#it has been rotting in my drafts for weeks!!

[anoddopal]

9 and 10 for the s/i ask game! (asking for both the regular timeline and the au timeline! 👀) -gideongrovel

[Link to ask game!!]

Main Timeline

9. Who are your self insert’s closest friends?

Bun’s very closest friends are Ni.co Robin, Tony Tony Cho.pper, and her ✨~flashy~✨ bestie, Bu.ggy the Clown!

The friendship bewteen Silva and Robin has been explained in more depth HERE; but as a whole, they are cut from a very similar cloth. Just your average duo of morbidly curious history buffs who in time- found their respective reasons to live. ❤️‍🩹

Ch.opper is Bun's preferred doctor. He took care of her when she briefly traveled with the St.raw Hats. Bun was rather unwell after the Ala.basta incident, and her pets communicated to the reindeer that she needed help. As a result she adores the little guy [+bonus points in his favor that he's an animal]! They both look up to each other; Bun admires his dedication to his craft, and respects the fact that he is a talented medical professional, despite some of his more childish mannerisms. Ch.opper outright thinks that Silva is cool, if not something of a badass- he always carefully regards the life advice she provides him with. Tony is always happy to translate what Silva's pets say to her! Even a ways off into the future, Bun still goes to him for her significant medical needs; or sometimes Ch.opper makes the trip to her. The little guy may be the only person that Bun earnestly listens to when he scolds her to take better care of herself.

Bu.ggy and Bun were practically instant friends. They initially met when Bu.ggy made a trip to Ala.basta to search for THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE his on-agin-off-again partner, Jinx [@/mothlover69]. Bu.ggy quickly perceived Bun as a secret freak outcast, and Bun couldn't help but think he'd be a fascinating specimen to observe, er, a unique acquaintance to have! In any case, they got along decently well right off of the bat, so much so that Bu.ggy eagerly allowed Bun to live on his ship after she decided she didn't have the heart to keep traveling with the St.raw Hats. Actually, rumor has it that he just shot out his detached hands and scooped her + her pets onto the Big Top sometime before Lu.ffy's crew made it to Jaya!

It would be fair to say that B.uggy is a bad influence on her. It would also be fair to say that she’s as equally of a good influence on him. He’s learned how to be slightly better because of her. For example, the slack he cut for a frightened Transponder Snail at Mar.ineford was due in part to Bun’s impact. Most of the time Bun is the responsible one in their friendship, but in the event she’s not at her best, she has a tendency to feed into Bu.ggy’s nonsense. This was extremely evident when Bun was in a post-breakup[?] depression after Ala.basta, and Bu.ggy chose to enable all of Bun’s bad habits. What, what’s the harm in eating candy and cake for breakfast? Breakfast… three meals a day… HEY, he got her to eat, okay?! Psshh, he was only trying to comfort his friend! That’s what friends do, right? They cheer each other up? [Bless Jinx for rising up as the responsible adult in this specific situation!]

Bun respects Bu.ggy as her friend, but she also tends to call him out on his bullshit. [Nagging is one of her love languages!] Bu.ggy huffs at this tendency of hers, but deep down he knows that she wouldn’t do it if she didn’t really care about him. He very much enjoys the attention she gives him in any context. He furthermore appreciates her authenticity even though he doesn’t always know what to do with her… wholesomeness. Whereas Bun appreciates how she can ease up and laugh around him. In the future, Bun protects him from the wrath of her ill-tempered husbands.

Bu.ggy has been desperate to get his best bun to join his crew for a very long time. After she left with Cro.codile after the battle at Mar.ineford, he had a meltdown due the fact she was gone. [Actually he thought she was dead! They got separated during the battle and never regrouped. When Bun eventually came back a few weeks later to collect some of her belongings that were still on the ship, Bu.ggy legitimately thought he was being haunted by her ghost.] Though the two end up working within close proximity when Cross Gu.ild is formed, Bu.ggy still laments she still didn’t choose to join up with him. Listen, the guy is a better friend to her than most would think- however, that doesn’t mean that he still isn’t just a taaaad selfish. 🙄

Bu.ggy has since added some more pastels to his flashy wardrobe, while Bun can semi-frequently be seen wearing oddly clownish makeup [Bu.ggy uses her face as a canvas when she allows it].

