, and for the record, I thought I was your closest friend, and honestly, I feel so attacked right now."

"You'll live."

"Hey!" retorted Emily, followed by a smack to his arm.

——————————————————————————————————

The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the precinct lot. The case was wrapped, files turned in, media dodged. (Y/n) was leaning against the SUV, arms crossed, sipping from her now-cold coffee like it was still doing something.

Jake jogged up to her, slowing as he approached. Not suave. Just… trying.

“Hey,” he said, offering a lopsided smile. “So, weird question for the end of a triple homicide, but— any chance I could take you to dinner sometime?”

(Y/n) blinked. “Oh.”

She smiled, a little surprised. “Jake, you’re— great. I had fun working with you.”

Jake’s grin faltered just enough to be human. “But…?”

“But—”

“Wait!”

Both of them turned.

Spencer was standing about ten feet away, looking like he had sprinted here but didn’t want to show it. His hair was windswept, his shirt slightly crooked, and his expression somewhere between resolute and deeply alarmed.

(Y/n) blinked. “Spencer?”

Jake glanced between them. “Should I…? I can come back.”

“No, no,” Spencer said quickly, stepping forward. “You’re fine. I mean— not fine, you’re not staying. I mean, yes, you’re staying right now, I just—”

He looked at (Y/n), all the air gone from his lungs.

“I need to say something.”

(Y/n) tilted her head, cautious now. “Okay…”

Spencer glanced at Jake. Then at her. Then back at Jake.

“This is going to be weird with him here,” he muttered.

“I can pretend to be a lamp,” Jake offered, backing up slightly. “I’m excellent at furniture-based camouflage.”

“Jake,” (Y/n) said, half-laughing, “you don’t have to—”

“I really think I do,” he said, hands raised. “There’s a lot of emotion in the air and I don’t want to get hit by it.”

Spencer ignored him. His eyes stayed on her.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said softly. “I told myself it wasn’t the right time. That we had too much to lose. That maybe I was just… projecting.”

He swallowed. “But then I watched someone else get to make you laugh. I watched you lean in, and talk like he already belonged in your world. And I realized— I’ve been pretending that I didn’t already live there.”

(Y/n)’s breath caught.

Spencer took another step closer. “I know the way you look when you’re solving a puzzle you don’t know you’ve solved yet. I know how you take your coffee differently when you’re pretending you’re fine. I know that you hum when you’re reading case files, and that you’ll always find a way to make the worst days seem funny, just to keep us all going.”

He paused, voice low. “I notice everything about you. Not because I’m profiling you. Just… because it’s you.”

Jake mouthed oh my god to himself, backing up another step.

(Y/n) stared at Spencer, wide-eyed. “You— you’ve never said any of this.”

“I didn’t know how,” Spencer admitted. “But I’m in love with you. And it took me way too long to say it. So if you’re going to say no— please do it fast, before I combust.”

Silence.

Then—

“Spencer,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “You’re an idiot.”

His face fell— until she reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him.

It was fast. Then slow. Then somewhere in between. Like they’d been waiting for years but were still trying to catch up.

Jake, standing off to the side, made a quiet choking sound.

“I am so intruding,” he muttered. “You know what? I’m gonna go. I’m gonna walk into the woods and never come back. I’ll start a new life. Join a wolf pack. Change my name. Just... yeah.”

They didn’t hear him.

(Y/n) pulled back just slightly, forehead still resting against Spencer’s.

“You’re in love with me?”

He nodded, breathless. “Deeply. Disastrously.”

She let out a laugh— half relief, half disbelief— as her forehead rested against his. “Oh, thank God. It was killing me thinking it might just be me.”

Jake was halfway to the sidewalk when Spencer called out— without looking—

“Thank you for not asking her out.”

Jake froze. “I did. You just… intercepted mid-sentence.”

Spencer blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”

Jake clapped once. “Well, that was the best romcom finale I’ve ever witnessed. I’m gonna go cry in my car.”

He turned again, walking toward his car like a man who had just lost a bet to fate.

God, I’m never gonna hear the end of this from Rosa.

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vanteguccir · 4 months ago

Text

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤHANDS BETWEEN MY THIGHS * MATT STURNIOLO * BLURB

SUMMARY　::　where Matt left his hands between Y/N's legs to warm them up for too long.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader

WARNINGS　::　none

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

The drive home was quiet, save for the soft hum of the road beneath Chris’s steady hands on the wheel. The morning had been long, spent in back-to-back meetings, and planning their next tour. Locations, themes, games, merch drops... it had been hours of brainstorming, debating, and writing down ideas until their brains felt like mush.

Chris, somehow still buzzing with energy, was the only one who hadn’t completely shut down.

"I really think we should do anonymous confessions during the shows. I’m telling you, that idea is gold." He said, gripping the steering wheel with way too much enthusiasm for how tired everyone else was.

Nick, slumped in the passenger seat, barely lifted his head.

"Chris. No."

Chris groaned.

"Bro, why do you fucking hate fun-"

In the backseat, Y/N barely acknowledged their bickering. She was curled up comfortably, phone in hand, scrolling through TikTok. But most of her attention was on Matt, who had spent the last ten minutes slowly melting into her side.

His body sat slouched between the left and middle seat, his long lashes fluttering as he struggled to keep his eyes open, his head tilting towards Y/N before he just gave in completely, leaning into her warmth.

Without looking away from her screen, a small smile curved on Y/N's lips as she adjusted, allowing him to curl into her more comfortably. His arms looped lazily around her waist, and his face nestled into the crook of her neck.

She ran her fingers gently through his soft curls, pressing a featherlight kiss to the top of his head, the smell of his shampoo filling her nostrils.

"You tired, baby?" She murmured, her voice soft.

Matt hummed against her skin in response, a quiet, content noise. Y/N smiled, resting her cheek against his hair, pausing the video that was playing on her screen.

"Was a heavy day, yeah?"

He let out a sleepy chuckle, his arms tightening around her.

"Mm... S’nice." He slurred, already half-asleep.

The car’s AC hummed lightly, and despite the summer season, today had been oddly chilly. The contrast between the cool air and Y/N’s body heat must have been noticeable because after a few seconds, Matt shifted again.

Y/N glanced down, watching as he loops one arm beneath her thigh, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin just below the curve of her ass before sliding between her legs, long fingers pressed between the denim of her jeans, seeking warmth.

She smiled, resting the base of her hand holding her phone over his tattooed arm.

"Cold?"

Matt just hummed again, nuzzling deeper into her, burying his nose in her skin, a puff of warm breath following.

"Mm. Better now."

Chris and Nick’s conversation blurred into background noise, their voices distant as Matt fell deeper.

Y/N let him be, letting him steal her warmth, letting him rest, letting him exist against her in the way he always did, and continued scrolling through her phone, occasionally glancing down at the boy curled against her.

Minutes passed, and by the time they pulled into their driveway, Matt was fully asleep; fingers twitching slightly between Y/N's thighs from time to time and back raising and falling slowly with his deep breathing.

Y/N sighed, locking her phone and dropping it inside her purse above her feet, glancing down at Matt. Gently, she ran her fingers through his hair again, pressing another kiss to his head.

"Matt." She whispered, her voice sweet and soothing. "Baby, we’re home."

Matt barely stirred, letting out a quiet, sleepy hum but making no move to wake up.

Y/N’s lips curled into a small smile, brushing her fingers through his hair again.

"C’mon, sweetheart." She murmured, pressing her lips to his head. "We can go to our room, and you can go right back to sleep."

Another groan, low and muffled against her. But this time, he shifted, his body stretching lazily as he blinked up at her, his gaze heavy with sleep. His face was soft, relaxed, and Y/N swore she’d never get over how utterly angelical he looked when he was this tired.

She kept rubbing slow, absentminded circles against his back as she leaned down to grab her purse, feeling as Matt fully sat up, his hands coming up to rub at his face, fingers dragging down as a yawn escaped his lips.

But as she glanced at him again, just to make sure he hadn’t slipped back into sleep, her gaze landed on his hands, and her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Matt, what-" She reached out, frowning slightly as her digits brushed over his skin, tracing the pale red imprints that covered his hand. The marks were deep, clear outlines left behind from where he had clung to her denim-clad thighs in his sleep.

Matt, still halfway in dreamland, blinked in confusion, his sluggish brain taking a moment to catch up. He looked down at his hands, flexing the fingers, eyes widening slightly at the sight.

"Damn." He mumbled, voice rough and groggy. "Had the greatest nap ever, apparently."

Y/N let out a laugh, warm and sweet, shaking her head as she smoothed her hands over his, her thumbs rubbing gently over the imprints.

"I mean, you were holding onto me for dear life." She teased, pressing a playful kiss to his knuckles. "Didn’t realize I doubled as your emotional support pillow."

Matt smirked sleepily, turning his hand over so he could link his fingers with hers, his grip lazy but firm.

"You do. Best one I’ve ever had."

Y/N rolled her eyes.

"Right." She squeezed his hand gently before finally reaching for the door handle. "Alright, come on, sleepy. Let’s get you inside before you fall asleep on me again."

Matt hummed, clearly not opposed to that idea, but he let her pull him along anyway.

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jezebelblues · 6 months ago

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𝐓𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐀 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐄 | 𝐇.𝐒 ⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛 (𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭)

𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐧 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐠𝐮𝐲𝐬’ 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐂𝐖: smut18+ (piv) oral (f!receiving), softrry, drunkrry, needy!h, alcohol, fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 8k (I GOT CARRIED AWAY)

❏ before anyone anons me i made the gif 😧 and thank u for the request anon !! this was so fun to write :) i hope it met ur expectations

masterlist

harry was in the kitchen, holding a wine glass half-filled with straight tequila, his pinky finger looped over the rim like it was fine champagne. YN stood next to him, one hand on his arm, steadying herself—or maybe steadying him.

"you're a liability, you know that?" she giggled, her words slurring just enough to make him grin.

"me?" he huffed, leaning into her slightly, his drink sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the glass. "'m the liability? you've been clingin' to me all night, petal, can't walk straight without me."

she smacked his arm lightly, laughing. "it's 'cause you keep givin' me tequila! this is your fault."

he tilted his head, his eyes squinting like he was genuinely considering this. then he shrugged, nonchalant, dimples flashing. "s'pose you're right. but i reckon you love me for it, yeah?”

"love you despite it," she corrected, but she was smiling, her fingers curling into the sleeve of his shirt.

the flat was warm, soft yellow light spilling over cluttered corners and half-empty glasses, the air thick with laughter. it was the kind of late evening that felt like the exact middle of spring—windows cracked open, a cool breeze sneaking in, ruffling the edges of the curtains. someone had put on a playlist an hour ago, though the music had long since melted into the background, now just a hum beneath the chatter. the small group, crowded into the cozy living room, was exactly the right size to make the space feel alive but not cramped.

their flat always smelled faintly of cedarwood and something clean, though tonight it carried undertones of tequila and lime. he’d insisted on tequila because, as he explained with a wide grin and an unconvincing shrug, “s’just easier that way, innit?” no one really argued, though mitch had given a (poorly executed) rick sanchez imitation as a counter, something that harry didn’t quite understand, leaving him to furrow his eyebrows and dart his eyes around as he mulled it over, mumbling, “why are y’speaking like that? i don’t get it.”

now, hours later, harry was sprawled in the corner of the couch, long legs stretched out, a glass balanced precariously on his knee.

“i swear—i’m swearin’ right now—this is the last one.” he mumbled, lifting his glass as though making a toast. his speech was just a little slurred, the tips of his curls sticking to his temples. YN, perched beside him, nudged his side with her elbow, laughing.

“you said that half an hour ago, baby.” she teased, leaning closer to steal a sip from his glass. his free hand immediately looped around her waist, pulling her snug against his side.

“’s different this time,” he insisted, his voice dipping low, mock serious. “i mean it now. promise.”

“oh, you’re so convincing.” she smiled, her fingers absently running along the seam of his shirt, her touch light and familiar.

on the other side of the coffee table, mitch snorted, tipping his head back against the edge of the sofa. his hair, always a little unruly, had fallen out of whatever loose tie it had been in earlier. sarah, seated on the floor beside him with her legs crossed, nudged him in the ribs.

“you’re not much better,” she pointed out, gesturing to the glass in his hand.

“oi, don’t start,” he shot back, lifting a hand in mock defense.

the back-and-forth had been going on like this for the better part of the evening—easy, unfiltered, slightly nonsensical. everyone was comfortably slouched, shoulders loose, cheeks warm, the kind of drunk that makes the room feel like it’s spinning just the tiniest bit, but not enough to care.

harry had been stealing glances at YN all night, grinning at the way her nose crinkled when she laughed, her cheeks flushed from a combination of alcohol and the warmth of the room. she caught him staring at one point and poked his chest, her voice dropping conspiratorially.

“what are you looking at?”

“you.” he shrugged simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, blinking at her as if she was blurry and needed to come into focus.

YN rolled her eyes, though her smile gave her away. she parted her lips to speak, though harry cut her off before she could bother.

"you're all–” he gestured vaguely at her face, his voice lilting like he hadn't figured out the rest of the sentence yet. "and i'm–" another aimless wave of his hand, this time at himself.

"you're what?" she asked, tilting her head, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh.

harry leaned closer, his knee brushing hers. his curls had started to flatten at his temples, damp from the heat of the room, and his cheeks were flushed in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol. “i’m in love.” his words were slightly sing-song, punctuated by the tilt of his head.

the room dissolved into chaos not long after, though no one could say for certain what triggered it. maybe it was the tequila. maybe it was just the kind of energy that builds when a group of close friends is together in one place, everyone feeding off the same shared sense of silliness.

“right,” mitch announced suddenly, sitting up straight and nearly spilling his drink in the process. “i bet—” he paused, frowning in concentration as though piecing the words together took effort. “i bet i could do more push-ups than you.”

he blinked, the challenge taking a moment to register. then his brows lifted, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“you’re jokin’, right?”

“nah, m’serious.” he leaned forward, setting his glass on the table with a decisive thunk.

“you’re both idiots.” sarah breathed, though she was already pulling her phone out, clearly ready to document whatever was about to happen.

YN groaned, burying her face in her hands. “please don’t encourage them.”

“what, you don’t believe in me?” harry asked, feigning hurt as he turned to look at her.

“you’ve had, like, seven shots of tequila, h.”

he held up a finger. “six. maybe five and a half.”

she looked at him, tongue in cheek, her eyes glimmering with amusement. “not helping your case.”

in the end, there was no stopping it. mitch had already shifted to his knees, clearing a space in front of the coffee table. harry followed suit, swaying slightly as he stood and then immediately dropping down to the floor.

“’s not fair, though,” harry slurred as YN slid a pillow beneath his fists. “i’ve got longer arms. more distance t’cover.”

“what kind of logic is that?” sarah asked, laughing.

“solid–“ hiccup “–solid logic.” he muttered, lowering himself into position.

for the first few push-ups, they were evenly matched. mitch, whose hair kept falling in his face, managed to hold his form pretty well, his elbows bending at clean angles. harry, despite the tequila, seemed entirely unbothered, his movements smooth and steady.

“oh, this is ridiculous,” YN mumbled, though she was grinning now, leaning forward with her chin resting in her palm.

“keep count.” mitch grunted, while sarah angled her phone to get both of them in the frame.

“seven,” YN called, her voice louder over the sound of their laughter.

“eight,” sarah chimed in.

“nine,” she smiled, though by this point, mitch was visibly struggling. his arms trembled, his breaths coming out in quick puffs, his hair falling into his mouth. harry, on the other hand, was still going strong, his movements punctuated by muttered comments.

“easy.” push. “light work.” push–hiccup. “this one’s for you, petal.” he added, shooting a quick wink at his girlfriend.

“oh my god.”

“thirteen,” sarah announced, though she sounded doubtful as mitch wobbled dangerously, his arms nearly giving out.

"how's he doin' that?" sarah asked, watching harry like he was some kind of anomaly.

harry started to strain just a bit, "core strength, love.”

"core strength my ass," mitch shot back, collapsing flat onto the floor. "he's built like a fuckin' slinky. bounces back."

YN laughed so hard she snorted, and harry immediately glanced up, his expression melting into something soft and dopey the second he saw her.

“i’m—i’m done.” mitch declared, already rolling over onto his back.

harry sat back on his knees, raising his fists in mock triumph. “and the crowd goes wild,” he said, grinning up at YN.

“you’re arrogant.” she sighed, though she reached for his wrist, tugging him back onto the couch beside her.

“what can i say,” harry mumbled, settling against her. “m’good at everything.”

the evening wound down slowly after that, the energy softening into something quieter, sleepier. sarah scrolled through the video on her phone, narrating bits of it for everyone’s amusement.

“look at mitch,” she said, laughing. “he looks like he’s dying.”

“i was dying,” mitch muttered from the floor, his arm thrown dramatically over his eyes.

YN reached for harry’s hand, threading her fingers through his, her voice low and teasing.

“are you proud of yourself?”

“very.” he murmured, his lips brushing against her temple.

and for a while, no one said much of anything. the playlist had shifted to something softer, the kind of music you hum along to without thinking. the tv, still on in the background, flickered faintly, casting shadows across the room. harry’s arm rested around YN’s shoulders, his eyes fluttered closed, his thumb drawing slow circles against her skin.

mitch was still on the floor, sprawled out like a martyr, while sarah waved her phone in his direction, wobbling as she stood.

"y'done, jesus christ?" she asked, her words swimming together in a way that made her laugh at herself. "need any help, or you reckon you'll just ascend back t'heaven on your own?"

“ha fuckin’ ha," mitch mumbled, lifting one hand in a weak attempt at a rude gesture. "perfectly fine, thank you."

"you're not," sarah replied, flopping onto the arm of the sofa. she nearly slid off, catching herself with a giggle before poking YN with her foot. "and neither's your fella."

YN glanced sideways at harry, who was leaning so far into her that she might as well have been holding him upright. his nose was tucked against her temple, and he was humming something under his breath—a soft, disjointed melody that might've been a song or might've been nothing at all.

"all good," he muttered, his words smudged around the edges. "better'n mitch, anyway."

"low bar.”

he opened one eye, a mischievous glint sparking through his drowsy expression as he glanced at mitch, then back toward YN. "m in love with you, y'know," he breathed, loud enough for the whole room to hear.

"we know.” mitch groaned from the floor.

"no, but like–” he pushed himself up slightly, though his movements were clumsy, his balance swaying like a tree in the wind. "like, really in love. like, proper. s’serious.”

“oh yeah?” she asked, though her hands flew to her cheeks, trying to cover the pink that bloomed there.

he reached out, his fingers fumbling to gently tug her hands away from her face. "don't hide from me," he pouted, his voice soft and warm. "can't handle it when you hide."

sarah made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan, shaking her head as she leaned over to prod mitch with her foot. "we need to leave before he gets worse," she said.

"worse? how can he get worse?" he replied, his voice muffled from where he was still sprawled on the rug.

harry didn't seem to notice them. he was focused entirely on YN, his gaze heavy and unflinching as he settled his head into her lap.

"you're so pretty," he hummed, his words slow and drawn out like he was tasting them for the first time. "have i told you that tonight?"

"a couple of times.”

"doesn't feel like enough.” he frowned, his fingers brushing against her knee like he was grounding himself in her. "you're... you're unreal. sometimes i look at you and i can't believe—" he trailed off, shaking his head like words weren't enough.

"he's gonna make me cry.” sarah whispered, half-laughing as she leaned into mitch's shoulder.

"you'll get used to it.” YN rolled her eyes, though she was still smiling.

harry frowned deeper, looking up at her. "don't roll your eyes at me. 'm being serious."

"oh, i know you are, dork.” she grinned, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.

his eyes fluttered shut at the touch, a small, pleased sound escaping his lips.

"if i don't call an uber now, i'm never getting out of here.” sarah said suddenly, sitting up and reaching for her phone.

"why would you wanna leave?" harry asked, turning his head to squint at her. "you're comfy. stay."

"gotta leave before this turns into a whole bloody soft-core," mitch muttered, finally pushing himself into a sitting position.

harry’s eyes narrowed in slight confusion, his lips parting as he whispered the word soft-core in different tones over and over as if it might click.

mitch let out a noise that was half a laugh, half a sigh. "you’ll get it eventually, mate.”

sarah stood, brushing off her jeans as she looked down at YN. "you gonna be alright with him?"

she glanced at her boyfriend, who was still nestled into her lap, mulling mitch’s response still. "he's harmless," she shrugged. "just annoying when he's drunk–”

harry interrupted with a sharp clap of his hands that turned into a point in mitch’s direction, shoulders shaking in slurred, squeaky laughter. “s-soft–core porno!” he giggled, his cheeks flushed and eyes crinkled. “that was a good one. this guy.”

mitch rolled his eyes, waving harry’s laughter off before he looked at YN. “have fun with this fool in the morning.”

"love you.” he mumbled immediately, moving his hand to give her thigh an exaggerated squeeze.

"yeah, yeah.” she laughed as she pried his hand off her.

"alright, we're off," sarah announced, grabbing mitch's arm and pulling him to his feet.

"safe travels! love you guys!” harry called weakly, his words slurring together as he waved at them from where he lay.

YN walked them to the door, leaning against the frame as they stepped out into the hallway.

"text me when you're home.” she insisted, earning a nod from sarah.

when she turned back into the flat, harry was sitting upright on the couch, his legs tucked under him like a kid waiting to be told a bedtime story.

he pouted slightly, "you left me.”

“and you lived!” she smiled, as if she was astonished. “my boy’s a survivor.”

"barely.” he groaned, flopping dramatically back against the cushions.

YN crossed the room and plopped down beside him, nudging his shoulder with hers. "you're so much worse than usual tonight."

"can't help it," he shrugged, his head tipping to rest on her shoulder. "you bring it out in me."

"oh, so this is my fault now?" she teased, her hand sliding into his hair again.

he only hummed an, “mhm,” before he tried to push himself closer toward her.

"stay here forever," he mumbled.

"i already live here," she reminded him.

"no, like—forever," he insisted, his fingers brushing hers where they rested on the couch. "promise you won't leave me. not ever."

YN turned her head to look at him, her heart twisting at the vulnerable expression on his face. “baby, where's this coming from?"

he shrugged, looking down at their hands. "just love you so much it scares me sometimes."

"i'm not going anywhere.”

"promise?"

"promise.” she whispered, leaning forward to press her forehead to his.

his breath hitched, and for a moment, they just stayed like that, the quiet settling around them like a blanket.

"alright," he breathed finally, his voice shaky but lighter now. "but you have to keep scratching my head or i'll revoke your girlfriend privileges."

the flat felt too quiet now that mitch and sarah were gone, the absence of their voices leaving only the faint buzz of the tv and the occasional sound of cars splashing through puddles outside. the mess of empty bottles and glasses scattered across the coffee table didn't seem to matter. nothing did, really. just him. just her.

harry's lips found hers eventually, and god, it was all so drunk and messy. the kind of kiss where his mouth didn't quite find the right angle, and she ended up laughing against him, her hands pushing gently at his chest.

"you're so bad at this," she teased, her words soft and slurred, her face warm with the alcohol coursing through her.

he pulled back just enough to look at her, his brows furrowing dramatically, lips parted in mock-offense. "bad at this? me?"

"yeah," she said, biting back another laugh. “you're awful. terrible. completely hopeless."

"hopeless?" he repeated, his accent thicker, vowels stretching and tangling together. his hands slid down her back, settling on her hips with a grip that was just firm enough to make her breath hitch. "you're sittin' with me, kissin' me, tellin' me i'm hopeless. 's'not very nice, is it?"

"maybe you deserve it.” she grinned, her forehead leaning against his.

he made a low, disbelieving sound in his throat, but his lips were twitching, caught somewhere between outrage and affection. "you're trouble, you are. absolute trouble."

"and you love it."

"fuckin' right, i do," he said, smiling as his hands tugged her hips forward slightly, pulling her more firmly into his lap.

the movement had her tumbling into him, her face pressed against his neck as they both laughed, a breathless, bubbling kind of laughter that only made her feel warmer. his breath tickled her ear as he spoke again, voice soft but tinged with that familiar teasing edge.

"bet i'm not that bad at it," he murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath her ear.

"you are, though," she insisted, but her voice was quieter now, a little unsteady.

"mm, don't think so," he hummed, his mouth trailing clumsily down her neck, his stubble rough against her skin. "reckon you'd've gone t’bed by now if i was, wouldn't you?"

her fingers slid into his hair, tugging lightly at the curls at the nape of his neck. "reckon i'm too drunk to leave," she teased, but the way her voice caught on the last word betrayed her.

"nah," he said, one hand drifting under the hem of her shirt, his fingers brushing against her bare skin. "you're drunk, but not that drunk. you like me too much."

"you're so full of yourself," she whispered, laughing again, but it came out breathier this time, her body leaning into his touch without thinking.

he hummed, his thumb tracing slow circles over her side. "but y'don't seem t'mind."

she didn't. not one bit.

his lips found hers again, slower this time, a little steadier despite the alcohol making his movements clumsy. he kissed her like he had all the time in the world, like they weren't surrounded by a sea of half-empty glasses and the faint smell of tequila.

things felt hazy, lazier, punctuated by quiet giggles and the occasional whispered comment that sent them both into fits of laughter. his hands were warm and wandering, slipping under her shirt, tracing the curve of her waist, sliding up her back.

"you're gonna get me all tangled," she muttered when his hand accidentally caught the hem of her bra, tugging it sideways.

"oops," he said, grinning sheepishly, his fingers clumsily fixing it. "sorry, petal. too drunk f’precision, aren't i?"

"you're too drunk for a lot of things," she teased, leaning forward to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"uh-uh," he murmured, his hands settling on her hips again, adjusting them roughly, sloppily as he shifted her back to rest against the cushions. "not for this. not for you."

her chest tightened at the way he said it, his voice soft and so full of affection that it made her feel like the center of the universe.

the couch creaked under their combined weight, and harry was leaning too far into her, half on top of her, his body slumped and heavy in that jellied, boneless way. his mouth was pressed to her neck, leaving messy kisses between murmured half-thoughts, most of which didn't even make sense. '…m’tellin' you," he mumbled, his lips brushing against her skin. "you're too beautiful for your own good. s'gonna be a problem f’me."

"a problem?" she repeated, laughing breathlessly as her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, trying to steady him. "harry, you're literally falling over."

"no m’not," he insisted, though his weight shifted again, and his elbow slipped off the armrest. he caught himself just in time, his hand landing somewhere between the cushion and her thigh.

"you are!" she laughed a bit harder now, her body shaking with it.

he looked at her, all wide, glassy green eyes and flushed cheeks, his hair a mess of curls that kept falling into his face. "i’m not," he said again, grinning in that slow, drunk way that made her heart trip over itself.

then, as if to prove his point, he leaned in closer, nudging her chin with his nose before kissing her again, clumsily and so, so sweet.

"har–” she started, but she barely got the word out before his knee slipped, and suddenly he was gone, tumbling sideways off the couch.

it happened so fast she didn't even have time to grab him. one second, he was on her, warm and heavy and everywhere, and the next, he was on the floor in a heap of gangly limbs and laughter.

"jesus,” she gasped, leaning over the edge of the couch to look at him.

but harry wasn't upset. not even a little bit. he was lying on his back, laughing so hard his eyes squeezed shut, his chest heaving with it.

she covered her face with her hands, though she couldn't stop laughing either. "you okay?"

"all good.” he said through his laughter, his voice a little high-pitched from how breathless he was.

he rolled onto his side, one hand braced on the floor, the other wiping at his face as he grinned up at her. "just... miscalculated. s'all."

"think that’s an understatement, baby.” she shook her head as she sat up on the cushions, still giggling.

“see?” he pushed himself up to his knees with a dramatic groan, "you’re too gorgeous for me t'function right now."

she watched him, her laughter softening into a fond smile as he sat back on his heels, looking up at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

his hands, big and clumsy but warm, found her knees, gently pushing them apart as he shifted closer, his breath still unsteady from laughing.

"harry,” she murmured, a little breathless now, her voice caught somewhere between a laugh and a warning.

he shushed her, his fingers brushing up her thighs, just barely slipping under the hem of her shorts. "just…lemme,”

"lemme what?" she asked, though her body was already responding to him, her knees falling wider apart.

he grinned, tilting his head to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh. "taste you," he slurred, his voice low and warm and so full of affection that it made her toes curl. "s’been all i can think about."

her tummy flipped, and she bit her lip, her fingers curling into the edge of the couch cushion. "you’re too drunk for this."

he shook his head, pressing another kiss to her thigh, this one a little higher. "no, m’not. i’m exactly drunk enough. look–” he gestured vaguely at himself, nearly losing his balance before catching himself on her leg. "perfectly steady."

she couldn't help it—she laughed, her head tipping back against the couch as she looked down at him.

his hands slid farther up her legs, feather-light and teasing, enough to make a heat pool between her thighs, harry gazing up at her through his eyelashes.

she tried to say something, but the words got caught in her throat as he leaned forward, his face so close now, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. the heat of him, the desperation in his touch, sent a shiver racing up her spine.

"baby–” she breathed, her voice softer now, less sure.

his eyes were hazy but so full of love it made her chest ache. "please," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, something that sounded dangerously close to a whimper. "lemme taste it, yeah? promise i’ll be good."

her breath hitched, and for a moment, all she could do was nod, her hands trembling slightly as they moved to his hair.

"yeah, petal?” he asked, his grin widening, and the sheer joy in his expression made her heart feel like it was going to burst.

“yeah.”

his hands were unsteady, but they were so careful, so sure of their purpose as they slid further up her thighs, the soft cotton of her shorts bunching under his fingertips. he was still grinning like an idiot, lips hovering just above her skin, his curls brushing against her as he peppered sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of her leg. "you're so soft," he mumbled, voice muffled against her thigh, his words sticky with alcohol and affection.

"it feels good.” she whispered back, her hands carding through his curls, tugging gently when his teeth scraped just a little too hard.

"you love me?” he asked, turning his head to rest his cheek against her, blinking up at her like a puppy who'd just been caught making a mess.

her fingers stilled in his hair as he looked up at her, all wide, glassy green eyes and flushed cheeks, his lips parted slightly as he waited for her answer. she bit her bottom lip, feeling the words catch in her throat as she stared down at him.

"you already know i do.” she murmured, her voice soft and shaky, her hands sliding down to cup his face. her thumbs brushed over his cheeks, his skin warm beneath her touch.

"say it, though," he slurred, a little whiny now, his lips forming into a slight pout.

"i love you, h.” she whispered, her voice trembling but firm, and his expression softened immediately, his eyes fluttering shut as he pressed his face into her palm.

"love you too," he muttered, almost too quiet for her to hear, though his words were followed by a sloppy kiss to the inside of her wrist, his lips warm and soft against her skin.

and then, without missing a beat, his mouth was back on her thigh, moving higher with a desperation that had her legs trembling.

"smell so fuckin' good," he muttered, his voice muffled against her skin. his hands slid up to the waistband of her shorts, fumbling slightly as he tugged at the fabric. "need these off, petal. lemme see you."

her breath caught in her throat, her cheeks flushing as she lifted her hips slightly, helping him ease the shorts down her legs. his hands were uncoordinated, tugging too hard at one side and almost making her laugh, but the intensity in his expression stopped her. he was looking at her like she was something sacred, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he pushed the shorts off and tossed them aside.

"you're s’beautiful," he said, his words slurring together as his hands settled on her thighs again, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there. "you know that? d'you even know?"

"you're drunk.”

"no such thing," he muttered, shaking his head as he leaned in, his lips brushing over her panties. "could be fuckin' blackout and i'd still want you more than anything. always want you, YN."

she couldn't help it—she whimpered, the sound surprising even herself as her fingers slid into his hair again, tugging gently to pull him closer.

he looked up at her with that soft, pleading expression that made her heart stutter. "gonna let me?”

her voice caught in her throat, and all she could do was nod, her fingers tightening in his curls as he grinned, his dimples flashing even in his drunken haze.

"that's m’girl," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her hip before hooking his fingers under the waistband of her panties and sliding them down.

the cool air made her shiver, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his mouth, the way he pressed soft, deliberate kisses to the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, working his way higher.

he let out a breathy laugh as he settled between her legs, his hands gripping her thighs to hold her steady. "smell like heaven. taste like it too, i bet."

she whimpered, her head tipping back against the couch as his tongue flicked out, the first slow, teasing stroke making her whole body jolt.

he groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her, and she couldn't hold back the moan that spilled from her lips, loud and unrestrained.

"that's it," he sighed, his voice muffled as his tongue moved against her clit, his hands tightening on her thighs. "that's m’good girl. so sweet for me."

his words were slurred and incoherent, broken up by the way he licked and sucked at her pussy like she was spilling honey, like he couldn't get enough.

her hands clutched at his hair, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps as her legs trembled on either side of his head.

his tongue swirled and flattened against her until her hips bucked more than once, a shaking mess in his hands as he pulled her closer to his mouth—so close he could drown in her (not that he’d mind).

“fuck–” she moaned, a shaky exhale leaving her lips as he dipped lower, his tongue flicking against her hole, sloppy and eager.

he hummed against her, the sound low and rough and completely unselfconscious, like he couldn't help but lose himself in her. "could stay here forever," he muttered, his lips moving against her like a prayer. "live here. die here. s'worth it."

his hands gripped her thighs tighter as she let out the lightest giggle from his words, pulling her closer, spreading her wider. he kissed her deeper, his tongue sliding into her, slow and deliberate and so desperate it made her chest ache.

her breath hitched, her legs trembling on either side of his head, and he groaned like she was the best thing he'd ever tasted, like he couldn't get enough. "god, you're so good," he slurred, his voice unsteady as he pulled back just enough to look up at her, his lips slick and swollen. "so, so good, YN. d'you even know? fuckin' perfect, petal. can't believe you're mine."

the rest of his words melted into incoherent sounds, soft groans and murmured praise that blended with her own breathy moans as he delved back in to lap at her, circling her clit like it was the only thing that mattered.

her head tipped back, her body arching into his touch as he dragged her closer and closer to the edge, his movements clumsy but so desperate, so full of love that it made her chest ache.

when she came, it was sudden and all-consuming, her body shaking as she cried out, her moans spilling into the quiet room like music. harry didn't stop, his hands holding her steady as his tongue worked her through it, his own groans muffled against her as though he was enjoying every second as much as she was.

when her body finally stilled, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps, he pressed one last soft kiss to her inner thigh before leaning back, his face flushed and glistening, his grin wide and satisfied.

harry shifted up the couch with all the determination of a man who was too drunk to move properly but too stubborn to let that stop him. his arms framed either side of her, his body hovering as best he could, though it was more of a slow collapse than anything elegant. he grunted softly as he settled his weight, pressing her deeper into the cushions, their bodies flush in a way that made both of them shiver despite the warmth of the room.

she let out a quiet laugh, breathless against the way his curls brushed against her face, sticking to his damp forehead. he huffed at the sound, lips tugging into a sloppy grin before pressing them clumsily to hers. the kiss was slow and sweet at first-warm and gentle, his mouth barely brushing against hers like he was trying to memorize the feeling.

but then she shifted slightly beneath him, her fingers curling into his sides, and it was like something broke loose in him. the kiss deepened, messy and urgent, all soft gasps and the taste of tequila lingering on his lips. he kissed her like he was starved for it, as if every second that passed without her mouth on his was unbearable.

his hands roamed her body as if he didn't know where to settle, tugging at her waist, smoothing over her thighs, curling under her back like he needed to feel every part of her. his hips pressed against hers instinctively, and he groaned into her mouth, the sound loud and unfiltered as he broke the kiss just long enough to catch his breath, his forehead falling to hers.

harry looked down at her, his eyes blown wide, his chest rising and falling rapidly. he tried to push himself up further, but his movements were clumsy, his arms wobbling under his own weight. she couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped her lips, and he scrunched his face into a dramatic pout, shaking his head slightly like a sleepy puppy.

his hands fumbled at the hem of his jeans, tugging once before stopping completely, his shoulders sagging. he groaned softly, his head dropping to her shoulder with an audible thud.

"bloody things," he mumbled against her skin, though the words were barely coherent.

she smiled softly to herself, her hands sliding up his back, her fingers brushing over the waistband where he'd given up.

gently, she nudged at his hips, wordlessly guiding him upward until he sat back on his knees, his hands resting heavily against her thighs for balance. his breathing was heavy, his cheeks flushed pink, his curls damp against his forehead.

there was a quiet kind of helplessness in the way he looked at her then—needy and desperate, his lips parted, his brows furrowed slightly like he couldn't figure out how to do this on his own. she didn't make him ask.

her hands moved to the button of his jeans, quick but careful as she popped it open. he let out a soft, shaky exhale as she tugged the zipper down, his body trembling just slightly under her touch. the denim caught on his hips as she tried to push it down, and harry huffed again, adjusting his weight clumsily to help her pull the fabric free.

"lift," she murmured softly, and he obeyed without hesitation, planting his hands firmly on either side of her hips and raising his body just enough to let her drag the jeans down.

he collapsed back onto his knees with a relieved groan as the fabric pooled around his legs, his head tipping back, his chest rising and falling like he'd just run a marathon. she reached for the waistband of his boxers next, her movements slower this time, deliberate, her fingers brushing against the bare skin of his hips as she slid the fabric down.

his breath hitched at the contact, and he swayed slightly, his hands curling into the cushions beside her for balance. for a moment, he just stared down at her, his expression soft and hazy and so full of need that it made her stomach flip.

"there," she whispered softly, her hands moving to rest against his thighs, steadying him.

harry blinked slowly, his eyes dragging over her face as if he were seeing her for the first time. then, without a word, he leaned back down, his body pressing hers into the cushions again as his lips found hers.

the kiss was desperate now, sloppier than before, their teeth bumping together as they both tried to breathe and laugh through it. his hands slid beneath her, wrapping around her back like he was holding her in place, his chest pressing firmly to hers with every ragged breath.

he just rocked against her instinctively, his movements uncoordinated but eager, drawing a quiet gasp from her lips. harry groaned softly in response, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his lips brushing against her skin as he muttered something incoherent.

his body was heavy against hers, his warmth and weight overwhelming, but there was something grounding in the way he held her, in the quiet hum of his breathing against her neck. she threaded her fingers into his hair, stroking softly at the curls, and he shivered, his hips pressing closer against hers with a whimper that he didn't bother trying to hold back.

"feel so good," he murmured, his voice muffled and thick, each word dripping with need. "fuckin—love you. need–need to be inside.”

her chest ached at the way he said it, so raw and honest, and she pulled him closer, their bodies tangling together in the dim light of the flat. harry kissed her again, his hands curling around her waist, holding her like she was the only thing keeping him steady.

he was desperate and clumsy, but god, he was hers. every part of him, hers.

harry moved in desperation, his body heavy and warm against hers as he lined himself up, his forehead pressing to hers. his breathing was ragged, sharp exhales mingling with hers, their chests rising and falling in time. every movement he made was tinged with an uncoordinated eagerness, like he couldn't bear to wait any longer.

he pushed in slowly at first, a groan catching in his throat as he sank into her dripping cunt, his hands gripping at her waist, rough and unsteady.

her body arched instinctively beneath him, her breath hitching as the stretch of his cock pulled a quiet gasp from her lips.

he froze for a moment, his chest pressed to hers, his arms trembling just slightly from the effort of holding himself up. it was like the sensation alone had shattered him, that raw, shaky pause where the world stopped and all that was left was her.

a shaky exhale escaped him, his lips brushing against her cheek as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. he groaned low and drawn-out, the sound muffled against her skin, his grip on her hips tightening as though he was trying to catch his breath.

he started to move, slow and unsteady, his hips rocking forward with a rhythm that was anything but precise—clumsy and needy but so full of need it didn't matter. every thrust drove him deeper into her velvety walls, his body trembling with the effort, soft curses slipping from his lips as he moved.

his weight pressed her further into the cushions, the creak of the couch mixing with the faint, unrestrained sounds escaping them both—her breathless moans, his whiny, broken groans, sounds neither of them were capable of stifling. everything felt louder in the quiet of the flat, the slow slap of skin against skin, the occasional sharp intake of breath when he hit just the right spot.

her hands slid up his back, her nails scraping lightly against his skin, and harry's body jolted in response, his thrusts faltering. he let out a choked whimper, his face still buried in her neck, his lips pressing sloppy kisses against her skin between ragged breaths.

"fuck," he groaned into her ear, though the word wasn't clear, his voice so shaky and low it dissolved into nothing.

he shifted slightly, adjusting his angle, and the next thrust pulled a gasp from her lips—a sharp rut right against the spongy spot where she felt him the most.

her legs wrapped around his waist, holding him closer, and harry groaned again, his movements growing rougher, needier.

his arms shook where they braced against the cushions, his entire body trembling from the effort as he picked up his pace, the steady slap of his hips against hers becoming louder, more insistent. there was no rhythm to it, no finesse—just harry losing himself in her, fucking into her like he'd come undone, like his body couldn't stop itself from chasing the feeling of her pussy wrapped around him.

his curls brushed against her cheeks, damp with sweat, his breath hot and uneven as he nuzzled into her neck. the sounds he made were broken now—small, helpless whines and whimpers escaping him between harsh, ragged breaths.

her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging softly, and his whole body stuttered in response, his hips driving forward with a sharp snap that had her gasping, her voice loud and unrestrained. the sound pulled another whine from him, his hands slipping from her hips to drag up her sides, his thumbs stroking over the curve of her waist, up toward the swell of her tits, the sensitive bud that tightened with his touch.

the couch creaked with every frantic movement, the room filled with the echo of their ragged breaths and soft cries. harry's body never stilled, his thrusts erratic and desperate, his chest pressed tightly to hers their sweat-slicked skin sticking together.

his body tensed as he started to lose control, his pace faltering, his movements turning jerky and uneven. his arms gave out then, and he collapsed on top of her, his forehead pressing against her shoulder as his hips snapped into her, over and over, his entire body trembling.

her breath caught, her back arching as the pressure built between them, everything else blurring into the background—nothing but the feeling of his cock, the sound of him, the weight of him.

and then she felt him shudder, a broken groan ripping from his throat as he buried himself deep, the twitch of his length as he spilt himself inside her, his entire body going rigid. he trembled against her, his hands clutching at her waist as though holding on for dear life, his voice dissolving into breathless whimpers against her neck.

harry didn't pull away, didn't move. he stayed draped over her, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, his face still buried in her neck. his hands smoothed over her sides, shaking slightly as he traced soft, lazy patterns against her skin, grounding himself in the warmth of her.

the silence settled over them slowly, the only sound left in the room their breathing, loud and uneven as they both came down. harry pressed a kiss to her shoulder-soft, tender, nothing like the desperation from moments before.

"fuck," he mumbled finally, his voice hoarse and muffled. "m’addicted to your pussy. swear it."

she let out a soft, breathless laugh, her hands still tangled in his hair as she scratched lightly at his scalp. his whole body relaxed at the motion, a quiet, contented sigh escaping him as he melted further into her.

they stayed tangled together on the couch for a while, the quiet hum of the flat settling around them, their breathing slowly evening out. harry didn’t move much—just shifted enough to nuzzle his face further into her neck, pressing soft, lazy kisses to her skin like he couldn’t quite help himself. her fingers carded through his hair, slow and steady, the repetitive motion lulling him into a contented daze.

“you comfortable there?” she murmured, her voice soft, muffled slightly by the way her cheek pressed against the curls at his temple.

“mmh,” he hummed, the sound low and heavy. “too comfortable. can’t move.”

“i’m not carrying you to bed,” she teased, her lips curving into a tired smile.

he let out a quiet groan, a sound so dramatic it made her laugh softly, her body shaking beneath him. he lifted his head slowly, resting his chin against her chest as he blinked up at her, his green eyes sleepy and glassy.