[This answer really only included dynamics with canon characters but I simply must give shoutouts to @/mothlover69’s Jinx and @/jj-exe’s JJ!! They are also Bun’s beloved fwiends.]

10. How do the other characters feel about your self insert and f/o’s relationship?

Most folks are baffled as to why/how Bun and Cro.codile ended up together. They became even more confused when Mi.hawk also married Bun years down the line. Bun is very small and kind- her husbands seem like too harsh of people for somebody like her. [Little do they realize how ridiculously soft the are for bun-]

But given that the three seem outwardly content with their dynamic, the rest of the world can only assume that Bun is extremely powerful, having wrangled two former Warlords of the Sea and all! And that assumption is not wrong. uwu

Robin is glad for her friend. She saw Bun and Cro.codile together during their early days, and she knows firsthand how inseparable they are. Bu.ggy does NOT care for his business associates/his best bun's husbands. They eat up her TIME and ATTENTION!! >:o( And he also secretly worries that they're mean to her like how they are to him!! However, the flashy fool has nothing to worry about.

Somebody -> 🦩 may be not-so-secretly seething with jealousy about the relationship, but the details on that matter are better kept hush-hush.

Forbidden Fruit AU

9. Who are your self insert’s closest friends?

Why, Bun’s very best friend in this timeline is the good doctor, D.oc Q! Ca.tarina D.evon and Ku.zan are also quite close with her.

D.oc Q is her ride or die. They have that Horse Girl [or uh, Horse Boy in this case?] 🤝 Rabbit Girl connection. They are both chronically ill [ofc Doc's health issues are much more dire] and count on their prey animal pets to get by: he has his horse Stronger🐴 [mobility aid] and Silva has her lapin🐰 Stratus [ESA]. Doc has a way of knowing what's amiss with Bun before she even knows herself- he furthermore was able to pick up on some of her health issues that she didn't initially disclose to him. Bun assists him with his work when needed- D.oc Q has the MD degree and Bun has the bedside manner, lol. Though she mostly helps him take proper care of Stonger, which is something he is eternally grateful for.

It was Doc who first started referring to Silva as "lucky", which is a judgement that has stuck, though Bun denies it. Bun will sing with others, but Doc is the only person she will sing to. He insists that her low-toned warbles are soothing, that the sound helps him feel better when he's sick. The often have deep discussions about death and the fragility of life. If D.oc Q's mantra is "memento mori", then Bun-Bun Silva is soon to follow with a gentle "memento vivere".

When Ca.tarina Devon first joined the crew, Bun was ecstatic! Being surrounded by a bunch of men all the time was… a bit exhausting, so finally having a woman around was a nice change of pace. Of course, Devon is as rotten as the rest of them, but she found that she couldn’t possibly rain on Bun’s parade. Turns out it’s nice to have a platonic “gal pal” to share the AFAB experience with. They’re both LGBT+, they manifest ~queen~ energy together, and Devon continuously tries to teach Bun how to live the: Gaslight. Gatekeep. Girlboss 💅 way of life. However, Bun is a bit too kindhearted to really adapt that approach to herself. So Devon has to settle for engaging Bun in juicy gossip- which Bun is juuuuuust petty enough to indulge in. 💖💜💅✨

Ku.zan and Silva are alike in ways that set them apart from their other crew members. Both have a capacity for compromise and compassion. They are disenchanted with the World Government; they found they could seek their own freedom and fulfill their own needs by aligning themselves with Bla.ckbeard. Out of everyone else they’re the most socially acceptable out of the bunch. Ku.zan had his world turned on his head, which is a feeling of despair that Bun can relate to on a deep level. She’s always interested to hear what his life was like when he was a Marine, and she always chuckles bitterly when she relates to how his perspective was forced to change. Ku.zan enjoys her ability to match his dry humor- but the ice puns get a little repetitive. Overall they have a seemingly casual, yet actually rather close, friendship!

Oh! And Bun tends to give the latter two unwarranted relationship advice. "You know Devon, maybe you'd have a girlfriend if you didn't keep trying to behead every date you've landed since you've been a free woman! 💀 And Ku.zan! Please tell me you didn't try the 'big bazongas' cold opening on another poor woman again-"

10. How do the other characters feel about your self insert and f/o’s relationship?

The rest of the Bla.ckbeard Pirates wholly support Silva and La.ffitte as a couple! Their union was a product of destiny after all- the two were simply meant to be. None of them would ever deny that fact or attempt to get in the way of their relationship. They’re the crew’s resident lovebirds. [It helps that La.ffitte, in a terrifyingly cheerful manner, makes it clear to any potential newcomers he and his beloved wife are strictly exclusive… and any person who attempts to challenge that will be dealt with accordingly.]

… Though in the beginning, the crew were almost certain Bun would end up with D.oc Q, given how close they are. But it seems fate had other plans in store!

And as for the rest of the world; as for everyone that was close to Bun before she became involved with Te.ach's crew? They're very concerned. The Bun they knew would never associate with a person like that! Something must be wrong. Something must have gone horribly wrong.

... Sir Cr.ocodile is filled with so many regrets...

#yOOOOOOOOO I FINALLY FINISHED THIS!! #it has been rotting in my drafts for weeks!! #thank you so much for sending these asks! they really helped me think about and flesh out some more details in regards to both timelines-- #also sorry for swapping bun/silva around so much- #ofc course there is a LOT MORE to be said but I think this will do for now- i probably rambled too much as it is. #[*George Lucas Voice*]: ''I may have gone too far in a few places...'' #i adore all of these animated fools #S/I: Bun-Bun Silva #smoking sandman husband #sassy swordsman husband #whimsy rapscallion husband #we didn't start the fire #fairy floss friend #bothersome bug #thou shalt surely die #devon and ku.zan do not have tags as of now 😭 #Forbidden Fruit AU

[morrowalker]

uhm umg. final showdown in stiix or somethin. ive had this idea for a while now but finally got around to drawing it

[song is Training Montage - The Mountain Goats]

#YHIS HAS BEEN ROTTING IN MY DRAFTS FOR WEEKS? #so. this art is Slightly Old. but yknow #WHY did tumblr never post this. I SCHEDULES IT #anyway #ninjago #morro #wu #ninjago wu #ninjago morro #morro wu #scrawls

[hashileio]

shadow wizard money gang

#hashiart #this has been sitting in my drafts for like 2 weeks and ive been debating if i wanted to post it or not #i think today is finally the day yall are ready for this #this is definitely a shitpost lmaoooo #those shadow wizard money gang posts from twitter have just been rotting my brain for the past 2 weeks #making this is the only way i will ever know peace #shadow wizard money gang has me completely enthralled #its incredibly hard to tell but these are the boys....horror dust n killer LMAO #dust sans #horror sans #killer sans #dust!sans #horrortale sans #killer!sans #bad sanses

[coolbattlegirl]

Agent Lilia and bioweapon Silver and Malleus AU

Concept: This au takes place in a cyberpunk world where Silver and Malleus are genetically engineered bioweapons and Lilia’s a retired agent who’s trying to figure out why he keeps having strange dreams. Oh, and did I mentioned he just woke up from a year long coma and has amnesia?

Backstory: Silver and Malleus escaped the laboratory/organization and were wandering around aimlessly when they’re found by Lilia, who takes them in. They spend a few months with Lilia, living peacefully in a cottage far from the city. Silver and Malleus are wary of him at first, but eventually begin to see him as a father figure. Unfortunately, the scientists/organization who created them finally located them and takes them away. Lilia is severely wounded during the altercation and is presumed dead. (He’s saved by Sebek’s grandfather, don’t worry)

#twisted wonderland #twst au #twst silver #malleus draconia #lilia vanrouge #there’s a more to it but i didn’t want to make it too long #have to post this or else it’s going to rot in my drafts forever #this au has been tormenting me for the past two weeks #would love to talk about my ideas

[crossedwiress]

red velvet, under pressure

#another moodboard that has been rotting away in my drafts for a few weeks #just had to think abt it before hitting post #it's not getting any Better so lets just fucking go 💃 #cake #moodboard #aesthetic #calum #luke #e*creations #scheduling this one to surprise future me woooooo

[kaletalecowboy]

saw the pop-up store official art designs and. blacked out

#YOSANOS DRESS IS SO PRETTY. #i love them sm #probably my faborite friendship in bsd after..........................the mental damage duo #speaking of which a drawing of those two has been rotting in my drafts for two weeks ill also post that probably #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bungo stray dogs #ranpo #ranpo edogawa #edogawa ranpo #bsd ranpo #yosano akiko #bsd yosano #yosano #akiko yosano #yosano bsd #ranpo bsd #armed detective agency #? #god tagging is confusng #this is platonic but idc if its taken as ship art honestly #kale art