“‘s not fair, you’re too pretty,” he mumbled, grinning softly. “don’t wanna leave you here.”

“stuck with me either way, baby.” she whispered, brushing his curls back from his face, her fingers lingering at his temple.

his smile softened at that, his eyes fluttering shut briefly as he leaned into her touch. then, with an exaggerated sigh, he pushed himself up, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated.

“alright,” he said, though his voice was still thick with sleep and leftover drunkenness. “bedtime. c’mere.”

before she could protest, his arms were already curling around her, one under her knees and the other cradling her back as he lifted her off the couch.

“harry—” she gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders as her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. “you’re gonna drop me.”

he scoffed at that, shaking his head as he adjusted his grip, pulling her closer against him. “m’gonna pretend i didn’t hear that.”

she sighed into him, letting her cheek rest against the crook of his shoulder as he carried her across the room, his bare feet padding softly against the hardwood floor. her fingers slid into his hair again, stroking gently, and he let out a quiet, pleased hum at the sensation.

he moved slowly, carefully, his steps deliberate despite the weight of the tequila still sitting in his veins. he was headed toward the bedroom, but as he passed the kitchen, something caught his eye.

a glass—half full of tequila, a lone lime slice floating lazily in the liquid.

harry paused mid-step, his arms tightening around YN to keep her secure as he turned his head, squinting at the glass like it had personally called his name.

“oh, for god’s sake,” she muttered, though her voice was warm and amused, her fingers still playing with the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

harry ignored her, shifting her weight slightly to free one hand, his arm still wrapped firmly around her waist. with the other, he reached for the glass, his movements slow and exaggerated, like he was performing a high-stakes maneuver.

“i can’t believe you,” she said, her laughter muffled by his shoulder.

“can’t leave it there,” he replied, lifting the glass to his lips and draining it in one go. the tequila burned down his throat, and he winced slightly, his face scrunching up before he set the empty glass back on the counter with a quiet clink.

“all better now?” she teased, tilting her head slightly to glance up at him.

“much.” he grinned widely, bunny teeth and dimples as he adjusted his grip on her again, turning back toward the bedroom.

he carried her the rest of the way, nudging the bedroom door open with his foot before stepping inside. the room was dimly lit by the streetlights filtering through the curtains, casting faint, golden shadows over the rumpled sheets and pillows.

harry eased her down onto the bed, following after her almost immediately, collapsing onto the mattress with a soft groan. she laughed as he pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her waist as he buried his face in her neck again, his legs tangling with hers.

“this is where i’m stayin’,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against her skin.

“good,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head, her fingers brushing through his curls again.

they settled into the bed together, the weight of the night pulling them under like a blanket, warm and heavy and sweet. harry’s breathing slowed, his arms still tight around her as if he was afraid she might slip away in the dark.

“love you,” he murmured, the words barely audible, slurred with sleep.

“love you too,” she whispered back, her voice soft as her eyes fluttered shut, her hand still tangled in his hair.

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry edward styles #harry styles concept #harry styles au #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #drunkrry #softrry #subrry #harry styles request

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kysstar · 2 months ago

Text

RIGHT NEXT DOOR | SONG MINGI (requested 💕)

pairing : : song mingi x fem!reader

synopsis : : you and mingi have been dancing around your feelings for far too long—neighbors, friends, something more. neither of you says it. but everything else does. Eventually, something has to give.

genre : : friends to lovers, next door neighbours, slow burn (?)

warnings : : reader and mingi being fools, alcohol consumption. (lmk if i missed smth!)

word count : : 7.9k

author's note : : thank you @bananananana26 for requesting this <3 i had such a fun time writing it! hope you like it 💕

—There’s a click, the familiar metal rattle of a key sliding into your front door, and the slow creak of it opening like the house itself is still deciding whether it’s awake yet. You groan and bury your face deeper into your pillow. The sun is barely bleeding through the curtains—definitely not an acceptable hour for social interaction.

“Mornin’,” Mingi’s voice floats in, warm and unbothered. Too chipper for this ungodly hour.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He’s already crossing the room like he owns the place, which, to be fair, he almost does. Mingi is that kind of neighbor. The kind that becomes a fixture in your space, slipping into your life through shared dinners and inside jokes, and eventually, the spare key you gave him for emergencies. Now he uses it like an open invitation. Like it’s his right.

“Where’s that black shirt I left here?” he asks, already rooting through your laundry basket like a man on a mission.

You crack one eye open and squint at him. “What?” Your voice is gravel, soft and uneven from sleep.

“My black shirt—the fitted one, short sleeves, buttons down the front?” He turns to you, holding it up triumphantly. The fabric clings to his fingers like it recognizes its rightful owner.

You blink. “Why do you need that? It’s like... seven in the morning.”

Mingi shrugs, slipping off his hoodie right there in the middle of your room like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Got a date. Brunch.”

That word cuts through the fog in your brain like cold water to the face. You sit up slowly, heart tapping against your ribs, alert now in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine.

“A date?” you echo, trying to sound curious, not concerned.

“Yeah.” He pulls on the shirt, and you hate how well it fits him. The fabric clings just right at the shoulders, tapering slightly at his waist. He runs a hand through his messy, copper-tinged hair, trying to tame it as he leans toward your mirror. His fingers smooth over his jaw, adjusting the necklace around his throat.

“She’s someone I met through Yeosang. Cute, funny. Likes jazz, apparently.” He says it like it’s a fun fact. Like he’s not casually rearranging the architecture of your mood.

You hum something noncommittal and flop back onto your pillow. You don’t want him to see your face.

Mingi laughs, amused. “Why do you sound like I told you I’m going to war?”

“Because waking someone up to brag about a date is not exactly delightful,” you mutter.

He throws a pillow at you, but it’s soft, and you smile into the mattress when he’s not looking.

—You spend the afternoon trying not to think about him.

It’s not easy.

The problem with Mingi is that he’s everywhere in your life now—without ever really meaning to be. He’s in the smell of your laundry detergent (because he ran out of his own and now uses yours). He’s in the playlist that’s still looping from last night’s wine-and-rant session. He’s in the extra mug on the dish rack and the way your living room couch always has a slight dent on the right cushion where he lounges.

You’re trying to work—trying being the operative word.

Emails stack up, deadlines hover like impatient clouds, and you’re still stuck thinking about how easily he said it. Date. Like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.

You picture him sitting across from some girl at a cozy café, laughing in that low, goofy way that always makes your chest warm. You picture her making him smile. Picture her reaching out to touch his hand across the table.

It makes something twist in your stomach—tight and jealous and stupid.

He’s allowed to date. Obviously. It’s not your business. You’re just neighbors. Friends.

And yet. You keep refreshing your inbox like it might distract you from the ache of wanting something that isn’t yours.

Evening slides in with a sky streaked in orange and lavender. You’re in sweats, finally letting yourself collapse onto the couch, when your door creaks open again.

Mingi walks in without ceremony, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You glance over. “So?”

He sighs and flops down beside you like he’s been holding in the weight of the world and just now decided to let it out in your living room.

“So, that was a bust.”

You try to school your face into sympathy. “Oh?”

“She talked about her ex for thirty minutes straight. No joke. I timed it after the first ten.” He scrubs a hand over his face, voice muffled. “I thought it was just nerves at first, but then I realized I was basically a placeholder for some dude named Jinwoo who cheated on her with her Pilates instructor.”

You wince. “Ouch.”

“And then she asked me if I thought it was weird she still texts him sometimes,” he adds, eyes wide. “Like, ma’am?”

Despite yourself, you start to laugh. “Okay, that’s... tragic.”

“I left before dessert. Just told her I had to feed my cat.”

“You don’t have a cat.”

“She doesn’t know that.”

He grins at you, eyes finally lighting up. That boyish kind of smile that you can't help but smile back.

You know you shouldn't feel happy. Not really. You should sympathize, offer comfort, maybe even suggest he give the girl another chance. But instead, your heart feels lighter. Like someone just cracked open a window in a stuffy room.

Mingi stretches, then stands. “Come on. I need to wash the disappointment off me. Let’s do a movie night. Your pick.”

“You mean your apartment, your couch, and my movie taste?”

“Exactly.”

The movie carries on in the background, its glow flickering across the room like a lazy pulse. You’re half-watching, half-daydreaming, legs tucked under a blanket and Mingi’s stretched across your lap like furniture. It’s quiet, comfortable. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. Just as a chase scene starts up on screen, you glance over—and freeze a little.

He’s fast asleep.

His head’s tilted slightly toward you, hair falling messily over his forehead, one strand caught against his lashes. His lips are parted in a soft pout, like he fell asleep mid-thought. The bowl of popcorn still rests on his chest, absurdly balanced, the kernels slowly sliding with each steady rise and fall of his breathing. You stare for a moment, then smile, amused and maybe a little fond without meaning to be.

You reach for your phone as quietly as possible and snap a quick photo, biting your lip to keep from laughing. The angle’s perfect. He looks ridiculous in the best way. You open the group chat and send it without shame.

Satisfied, you set your phone down and try to shift out from under his legs, but they’re heavier now that he’s completely out. You wiggle gently, hoping he’ll roll off or stir just enough to let you slide free. Instead, he shifts the other way—an arm slipping down across the couch, his body turning just enough to press into your side, his leg now fully across your lap. A soft sigh escapes him, content and oblivious, like he’s settling in for the night.

You pause, blink at the ceiling, and exhale. He’s not moving. At all.

You stare down at him, then at the blanket, then at the barely touched popcorn. This is your life now, apparently. Trapped under a snoring six-foot-something man who smells faintly like your detergent and still has crumbs on his shirt. With no other option, you shift down slightly, tuck the blanket tighter around both of you, and get comfortable.

And honestly? You don’t mind.

—You stand in front of the mirror longer than you need to, checking your reflection for the fifth time. The party isn’t anything wild—just a casual get-together at Seonghwa’s place, mostly mutual friends, people you’ve known long enough to not stress about. But still. You’ve put more effort into getting ready than you care to admit.

You’re wearing a black satin slip dress that hugs in the right places and falls just below mid-thigh. It’s simple, easy, but elegant in that effortless way. You threw a cropped leather jacket over it for warmth and balance, paired it with ankle boots that give you just enough height to fake confidence. Your earrings catch the light when you move, and your lips are glossed, eyes soft with just a little liner.

As you adjust the strap of your purse and reach for your phone, the doorbell rings.

Right on time.

You already know who it is. Your hand closes around the doorknob. You take a breath that feels too deliberate, then open the door.

And there he is.

Mingi stands in the hallway like a scene out of a daydream—black dress shirt tucked neatly into fitted slacks, the sleeves rolled up just enough to show the curve of his forearms. The top two buttons are undone, revealing a hint of collarbone and a simple silver chain glinting against his skin. He’s wearing his usual beat-up boots that somehow don’t ruin the look—if anything, they make it more him. His hair is pushed back messily, like he tried to style it but gave up halfway, and it somehow works.

You blink, once, then again. Breathe out before you realize you’ve been holding it in.

Mingi’s eyes travel down, then back up, slower than he probably means to. His lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. For a second, it’s just the two of you standing there, saying nothing, doing nothing—just looking.

Like idiots.

You clear your throat, fingers tightening around your purse strap. “We should go.”

“Right,” he says quickly, nodding. You notice the faint blush creeping up his neck as he turns to head down the hall. “Yeah. Totally.”

Mingi’s car smells faintly like mint gum and that citrusy cologne he always pretends not to wear. You settle into the passenger seat while he starts the engine.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gearshift. There’s music playing low—some indie playlist he probably queued up for the ride. It’s chill. Familiar. You both sit in that silence that isn’t awkward, just... easy.

“Do you know if Wooyoung and Yeosang are going tonight?” you ask, adjusting the hem of your dress as you cross your legs.

Mingi nods without taking his eyes off the road. “Yeah. I think they’re already there. Wooyoung texted me like five times reminding me to bring that stupid portable speaker he left in my apartment.”

You laugh softly. “Of course he did.”

“Also said he has a new drink recipe and wants to test it out on people, so…” Mingi glances over at you with a smirk. “If we end up doing karaoke in Seonghwa’s backyard again, blame him.”

You roll your eyes. “That was your idea last time.”

“And you crushed a Beyoncé song, so clearly you didn’t hate it.”

The city lights smear across the windshield as he drives, flickering over his face in gold and white. You steal a glance—just a second too long—and wonder if he notices. If he ever notices.

He shifts gears at a red light, glancing at you quickly. “You look... nice, by the way.” He says it casually, like it’s nothing, like it didn’t just short-circuit your brain a little.

You glance at him, your voice quieter than you mean it to be. “So do you.”

And just like that, the silence stretches out again. The light turns green. The car rolls forward. And neither of you says another word.

The buzz of conversation hits as soon as you and Mingi step through the door—warm light spilling from the hallway into Seonghwa’s apartment, the sound of music underscored by clinking glasses, laughter echoing from the kitchen. The place is comfortably packed, full of familiar faces. People you haven’t seen in a while but fall back in with like no time’s passed.

Seonghwa spots you first. “Hey! You made it,” he says, pulling you in for a quick hug. He smells like aftershave and woodsy cologne, dressed in something sleek that probably shouldn’t work indoors but totally does on him. “Damn, you look good.”

“Right?” Hongjoong appears beside him, one hand holding a beer, the other casually tucked into his pocket. He gives you a once-over, then nods at Mingi. “You clean up well too, man.”

Mingi grins. “Tried.”

Seonghwa glances between you, a knowing smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “You guys come together?”

You nod without thinking, brushing a hand down your jacket. “Yeah, we carpooled. We live next-door, remember?”

There’s a flicker—too quick to clock unless you’re watching for it. Seonghwa and Hongjoong exchange a look, that subtle, shared language of people who know. But neither you nor Mingi catch it. You’re too busy scanning the room, looking for the next familiar face.

You find it in the form of Wooyoung crashing into you with the energy of a Labrador. “You’re here!” he says dramatically, like it’s some big surprise despite the fact that he texted you three times to make sure you were coming. He pulls you into a hug that rocks you on your heels. “And you look like a hot villainess. I love it.”

You laugh as Yeosang appears, slightly less chaotic, sipping something suspiciously bright green. “I tried to tell him not to make the drink neon,” he says, nodding toward Wooyoung, “but he’s impossible.”

The conversation rolls easily from there—catching up, teasing each other, talking about things you didn’t know you missed until they came back to you all at once. Mingi floats in and out of your orbit, sometimes close enough to feel the warmth from his shoulder when he leans in to say something, other times across the room laughing with San over something you can’t hear.

You get caught up in it—just the way people do when the right kind of music is playing and the drinks are cold and the conversations run just deep enough to matter but not so deep they get heavy.

At some point, Mingi notices you’ve disappeared.

He’s mid-laugh with San, hands animated in the air, when he glances to the side and doesn’t see you where you were just minutes ago. His smile falters, even if only slightly. It’s small, but San catches it. Mingi mumbles something vague about grabbing another drink, and San nods, too distracted to question it.

He starts scanning the apartment, weaving through clusters of people. He checks the kitchen, then the hallway near the bathroom. It’s not panic, exactly—just this pull in his chest that won’t relax until he knows where you went.

Then he sees you.

You’re by the window, a drink in your hand, laughing at something a tall guy is saying. Mingi recognizes him—Yunho. He remembers seeing him at a few other get-togethers. Friendly, always polite, the kind of guy people like instantly.

Apparently, you’re no exception.

You’re smiling wide, your eyes crinkling, one hand brushing against Yunho’s arm as you throw your head back laughing. Yunho leans in just slightly, saying something else that makes you laugh again.

Mingi’s stomach knots. It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. You’re allowed to talk to whoever you want. But that doesn’t stop the irrational heat rising behind his collar. Doesn’t stop the way his jaw tenses when Yunho reaches out to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.

You feel it first—eyes prickling, that inexplicable awareness of being watched. You glance up, across the room, and meet Mingi’s eyes. He’s standing still, his expression unreadable at first glance, but there’s something in his posture. Tighter than usual. His hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying too hard to look casual.

You excuse yourself from Yunho with a quick, polite smile. “I’ll be right back,” you say, though you know you won’t be.

As you cross the room, Mingi doesn’t move. He just watches you walk up to him, eyes flicking down your frame like he’s trying not to.

“Hey,” you say lightly, as if you didn’t just catch him staring.

“Hey.” His voice comes out lower than usual.

You grin, oblivious to the weight of his mood. “Guess what? Yunho just asked if I wanted to grab coffee tomorrow. Isn’t that cute?”

Mingi frowns before he can stop himself. It’s subtle, just the smallest dip of his brows, the barest twitch of his mouth.

You don’t miss it. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says too fast. Then shrugs, trying to play it off. “That’s cool.”

You tilt your head. “You sure?”

Mingi looks away for a beat, then back at you, and there’s something flickering in his eyes. Jealousy dressed up as indifference. “Yeah. Just didn’t know you were into that type.”

You raise a brow. “That type?”

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish now. “I mean… tall. Smiley. Safe.”

You laugh. “Are you describing Yunho or a golden retriever?”

Mingi gives a half-smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He nods again, almost to himself. “Yeah. No, it’s cool.”

But it’s not cool.

Not even a little.

—It starts with your closet door wide open and half your wardrobe already strewn across the bed. Tops hang from your headboard, dresses are tossed over chairs, and there’s a growing pile of “maybes” gathering on the floor like fallen soldiers. The date with Yunho is in two hours, and you’ve tried on five outfits. None feel right.

Mingi is on your couch, sipping a drink like he didn’t just invite himself over after lunch and then refuse to leave once he heard the words “I don’t know what to wear.”

You walk out in the sixth outfit—an off-the-shoulder baby blue top, short skirt, boots—and strike a pose in the living room. “Okay. Thoughts?”

Mingi glances up from his phone. His eyes flick down, then narrow slightly. “Too much leg.”

You scoff. “It’s a skirt, not a scandal.”

“Exactly,” he says, deadpan.

You roll your eyes and disappear back into your room, already tugging the skirt off. The seventh outfit is a black cropped sweater and high-waisted jeans—safe, cute, not trying too hard. You step back out and do a lazy spin. “Better?”

Mingi tilts his head. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” you repeat. “You sound like I asked you to rate my tax return.”

He shrugs. “Just feels... like you’re dressing down for him.”

You stop halfway to the mirror. “What does that even mean?”

Mingi takes a sip of his drink, eyes steady on yours. “I’ve just seen you wear better stuff when we get coffee. He should get at least that level.”

You squint at him. “So now the jeans aren’t enough?”

“You asked,” he mutters, hiding behind his cup.

Outfit eight is a fitted midi dress—wine-colored, sleeveless, square neckline. You kind of love it. It's flattering without being loud. You walk out again, expectant. “Okay. This one.”

Mingi doesn’t even blink. “No.”

Your hands drop to your sides. “What now?”

He gestures vaguely toward your chest. “That’s not even trying to pretend it’s subtle.”

“It’s literally not even low-cut!”

“Still.” He shifts on the couch, suddenly very interested in the stitching on his sweatpants. “You’re going to be sitting across from him in that, laughing at his jokes, leaning forward, doing that thing where you—just—no.”

You stare. “Didn’t realize you were dressing me for a convent.”

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “It’s not about that.”

Outfit nine is an oversized graphic tee tucked into leather pants, the vibe a little chaotic but maybe weirdly sexy. You emerge, posing like a runway model.

“No,” Mingi says immediately.

You throw your hands up. “Okay, what is the vibe you’re looking for here, Mingi? Sack of potatoes?”

He looks up at you then, something sharp and quiet in his expression. “Something that doesn’t make other guys stare at you like you’re available.”

The room stills for a second. You blink at him. You try to laugh it off. “Mingi, that’s literally the point of a date.”

He doesn’t smile. You go quiet. Something strange shifts between you—just for a breath, barely there. Then it’s gone. He looks away, tapping his fingers against the rim of his cup.

“I’m just saying,” he adds, softer now, “if he can’t like you in something simple, he’s not worth the time.”

You look down at what you’re wearing, then back at him. “So what’s your vote?”

“Jeans and the white sweater,” he says without hesitation. “You look like you in that.”

You sigh, disappearing back into your room one last time, this time pulling on the outfit he picked without protest. You’re tired of trying to read into his words. Tired of guessing where the lines are.

You return a few minutes later, fully dressed and adjusting your earrings. “Well?”

Mingi looks up. His gaze softens instantly. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s the one.”

You grab your purse, still catching glimpses of yourself in the mirror as you pass. You look fine. Better than fine. But a part of you still wants to ask him—Why did it matter so much what I wore?

And a louder part of you already knows the answer.

—Yunho is perfectly on time. He greets you with a smile that’s all teeth and warmth, holds the car door open, compliments your sweater. It’s smooth—thoughtful in that quiet, well-raised way. The restaurant is nice too. Not overly fancy, not a chain—something in between. Brick walls, soft lighting, a jazz playlist humming just under the hum of cutlery and conversation.

Objectively, everything is going well.

You know how these things are supposed to feel. There’s eye contact. The rhythm is easy. You laugh when he says something genuinely funny. He’s polite, attentive, says your name when he talks to you like it means something. But it’s strange how even when you’re here, present, smiling and nodding at all the right times—you’re somewhere else.

You’re with Mingi.

Not physically, but in the little corners of your brain that won’t shut up. Every time Yunho says something charming, you find yourself thinking, Mingi would've made a joke here instead. When Yunho talks about his love for hiking, you imagine Mingi groaning and calling him a “nature masochist.” You smile at that thought, then realize you’re smiling at someone who isn’t even in the room.

You nod along as Yunho tells you a story about a weird encounter at a subway station, and your first instinct is to think, Mingi would’ve absolutely dramatized this into a full two-act comedy skit. Your second instinct is to look over and catch Mingi’s expression reacting to it—except, of course, he’s not here.

You twirl your straw in your drink, pretending to listen, but your thoughts drift again.