[lauraneedstochill]

Find my body covered in confetti

pairing: modern!Aegon Targaryen and F!Reader summary: Aegon is a regular at your bar but he doesn’t come only for the drinks. warnings: a bit of angst, a pinch of violence, brief mentions of blood but it does have a happy ending (he deserves one) words: ~5000 author’s note: my first time writing for Aegon! I’m not nervous at all song inspo: Charlotte Cardin — Confetti (Spotify / YouTube)

>>> He’s broken from the inside out but the pieces he’s assembled of are not sharp and don’t cut like glass. The blunt edges of them are hidden behind his shirts, covered with the ink of tattoos, splatters of scars you want to trace with your finger and know more of. He doesn’t stay long enough for you to ask questions.

The first time he comes in, it’s a summer evening, the air veiled with humidity, the dancefloor is filled with heated bodies and flooded with blinking lights. He goes right to the bar counter, asks for a glass of whiskey, and smiles at you but says nothing else. He dawns the alcohol in two sips and orders a second one and then a third almost immediately, and your curiosity peaks just as fast. It’s a routine you’ve gotten used to — the more people drink, the more they want to talk, even the most quiet and prideful ones, and it works with practically everyone. Yet, with him, it doesn’t. He’s wearing dark colors — a grey tank top, black shirt thrown over, and matching jeans, and you descry a dice inked into the inside of his forearm. The cube is as blank as his face: it betrays nothing of what he’s feeling, what he’s thinking of, and his fingers stay glued to the glass.

The music rumbles, and some girls — in short, glittery dresses, glamorously pretty — come by to say hi to him, to lean in closer, their lips grazing his cheek, leaving shimmering strokes of gloss. But he looks through them, and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes which are the depth of the sea and hide just as many secrets. He is carelessly polite, he makes dry jokes, he buys more whiskey. A few times your gazes meet, and he doesn’t look away.

You learn his name from the check he leaves. He asks for yours the second time he comes to the bar.

>>> Aegon starts coming every weekend, and two weeks turn into three, then into a month, and he quickly becomes a regular. He sits on the barstool in the farthest corner, where the scattering light of the disco ball can’t reach him, he doesn’t cause problems, he drinks way more than you think he can handle. Still, his gaze stays sharply sober, and the green of his eyes reminds you of storm waves raging with unexplainable, deep-rooted sadness.

He’s generous with tipping but never with his words, and it seems wrong to disturb his melancholy, so you don’t allow yourself to, only pouring him more whiskey and keeping your empathy from pouring out of you. But with Aegon, the silence never feels heavy, and you catch yourself thinking that walking up to him is like retreating to an oasis of calm in the midst of a roaring torrent of voices. You also sometimes think there are glimpses of his eagerness — to talk to you, to be in your presence, and when you give him his drinks, your fingers brush more often than not. And yet, something holds him back from making the first step. But maybe you’re only imagining that.

And then it turns out that you aren’t.

“I find it weirdly coincidental that the guy only comes here on your shifts”, the bouncer nods in Aegon’s direction while stopping by to grab a bottle of water. It’s one of the last days of August, its agonizing heat finally fading away. “Does he want to make a move on you or something? Does he ever move from that spot? Looks like a part of the interior, I swear.”

You laugh it off, but your face flushes, and you feel Aegon watching you even before you turn to him. He calls for you barely a minute after the bouncer goes away. Aegon’s wearing a dark green shirt, silky and carelessly unbuttoned, and there’s a hint of a smile in the corners of his lips.

“Am I in trouble?” he leans in on the counter ever so slightly and taps on his glass.

You pour more alcohol in, and even though he’s the one drinking, you suddenly feel tipsy. You wonder if it has something to do with how his gaze feels on you — like a touch of warm summer breeze, like he wants nothing more than to have you in his arms. And you’d love to know what it’s like.

“I think you’re the only one here who doesn’t bring trouble,” you tell him as his fingers hook around the glassy surface — and he’s looking straight at you. With the bravery that usually only comes after three shots of tequila, you add: “You’re quickly becoming a favorite customer of mine.”

When your eyes lock, you catch a spark of mischief in his. It’s the first evening when he leaves without finishing his drink.

>>> September brings in some fresh air, and while the trees start dropping out their leaves, Aegon slowly drops his guard: there are layers to it put over the years — brickwork over concrete, and you tear them down with patience and care. He opens up to you cautiously but with so much candor, you wonder if anyone ever bothered to look past his feigned restraint before.

There are a lot of good things about Aegon — you get to them first, and it feels like you’ve never laughed as much as you do with him. He’s charming but with no underlying motive behind it, he talks with his hands and fiddles with his rings, he is childishly enthusiastic about the things he enjoys. He can play guitar, and you talk him into showing it to you one night, when most of the customers have left, and the approaching dawn is hidden by a veil of the rain clouds. The blasting music is turned down, and he only had one Gin & tonic so far.

He touches the strings with tenderness, with focus, and the flow of the melody is so perfectly smooth, he plays the song like he owns it. You busy yourself with wiping cocktail glasses just so you can fight the urge to touch him. When Aegon starts singing, it comes out almost accidentally, as if the lyrics slip out of his mouth on its own. He stops the very next second.

“ ’m sorry, that was uncalled for,” he mumbles.

“I quite liked it,” you assure him — and you are not lying. His voice is soft but with veiled depth, and you want to listen to him singing until the rain stops; maybe even longer. He’s sitting across from you, your bodies only separated by the counter. Sometimes it feels like if you take a layer off too fast, he’ll grow another one, so you tread lightly. “Who taught you how to play?”

“I’m self-taught,” Aegon gives you a short smile. “But I never took it seriously.”

“It looks to me like you made some effort,” you tilt your head at him. “Do you play often?”

“Nah, only when I’m in the mood for it.”

“And what mood is that?”

His fingers absentmindedly follow the contours of a guitar he’s got tattoed on his wrist.

“A weird one,” he manages. “But music helps to take my mind off it, I guess.”

That thing he doesn’t want to think of — you fear that it never goes away, always lurking up there in his head, with its eyes glowing in the darkness of the worst of his thoughts that he’s yet to share with you. He eagerly welcomes any distraction — you are eager to provide him with one.

“What was the first song you learned how to play?”

The grin comes back on his face, and his sadness recedes, like the water at low tide, and the unnamed weight is temporally lifted off his shoulders.

“Oh, it’s silly,” he starts playing again, and the rhythm builds up, cheerful and catchy, and you instantly find it familiar. You’re trying to remember where you heard it before — and the realization brings a smile to your face.

“Is this from Duck Tales?”

“Yeah,” Aegon chuckles. “My youngest brother Daeron used to love it, could spend hours watching the telly,” he’s maybe a little abashed but he isn’t ashamed of talking about it. “It was an easy tune to learn. Kinda helped to negotiate the terms of his bedtime.”

“Well, I’ll take Duck Tales over... whatever it is that our DJ loves,” you share a laugh. “And what’s your favorite tune?”

Any other guy, you think, would’ve tried to impress you and rushed to strum some rock or botch some classics (you’ve had that unfortunate experience before) but Aegon doesn’t play pretense. At least, not with you.

“It’s usually just a mix of everything I can think of,” he shrugs. “Like, maybe some Oasis, Rolling Stones, The Black Keys,” he trails off, eyes not leaving your face.

He’s so obviously hesitant about sharing that as if his music choice is what can scare you away. Not him drinking, or regularly staying up late, or bottling up decades-worth of feelings — all that is seemingly a given. But somehow his playlist is the real secret, and it wrings your heart to know he trusts you that much.

“That’s an intriguing mix,” you smile wider in a sign of approval. “What will it take to convince you to play me a snippet?”

“That’s a suspicious amount of confidence that you have in my abilities,” Aegon narrows his eyes with a fake concern. He beams at you in barely a second.

“You can call me an optimist.”

“Well, you’re getting a front-row seat to my impromptu concert, then. No predictions on the genre, though.”

“I think I’ll like it either way,” you put the last glass aside to give him your full attention.

Aegon adjusts the guitar and swiftly gets it in tune, and the intricate melody comes to life in his hands, made of bits and notes both known and unfamiliar to you. He’s in his element, and for a few minutes it’s smooth sailing, and your heartfelt excitement is his tailwind.