Mingi would’ve ordered something off-menu just to see if the server could keep up. He would’ve slouched in his chair, gotten sauce on his shirt, made you laugh with his dramatic regret. He wouldn’t be this polished, this effortlessly perfect. He’s not the type to play dates cool. Mingi shows up with full heart and zero filter. It’s messy. Real.

But Yunho is here. Polite, calm, thoughtful.

There’s no reason you should be comparing them. And yet.

You catch yourself doing it again when Yunho leans in and compliments your laugh—says it’s “light.” You remember how Mingi once called your laugh “ridiculously loud” while laughing so hard he snorted. He said it like it was the best sound in the world.

At some point, Yunho asks if you want to go for a walk, and you say yes, mostly to clear your head. The air is crisp, the sidewalk quiet under your boots. He talks about music, then books, then something about a camping trip. You nod along, you even chime in—but nothing lands.

You should like this.

You do like it.

But it’s like watching a movie with subtitles slightly out of sync. Everything almost fits. But not quite.

He walks you to your door when the night ends. Says he had a great time. That he’d love to see you again. You smile politely and say, “Yeah, maybe,” even though you already know you’re going to lie awake tonight thinking about someone else entirely.

Because the truth is, Yunho is lovely.

But he isn’t Mingi.

—It starts with a group chat message from Wooyoung that reads:

"Emergency night out. Everyone shut up and show up."

You don’t argue. After the week you’ve had—awkward dates, annoying work calls, and whatever the hell is happening inside your chest when Mingi looks at you a second too long—you need the chaos.

You meet the guys at a cramped, slightly too-warm bar tucked into a side street, the kind with sticky tabletops, neon signs buzzing weakly above the liquor shelf, and a karaoke room in the back that’s barely soundproof. Wooyoung and Yeosang are already two drinks in when you arrive. Jongho shows up five minutes later with chips and something stronger than beer. Mingi slides in last, wearing a hoodie and a grin that makes your stomach flip even before he sits down next to you like he always does—without asking.

The drinks come quick. Rum, soju, a cocktail Wooyoung insists is “his signature” that tastes suspiciously like melted candy. The room warms up, volume rising with every song. You all start off ironic—bad 2000s pop, dramatic power ballads, Yeosang doing Beyoncé way too well, and Wooyoung trying to harmonize with literally everyone.

You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, pressed against Mingi’s side on the low couch. His leg brushes yours and stays there. You’re not sure when that started happening—these subtle, unspoken touches. But you don’t pull away. Neither does he.

Then Wooyoung throws his arm around Mingi dramatically. “Your turn. Go. Impress us.”

Mingi groans. “No one asked for this.”

“Do it,” you say, nudging him with your knee. “Unless you’re scared.”

His eyes flash as he looks at you. “Scared? Of you?” He’s grinning now. “Okay. Bet.”

He stumbles over to the screen, selects a song with the confidence of a man who’s made questionable karaoke decisions before. The first notes hit. You recognize it immediately.

It’s a love song. A dumb, sappy, overly sincere one—the kind people usually only pick if they’re trying to make a point or drunk enough to not care.

But he sings it. And he sings it well.

His voice is rough in places, but there’s something raw about it. Something real. His eyes scan the room, playful at first. Then they land on you. And they stay on you.

You feel it like heat against your skin.

The room fades a little. Wooyoung and Yeosang are still howling in the background, probably off-beat clapping. Jongho’s filming it, mouthing lyrics under his breath. But Mingi is still looking at you.

When he hits the chorus, there's something almost serious in his expression. Not like he’s just goofing around now—but like he’s saying something without really saying it.

You hold his gaze, something caught in your throat.

The last note fades into the room like a secret hanging in the air. There’s a beat of silence before Wooyoung yells something unintelligible and dramatic applause breaks the tension.

Mingi laughs and sits back down, a little breathless, cheeks flushed—not just from the alcohol, you think. He grabs his drink and takes a long sip, avoiding your eyes now.

You lean toward him, voice low. “You sang that like it was personal.”

He shrugs, still not looking at you. “Maybe it was.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. You want to ask for who, even though you think you know. But your tongue feels too heavy and the room too loud.

Later, a few more songs in, the others are busy fighting over mic control. You and Mingi are leaning into each other now, bodies drawn like magnets. You’re laughing at something stupid he whispered in your ear, and he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing worth focusing on in this chaotic little room.

There’s a lull. A quiet moment in the noise. He looks at your lips. You look at his.

It happens slowly. A lean. A breath. His hand brushing your knee, his face close enough now you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. Your heart is beating in your throat.

And then—

“NEXT SONG, LOSERS!”

Wooyoung launches himself between you two, flopping dramatically across the couch with a mic in hand.

You jolt back. Mingi does too. The moment collapses like a wave that almost reached shore but never quite did.

You swallow hard. He clears his throat. Neither of you say anything.

The night carries on like nothing happened.

—Your head is pounding. Not in a dramatic, movie-style way—just a dull, persistent throb behind your eyes, made worse by the fact that the sun seems personally offended by your existence today. You sit on your bed for a few minutes, staring into space, before finally pulling yourself up with a groan.

You know if you feel like this, Mingi probably feels worse.

So you do what you always do when he's hungover: you go into autopilot.

Within an hour, you're walking down the hall with a plastic bag full of hangover cures—the good kind. A container of hot soup, two greasy egg sandwiches, cold soda, painkillers, and something vaguely healthy to make it look like you tried. You knock once, but you’re already digging out the spare key he gave you when he first moved in.

The apartment is quiet when you let yourself in. Dim, a little stuffy, and still carrying the faint scent of cologne, leftover snacks, and last night’s choices.

Mingi’s sprawled across the couch, hood pulled over his head, blanket tangled around one leg. His arm is flopped over his eyes like he’s trying to disappear.

You walk into the room, drop the bag on the coffee table, and clear your throat. “I come bearing salvation.”

He doesn’t move for a beat. Then, in a voice wrecked by sleep and dehydration, he groans, “I knew you'd come. You're too good to me.”

You laugh, kicking his foot gently as you sit on the floor beside the couch. “You say that every time and still don’t drink water when I tell you to.”

Mingi lifts his arm just enough to peek at the food, eyes lighting up slightly. “Is that soup?”

“Obviously. And sandwiches. And soda. You’re welcome.”

He sits up slowly, wincing like it hurts, and leans forward to grab one of the containers. His hoodie is slipping off one shoulder, hair a mess, eyes bleary and soft. He looks like a half-drowned cat. You try not to find it endearing.

You both eat in silence for a few minutes, hunched around your food like hungover goblins, the clink of plastic containers and occasional sips the only sound in the room.

You steal glances at him between bites, the way he keeps rubbing the back of his neck, squinting slightly at the light, chewing like it’s taking his whole brain to coordinate. You wonder if he’s thinking about last night too.

Because you are.

You’ve been replaying it since you woke up. The music, the drinks, his voice. The way he looked at you like he meant every single lyric. The almost-kiss. The way your heart paused, then sped up, then did absolutely nothing, because nothing happened.

But the nothing is loud. Echoing through this quiet morning like it wants to be noticed.

You glance up. He’s already looking at you. Your eyes meet for a beat too long.

You look away, wiping your fingers on a napkin, trying to play it off. “You sang so seriously last night, by the way,” you mutter, reaching for your drink. “Didn’t know you were auditioning for a drama.”

Mingi grins, head dropping back onto the couch. “You dared me.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to look at me like that while doing it.”

The words are out before you realize how they sound. He turns to look at you again, slower this time. His smile softens, fades just a little. “Like what?”

You busy yourself with the drink. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t push it. You both go quiet again, finishing your food with the TV playing some muted weekend rerun in the background. The sun shifts through the windows.

When the food’s gone and the trash is gathered, you stay on the floor, leaning back against the couch. Mingi slides down until he’s sitting next to you, shoulder to shoulder, still silent.

It’s comfortable. It’s maddening.

You close your eyes, head leaning back, heart a little too aware of the space between you and the boy who almost kissed you last night.

—You’re half-asleep when the knock comes.

It’s light at first. Then louder. Then followed by an unmistakable voice slurring your name like a secret.

“Open the doooorrrr… I know you’re in there. I can hear the fridge humming.”

You blink, sit up on the couch, check the time. It’s nearly midnight. Thursday night. Correction: Thirsty Thursday, which you now realize must have meant a bar night for the boys.

You shuffle to the door, still in your old hoodie and bike shorts, and open it with a tired sigh.

Mingi is standing there, slightly swaying, cheeks flushed red, eyes shiny with poorly concealed mischief. His hoodie is unzipped, hair a tousled mess, and his lips are curled into that lopsided, too-proud grin that only shows up after two too many drinks.

“I was just thinking,” he says, dramatically pointing a finger at your face, “that you're my favorite person ever. So I came over.”

You blink at him. “You’re drunk.”

He gasps, like you’ve just accused him of something scandalous. You sigh, stepping aside. “Come in before you wake the neighbors.”

Mingi stumbles in, shedding his shoes with unnecessary force and immediately bee-lining to your speaker like he owns the place. Which, to be fair, he kind of does—he knows your playlists better than you do.

“I’m playing something,” he declares, squinting at his phone like the screen is doing him dirty. “We’re dancing.”

“No, you’re drunk, and I’m going back to my spot on the couch.”

“You love dancing,” he counters, turning to you with wide eyes. “You always dance when you’re cleaning. Or when you’re happy. Or when I bring you cake.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to dance right now.”

He ignores you entirely. The song starts—something upbeat, obnoxiously happy. He starts swaying, arms moving like he’s swimming through molasses.

You cross your arms. “Mingi.”

He grabs your hand. “Dance with me.”

“Mingi, you can’t even stand straight.”

“I’m very stable,” he says confidently, almost falling into your coffee table as he tries to spin. “See?”

Despite yourself, you laugh. He’s a mess. A very affectionate mess.

Eventually, you give in. Just a little.

You let him pull you into a slow, lazy half-dance in the middle of your living room. He hums off-key, his forehead resting against yours for a second too long, his arms slung loosely around your shoulders. His grip is warm, clumsy, loose like he trusts the gravity between you to do most of the work.

“You smell like soju,” you mutter, trying to sound annoyed, but you’re smiling, and he knows it.

“It's my cologne. Limited edition,” he slurs, head dropping to your shoulder.

You both laugh, and his breath hits your neck—warm and soft, closer than it probably should be. Your heart is doing something inconvenient in your chest, but you ignore it. This is Mingi. Drunk, clingy, harmless Mingi.

The song fades. He pulls back enough to look at you—eyes half-lidded, dazed and soft.

“You’re so pretty,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “Okay, bedtime.”

“No, wait, I’m serious. You’re like… glowing.”

“Mingi.”

“Like a really hot glow stick.”

You snort and start steering him toward the couch. “You’re cut off.”

He lets you guide him with no resistance, but just as you reach the couch, he trips slightly, and suddenly, you’re both falling—an awkward, clumsy tangle of limbs, landing with an oof as his full weight collapses on top of you.

“Get off,” you wheeze, laughing as you squirm under him.

He groans dramatically. “Can’t. Too tired. You’re comfy.”

“Mingi, I am not your mattress.”

“You are now.”

You try to push him off, but he’s deadweight—already melting into you, head tucked against your chest like it’s the most natural place in the world. One arm is flung across your waist, his breathing already starting to slow.

You stare at the ceiling, frozen. “Mingi…”

Nothing. He’s out. Fully, deeply asleep. Just like that. You should shove him off. You should throw a pillow at his head or wiggle out from under him. But you don’t. Not right away.

His hair is soft against your neck. His hand twitches slightly, fingers curling against your side. And something about it—all of it—feels dangerously nice.

You sigh, let your hand rest lightly on his back.

Just for a minute.

Just until your heart stops doing this stupid thing where it thinks maybe this could mean more.

—Mingi wakes slowly, like he’s being pulled up from somewhere warm and far away. His body is heavy, his mouth dry, head faintly buzzing from the remnants of cheap soju and sleep. It takes him a second to realize why his shoulder feels warm. Why something soft is pressed against his chest. Why everything smells faintly like your shampoo.

His eyes open, hazy and unfocused, and there you are.

Still beneath him.

His breath catches in his throat as he lifts his head just enough to see you—eyes closed, face relaxed in the kind of peace that only sleep allows. Your chest rises and falls beneath him, slow and steady, like your body is somehow calming his without trying. His arm is still draped over your waist, one leg tangled with yours, and your hand rests lightly against his back like it’s always belonged there. You’re holding him.

And he’s never wanted to stay in a moment more.

He blinks, slow and disoriented, brain sluggish from the hangover and the fog of sleep. He takes you in like he’s afraid you might vanish. Like maybe he dreamed this, and if he moves too fast, he’ll wake up to an empty couch and the hollow space where you used to be.

Without thinking, he reaches up and gently brushes your hair out of your face. His fingers barely graze your skin, but the touch feels seismic. He watches the way your nose scrunches slightly in response, the way your lips twitch at the corner like you’re dreaming something good.

This close, it’s impossible not to feel everything. The heaviness in his chest. The tenderness blooming quietly behind his ribs. That low, aching want to stay like this—not forever, not even for long, just for a while. Just long enough to memorize the feeling of your heartbeat against his cheek. Just long enough to believe you’re holding him not by accident, but because you wanted to.

You shift slightly beneath him, and your arm around his back tightens in your sleep—barely, instinctively. It’s nothing. A reflex. But to Mingi, it’s everything.

He lets his eyes close again, just for a minute. Just to savor it.

Later, he’ll get up. Later, he’ll go back to being your best friend and neighbor and whatever else he’s supposed to be.

But for now, he stays wrapped around you, your warmth anchoring him, your breath brushing against his shoulder.

And in that stillness, he thinks—

If this is all he ever gets, he’ll carry it with him anyway.

—The next date isn’t much different from the first, at least on paper.

You say yes to a guy you met through work—Taehyun. Clean-cut, smart, soft-spoken in that effortlessly confident way. He texts back quickly, plans the evening with ease, and picks a place that’s just the right kind of trendy without being pretentious. The type of guy you’d be stupid not to give a chance.

You get ready without telling Mingi. That’s new.

He’s been quieter around you lately, more fidgety. He still shows up with snacks, still flops onto your couch like gravity insists he belongs there, still makes you laugh without trying. But there’s something in the pauses now. A tension in the space between his glances, like he’s holding something back he’s not ready to let you see.

So tonight, you leave without mentioning it. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But part of you is waiting for a text from him the whole time. It never comes.

Taehyun picks you up right on time. He compliments your earrings, opens the car door, makes easy conversation during the drive. At dinner, he asks thoughtful questions, makes you laugh more than once, and never interrupts when you speak. It’s easy. No red flags. No weird silences. No awkward fumbles.

And yet.

Every time he reaches across the table, your brain betrays you. Mingi’s hands are rougher. Warmer. When Taehyun leans in to tell a joke, you think, Mingi would’ve made a stupid pun instead. When Taehyun compliments your laugh, you hear Mingi saying “You sound like a cartoon character” with a grin on his face and fondness in his eyes.

You smile at Taehyun anyway. You nod, you laugh, you play the part.

But something inside you is quiet. Unsettled.

After dinner, he asks if you want to grab dessert somewhere nearby. You say yes, but you’re already picturing Mingi in your kitchen, raiding your freezer for ice cream you pretend not to keep stocked. You remember the way he always eats straight from the tub, standing barefoot, ranting about some dumb video he saw.

Taehyun suggests a walk before driving back, and you say yes again. The night is cool. The sidewalk is mostly empty. He offers you his jacket. You don’t take it.

He drops you off just after ten, walks you to your door. He doesn’t lean in, doesn’t try to kiss you. He just says, “I’d like to see you again,” and waits.

You smile. “Maybe.”

And you mean it. But not in the way he hopes.

Inside, your apartment is quiet. Still. You drop your purse, kick off your shoes, and wander into the kitchen without really knowing what you’re looking for.

And then you hear the knock. You open it, and there’s Mingi—hoodie on, hands in his pockets, hair messy like he’s been running his fingers through it all night. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you.

You raise a brow. “Hey.”

He nods. “Hey.”

His eyes flick down—catch your outfit, the faint smudge of lipstick, the light perfume you never wear unless you’re going out. His jaw tenses, just for a second.

“You were out,” he says, like it’s a statement, not a question.

You shrug. “Just dinner.”

He nods again. “With a guy?”

You lean against the doorframe. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches between you, longer than it needs to be. You can hear the faint hum of your fridge behind you. The soft buzz of a streetlight outside.

Mingi shifts on his feet. “Was it good?”

“It was fine.”

More silence. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave. Just stands there like he wants to say something but can’t figure out how to start.

You watch him, heart thudding somewhere between frustration and longing. You wish he’d just say it. Ask. Admit. Anything.

Instead, he glances at his shoes and mutters, “I brought the stupid ice cream you like. Figured you might want it.”

Your chest aches a little. You step aside.

“Come in.”

—The party’s already buzzing by the time you arrive.

It’s someone’s birthday—someone you don’t know well enough to hug, but well enough to show up for. The place is packed. Music is loud, lights are low, and the drinks are flowing too fast for how early it still is. You're not even halfway through your first cocktail when Taehyun shows up beside you, grinning like he’s already tipsy.

You smile back. Out of politeness. Out of habit. Out of something else you’re still pretending not to name.

At first, it’s nothing. Light flirting. A little too close when he leans in to talk over the music. A hand at your waist that lingers a second too long. You laugh—nervous, but letting it happen.

You don’t see Mingi watching.

He’s across the room, pretending to listen to Jongho tell a story, but his eyes are fixed on the way Taehyun’s thumb brushes against your arm. How you don’t pull away. How you tilt your head and smile like it doesn’t twist something sharp into his chest.

When he sees Taehyun lean in and whisper something that makes you laugh—really laugh—he snaps.

He’s moving before he can stop himself, cutting through the crowd, his heart slamming into his ribs like it’s trying to get out. You don’t see him until he’s already there.

“Can we talk?” His voice is low, clipped.

You blink. “What?”

He doesn’t wait for permission. Just jerks his head toward the balcony. “Now.”

There’s something in his tone you’ve never heard before. You follow.

The air outside is cooler, quieter. Distant bass thuds through the walls, but here it feels separate, suspended. Mingi paces once, then turns to face you, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.

“What the hell was that?”

You frown. “What are you talking about?”

“You and him,” he says, motioning back toward the party. “The hands. The way he was—you were letting him touch you like that.”

You cross your arms. “So?”

He scoffs, bitter. “So, nothing? Just a casual thing? Doesn’t matter?”

You straighten. “Why does it matter to you?”

His mouth opens, but no sound comes. You see him struggling—his fists clenching, his breath uneven.

“It’s not like you care who I date!” you throw at him. It’s defensive, sharp. You’re trying to hurt him before he can hurt you.

His voice rises, the words bursting out before he can stop them. “Maybe I do!”

Silence. The kind that doesn’t sit quietly. It rings.

He runs a hand over his face, frustration spilling from every movement. “God. I do. I care, okay? I’ve been trying so hard not to. Trying to be the friend, the neighbor, the idiot you vent to about your dates while pretending I’m fine. But I’m not.”

You stare at him, your heart thudding once—hard, loud, like a signal flare.

Mingi steps closer, eyes locked on yours now, chest heaving with everything he’s been holding back. “I hated watching him touch you. I hated how easy it was for you to smile at him like that. Because I’ve been right here this whole damn time, wanting you, and you never look—”

You don’t know you’re moving until you're already there—your hands in his hoodie, your mouth crashing into his mid-sentence.

His breath stutters, and then he’s kissing you back like he’s been waiting to—for months. Years, maybe. Like he’s been holding his breath every time you walked into a room, and now he finally gets to exhale.

His hands find your waist, your back, your face—like he can’t pick where to hold you first. You’re still pressed up against the balcony, and the city blurs behind you, lights spinning, heartbeat pounding in your ears.

You don’t stop. Not even when someone opens the door behind you, lets out a laugh, and goes back inside.

The world can wait.

Right now, this is everything.

636 notes · View notes

averyspizookies · 17 days ago

Text

Locked.

Part one.

Pairing: Final four UCLA Azzi x UConn Paige, Enemies to lovers.

Word count: 6.8k

Note: hi guys, I really hope you all enjoy this!! It’s based off the clip of juju saying “I hate ucla bro” lol, so yeah I had fun writing it. It’s not well edited, but I really want you guys to give more feedback, it’s how I was inspired to write most of guarded and I miss y’all!! Anons or dms even always welcome. Thank you all for reading. Let me know if you see any errors!🤍

My master list

____ ____ ____

“Bro—I’m not guarding that hoe.”

Paige’s voice echoed through the nearly empty hotel conference room the UConn team had taken for the night. Her chair squeaked as she leaned back dramatically, arms flung wide like she was being personally victimized by the film.

KK didn’t even look up. Just sighed, her cheek smushed into her notebook, highlighters and half-dead pens scattered. “Well,” she mumbled, “you kinda don’t have a choice.”

Paige groaned, “I’m serious. I hate UCLA. Like, on a spiritual level. They’re all—sunny and shit. With their stupid faces and tans like they live in a fucking Nike commercial.”

Across the table, Ice glanced up from her screen, eyebrows raised. “Paige. Half the stuff you just said isn’t even remotely basketball-related.”

“I knowww,” Paige drawled, already halfway draped over her chair, sounding offended by the very existence the West Coast. “But it’s still true. They’re too... happy.”

“I dunno...” Caroline piped up, voice calm, but curious. She was scribbling something in the margins of a notepad, but her eyes flicked up. “Azzi seems kinda nice. Off the court, I mean.”

Paige sat up like someone had just personally offended her. “Nice? Not with the way she plays.”

“She literally isn’t even a dirty player,” KK said, finally looking up, confused.

“No, no, no—y’all don’t get it.” Paige huffed, already flipping open her laptop with laser focus. “Here. Let me educate you.”

She fast-forwarded through last year’s matchup against UCLA with the speed and precision of someone who’d watched it on loop.