But then you notice the slightly lost look in his eyes like he’s got reminded of something he wants to run from, and he knocks down the rhythm a little — and then he picks it up, and it quickens as if he’s racing against the past that will inevitably catch up to him. He’s got no guitar pick, it’s just his fingers against brass-plated strings, and his movements are violently concentrated, visibly too harsh. You’re unduly afraid the metal will cut into his skin in no time.

You lean over the polished benchtop to intercept his hand, and Aegon flinches at the touch, and the flow of the music is cut off. While his subconsciousness is swimming out to the surface of reality, you pull his palm away from the instrument and intertwine your fingers with his, his skin heated and pale, the guitar inked into his arm being the only bright spot. And then, without really wanting to, you realize that the tattooed horizontal strings were meant to cover something of a similar pattern. You run your thumb over the black stripes laid on top of the long-faded white ones, barely visible but still palpable.

“Did it hurt?” you ask him in a whisper, careful as if you’re tiptoeing around a sleeping beast. And you are not talking about the tattoo.

The silence only lasts for a heartbeat.

“It was bearable,” Aegon tells you, not entirely avoidant of the truth but maybe still tormented by it. “I’m all good now,” he adds in a soothing tone, even though he is the one whose heart needs to be soothed and patched up. Pressing him for details feels like asking to rip open a wound, and you don’t think his have healed properly.

He’s still holding your hand but you know he’ll flee away soon like he always does, and you have no right to hold him back. You wish he could stop holding on to the things that left him so anxious and scarred.

“It’s fair for the last drink to be on the house,” you grant him another smile and let go of his hand, and there’s a flash of regret on his face that you can’t help but share.

It also feels fair to not make him dive into that black void of his memories so you put a clean glass in front of him and reach for the ingredients. Aegon curiously watches you adding cubes of ice, mint leaves, lemon juice, slices of lime. Then you pull out a cooled glass bottle of San Pellegrino.

“An interesting choice,” Aegon notes joyfully.

You actually don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone being so thrilled about drinking water. While it fizzles and fills the glass, it dawns on you: he does want to break the cycle of his self-destruction. He’s just so used to it, he stopped looking for a way out.

“Anything can pass as a cocktail if you make it look fancy enough,” you drizzle the drink with orange-flavored syrup and push it toward him.

Aegon takes a big sip and grins. “Tastes like Fanta,” he gulps half a glass, then chews on ice, his lips glistening with melted liquid. “Haven’t had it since I was, like, fifteen or something.”

“Well, if you are ever in need of some sweetened water, you know at least one bartender you can ask,” you joke as he pulls out a phone to get an Uber.

His finger stops an inch away from the screen, and Aegon gives you a long, wistful stare, but you struggle to read the meaning behind it, as his eyes are a kaleidoscope of emotions. You wish you could discern just one so maybe you’ll have a reason to justify whatever it is that you are feeling for him.

“I don’t go to any other bars,” he says, looking through car options. “So you better stock up on that water. Because your bartending talents are quickly winning this cold heart of mine.”

Aegon makes it sound very casual, like a joke made in passing, and you try not to think too much into it. But right before leaving, he glances at you again, and his whole face lights up. And then comes the awareness, like the sun emerging from the clouds: he is winning your heart, too.

>>> October is muddy and grey, lacking sunlight but not rainfall, and you think it’s the brightness of neon lights that beckons people in, and the bar stays packed night after night. You can’t seem to catch a break, your hands moving on their own accord, repeating all the well-learned steps, memorized recipes — swirls of orange and cranberry juice in Sex on the Beach, Bloody Mary garnished with a celery stick, the balance of sweetness and the tang of lime in Margarita. Surprisingly, Aegon is deadset on drinking nothing but fancy-looking water. Not surprisingly at all, you still think about him every spare minute that you have.

Getting to the deeper layers of him feels like drilling through an iceberg, and the baggage of his past is so big, it will hardly fit in any plane’s luggage compartment. You try not to pry, cherry-picking the words, the topics, the questions. Aegon lets you without ever resisting. Each evening, he chooses a different flavor of syrup as he tells you more about himself: he was a menace in school, hated chemistry and never been good at sports, prefers to avoid vodka since that one time he tried it in college and it didn’t end well. He has pictures with his mom, with two brothers and a sister, but not with his dad, and he never talks about him. You think he does it instinctively — like avoiding a bump on a road he’s taken even since he was a kid.

There are a lot of blank spots in his retelling of the childhood years but he does mention he got his first tattoo at fifteen. It’s a razor blade, and he taps on the area of his shoulder where it’s at, covered by the material of his blue shirt. You don’t dare to voice the question but it’s ringing in your head: has it all started when he was fifteen? Or that’s when he got better? Did he actually get better?

Some days, by the looks of it, he is getting better. When he’s excitedly stirring his drink with a straw, when he’s asking about your day, when he comes up with playful descriptions of every customer in the nearest proximity to make you smile (it works wonders). In these moments, you dare to think that he seems bored with everybody else but you.

But there are other days too, when he is joined by the motley crowd of people consisting, as you guess, of his friends. It feels like they hardly have anything in common — they are loud, giggling, making toasts for no reason, throwing money away. None of them notice that his tastes have changed; none of them are aware of all the little things you notice. That his fingers drum to the rhythm of the music but he refuses to go dancing, glued to his chair, clinging to his glass. That he’s the life of the party but he looks out of place, and his loneliness is the only thing that stays by his side. Sometimes it seems like he doesn’t even want to be here — drinking, thinking, cursed with his desire for solitude — and you wonder why he keeps coming, then.

And it’s horrifying how much it hurts you to think that one day he might stop.

>>> November passes almost in a blink, and the weather cools down, but the crowds of customers don’t get smaller, and you think your smile looks too pained to even bother forcing it. With the cold season comes bitter Old Fashioned with a cherry on top, spicey Mulled Wine, blood-colored Sangria. There is the never-ending clinking of glasses, chattering, cozy jazz playing in the background, and you save your energy for Aegon only — for when he comes with his tireless jokes, his sincere laugh, his gaze enveloping you like the fuzziest blanket.

The month is nearing its end, and so does your patience which some drunk man has been testing for almost two hours. You keep watching the clock — Aegon usually comes around 10 p.m., and you all but count minutes, and then seconds... and then it’s half past 10 but he hasn’t shown up.

In thirty minutes your worry grows, spreads, takes the form of a tsunami. It dawns on you that you don’t even have his phone number. He can just disappear, like a homeless man swallowed by the ocean, and you won’t ever find him.

“Hey, are you retarded? Come fetch me another drink, I’ve been calling you for five minutes,” the drunkard whines from the other end of the bar.

You hold back a huff and give an insincere apology and whip him up another Whiskey on the rocks. Your gaze absentmindedly scans the crowd when you see Aegom coming — and it looks like he emerged from a blizzard. For a second it seriously confuses you — it’s too early for snow, and you don’t remember what was the weather forecast. But after Aegon plops on his usual spot, you come closer and realize: it’s confetti. He is covered almost head to toe in the tiniest pieces of paper, multicolored and shiny, stuck in his hair, sprinkled over his shoulders, sparkling on his snow-white shirt.

Aegon looks like he might as well be covered in ashes — he is unbearably beautiful but also visibly, tragically unhappy. You all but dart to him.

“Can I have, like, a glass of vodka or something,” he asks morosely. “Vodka on the rocks maybe? I don’t know if it’s a thing.”

Your eyes are watchful, searching for clues, but you can’t dissect his mournful gaze, can’t see through his despondent face expression.

“Is there a reason for —” you are thinking of a word but he cuts you off.

“No reason,” and his tone is cold like ice, and he isn’t looking at you.

Aegon blinks once, twice, shifts on his seat, sighs. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” his gaze finds yours, almost desperate as if he’s drowning and looking for a life ring. “It’s my birthday. And I hate it.”

You involuntarily reach for his hand — you almost touch him but then the annoyed voice comes again:

“Can anyone get me whiskey in this godforsaken bar?!”

Aegon turns his head and looks in the man’s direction, very obviously displeased. You go to the disgruntled idiot again, put some ice cubes in his glass (he loudly counts them), pour him whiskey (he demands you add more), fight the urge to throw it in his face (maybe that will sober him up). Out of the corner of your eye, you notice that one of the security guys stealthily moves closer.

You come back to Aegon, your chest overflowing with both relief and concern.