“Thirteen forty-two,” she muttered, timestamp burned into her memory.

The video froze on Azzi Fudd, calm and composed, dribbling the ball up the court like she had all the time in the world—like gravity didn’t exist for her. Paige unpaused, and there it was: the shot.

No hesitation. No pass. No screen. Just Azzi, the ball, and the net. The swish was so clean it sounded like water,

It haunted Paige.

“Bro, so what?” Ice asked, pulling back from the screen, her voice casual but amused. “That’s just—”

“So what?” Paige cut in, incredulous, already gesturing wildly. “That’s fucking— it’s just—”

“A good play?” KK offered, sipping from her water bottle, barely hiding her smirk.

The other girls giggled, and Paige scowled, eyes still locked on the paused video like it had insulted her.

“Whatever. She’s a bitch,” Paige muttered, slamming her laptop shut. “Trust me.”

“You’ve literally never talked to her,” Ice pointed out, gathering her chargers and cords.

“Don’t need to. I can feel it,” Paige insisted, shoving things into her bag with uneeded aggressiveness “She has bitch energy. bitch aura.”

KK was already halfway to the door with Ice, but she turned back, grinning like she was about to drop a grenade. “Maybe you just wanna get in her pants.”

Ice exploded with laughter, nearly choking as she tried—and failed—to cover it up with a cough. The two of them disappeared through the door, still cracking up.

Paige was left alone in the quiet room, surrounded by the glow of half-lit screens and scribbled scouting notes.

“Hell no,” she grumbled, even though her face felt a little too warm and she suddenly couldn’t look at the paused image of Azzi on her laptop without thinking about the way her ponytail bounced when she shot, or the way her eyes didn’t blink after she followed through.

No. Absolutely not.

She slammed her laptop shut again.

Definitely not.

***

The UCLA team rolled into the Final Four hotel like a wave of California sun, dressed head-to-toe in royal blue and gold. There wasn’t a hair out of place or a single scuffed sneaker in sight. They looked every bit the part of a team built for the big stage—cool, polished, camera-ready.

They strolled through the lobby like it was a runway, a day out from their Final Four matchup against South Carolina. A rope separated fans from the players, but it didn’t stop the noise—screams, phones raised high, posters waving in hopes of a signature or even a glance.

Most of those screams were for one person.

Azzi Fudd didn’t acknowledge them. Not really. A polite smile here, a wave there, but never long enough to feed the frenzy. She moved with the quiet confidence of someone who had learned long ago that attention was a currency—and too much of it could bankrupt your peace.

She’d been “the star” since her sophomore year, though she’d never say it out loud. You didn’t have to.

Slam covers. GQ. Vogue. A $3 million Nike deal dropped just months ago that had turned her from basketball prodigy into a full-blown brand. Ten million on Instagram. More on TikTok. She didn’t even run half of it anymore—there was a team for that. A fan favorite? Understatement. Fans didn’t just support her; they idolized her. Worshipped her like goddess.

Edits of her game highlights mixed with thirst-trap music regularly hit millions of views. Every game day, her name trended.

She moved through the lobby with her best friend and teammate Lauren beside her, flanked by security. Lauren was the only person who never changed around her—never acted like she was someone to tiptoe around.

“Ughhhh,” Lauren groaned the second she face-planted onto the plush hotel bed, the mattress dipping with a satisfying thump.

“I know,” Azzi replied, flopping down beside her, voice muffled in the pillows.

March had been a blur of red-eye flights, endless film sessions, bruising practices, and must-win games. And now, they were here. The Final Four. Another night, another city…

But tomorrow? Tomorrow wasn’t just another game. It was South Carolina.

And maybe, just maybe... after that? UConn.

Azzi sighed again, but this one came from somewhere deeper in her chest. The part that still remembered last year. And the year before.

“What the hell are we gonna do about UConn?” she blurted, still face-down.

Lauren groaned and turned her head, dark curls spilling over her cheek. “What?”

Azzi rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling like it had answers. “They’re not here to mess around. Paige—she’s not leaving without that championship.”

Lauren blinked at her for a second. “Well... neither are you.”

Azzi didn’t reply.

Lauren sat up a little. “We’re ready. We’ve got you. We’ve got height. UConn’s bigs are good, but they don’t dominate the post like they used to. And you’re averaging twenty-three a game, Az. We’ve got this.”

Azzi nodded, slowly. Lauren was right. Technically. Statistically. But reality wasn’t always made of numbers.

They both knew the truth: if Azzi or Lauren went down—or even just had an off night—the rest of the roster cracked like glass under pressure. It had happened before. Too many times.

They didn’t have depth. They had each other.

And tomorrow, it had to be enough.

“I gotta stop Blondie,” Azzi muttered.

Lauren burst out laughing. “Right. And she’ll be trying to stop you. You two are like... the same person, just on opposite coasts.”

Azzi made a gagging noise and stuck out her tongue. “Don’t even say that.”

Lauren grinned, unfazed. “I mean... c’mon. Both of you are bajillionaires. Both have followers in the tens of millions. Both have armies of fans thirsting over edits. Both of you are the face of your programs.”

Azzi rolled her eyes and flopped an arm over her face. “God, you’re annoying.”

“Admit it. You’re the West Coast Paige.”

Azzi lifted her arm just enough to shoot Lauren a look. “Please. If I ever start flailing around and yelling at my teammates mid-game like she does, bench me.”

Lauren cackled. “That’s fair.”

Still, the words stuck. Paige was UConn’s golden girl—their anchor, their edge, their fire. Everything Azzi was for UCLA. Their rivalry was iconic. Edited to hell and back. Every time they met on the court, it was like the internet paused to watch. Azzi never let herself look too close, but sometimes... she did. And that was the problem.

“Whatever,” Azzi said, shaking the thoughts out of her head. She sat up and grabbed her sneakers. “Let’s go.”

Lauren blinked. “Go? Go where?”

“The gym.”

Lauren sat up like Azzi had just suggested running a marathon. “Azzi. We just got off a plane. My knees are still vibrating.”

Azzi tugged on her arm, relentless. “Yeah, well—tough. I want to win.”

Lauren groaned but grabbed her gym bag anyway, mumbling something. As they reached the door, she gave Azzi a long look.

“You know... you’re not as nice as everyone thinks.”

****

“C’mon bro, let’s go. Just real quick,” Paige whispered urgently, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Ice, lounging sideways on a stiff hotel bench in the hallway, arched a brow and glared at her. “Paige. Madison. Bueckers.”

“Yeah?” Paige grinned, dragging her voice into something sugary and innocent, eyes wide and untrustedworthy.

“You are six feet tall and a fully grown adult woman. You’re more than capable of getting shots up alone.”

Paige crouched beside Ice like a little kid. “Yeah, but—” she took Ice’s hand in her own—“it wouldn’t be any fun without my very best friend there.”

Ice smacked her hand away with a smirk. “You’re such a pain.”

“You love me.”

“I tolerate you. For 30 minutes. No more.”

She tossed her gym bag over her shoulder, blonde hair whipped into a messy bun, in black UConn warmup pants and a slate gray shirt still damp from earlier shootaround. Ice sighed, tugging her hoodie over her braids and muttering under her breath as they wandered down the hotel corridors, lost twice and laughing about it both times.

Then, Paige shoved open the double doors to the gym.

Immediately, Ice stopped dead in her tracks.

“Bruh, Ice—what’s your deal?” Paige asked, crashing into her back.

Ice didn’t move, eyes locked on the court. “We should come back later.”

“What? Why?” Paige slipped around her, utterly confused. “It’s not like—”

Her words cut short as she stepped into the gym.

There were already people here.

Lauren Betts stood alone near the far basket, 6’7”, commanding space like gravity. Her UCLA shorts clung to her frame, her form fluid and efficient. Watching her in person—up close—was different. The stats on paper didn’t show how naturally dominant she was. She wasn’t just tall. She was elegant in the way skyscrapers are elegant.

Paige gave Ice a look. “It’s fine.”

Ice hesitated, then followed her.

They set up on the opposite half-court, silently respecting the invisible boundary. Sneakers squeaked against the floor as Lauren continued her workout, sweat glistening down her back. Paige and Ice tied their laces, then jumped right in—Paige leading one-on-one drills, exploding into the lane, her footwork a blur of muscle memory and talent.

Every jumper was water. Every crossover was tight, slick. Her passes snapped through space like knives. The kind of flow that made time irrelevant.

She didn’t hear the gym door creak open.

Didn’t hear footsteps.

Didn’t notice the sudden shift in temperature.

But Lauren did.

“Azzi!” she said, a little too brightly. Too forced.

Paige froze—not because of the name, but because of the tone. Her back straightened like a shot. She turned, slowly.

There she was.

Azzi Fudd. In nothing but UCLA-rolled shorts, a royal blue sports bra, and sweat-kissed curls braided into a bun that framed her face like something out of a GQ shoot. Her face, flushed from rinsing off in the bathroom, was unreadable—but her eyes?

They were daggers.

“Don’t,” Azzi snapped at Lauren, already annoyed.

Lauren offered a helpless shrug.

“Well. Look who it is,” Azzi said, voice syrupy-sweet and sharp as a blade. She walked forward, arms crossed, her stare pinned straight on Paige like a heat-seeking missile.

The tension snapped like a rubber band pulled too far.

Paige turned fully now, her hands resting on her hips, her expression unreadable but undeniably smug. “Azzi Fudd. How are you?”

There was no warmth in her voice. Just a hollow echo of politeness. A taunt wrapped in pleasantry.

Azzi cocked her head, cool and unbothered. “I’m great. Ready to play.”

They stared each other down, less like rivals and more like predators unsure which one was hungrier.

They didn’t blink.

They didn’t break.

They hated each other.

And not in the cliché way most people claim to hate their rivals. This wasn’t school spirit, or trash talk, or even competitiveness.

This was personal.

But neither could say why.

“Good,” Paige said finally, breathing out slowly, like she had to push the word out past her pride. “That’s good.”

Azzi smiled—chill, collected, cold. “I hope to see you guys on the court. It’s always… fun, to play against you.”

Paige chuckled dryly, a sound that lacked all humor. “Yeah. Sure. ‘Fun.’”

Their gazes clashed in the middle of the court—blue eyes against brown, California sunshine versus Minnesota. Neither flinched.

Azzi held her smirk a second longer, then turned and walked back toward Lauren, her strides sharp, her presence magnetic. Without a word, she picked up the ball and started drilling again—only harder now, sharper.

Paige turned back to her side of the court too, jaw tight, pulse quicker than before. She hadn’t lost control. Not really. But something was different now.

*****

Ice, Paige and Azzi, Lauren all worked. The coexisted in the space even though the air felt charged-and it was.

After Lauren missed a step for the second time in a row Azzi groaned.

“Lauren! Cmon.”

She sighed and whipped her sweat off her hands, lookimg back to Azzi. “I'm tired Az! And so are you. Can we leave? It’s been like an hour and a half.”

Azzi glanced over quickly to where Paige and ice were.

They were blowing through some drill where Paige blocked ices shot and kicked out for a three.

She was sweating- probably out of breath too.

But still, she was full out sprinting each time, never missing, always talking to ice.

She pulled her head back.

“No..not yet.”

Lauren’s gave her a glare, following where her eyes had just been. “Really?”

Azzi locked eyes with her, still breathing heavily dispite wanting to keep going. “Really what?”

“Azzi” she started, “I’m not stupid.” Lauren’s voice dropped down to a whisper. She glanced over Azzi's shoulder again to motion towards Paige. “I know you just wanna stay here and work longer then Paige…for whatever stupid feud you too have going on.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but she was completely right.

She grabbed the ball out of Lauren’s hands and started dribbling. “Cmon, let’s shoot some threes.”

“Your evil Fudd.”

****

Paige… I’m gonna pass away,” Ice groaned dramatically, sprawled half-upright against the wall.

“You’re not dying,” Paige replied flatly, the words almost lost beneath the crisp swish of her shot ripping through the net. She was locked in; shoulders square, eyes sharp, every release a surgical strike.

“No. I am. This is it. I’m leaving this world sweaty and betrayed.”

Paige didn’t look her way. Just caught the ball off the bounce and let another three fly, all net. “If you die, can I have your slides?”

Ice rolled her eyes so hard her whole head tipped back against the wall. It had been over 90 minutes of nonstop one-on-one drills, makeshift shooting contests, and—more than anything—unspoken warfare between Paige and Azzi across the court.

Neither of them said a word to each other.

But the tension screamed.

They mirrored each other perfectly: the same relentless drive, the same stubborn refusal to quit, the same stolen glances.

It was like a silent chess match. Only with sneakers, sweat, and pride.

And Ice? She was done.

She let out a fake cough loud enough to rattle the gym. It echoed.

Neither Paige nor Azzi looked up.

But someone did.

Lauren.

Across the court, Lauren caught Ice’s exhausted eye and tilted her head with concern. Ice looked at her, nodded dramatically toward her own body and mouthed, “I’m dead.”

Lauren barely smirked, but the laugh hit her eyes. She mouthed back, “Me too.”

UCLA and UConn weren’t even rivals, not officially. But the Azzi-Paige Cold War could’ve melted steel beams. The two of them acted like the other’s existence personally offended them—but even that didn’t explain the weird electricity in the air.

Lauren’s gaze flicked toward the locker room hallway. She tilted her head meaningfully, mouthing, “Meet me?”

She stood up slowly, muscles stiff from shooting, and started walking toward the bathroom. Ice caught the signal and nodded.

As Ice made her move, Paige finally snapped out of her shooting trance.

“Ice?” she called, not looking away from the hoop. “Where’re you going?”

Ice froze for half a second. “Bathroom. Real quick,” she said casually, already halfway down the court. “Don’t miss me too much.”

Paige just hummed and sank another jumper.

Azzi didn’t look up either, but Ice noticed her brows twitch the moment Paige spoke.

Curious.

The door clicked shut behind Ice as she slipped into the bathroom. Lauren was already leaning against the counter, pulling her hair out of its sweaty bun and sighing.

Ice didn’t waste time. “We need to do something about them.”

Lauren didn’t hesitate. “Agreed.”

“Like… what even is their problem?”

“I don’t think even they know,” Ice muttered. “It’s like they hate each other, but also can’t stop looking at each other like they wanna… I don’t know. Fight or kiss or fight and kiss.”

Lauren snorted. “Right?! Thank you. I’ve been saying that. No one else sees it!”

“Oh, I see it,” Ice said, pacing now.

“So what are you thinking?” Lauren asked,

Ice paused and looked at her. “Okay. Don’t call me crazy.”

Lauren raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a promising start.”

“I’m serious. I get a vibe. I think they’re into each other. Or at least—something. Something messy and probably way more interesting than either of them would admit.”

Lauren leaned in. “Keep talking.”

“Well,” Ice began, smirking now, “even if they’re not into each other, they’re gonna have to figure this out eventually. We have a few single rooms left open, right?”

Lauren’s eyes widened slightly.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“That’s evil.”

“I know,” Ice whispered, grinning like the Grinch. “But it’s also kind of genius.”

Lauren burst out laughing, her whole body shaking. “Oh my god. You're insane. I’m in.”

****

They slipped out of the bathroom like criminals on a mission.

The plan? Foolproof. Dirty. Beautiful.

Get Paige in first.

Say it was about going live.

Use her one weakness.

And let the rest fall into place.

Ice led the way, casual as hell, phone in hand like she was just scrolling TikTok. But her brain was calculating every move like it was game point. She dropped herself dramatically onto the hardwood, legs sprawled, phone propped up against her knee.

Time to bait the hook.

“Paaaige,” she drawled out, voice extra whiny, like a little sister trying to get her way. “C’mon, dude.”

Paige, mid-dribble, didn’t even turn fully. Just flicked her eyes over. “What, Ice?” Her tone was short, distracted, a little annoyed. Classic locked-in Paige. Even this late, she was still trying to one-up Azzi across the court.

“We’re done,” Ice said. “It’s literally two a.m. We. Are. Leaving.”

Paige sucked her teeth and let the ball roll back into her palm. “Yeah, aight. You can go. I’m stayin’.”

She squared back up at the top of the key, body angled, hips light. She moved like she was in her own world. Just her and the rim.

Until Ice dropped the magic words.

“If you leave right now… we’ll go live.”

Paige froze mid-shot. The ball still in her hands, forgotten.

“You deadass?” she asked, brows raised. “Ice, don’t play with me right now.”

Ice gave a nod, biting back a smirk. “Deadass. You know I hate going live but— Let’s give the people what they want.”

Paige squinted. She was suspicious, but intrigued. “You being for real? Like, we’ll actually go live? Not that ‘five minutes and end it’ shit?”

“I’m talking real live. Long live. Comments on. No filter.”

Paige hesitated, then slowly cracked a grin. “Say less.”

She jogged over to grab her bag, tossing her head back and wiping sweat off her neck with the collar of her shirt. Her grey UConn tee clung to her like she’d just showered in it, and her hair was a wild mess of curls pulled into a lopsided bun.

“I gotta shower first, though,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Not tryna go live lookin’ like a raccoon.”

Ice nodded casually, already rolling into Phase Two. “Bet. Actually, I need to shower too. I was thinking…”

She paused like she just now thought of it.

“…since the team rooms are all right next to each other, and it’s stupid late, what if we used one of the extra rooms across the hall? Less noise. Plus it’s got its own bathroom.”

Paige stopped for half a second, clearly thinking. Then she shrugged. “Aight, cool. That’ll work. I’ll hit the shower first, come in like twenty?”

Ice smiled, trying to look chill but barely holding back. “Say less.”

She watched as Paige turned and strutted off toward the elevators, humming under her breath, already dreaming about Instagram comments and dumb livestream filters.

Behind her, Ice pulled out her phone and sent one message to Lauren:

“Room secured. It’s go time.”

***

“Lauren?” Azzi asked, glancing over as she wiped sweat from her temple. “I think they’re leaving. Would you like to head out now?”

“Yes! Finally,” Lauren said, a bit too enthusiastically. Then, stepping closer with a sudden thought, she added, “Oh, also—I was thinking about doing some yoga before bed. If you’re up for it. I just didn’t want to get our room all messy, so maybe we could use one of the extra rooms?”

Azzi blinked, surprised. Lauren never suggested yoga. Usually, Azzi had to beg. “Sure, sounds good. I’ll rinse off first.”

“Alrighty,” Lauren replied, the corners of her mouth twitching like she was trying not to smile too hard.

They left the gym a few minutes after Paige and Ice, casually making their way back to the dorms. Inside their room, Lauren slid the door open and stepped in first, pausing just long enough to surprise Azzi again.

“You can go first. I’m going to text Jayden real quick.”

Azzi raised a brow. “Jayden? Who is that?”

“Oh. Just… some guy,” Lauren lied smoothly, avoiding eye contact as she reached for her clothes. In truth, "Jayden" was the code name for Ice—they’d coordinated this entire plan together.

Azzi didn’t push. She just nodded as she grabbed her towel. “Alright. But I want to hear all about this mystery man when I’m done.”

“Promise,” Lauren replied, already tapping away on her phone.

Lauren: Hey, Azzi’s in the shower now. Should be about 15 minutes ‘til we head over.

Ice: gotcha, Paige is already in the room. Left her phone on the table too

Lauren: they’re so perfectly stupid it’s painful. I’ll text when I drop Azzi in.

Ice: bet 🫡🫡

The sound of water running filled the room, and not long after, Azzi stepped out. Her curls were looser now, stretched from the conditioner. The front half of her hair was still braided, the rest hanging wet down her back. She threw on a pair of Nike Pro shorts and a UCLA hoodie that swallowed her frame. Her signature Stewie socks peeked out above her slides.

“Laur? You ready?” she called, finishing brushing her teeth.

“Yep!” Lauren answered a little too quickly. She tried to play it off with a casual nod. “All set.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly. “Are you alright?”

“I’m totally fine. Why?”

“No reason,” Azzi said with a shrug. She stepped into her slides and followed Lauren out.

Once they were walking, Lauren texted again.

Lauren: Heading over now.

They strolled toward the extra room, which was a short walk from the main UCLA block. Azzi stayed focused on her phone—probably checking team emails—while Lauren’s attention locked onto the door ahead. She felt her pulse tick upward.

Lauren pulled the keycard from her pocket and swiped it.

“Can I see your phone for a second? I think I might’ve posted something by accident,” she said casually.

Azzi, distracted, didn’t hesitate. “Sure.” She handed it over and stepped into the room.

The moment she crossed the threshold, her eyes landed on the bag and clothes thrown over the bed. Her stomach dropped.

“I’m pretty sure this is someone else’s room,” she said, turning sharply toward Lauren.

Lauren just smiled, stepped back, and closed the door with a sharp click. Locked.

“Lauren! What are you doing?”

“Sorry, Az! We’ll be back in the morning,” Lauren called through the door.

“We’ll? Who’s we?!”

That’s when Paige’s voice called from the bathroom. “Ice? That you?”

Azzi’s eyes widened in horror. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Ice strolled up beside Lauren, already laughing.

Inside, Azzi slapped her palm against the door. “Lauren! What the hell!”

“Sorry Az!” Lauren shouted back, voice chipper.

“Y’all have fun in there!” Ice added, barely containing her giggles.

“Ice? Seriously?” Azzi groaned. Then she paused. “Wait—do you have my phone?”

“Yup!” Lauren answered through the door, practically glowing. “Told you, we’ll grab you in the morning.”

“Bye Azzi! Tell Paige I said goodnight!” Ice chirped before the two conspirators walked away, still giggling.

From inside, Azzi could still hear them laughing down the hall.

Then the shower stopped.

Out walked Paige, towel slung over her shoulders, sports bra on, shorts low on her hips. Her eyes flicked up when she spotted Azzi standing by the locked door.

“Yo. Azzi?” Paige said, confused, water still dripping down her back.

“Yep,” Azzi replied with a resigned sigh.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Paige asked, voice deep and unbothered, arms folding across her bare chest.

Azzi crossed her arms too and pointed at the door. “Lauren and Ice thought it would be hilarious to lock us in here for the night.”

Paige’s eyes followed the motion. She walked over and tugged the handle twice. Nothing.

“Your joking.”

“Nope.”

With a muttered curse, Paige banged on the door. “Ice! Stop playin, open the door!”

From the bed, Azzi said dryly, “You really think I haven’t already tried that?”

“Man, shut up,” Paige muttered, not looking at her.

Azzi lifted her hands in surrender. “Fine. Do your thing.”

Paige gave the door one last shake, then turned, annoyed.

“You try callin’ somebody?”

“Lauren has my phone,” Azzi answered calmly. “What about yours?”

Paige dragged a hand down her face. “… I left it on the table.”

Azzi threw her hands in the air. “Well. Looks like we’re stuck.”

Paige sucked her teeth and dropped down into a chair across from the bed. “this is some bullshit.”

“Well, do you have a better idea?”

She stared at Azzi for a moment, jaw working like she wanted to snap but didn’t have the energy. Then she leaned back with a grunt.

“Nah. Guess I don’t.”

“Mhm,” Azzi murmured, folding her legs beneath her. “Didn’t think so.”

They sat in the thick quiet for a second—Paige glaring at the floor, Azzi watching her from the bed. Neither spoke, but the tension in the room hung heavy, thick as humidity. And neither of them looked away.

****

Back in Ices room, her and Lauren sat on the bed talking.

“So, you have like any real idea why those too hate each other?” Lauren asked.

“Not really” ice replied. “Paige is..stubborn to say the least, when set her mind on hating Azzi, it’s not changed.”

“Same for Azzi. There like, the same person.”

“I know!”

“You know what we should do? Let’s go live right now.” Ice said.

Lauren nodded and moved closer to ice on the bed, getting in frame for the tik tok live.

Ice started it and the comments rolled in.

“Ice and Lauren?? What kinda duo is this?”

“Why are yall together this is so random😭😭”

“Acting like yall don’t have game tmrw night smh😪”

“Where’s Paige and Azzi?”

It’s not uncommon for fans to ask about Paige and Azzi, them being the stars.

Lauren looked over at ice, giving her a side eye at the comment then laughing.

“Umm who are Paige and Azzi?” Ice said at the camera, her voice dripping in sarcasm as Lauren laughed.

The chats started blowing up

‘WAITT why yall laughing 🤨🤨’

‘Suspicioussss’

‘Maybe Paige and Azzi duo soon’

“Doubt it” Lauren said under her breath at the last comment, which of course the chat caught

‘WHAT ARE YALL HIDINGGG’

‘Acting mad strange right about now’

‘Lauren wdym bro😭😭’

“Me and ice aren’t good enough for yall?” Lauren said, while ice snickered.

‘Nooo just let us know where Azzi and Paige are🤫🤫’

Ice and Lauren both read the comment, then ice answered.

“Umm Azzi and Paige are..busy”

‘BUSY DOING WHAT?’

‘What is going on atp🤨🤨🤨’

‘Mhmm so there together #NewDuoAlert’

“Yall are messy” ice laughed

****

“We’re in here for the night, you know,” Azzi said, her voice cutting through the thick silence.

“Yeah. Figured.” Paige didn’t look up, her gaze fixed on the carpet.

Azzi tossed a pillow in her direction. “You take the bathtub.”

The pillow hit Paige’s chest with a soft thump. She caught it, then lifted her eyes slowly, a brow raised. “You’re joking.”

Azzi’s arms crossed, mouth pulled in that maddeningly calm way she had. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, standing a little straighter. “Because you’d have to be out of your damn mind to think you’re getting the bed that easy.”

A pause.

Azzi held her stare for a moment too long. Then, voice softer, quieter: “Why do you hate me?”

That caught Paige off guard. It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even bitter. Just... curious.

She hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said honestly, which was dangerous—truth always was with Azzi. “Because I hate UCLA, maybe. And you... you basicallyare UCLA.”

“Mhm.” Azzi’s eyes didn’t leave hers. There was something unreadable in them. Not challenge. Not sarcasm. Just... presence.

“Why?” Azzi asked.

“Why what?”

“Why do you hate UCLA?”

Paige shrugged like it was stupid, like this conversation wasn’t unraveling her from the inside out. “You guys are all... blue and shit.”

Azzi laughed. Like, really laughed. And damn it, it made Paige want to smile too.

“What’s funny?” she asked, lips twitching.

“I’ve just never been hated for a color before.”

“New experience for you then,” Paige said, smirking now. The tension shifted, a little looser. Still there, but not choking.

“Okay. Then why do you hate me?” Paige asked, firing it back like a challenge she didn’t mean to make.

Azzi tilted her head slightly. “Because I hate guarding you.”

Paige blinked. “...Is that a compliment?”

“It’s just a fact.”

The silence that followed was different. Not awkward. Not cold. Just... weighty.

“I don’t love guarding you either,” Paige admitted after a moment.

Azzi leaned in slightly, like gravity had shifted. “Why’s that?”

Paige found herself mirroring her—leaning in too, like they were finally on the same wavelength. Or maybe circling something they’d been pretending wasn’t there.

“Because your shot’s quick. Stupid quick. Hard to read. I hate that.”

Azzi didn’t say anything. Just listened, head slightly tilted. Waiting.

“I like knowing things before they happen,” Paige continued. “I like reading the play before it forms. You don’t let people do that. You’re... slippery.”

“Thank you,” Azzi said softly.

“Like you said. Not a compliment. Just a fact.” Paige’s tone was calm, but there was a flicker in her eyes. Something new.

Another silence—this one thicker. Heavier. Like an unspoken truce had been signed and neither of them wanted to admit it.

“Your shot’s pretty,” Azzi said, and it landed like a drop of warm rain on skin.

Paige blinked. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Azzi nodded, her gaze unwavering now. “Your three-pointers are easy, though.”

“Easy?” Paige asked, narrowing her eyes playfully.

“I mean, you usually come off a screen. Not always. But enough.”

Paige didn’t bristle at it. The way Azzi said it wasn’t critical. More like analysis. More like she watched her. Closely.

“Your midrange, though,” Azzi added, a crooked smile pulling at her lips. “That’s practically cheating. You stop on a dime, change direction, attack the paint. Can’t predict that. It’s... brutal.”

Paige stared at her. Really stared. Like she was watching film, trying to dissect a play she didn’t quite understand.

“High praise from you,” she murmured.

Azzi just shrugged, smile still lingering, eyes still locked on hers. “Maybe“

Paige scratched the back of her neck, still standing while Azzi leaned casually against the edge of the bed like she owned it. That alone irked Paige—not the bed, but how Azzi always looked so composed, like nothing ever got to her. Paige wasn’t used to feeling off balance, especially not around someone who wore smugness like it was stitched into their jersey.

“You always talk like that?” Paige asked finally, voice low, gritty.

Azzi raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Like a therapist who also dropped thirty in the semis.”

Azzi grinned. “Only around people who need therapy.”

Paige let out a scoff that was half a laugh, dragging her palm over her mouth like she could hide it. Then she crossed the room, dropped onto the chair in the corner with a full man-spread—legs open, elbows on her knees, chin resting in one palm. Watching Azzi like she was still trying to scout her.

“Alright, go ‘head. Say what you really think of my game.”

Azzi’s eyes lit up, just slightly. “You want honesty?”

“Nah, lie to me,” Paige muttered, rolling her neck with a smirk. “Of course I want honesty. C’mon. I can take it.”

Azzi studied her for a beat longer, then pushed off the bed. She walked closer, slow, steps soft against the hotel carpet. She stopped a couple feet away, arms folded, expression calm but edged with something a little more playful now.

“You hunt space better than anyone I’ve seen,” Azzi said. “Like—you create it out of nothing. And you don’t even hesitate. Most guards, they wait. Think twice. You just go.”

Paige didn’t move, but her smirk tugged a little deeper on one side. “Aight,” she said.

“But,” Azzi added.

“Knew it.”

“But you overuse your left crossover when you’re tired. You don’t trust your weak-side kickout. And you lose track of the weakside cutter when the play breaks.”

Paige leaned back like Azzi had just hit her with a cross to the jaw. “Damn.”

“You asked,” Azzi said, that crooked smile back again.

Paige ran a hand over her braid, biting down a grin. “That’s crazy comin’ from someone who pump fakes like she’s in a community college acting class.”

Azzi scoffed. “You bit on it twice in the last game.”v

“I slipped,” Paige said.

“You did not.”

“I slipped,” she repeated, eyes glinting now.

Azzi stepped closer. “Slipped right into a midrange jumper. I remember.”

Now Paige stood up, the chair creaking behind her as she rose. Not aggressive, not threatening—but there was something in the way she loomed a little taller now, arms hanging heavy at her sides, body loose and ready like she was checking someone at halfcourt. They were nearly eye to eye, close enough Paige could count the flecks in Azzi’s brown eyes. The air between them tightened.

“I could guard you,” Paige said, voice low.

Azzi tilted her head, not backing off an inch. “Not for four quarters.”

“I’d get in your head,” Paige added.

“You’re already there,” Azzi said, soft and devastating.

That landed heavier than either expected.

For a second, neither moved. Paige’s chest rose and fell a little slower now, not calm—but careful. Like if she moved too fast, the moment might crack.

“Alright,” Paige said, breaking it. “That’s enough of this... vibe.”

She stepped back, like she needed the distance to breathe, then walked to the other side of the room and dropped onto the bed like it owed her money—legs open, hand rubbing her face like she’d just stepped off a double-overtime game.

“You sleep on that side,” she said, tossing a thumb at the far end of the bed without looking.

Azzi hesitated, then crossed the room and sat, pulling her legs up underneath her.

They both stayed facing forward, like the other might disappear if they looked too long.

A long stretch of silence passed. The room was dim, lit only by a muted bedside lamp. The kind of light that made things look softer than they were.

“I don’t actually hate you,” Paige said eventually, her voice rough with sleep or something close to it.

Azzi didn’t look at her. “I know.”

Another beat.

“I still don’t like you, though,” Paige added.

Azzi smirked at her lap. “Would’ve been disappointed if you did.”

Paige let out a low chuckle, then flopped back dramatically, arms behind her head like she owned the ceiling.

“Tomorrow’s gonna be hell,” she said.

“For Texas?”

Paige turned her head slightly, eyeing Azzi. “You cocky now?”

Azzi shrugged. “You asked.”

Paige let that sit a minute. Then closed her eyes. “South Carolina’s not gonna let y’all breathe.”

“We don’t need to breathe,” Azzi said, voice dropping lower, like the truth in it was simple. “We just win.”

Paige opened one eye. “You always talk like that?”

Azzi nodded. “Only around people who listen.”

For a long time, they didn’t say anything.

Just the sound of the air conditioner humming.

Paige stayed on her back, legs still wide, body sprawled out like she wasn’t used to fitting into clean corners. Azzi sat curled up, spine straight, arms around her knees like she was trying to stay contained.

Opposites.

But the silence between them wasn’t cold anymore. Just stretched. Like taffy.

Eventually, Paige rolled onto her side, facing Azzi. Her voice dropped.

“You really hate guarding me?”

Azzi glanced over. “I do.”

“Why?”

Azzi hesitated. Then let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“Because you don’t stop. Not when the shot clock’s low. Not when the lane’s clogged. Not when you’ve missed four in a row. You just keep coming.”

Paige blinked, the words hitting her stomach before her ears.

Azzi kept going. “And you talk. Always. In the middle of plays. Between free throws. It’s distracting.”

Paige grinned. “That’s the point.”

Azzi looked away. “Yeah, well. It works.”

Paige sat up, the bed creaking again. “You talk too.”

“Not like you.”

“true.”

Azzi didn’t respond. Just pulled the blanket up a little.

Then, like the room had shifted again, Paige said—quietly, sincerely—“Good luck tomorrow.”

Azzi looked at her. “You too.”

They stared at each other for a second too long again.

Then, slowly, carefully, Azzi laid down, facing the ceiling. Paige did the same. The room dimmed further as one of them clicked the lamp off.

And in the dark, without speaking, Azzi shifted just a little closer. Not touching. Just near.

It was Paige who spoke first, voice barely above a whisper.

“You cold?”

Azzi didn’t answer.

Instead, she moved again—slow, like sleep was pulling her limbs. Her shoulder found Paige’s, tentative, then settled there like it belonged.

Paige stiffened at first.

Then—gradually—relaxed.

Azzi’s breath evened out, soft and slow.

Paige stared at the ceiling.

And didn’t move.

Not because she didn’t want to.

But because something sharp and slow and burning was blooming in her chest. Something she hadn’t planned for.

Something like… not hate.

Just the sound of Azzi breathing. Just the heat of her shoulder, warm against hers.

Just the silence—finally not thick, not heavy.

Just… full.

Paige closed her eyes.

Didn’t sleep.

But didn’t move either.

Not yet.

441 notes · View notes

frannyzooey · 10 months ago

Text

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: E (age gap)

Summary: Best friends with younger one, you’ve known the Miller brothers since forever — you’ve wanted the older one for just as long.

a/n: it’s been a while! I’ve been writing over on Ao3, but thought I would pop in and say hi and happy summer ❤️ enjoy! —

Glancing at the clock on the wall, you wonder how much longer you need to stay before it’s appropriate to leave.

You can’t even remember the name of the person who's talking at you – someone who said they took calc with you or something, back in high school. Brian, maybe? Ben? Picking at the label on the bottle in your hand, you tip the last swallow of warm beer into your mouth, grimacing at the taste.

“Gimme a second,” you interrupt him. “I’ll be right back.”

Not a fuckin’ chance , you think to yourself.

Navigating through the crowd of people packed into the Miller’s living room, you make your way towards the kitchen. Needing another beer to get through it all, you head straight for the fridge – only to see someone already there, their broad back facing you. When they straighten and shut the door, you reach out and pluck the beer from their hand.

“Thanks for the beer, Miller.”

Joel huffs, grabbing another one from the fridge. Turning to face you, he leans his hip against the counter.

“You even old enough to drink?” Twisting the cap off, he takes a long, slow drink, his throat working with the motion.

You roll your eyes, and his eyes drift down your body and back up again.

Playing it cool, you clink your bottle against his.

“Cheers, old man.”

His eyes narrow, and he waits a beat before tipping the bottle against his lips.

His face has been a fixture in your life for as long as you’ve known Tommy – a kid you met back in elementary school. Tommy was a few years older than you, Joel even older than him. The fact that you were younger never bothered Tommy – you were just as daring as any boy his age, and he was more fun than any girl your own. A fixture by his side more often than not, you’d stuck together through middle school and then high school, through boyfriends and girlfriends, through Tommy’s enlistment after senior year.

The entire time, Joel was there.

In the beginning, you never paid him any attention. Busy working since he could, you barely saw him. The couple times you did see him at parties, it was only as Tommy’s ride, or showing up when Tommy got in trouble with his mouth. Like he never had any patience for parties or stuff like that; an aged man since forever. Even at their house, Joel had been…around, but he never stuck around for long. Always drifting away to go hang out in the garage, or in his room.

It was during high school when you started looking at him differently. Started paying attention to him in a way you never did before. Starting noticing things like he never had a girl around – or at least one that stuck , though you knew he knew his way around them, because you saw him in town sometimes.

Walking out of a liquor store with a brown bag, a girl sitting in the passenger seat of his truck.

Pulling open the door of the bar, his hand on the small of another girl’s back.

Once, you saw him at the movie theater you worked at senior year. You still remember the heat that flooded your face when he strolled up to the ticket booth where you were standing, the broad smile he had on his face for his date, one that turned your insides warm. His arm was looped around her back, his hand resting on her ass with casual confidence.

You’d never been so jealous of someone in your life.

You left him behind (not that he ever knew it) when you went away to college. A visit back home after your first year timed with a visit home from Tommy, Joel is right where you left him, still on the fringes. Only at the party to keep an eye on things, to make sure it doesn’t get out of hand, still keeping to himself. He’s been upstairs all night, only coming down every so often for another beer.

The mystery of how he spent his time used to consume you back in your school-kid crush days…and it comes back full force, when he leaves you in the kitchen to go back up to his room.

Leaving the noise of the party behind you, you climb the worn carpeted stairs. The second floor of their house is off limits to party guests, but you also know that doesn’t apply to you. Having been to this house more times than you can count, you know right where Joel’s bedroom is. You’ve never been in it though, which is part of the pull that drives you towards it – along with a slice of light that breaks through where he’s left the door cracked.

You nudge it open with your knuckle, to find him sitting inside.

At a desk chair, his legs spread wide in his slouch. A beer rests in his hand, the other one holding a book and at your presence, he puts the book face down in his lap.

He frowns. “Everything okay down there?”

“Yea. Just thought I’d come up and say hi. See what you’re doing.”

“Said hi in the kitchen,” he teases. He lifts the book with one hand. “And I was readin’.”

Used to his gruff sarcasm, you ignore it. “Any good?”

His eyes follow you as you walk further into the room, sitting down on the edge of his bed.

“Not really,” he answers. “Just waitin’ for everyone to leave.”

You know that’s not going to happen any time soon; another large group of people had walked in just as you made your way upstairs.

A golden hue washes over everything, a single lamp burning on the desk, the colors of everything else dulled in the dim light. Shadows pool in the corners of the room, but he is lit, though only parts of him: the chestnut ends of his curls, his tanned skin, the stretch of his jeans across his thighs. The bed you sit on has a rumpled comforter, clearly having been slept in.

Arousal pools low and heady between your hips.

Has he ever brought another girl up here? Has he fucked anyone in this bed?

You imagine it briefly: his flushed cheeks, his heavy breathing, his muscles shifting under his skin. Your hand trembles, and you grip your beer tighter.

“Already sick of bein’ downstairs?” he asks.

You thumb at the condensation gathered on the bottle, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Yea. Sort of. It’s always a little awkward when you come back, you know?”

He shakes his head. “Not really. Never been anywhere but here.”

Your shoulders slump, and you let out a sigh. “Right. But you know what I mean.”

Suddenly, the weight of exhaustion pulls at you: the smiles you had to force downstairs, the names you tried to recall, the crush of people and the fake enthusiasm. You came here for Tommy, and you’ve barely seen him tonight. Forgetting for a second that you’re not in Tommy’s bedroom, you relax and let yourself fall backwards on Joel’s bed. The second you do it, you freeze – but don’t correct it.

You’re in Joel Miller’s bed. Lying down.

You feel the hem of your shirt ride up, but don’t fix it. The sheets smell like him, and you hear him huff.

You also feel the weight of his eyes on you.

–

He should be more annoyed that you’re in his bedroom, but he can’t take his eyes off your legs: a mile long in your cutoffs, the slight peek at the curve of your ass in their ride high. The slice of soft skin he can see, between your waistband and your shirt.

He watches you roll over and prop your head up on your hand, not liking at all how good you look in his bed.

He’s been watching you since you came back. Watched you even before that, though he’d never admit it. Walking around their backyard in a tiny bikini when you lounge with Tommy by the pool, looking gorgeous as hell all windblown and carefree sitting in the passenger seat of Tommy’s truck, looking so fucking innocent and beautiful swamped in one of Tommy’s sweaters by the bonfires he’s been having at night since he came back.

The sight of your ass in those shorts as you walk around their house has been imprinted on his mind all week.

He sits up, clearing his throat. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he lets his head hang down between his shoulders. If he can avoid looking at you, maybe his cock will stop hardening with interest.

“I think you better get back downstairs.”

“I just wanna catch up,” you reply innocently, looking anything but.

He looks up, giving you a knowing look in reprimand. “That ain’t all you wanna do.”

He doesn’t know what compelled him to say that to you , but he does know it to be true. He’s seen the look on your face on plenty of women before – women . You’re a girl . One he’s known since forever. One he never thought about until he did, and one he tried not to think about once he started.

One who is way too fucking young for the things he’s thought about doing to you.

“No?” you ask. “Why don’t you tell me what you think I wanna do?”

He shakes his head instead.

The edges of your mouth curl up in a soft, teasing smile. “Joel Miller, a secret prude.”

His head snaps up, “I ain’t no prude, honey, you’re just –”

“Honey?” Your eyebrows lift, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’m just what?”

“ Young. Too young.”

“I’m twenty.”

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes and you cave.

“Almost. In a few months.”

He huffs in disgust, dropping his head back down. “Jesus Christ. A baby.”

He feels you study him for a moment.

“I missed you while I was gone, you know.”

The confession surprises him, and he looks up to find your face completely sober, truthful.

“Did you miss me?” you ask quietly.

The vulnerability on your face pulls at him, and even though he knows what will happen if he gets on that bed, he wants to. If only to tuck you against his chest and reassure you that he did. He really did. He knows you think he never noticed you, but that’s only because he made you feel that way. He couldn’t notice you, for both your sakes.

“Just come…sit with me, okay?” you ask. “I’m not gonna bite.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, keeping his eyes on the floor. He feels you wait with bated breath, knowing full well that he should stand up and walk you out of his bedroom…but he can’t bring himself to leave you hanging like that.

Instead, he stands, and walks over to the bed.

Your face flashes with surprise that you try to hide, and he smirks.

There is a look on your face he’s seen a million times — a bolstering sort of lift to your chin, the look of a tough girl that would follow his brother anywhere. A girl who never backed down, even when he could tell she was nervous.

A girl he knows he shouldn’t want, but does anyway.

He tests the waters, crawling onto his bed. Stretching out next to you, he sprawls across the mattress, his broad form partially covering yours in shadow. He can feel the heat gather between your bodies. You look even younger close up, and he leans closer, unable to stop himself from pushing to see how far you’ll go.

He recognizes that same determined look on your face now, only this one is slightly different. This one is laced with lust, and want. So much fucking want it makes him ache.

“Okay, big girl,” he drawls. “Now what?”

–

It’s his turn to be surprised when you lean in and press your mouth to his.

You can tell because he momentarily freezes when your lips meet, his stubble brushing against your skin, your lips fitting neatly along the seam of his own. You kiss him again, this time opening your mouth just enough to let him in and he takes your invitation, the taste of beer thick on his tongue when he slides it against yours. His hand comes up, cradling the curve of your jaw as you tilt your head to the side to deepen the kiss and a soft sound that catches in the back of your throat has his fingers flexing, pulling you closer.

The sheets rustle beneath you when he takes over, his hold guiding you beneath him on the bed. He kisses you harder, longer, a deep groan rumbling from his chest, the light of the room blocked out behind him. His solid body weighs heavy on top of you, his denim clad hips pushing between your thighs with a grind and you open your legs wider, his hand sliding up the outside of your leg to hitch your knee around his hip.

It’s sensory overload after wanting him for so long. You’ve daydreamed about this a million times, imagined it happening a million different ways, but you never thought it would be anything like this. Lost in the weighted haze of lust, drunk on the way he feels against you, head swimming with arousal, the crotch of your panties already so fucking wet that they slide over your achingly empty core with every rock of his hips into yours. Meeting the rolling grind of his hips with your own, you feel the weight of his cock press against you, his calloused hand covering your breast with a squeeze. His hips rock forward again, the grinding promise of what he’s capable of against the damp seam of your shorts and you are just about to beg him for more when he pulls back, standing.

In one long stride, he shoves the door shut and locks it.

Tugging his shirt off with a one handed grip over his head, you take in the sight of his broad, solid chest and the dusting of hair that scatters sparsely just under his collarbones. It’s thicker along his sternum, even thicker still just under his navel, where it leads into the waistband of his jeans. He looks so…big, from where you lay on the bed. Older, masculine in a way you’ve never seen on a boy your age. Your eyes run the length of his body and back up again, the outline of his thick cock pushing against the fly of his jeans making your cunt flutter.

He opens the drawer next to his bed, tossing a condom down and there is something so arousing about the matter of fact action, the implied sight of it just sitting there, waiting for him. Black, with gold letters. When his hands drop to work open his belt buckle with single minded intent, you reach down to slide your shorts off.

“Don’t.”

Your hands pause.

“I wanna do that.”

You don’t even know what to say in response before he’s bending to grab you behind your knees, hauling you to the edge of the bed. Your shirt rides up your back, and sit up enough to tear it over your head, your bra following shortly after as his greedy eyes track every movement. His thick fingers pop open the button on your shorts, hooking under the fabric and he drags them down and off, bringing your panties along with them.

Then he stands there, his hands on your knees. He pushes them apart, and you try not to squirm as he spreads you for him.

“Goddamn.” The word pours out of his mouth, saturated with awe, low with lust.

Your thighs flinch, your knees trying to pull together to hide yourself from the heat of his gaze, but he keeps a firm grasp on them, holding you open.

“Don’t try to hide it from me now, honey.”

His eyes drop from your face to the gleaming spread of your cunt. He reaches down, his thumb brushing over your opening, and it’s so fucking filthy the way he drags it through the mess you’ve made for him.

“Especially not when it’s this pretty,” he murmurs.

He drops to his knees, your breath hitching when he tugs you closer to his mouth and guiding your legs over his bare shoulders, his mouth immediately seeks you out.

“ Fuck .”

The word slides into a moan when your body bows off the bed to chase the slick heat of his tongue. It smears wetness over everything, dipping inside you to drag upwards to your clit and then he’s fitting the bottom half of his face along your cunt with a messy, open mouthed kiss.

He devours you there the same way he devoured your mouth earlier, and the sensation is simultaneously too much but not enough, your hands finding purchase in his sheets. You fist them, twisting them in your grip as you start to rock your hips and you have never - never - had this done to you before, a tremble pouring sweet and thick down your spine to pool right under his mouth.

His hands keep your thighs forced open, his shoulders spreading you wider and when his tongue starts to swirl firm, tight circles over your clit, it drags a hoarse moan out of your throat.

Too consumed to care if you’re being too loud, every thought leaves your head when two thick fingers stroke delicately along the dip of your opening, before sliding inside you with a filling stretch just as he starts to suck . His whiskered cheeks hollow with it, your words breathless and pleading. A stretch just to take his fingers , you close your eyes and feel your stomach drop when you think about taking his cock.

The thought alone sends you flying over the edge.

When it happens, he groans into you just as loud as if he’s the one who’s come, and a second wave washes hot over your limbs when you peek down to see the upper half of his face between your spread thighs. His brows pinched together, his eyes closed tight, his white knuckled hold on your thighs.

The music turns up louder downstairs, a shout of a crowd greeting new arrivals – but it’s lost in the intimacy of the bedroom. His satisfied low groans, your trembling thighs, his damp beard against your skin.

Pulling back, he wipes your slick from his face with his hand – and then gives your cunt a sharp, flat swat.

The action shocks you, your eyes widening and the grin on his face is charmingly boyish. Or would be, if he didn’t follow it with a filthy suck of the fingers that were just inside you. He stands, shucking his jeans and briefs off in one movement, and puts a knee on the bed between your legs, reaching for the condom. His large hands rip it open, and though you can feel his gaze rest heavily on you as he puts it on, your eyes are fixed firmly on his cock.

It’s – big. Much bigger than you’ve ever seen, a grown man’s dick. He fists it lazily for a moment, the weight of it evident in his grip and when he places the condom over the tip and rolls it down to the base, you openly stare. The translucent rubber fits snug and tight, down to the thatch of hair at the base of his cock.

When you finally drag your eyes up to his face, he looks smug.

“Don’t worry, darlin’. It’ll fit.”

The amount of times you’ve thought about this moment is nothing compared to the real thing. The man standing in front of you has always been off limits, a complete mystery to you all these years, even as the subject of most of your debased fantasies. The realness of him — the solid width of his frame, the flush to his skin, the amount of bare, firm skin on display. You swallow hard, a bundle of nervous anticipation even though he just fucked you with his mouth.

He settles his body on top of you, caging you underneath him and the press of his hot skin has all of your nerves scattering, evaporating into need .

His mouth rests right next to your ear, a kiss brushed against the divot below it.

“We’ll make it,” he whispers.

If you thought his fingers were a snug fit, it’s nothingcompared to how full you feel as he slides in. The stretch almost to the point of pain save for how wet he got you beforehand, it still steals the air from your lungs as he pushes inside. You squirm underneath him, shifting to accommodate every single inch and his hand curls around your waist, his hips pushing forward with a final, hard thrust.

His mouth brushes tenderly along your clenched jaw, letting you get used to it before his hips find a rolling rhythm. Every downstroke shoving you up underneath his hold, you hold on tight, hitching your knees up along his ribs and your feet slide over his tailbone, a whine crawling out of your outstretched throat.

“This little pussy is so tight ,” he groans, his hot breath gusting over your skin. “So fucking tight.”

His hand shoves itself under your tailbone, angling your hips to take him deeper and his own groan sounds deep over your softer, higher one.

“Do you have any idea how much I thought about fuckin’ you? How many different ways I’ve wanted to?”

Hearing him utter those words makes your chest crack open, your heart thundering underneath your rib cage. Everything you’ve ever wanted to hear, paired with more than you ever thought you would.

He picks up pace, his hips a relentless, heavy pound into the cradle of your own, each thrust punching the air out of you – and your fingers claw into his forearms when he sits back on his heels, pushing your knees to your chest to fuck you harder.

The bed pounds lewdly against the wall, the music from the party covering it up.

“Joel,” you whine, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye. It feels like you’re being used by him, your body a tool for his own pleasure, your pliant, moldable body being positioned just for his use. It sends you higher, thinking about him doing the same for others, right here in this bed.

You start to tense underneath him, the wave of slick, brutal pleasure pulling you under and when you come, it’s a wordless, breathless thing – your body pulling taut, your cunt squeezing him tight. He groans, dropping forward to cover your mouth with his, his hand sliding up to wrap around the nape of your neck with a grip and he forces himself deeper, his strokes urgent in their snap against you.

He rests his forehead against yours, and through the haze of your freshly fucked gaze, he recognizes the same look from before. A girl who never backs down, a girl who knows how to hold her own.

“I already want it again, Joel,” you breathe against his mouth, his heavy pants washing over your lips. “Next time, I’m gonna ride you. I’m gonna sit on your lap and you can watch me take it, okay?”

“Fuck,” he groans, his hips stuttering. They chase the slick warmth of your cunt, his eyes closing tight.

“You’re fuckin’ trouble, you know that?” he rasps, his fingers threading into the hair at your nape, fisting it with a tug. The motion tips your head back for him, a victorious grin stretching across your face.

“A pain in my ass since I met you,” he pants, letting out a deep groan. “A sweet piece of ass in my bed.”

You nod, the smile on your face melting into something pleasure soaked when he shifts the angle of his hips.

“I’m gonna come inside this little cunt, okay? And then I’m gonna do it all over again. You ready, honey?”

“God yes.”

He buries his face in the damp crook of your neck when he comes, he back rounding as his hips still in their push against yours. He’s so deep you know you’re going to feel it tomorrow – more than you’ve ever taken, a stretch you know will make you ache every time you sit down. He holds onto you so tight that you can barely breathe, and it’s a special sort of heaven to be buried underneath the bulk of his body. Your cheek pressed against his curls, your chest compressed under his. Your hips sore from being spread so wide, your cunt still snug around him.

He lifts just enough to see you, and opens his mouth – right when something crashes beneath his room.

“What the fuck , Tommy,” he grumbles, and you laugh at his instant change of expression. He slips out from inside you with a groan, his hips imperceptibly shifting forward to chase the heat between your thighs. He presses a quick, hard kiss against your lips and then he’s dragging himself from the bed, tugging the condom off and tying it in a neat knot.

Tossing it in the trash next to his bed, he grabs his jeans off the floor.

“I’m gonna go downstairs and see what the hell that was,” he says, sliding them up over his bare ass. Buttoning them, he shoots you a look. “Don’t you dare fuckin’ get dressed.”

You gesture a wordless salute, and he shakes his head, smiling.

“Smartass,” he grumbles, picking a shirt up off the floor. Sliding it over his head, he opens the door and disappears.

“Tommy!”

You hear him shout and a laugh bubbles up from your chest.

“What the fuck was that?”

Stretching out, you slide against the warm, rumpled sheets and listen to the familiar sound of their deep voices. For the first time since you’ve been back, you feel like you’re home.

Pressing your face into his pillow, you take a deep breath – and grin.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller/reader #joel miller/you #joel miller fanfiction

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em1i2a3 · 1 month ago

Text

Signs

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You haven’t been able to sleep for the past four days, you’ve tried everything in the book, but tonight Bob has come to your room to offer you some help.

Warnings: Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob is involved and there are mentions of his past (that aren’t really explored completely in the movie but hey…It’s just in case lol), Fluff-ish, Hurt/Comfort (Kinda), Mentions of Past Drug Use, Mentions of Readers Past Traumatic Experience, Established Friendship between Reader and Bob.

Author's Note: Hey y’all, I don’t know if I can somehow recover the darn request but this was a request from an Anon, if it was you thank you for the ask! This one was fun to write! Can’t wait to keep chipping away at the ask list! Hope y’all enjoy :)

Word Count: 7,338

You and the ceiling in your room had taken on a strange sort of companionship.

You’d memorized every crack in the plaster, every faint shadow that was casted by the bustling city outside your window, every blemish that faded across it–remnants of the last person who stayed in this exact room, someone who liked to put little glow in the dark stars on their ceiling.

For four nights you had found yourself in the same position. Sleepless, yet exhausted. Your body was begging for rest, but your mind just wouldn’t allow it.

You had tried everything under the sun to induce sleep.

You tried herbal tea–chamomile, lemon balm, even the “Sleepytime Knockout” blend that Yelena had smugly handed you like it was a modern day miracle, which you had proven it was not. You tried an array of different white noises–whirring fans, tv static, waves, but it only made you feel nauseous. You took warm baths, wore flannel pajamas, you even bought a weighted blanket–which now lays on the desk across from you because it felt like it was suffocating you. You even tried mint scented melatonin pillow spray, and that didn’t work–although it did leave your pillow smelling quite fresh.

Even with all those attempts at trying to resolve your insomnia, your thoughts just wouldn’t let you go. They clung to you like burrs in fabric–small, sharp, and impossible to shake off once they made themselves at home. They weren’t loud–not always. Sometimes they whispered, and other times they just echoed–half finished sentences, things you didn’t say when you should’ve, flashes from old missions that blurred at the edges like fog on glass, and regrets that you just couldn’t shake from your system.

You were tired in a way that felt cellular–tired of the stillness, of fighting your own brain, of crying every little thing you thought about in silence. Your chest felt tight and full. Like your body had been holding its breath for too long and didn’t remember how to let go.

The longer you stayed still under the thin white sheet you had pulled on top of you, the heavier your thoughts became. They didn’t scream, they just looped in this quiet, methodical way–cruel in how convincing they were. You thought about things that you had ruined by your own hands, people you had killed, innocent civilians that suffered the shrapnel of your actions. You were guilty of so much, and sometimes during these nights you felt like you had blood on your hands–real, warm, and sticky crimson blood that sunk under your nails and stained your skin.

It was a quiet kind of drowning, where you just allowed yourself to sink, thinking whatever was weighing you down would let you go so you could break the surface again, but it was never that easy.

You turned your head to the side, letting the cool cotton of your pillow brush against your cheek–damp from the heat trapped underneath the covering. You’d flipped it three times already tonight, hoping the fresh side might grant you sleep, but it never did.

Your fingers curled loosely around the sheet like they used to hold something, someone, once. Your knuckles ached, even though you had taken a break from training because you were too exhausted–Bucky had told you it was phantom pain, something he had experienced with his arm.

The air in your room felt used. Like it had been breathed in and out too many times, like it couldn’t carry comfort for anyone anymore. You wished, suddenly and without warning, for something as simple as a breeze to blow through your room, just something to reset the air. Something to prove there was still hope for sleep.

Instead, there was the occasional honk of a car too far away to care about, and sirens that distantly cried through the dark like tired wolves. It all passed you by. Out there, the world kept turning on its axis, but here–in your bedroom–everything was slow and suffocating, like you were drowning in molasses.

You closed your eyes tightly, and saw things you didn’t want to see.

The face of a boy whose name you never learned. The tremble in your own hands after pulling the trigger. A woman screaming. The echo of silence that followed. You brought your hands to your face, and pressed your palms over your eyes like maybe darkness could cancel out darkness, but it only made it worse. All it did was give the thoughts more room to expand.

You remember the moment you let someone die–not because you had no choice, but because you hesitated. You remember the blood that splattered on your face.

Even now–years later–on nights like this, those moments still felt fresh. You shook your head a little like it might scatter them, and curled in on yourself under the weight of it all, knees drawing up to your chest and arms tucked close like you could press yourself into sleep with the pressure alone.

Then, you heard a sound.

It was faint, almost imperceptible, but your brain was so trained to be on edge that you noticed those little noises. There was shuffling. The subtle creak of a floorboard. A soft rustle of fabric, then the nearly soundless click of a door opening from the room next door to yours. Bob’s.

You could feel your heart stutter at the noise when you realized he was awake too, but your ears tuned in more sharply now.

You could tell he was walking carefully–barefoot, you imagined, moving down the hallway like he was trying not to disturb anyone. His weight shifted gently, like he knew exactly where the creaky floorboards were, like he’d done this many times before. You slowly opened your eyes, staring up at the ceiling, heart pressing tightly in your chest, squeezing and contracting like it was struggling to regain its rhythm. You didn’t move, nor did you call out…Because what would you say? “I heard you. I’m glad you’re up too? I’m a mess and I wish you could fix it but I’d never let you try?”

No. Because you didn’t want to bother him.

Bob was kind. Gentle. The kind of man who offered you the last slice of pizza with a shrug like it didn’t matter to him, even though he was still hungry, the kind of person who always held the door just a second longer than necessary, the kind of person who would fight to give you the world even if it meant he needed to sacrifice something from himself to do so.

He was your friend, and you liked the friendship too much to chip at it with things he didn’t ask for. You kept the nightmares that plagued you to yourself. The sleepless night. The guilt. The ache.

You had to.

Because if Bob ever saw that part of you–the part still bloodstained and shaking–maybe he’d stop looking at you the way he did when it was just you and him. With eyes soft and full like you were something gentle and special to him, instead of something that was broken into millions of pieces.

So you stayed quiet, and let him drift down the hallway like a ghost. Maybe he was just getting water, maybe he had a nightmare, maybe he was sleepwalking and wouldn’t remember any of it in the morning.

And maybe…Maybe that was better.

Because some people in the compound had already caught on to your issues. Early on, after you joined the team. Yelena had raised an eyebrow the first time you turned up at breakfast with the bags under your eyes heavy enough to pack for a weekend trip. Walker had made a joke about you needing depuffing cream. Ava had noticed too, once–her voice casual but precise when she’d asked, “You sleep at all last night?”

You always gave the same answer. A shrug. A smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m fine. Just a long dream.”

And somehow, they let it go.

But Bob–

Bob had never asked.

Not because he didn’t notice, you suspected. But because he respected your quiet. Because he waited for permission.

And that? That made it worse in the best way.

Because you could feel how much he wanted to ask. On the days he’d hand you your coffee and hover an extra beat too long. On the nights he’d walk you to your room after training and say, “Sleep well,” with a voice that felt more like a hope than a goodbye.

You kept listening to his movements though. There was a soft rummaging sound from the kitchen, the slow creak of a cabinet opening. The unmistakable clink of ceramic–just one, like he was pulling out a mug, not a glass. Then, quieter still, the dull metallic sound of a pot.

Your brows furrowed, glancing over at your clock to see that it was 3:21 AM.

You thought it was super late for him to be cooking something for himself, but then again he had mentioned in passing that after he received the Sentry serum it caused his metabolism to spike, and it made him feel like he was starving at odd times of the day–enough to put him on the brink of pain if he didn’t eat properly.

You heard a soft mutter, barely a whisper, but you couldn’t make it out–oftentimes you’d catch him talking to himself when he assumed he was alone, and this seemed like one of those times. Then came the hum of the fridge opening. The gentle click of a cap twisting loose. A drawer. A utensil. A quiet clink-clink of metal tapping ceramic.

He was definitely making something.

But you couldn’t piece together what it was, there were too many confusing sounds.

So you just sighed, and turned over slowly, the sheets rustling faintly beneath you as your gaze fell on the window.

The city beyond the glass was still awake, and buzzing with energy surprisingly. A few lights blinked in neighboring buildings. A plane cut silently through the sky in the distance, red lights flashing against the black. Clouds moved slow and soft, brushed in pale grey, like smeared charcoal across paper.

And behind them–stars. Only a few. Faint. Distant. Struggling against the glow of the skyline. But they were there. You stared at them for a long time. Let yourself trace imagined constellations. Let your breathing slow just enough to pretend your thoughts had too.Trying to give yourself the illusion of calm, even as the memory of his voice–not the words, just the sound of him–lingered in the hallway air like warmth that hadn’t faded yet.

Whatever Bob was doing in the kitchen was done now, at least that’s what you thought because the noise had halted. He was probably back in his room, probably eating at his desk, or curled up beneath his sheets, trying not to do what you were doing–thinking too hard, wanting too much, or hoping for something that would never be offered to you.

Minutes passed. You weren’t sure how many. Maybe five. Maybe twenty. It stretched and folded in on itself the way time always did when it was so early in the morning–when sleep was out of reach but everything else felt a little too close.

Then you heard it…Tap Tap.

Two knocks. Gentle. Hesitant. Like punctuation at the end of a sentence you didn’t know had been written for you.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, and you turned over quickly, the sheet slipping off your shoulder, pooling around your hips as your eyes landed on the door.

There was a shadow there. Still and uncertain. You could see it through the sliver of light spilling beneath the frame–two bare feet planted quietly on the hardwood.

Slowly, you pushed yourself up and out of bed. The room was cool, and your skin prickled under the change in air. Your loose, worn Stark Industries t-shirt that hung off your shoulder, the hem brushing the tops of your thigh. A pair of navy flannel sleep shorts clung gently to your hips and your legs were bare all the way down to your toes, which curled instinctively against the cold of the floor as you moved toward the door.

You reached for the handle, hesitated–just for a breath–and then opened it.

And there he was.

Bob, standing in the soft halo of hallway light, looking every bit as fragile and gentle as the moment deserved. His hair was tousled–bed-tousled, like he had also been tossing and turning a dozen times tonight as well. Soft light brown waves of hair hung over his forehead, catching the light, almost like it was emoting a crown of sorts.

He wore a familiar dark red hoodie, the sleeves were shoved up around his elbows, and the cotton was warped at the seams from how often he picked and fidgeted in it. His plaid pajama pants were rumpled and hit just above his ankles.

And in his hands, cupped with a kind of gentleness you had seen countless times before, was a simple white ceramic mug.

Steam curled up from it in delicate swirls, spiralin in the stillness between you. The smell hit you softly–milk, warm and rich, and a sweet hint of honey. The scent wrapped around you, caressing your skin.

Bob’s eyes met yours, and you saw the surprise in his face at the fact you had even gotten up to open the door. His lips parted, like he was going to say something but his eyes kept going over you, distracting his brain from saying what he wanted to.

”Hey.” You whispered, rubbing your eyes with your knuckles, before returning your gaze back to his, “You okay?” Bob flinched like your voice startled him. Like he’d been standing there for longer than he meant to, lost in thought, and not expecting you to say anything first.

He looked down at the mug in his hands, then returned his gaze to yours, his thumbs shifting nervously against the ceramic rim.

”Y-Yeah,” He said, his voice scratchy with sleep, and soft around the edges, “Yeah, I’m good…I just…I just heard you.” You didn’t say anything–just tilted your head slightly, brow furrowing. He cleared his throat, eyes flicking briefly toward the shared wall behind you.

”Through the wall I-I mean. Through the wall. I–I didn’t mean to. I just…You’ve been tossing a lot the last few nights, and I wasn’t sure if…You wanted me to do anything but tonight it just…” He looked down at the mug again, then shrugged a little, awkward and quiet, “I couldn’t lay in there anymore…Felt wrong.” Your heart thudded in your chest–not from panic, but from something warmer. Softer. Something dangerously close to comfort. Bob shifted again, like he thought maybe he should start walking away, like maybe he overstepped.

Bob swallowed thickly, like the nerves were caught somewhere behind his tongue, and with a small, careful motion, he held the mug out to you.

”It’s…It’s just warm milk with some honey…No-Nothing fancy or anything, just…Just something my mom used to m-make me when I was really small…” Bob rarely mentioned his mother, once in a blue moon he would say something in passing, and it was always about something she used to enjoy, but he never spoke about anything further than that. You never pushed, you knew the history, you knew his file like the back of your hand actually, so you understood what was off limits for conversation.

“She…Used to say that it worked b-better than anything else..I guess I was hoping maybe…Maybe it could help you too.” He wasn’t looking at you anymore. His eyes had dropped to the mug in his hands still, or maybe to the floor–anywhere but your face, as he waited for you to take it, still rubbing anxiously at the rim like there was a stain you couldn’t see.

You reached out, your fingers brushing his as you gently took the mug. The ceramic was warm, and the steam curled softly under your chin. The scent wrapped around you like a memory you’d never had—soft, homey, achingly kind.

”Thank you,” You whispered, so quietly you weren’t even sure he heard it, but then he nodded. You glanced up at him again, “Do you want to come in?” Bob hesitated for half a second at your invitation, caught off guard by the offer.

”…Only if it’s okay with you…” He replied, and almost immediately you stepped to the side, motioning for him to come in. He stepped past the door frame and into your room, his bare feet making almost no sound against the hardwood floor.

Your room wasn’t messy exactly, but it had the unmistakable signs of someone who lived inside their own thoughts too much–stacks of books were on the nightstand, a half-folded hoodie draped over the office chair in the corner, a mug with a plant sprouting from it on the windowsill.

The shelf across from your bed was lined with board games–stacked neatly but densely, as if you collected them slowly over time, favorites worn down at the corners from use, or from age. There were also tiny figurines lined up beside them–small, whimsical things that looked hand painted. There were also a few vintage snow globes from places you’d never been but had always meant to visit. It was little pieces of nostalgia and comfort that made the space feel like yours.

Bob didn’t say anything right away, but you noticed the way he gravitated toward the shelf, his eyes scanning the games in the darkness with an unmistakable curiosity. He crouched a little, careful not to touch anything, just reading the spines.

”You’ve got Clue…” He murmured, almost to himself, “T-The good version…With the m-miniature weapons…” You smiled softly at that and returned to your bed, setting the mug down gently on the nightstand before slipping beneath your sheet again. It barely warmed you, but it was just to cover yourself up a bit. With Bob being there the air already started to feel different–less used, less still. Like you could breathe just a little bit easier, even though your chest still felt tight.

“We can play something if you’d like…” You said gently, watching the way his fingers hovered near a box labeled Codenames before pulling back. You reached over and picked the mug back up from the nightstand, cupping it in both hands as the warmth seeped into your skin, bringing it up to your lips before taking a small sip–just enough to taste the gentle swirl of honey at the back of your tongue. It was soothing. Sweet. A kind of simple comfort that felt foreign to you.

”You sure you’re up for it?” He asked quietly, still looking at the shelves.

”Positive, besides…It’ll probably take a bit for this to work.” You said, motioning to the mug even though he wasn’t looking over at you. Bob’s fingers hover over a couple of boxes–Ticket to Ride, Bananagrams, even a battered-looking deck of Uno–but eventually settled on Scrabble. His hand lingered on the side of the box, thumb brushing over the worn cardboard like he was trying to gauge how many games had been played on it before.

”Scrabble okay?” He asked, moving to the side slightly so you could see the box, as a small smile tugged at your lips.

”Sure.” Bob slipped the box out of the pile and stepped toward your bed, careful not to knock into anything in the low light, and then out of nowhere you pointed toward your desk.

”Just turn on the salt lamp, it’ll be easier on the eyes than the overhead light, and we won’t go blind trying to read the little tiles while we play.” Bob gave a small nod and padded softly over to your desk, careful not to disturb the stacks of paper and stray pens scattered across the surface. He bent slightly, fingers brushing the dial of the salt lamp, and with a gentle click, it bloomed to life.

A soft amber glow filled the room-like the last light of day spilling across hardwood and skin. It curled into the corners, brushing gold over his cheekbones and catching faintly in the strands of his hair. The shadows no longer felt sharp, just softened edges fading into the warm orange hush.

As Bob straightened, his eyes flicked–almost unintentionally–over the contents of your desk. Notebooks flipped open to half-finished thoughts. Old mission reports, some with ink smudged across the corners where you’d rested your palm. Paperwork from the Thunderbolts med team. A few loose pages caught his eye–your handwriting sharp and slanted, trailing off into sentences he couldn’t quite make out. But the word “decompensating” was there. He didn’t linger though. He looked away just as quickly, like he hadn’t seen it at all.

He made his way back toward your bed and set the Scrabble box gently down between the both of you, careful not to make too much noise. He lowered himself carefully onto the edge of your bed, tucking his long legs beneath him and sitting criss-crossed on the sheets like a tall child. The salt lamp’s glow warmed the fabric of his hoodie, casting a faint orange hue along the planes of his face and deepening the shadows beneath his lashes. His posture was relaxed, but the tension in his hands betrayed the way he was holding himself still–like he wasn’t quite sure how close he was allowed to be.

You started setting up the board in front of you, drawing the tile racks from the box and arranging the letter pouch off to the side. You felt his eyes on you–not in a way that made you nervous, but in a way that made you feel seen. Quietly observed. Almost studied, like he didn’t want to miss a moment.

“How’s the drink?” He asked softly, voice still rough, like he hadn’t fully settled into being awake.

You glanced over at him and gave a faint smile. “It’s really good,” You said truthfully. “A little sweet, but…It definitely soothes. Or at least it feels like it’s trying to.”

Bob’s lips curved into something warm, the kind of smile you only get from someone who made something just for you and got it right.

“I haven’t made it in a while,” He murmured, eyes dropping briefly to your hands wrapped around the mug. “Didn’t know if it’d still be…I don’t know... W-Worth making.”

“It was,” You said, and then, after a pause, you leaned forward slightly, holding the mug out toward him. “Want a sip?”

His eyes lifted in surprise. For a second, he didn’t answer–just blinked at the offer like you’d handed him something much more important than a half-finished drink. But then he nodded, once, gently, and reached for it.

His fingers brushed yours as he took the mug, and you didn’t let go immediately. Neither did he.

The weight of the silence stretched between you, not heavy, but delicate. Something balanced. Breakable.

Then Bob looked down, brought the mug to his lips, and took a small sip–barely anything, like he was trying not to take too much. When he handed it back to you, his thumb lingered on the handle just a beat longer than it needed to.

“It’s…Yeah,” He said, voice low. “S-Still good.”

You didn’t reply, just gave him a quiet smile as you settled back, placing the mug carefully on your nightstand again. He straightened a little as you began to draw your tiles.

A few moments passed like that–quiet rustling of letter tiles, soft exhales, the hum of the city outside whispering beneath it all. Bob watched you with a quiet intensity–eyes soft, but wholly focused, like the flickering glow of the salt lamp had burned everything else out of view except for you.

You laid down your first word slowly, pressing each wooden tile into place with a soft click that seemed to echo louder than it should in the hush of the room.

“Still.”

He tilted his head slightly as he read it, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he thought the word was fitting in more ways than one.

You didn’t say anything. Just watched as his gaze dropped to his own rack of letters, brows drawing together slightly in concentration. His shoulders were curved inward, posture just shy of guarded, and his fingers fiddled with a tile between his thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly over and over in his palm like he wasn’t quite ready to play his move.

You could’ve looked away.

But you didn’t.

There was something about watching Bob think–watching the way he wrestled with something so small and inconsequential with the same care he gave to life-and-death situations–that made you feel like maybe nothing was inconsequential to him. Maybe that was part of what made him so easy to be near. He never treated anything like it was small, especially not you.

”…Why were you awake?” You asked, voice soft but clear, threading gently into the space between you like a breath that didn’t want to startle him. He didn’t look up immediately, but his thumb paused on the tile he was holding, and you saw his jaw tighten–just slightly, like he was sifting through what he wanted to say. Eventually, he set the tile down without adding it to the board, glancing up at you for a moment before looking down at his hands.

”S-Sometimes I get these…Muscle spasms,” He said, clasping his hands together slowly, “Uh…It started when I g-got clean. Back then…I chalked it up to j-just withdrawal symptoms or whatever…” He offered a small shrug, but it looked more like he was trying to take the weight of the memory off his shoulders, “But t-they never really went away…Even after the whole…Sentry serum thing.” You felt something inside you still at that–your breath, your hands, the thoughts that had been crawling under your skin just moments before. Bob had never talked about this, yes he had mentioned it in passing but he never went into details. Not with you, not with anyone in the compound as far as you knew. And he didn’t speak of it now with bitterness or shame–just quiet, exhausted honesty.

His fingers tapped lightly against his knee now, the motion faint but rhythmic. He wasn’t looking at you. Not fully. Just past you, like it might be easier to keep talking if your gaze wasn’t anchored to his.

“It’s not like–a c-constant thing,” He murmured. “Not always. But some nights…” His voice faltered for a breath, then gathered itself again, “Some nights it feels like my skin doesn’t fit right. L-Like something’s twisting underneath. And if I stay still too long, it gets worse. Hurts.” You stayed still, letting his words settle in the room like dust in a shaft of light. Not brushing them away. Not rushing to respond. You just…Let him be heard.

“And what about tonight?” You asked gently. Bob’s shoulders rose slightly at your question, like a breath caught halfway up his chest and couldn’t decide whether it wanted to stay there or fall. He didn’t answer right away, but you didn’t rush him. You just…Watched.

There was a fragility in the way he was sitting now–his tall body folded inward, arms loosely draped across his lap like he was trying not to take up more space than he deserved. The plaid of his pajama pants creased softly at his knees, and the hem of his hoodie had ridden up slightly where it bunched at his hips, exposing the edge of a thin white undershirt. He was swaying–just barely. That kind of instinctive motion people did when they were trying to self-soothe without realizing it.

And his hands–those quiet, trembling hands–were doing that thing again. Fingers laced loosely, thumbs rubbing in absent loops over each other like they were chasing comfort around and around.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Careful.

“It started in my thighs first,” He murmured, eyes fixed on the little wooden tiles in front of him like they might spell out a safer version of the truth. “Like this…C-Crawling pressure...”

You stayed quiet. Just listened.

“Then my back,” He added. “It always finds my back eventually. S-Sometimes it feels like–like something’s winding itself around my spine and pulling tight, and if I don’t move or stretch or…J-Just do something, it’s like I’m gonna shatter from the inside out.”

His voice broke a little on the last word, not from emotion but from the wear of speaking it aloud. He cleared his throat gently.

“I-I tried laying on the floor for a bit,” He continued, almost like he was narrating it to himself now. “It’s supposed to help sometimes. G-Grounding or whatever. I-I even tried counting backwards from a h-hundred, but I kept getting stuck on the same numbers…And I kept hearing…Hearing you t-tossing and turning.” Bob’s voice trailed off, and he looked up at you. His eyes were glassy in the amber light, not from tears, but from the kind of fatigue that went deeper than rest could fix. There was something raw in them–open and flickering with the effort of holding himself together. He gave a small, almost helpless shrug, like he didn’t know what else to do with the weight of what he’d said. Like the words had cost him more than he was willing to admit.

Then he glanced down at the board again, blinking like he was trying to reset his brain.

Silence stretched between you–but not the painful kind. It was the kind that wrapped itself around vulnerability like a blanket, the kind that said you’re allowed to feel this without needing to explain it.

You watched him as he shook himself a little–shoulders rolling back, breath catching in his throat like he was trying to brush something invisible off his skin. Then, without a word, he reached forward and laid his tiles on the board.

He pressed them down with gentle fingers, slow and deliberate, connecting to your word.

“Laying.”

Bob’s fingers withdrew slowly from the tiles, then settled in his lap again. You could still see the pink crescents of tension pressed into the skin where his nails had worried the edge of his thumb.

He glanced at you.

His eyes were steady now, but there was nothing sharp in them–just soft weariness. Mutual understanding. He looked like someone who had finally let a little of the weight slip from his shoulders, only to realize there was more to carry still.

“Can I–I ask you something?” He said, voice quiet but sure, like he didn’t want to startle the air between you.

You nodded, wordlessly.

“Why’ve you been…H-Having trouble sleeping?”

He didn’t ask it like a challenge. There was no tilt to his tone, no pressure to answer. Just a quiet offering of space. A question given without a demand. Like the mug he had handed you. Like the warmth in it.

You could’ve deflected. You could’ve lied–said it was the city noise or the caffeine or bad luck or anything else.

But Bob was looking at you like he’d listen to every word. Like none of it would make him turn away.

So, after a moment, you folded your hands in your lap, fingers tracing over one another like you were stitching the truth together slowly, gently.

“I’ve done…Pretty reprehensible things Bob…” His gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it softened.

You looked down at your hands in your lap, thumbs brushing over each other in a rhythm that didn’t calm you but at least kept you from unraveling.

“There are nights I can’t close my eyes without seeing it all. Not like a nightmare–those would be easier. You wake up from nightmares. These are… Flashes. Full-color, real-time, high-definition plays of everything I shouldn’t have let happen.” You laughed, just barely–a breath, really. Bitter at the edges. “Sometimes I think my memory’s too good. Like it’s punishing me for surviving when others didn’t.”

Bob didn’t speak. His silence wasn’t a void–it was presence. It was him listening the way only he could. The way that told you this space was yours to fill.

You pressed your palms together, trying to hold in the shake that had started at your fingertips.

“There’s this one kid,” You said, and your voice faltered for just a second, “–I didn’t even get his name. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen. He looked at me like I was going to save him. And I didn’t. I froze.” Your throat tightened. “I froze, and he died. I still see his face. Every time. Like he’s just waiting for me to try again and do it right this time.”

The silence between you grew deeper–but not colder.

“I know people say we all make mistakes, that we’ve all got blood on our hands in this job, but…” You swallowed hard, “But some mistakes don’t wash off,” You whispered. Then came a sigh–slow, worn-out, the kind that scraped the bottom of your lungs and left you a little emptier than before.

“Guess I just have to live with it,” You said softly, eyes fixed on the board between you. Your thumb dragged slowly over the edge of your tile rack, a motion that felt mechanical, just something for your hands to do so they didn’t shake. “You know? Make peace with the fact that some of the blood doesn’t come out, no matter how hard you scrub.” Bob was quiet for a long time. Not the kind of silence that asked you to fill it–just the kind that held things. The kind that made space for the ache in someone else’s chest.

His eyes stayed on the Scrabble board, but you could see his jaw shift, his breath catch on the edge of something he didn’t know how to say. And then he sighed–soft, almost soundless, but full of weight. Full of want. Of helplessness.

“…I–I don’t know how to fix that,” He said finally, and the words were almost apologetic. His voice was low and rough, like it scraped against his ribs on the way out. “I wish I could. I wish I had…I don’t know. A better thing to say. Or some way to–” His fingers twisted together tightly in his lap. “To take it away from you...” You looked up at him then, only to see he already had his eyes on you. His brows were pulled together. His lips parted. And his eyes–God, his eyes–were so heartbreakingly kind, even with all the pain swimming in them.

“But I–I don’t think you’re awful,” Bob said quietly. “I never have.”

Your lungs stuttered on the inhale. Like his words had knocked something loose inside your chest, and now everything you’d been bottling up wanted to come spilling out all at once.

You looked at him, really looked–at the way his lashes caught the salt lamp’s glow, at the way his mouth was pressed in a soft, worried line, like even kindness exhausted him when he meant it too much. And you wanted to say thank you, or that means more than you know, or please don’t stop looking at me like I’m worth saving–but what came out was smaller than that.

“Why?” Your voice cracked slightly as you spoke. He looked like he hadn’t expected you to ask for proof. He shook his head a little, as if you’d just missed the point completely.

“B–Because I see you.” He said quietly, and simply. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t—not when your throat felt like it was wrapped in wire, not when every muscle in your body was too tired to hold up all that guilt and all that tenderness at the same time.

But you held his gaze, and in the stillness that followed, something unspoken passed between you. Something that didn’t need to be named.

Bob shifted slightly, like your silence was something he was afraid to misread. “I didn’t mean that in some dramatic way,” He added quickly, his voice softer now. “I just… I h-have watched you hold everything in. I’ve watched you show up when it’s hard. W-When it hurts. And you don’t complain, you just carry it.” He blinked slowly, then smiled–just a little. “And I think… I think maybe someone should carry some of it with you, even if it’s just for a night.”

Your chest ached. You wanted to cry. But no tears came–just that deep, hollow breath that tried to make room for the feeling swelling inside you. You didn’t speak. Not at first. Because there was something so impossibly gentle in the way he said it–that he’d watched you carry it, that he wanted to carry it too–that you felt your heart stammer under the weight of being seen like that.

Not as a soldier. Not as an asset. Not even as a teammate.

But as you.

The person who lay awake four nights in a row memorizing the ceiling. The one who couldn’t scrub their hands clean. The one who still heard screams in silence.

And he still wanted to stay.

You looked down at the Scrabble board between you, and your hand hovered over your tiles for a second…Then dropped.

”I don’t think I can play anymore,” You whispered. Bob stilled completely.

You weren’t looking at him when you said it–your gaze fixed somewhere in the space between the board and your knees, your voice small and raw. You could feel his eyes on you, though, full of concern he hadn’t figured out how to put into words yet.

When you didn’t say anything else, Bob shifted slightly beside you. You caught the movement from the corner of your eye–the way his posture went from soft to stiff, the way he folded a little tighter into himself, his fingers fidgeting again like they were trying to untangle guilt from nothing.

“I–I’m sorry,” He said quickly, almost in a breath. “I shouldn’t have–I didn’t mean to push anything on you. If I made you uncomfortable, I can go. I didn’t mean to…”

You looked over at him then. His face was turned slightly down, his shoulders drawn up like he was expecting you to flinch away. The game between you had been gently nudged aside, but the distance left in its wake felt like something colder. Something afraid. Like Bob was already slipping back into himself, already preparing to apologize for wanting to be close to you at all.

You reached for him before you could stop yourself.

“Bob,” Your hand found his–warm and rough and trembling faintly beneath your touch–and you could hear his breath catch at the contact. “I don’t want you to leave,” You said softly. His eyes lifted slowly, hesitant and searching, as if he was still trying to make sure he’d heard you right–like maybe his mind had tricked him into hope again. But you didn’t look away. Your fingers were still wrapped around his, steady even if the rest of you wasn’t.

“I just…” You swallowed, the words pressing at the back of your throat like they’d been waiting for too long. “I just want you to lay down with me now, I think. And just hold me.”

You didn’t mean for your voice to come out so small, but there was no disguising the softness in it. The ache. The quiet want. You weren’t asking for much–just closeness. Just something real to rest your head against when the ceiling stopped being enough. And you watched it land in Bob’s eyes like it was something special.

“O-Okay…If that’s what you want…” He said gently, afraid the moment might shatter if he spoke too loud. He glanced down at the Scrabble board still sitting between you on the bed. Carefully, with hands that still trembled slightly, Bob reached for the box and began to collect the scattered wooden tiles, his fingers moving slow and deliberate. He wasn’t rushing. He handled each piece like it deserved care. You watched the way he placed them back into their pouch, then tucked it inside the box, closed the lid with a quiet thud, and stood.

Your gaze followed him as he padded back across the room toward your desk. He placed the box down in the empty space beside your half-folded hoodie, and then paused for just a second–like he was giving you one last moment to change your mind.

You didn’t.

Instead, you peeled back the thin white sheet over your body, slow and quiet, lifting the edge and waiting. The salt lamp made the folds of it glow softly, casting warm gold against your bare thighs, your Stark shirt, the rise and fall of your breath.

Bob turned. His eyes met yours, and for a heartbeat, you saw everything in them–his fear of doing too much, of being too much, and right beneath that, his need to be near you. The need to be wanted back.

He crossed the space in three long steps, slow and hesitant. His hand brushed the side of the bed, fingers curling lightly against the mattress before he eased himself down beside you.

He lay on his side, knees bent, close but not yet touching you. You felt the warmth of him, the faint scent of that old hoodie he always wore–faded detergent, sleep, and something that could only be described as Bob.

You turned onto your side too, slowly, until your back was to him. The sheet shifted with you, and for a second, neither of you spoke. There was just breath. The hum of the city. And the whisper of cotton against skin.

Then you felt it.

His hand.

Tentative at first–hovering like he wasn’t sure he had permission even now. But then it landed gently across your waist, his arm curling around you, pulling you just the smallest bit closer until your spine met the warmth of his chest.

You felt him exhale shakily behind you, and the sensation of it–his breath brushing the back of your neck, his chest rising and falling in time with yours–settled something deep inside you.

“Is this…Okay?” He whispered, voice so close to your ear now that it sent a shiver down your skin.

You didn’t speak right away.

Instead, you reached for his hand where it rested against your stomach. You found his fingers–calloused, long, warm–and laced yours through them slowly. Anchoring. Reassuring.

“Yeah,” You whispered back, your voice steadier than you expected it to be. “It’s better than okay.”

Bob let out a breath then–relieved, maybe, or maybe something more. You felt his grip tighten just slightly, like he was afraid you might slip away. But you didn’t.

Neither of you moved for a while.

Your fingers stayed woven with his, your back pressed to his chest, and you felt the weight of the night begin to shift. The quiet wasn’t heavy anymore. It was full. Full of warmth, presence, and safety.

He brushed the tip of his nose against the crown of your head–barely a touch, barely a breath. But it was there. A silent thank you. A soft kind of ache. A promise.

You let your eyes fall shut.

And for the first time in days, sleep didn’t feel like a distant thought.

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