“Why don’t you like your birthday? I mean, I also don’t throw parties on mine so I get it. But if you don’t want to celebrate it, you can pretend it’s just another day.”

Another day of him not drinking, another day of him staying on track to some happier future, you mean. A future where you’ll manage to finally help him heal every scar of his. You see a small, weary, somber smile growing on his face, and Aegon opens his mouth and —

“Your whiskey is some horseshit!” the familiar voice cries out.

Before you can react, Aegon interjects. “What the hell is your problem?” he looks at the man again without a smidgen of fear. The drunkard bores his gaze into him in return, red-faced and sweating with anger.

“Aegon, it’s not worth it, really —”

“No, he’s being disrespectful toward you, and you don’t deserve it,” he punctuates, specks of darkness in his eyes.

“O-oh, am I offending your darling?” the man mocks. “Are you two fucking? Maybe I should also bend her over the counter so she’ll give me some decent booze.”

He is quite irritating, yes, but you see men like him as just a part of your job, and you are used to them being armed with pathetically exaggerated self-esteem. But Aegon doesn’t see it that way, and ire sweeps him over like a tidal wave.

“You need to apologize,” he insists, looking the man dead in the eyes.

“Or what, huh? I’m the one with the money here, and the customer is always right!”

“She isn’t paid to tolerate your fucked-up behavior,” Aegon bristles, and the man jumps down the barstool and clasps the glass, spilling what’s left in it on the counter. You don’t care about it. You can’t care about anything but the fact that Aegon also gets up. It’s a new layer of his — with stubbornness, bitter temper, a frown plastered on his face. But you are not afraid of him. You are afraid for him, and fear leaves you frozen on the spot.

“I bet she gets paid enough for her to move her feet instead of making customers wait,” the man snarls, raising his voice, attracting attention. “These bitches can only flash their tits and complain! Never get their fucking job done!”

You think he isn’t talking about you anymore — drunk people will take any chance to overshare, — and you want to reassure Aegon you are not insulted or upset, and you see the security guy wading through the crowd and toward you. But then the situation escalates with a speed of a shot arrow.

Three things happen, barely a few seconds apart: the drunk man swings the glass at you, Aegon moves to stand in his way, then comes the sound of the glass breaking. It shatters into pieces that go everywhere — on barstools, on the counter, and behind it, some even reach the wall you are standing next to. You only come to your senses when the troublemaker is pried away from the bar.

“It’s not even Halloween yet, and I’m already seeing nonhuman creatures,” the security guy scoffs, grabbing him by the collar, then shoots Aegon a cool glance.

You rush to intervene. “He only tried to help!”

The bouncer gives him a look over. “Man, you are bleeding,” he notes and then drags the boozer away.

The manager comes running up to you, suggesting you take a break, but your gaze is drawn to Aegon — he’s got a cut on his cheekbone, and blood is coming out, bright maroon running down his face. He raises his hand to touch the wound, then looks down at his stained fingers in disarray.

“I didn’t really feel it, I —”

“We’ve got a first-aid kit, come on,” you take him by the hand and lead the way, taking big steps, rounding the counter, pushing the back door wide open.

Aegon doesn’t make a sound, only following you obediently, his fingers tugging at yours. You reach the utility room, and you sit him down on some impromptu chair made of stacked-up boxes, then go to look for medical supplies. He keeps his eyes on you.

You bring a cold pack, antiseptic wipes, bandages, and turn on the flashlight on your phone to examine the cut.

“It’s not that deep so you won’t need stitches,” your voice comes off too stern, and you notice how he shrivels at the sound of it.

You feel determination, guilt, and anger — not at him but at yourself, and the fear still hasn’t left, and the words that are filled with it flow out first.

“That was very stupid of you,” you tell Aegon, applying the cold pack to the wounded side of his face, “You could’ve been injured, seriously injured,” with your other hand, you wipe the dried blood off his skin. “You got lucky the man was too wasted to aim well. He could’ve cut you way deeper, or poke your eye, or —”

It’s the lack of response that makes you stop, and your eyes glide over him. Now he does look ashamed, but his shame comes off as a meek, habitual reaction to yet another mistake he made. You think back to his deep-rooted sadness, scars covered with ink and shirts, pain hidden under layers of mirth.

You don’t want to add to his misery, you want the exact opposite.

You throw away the wipe streaked with blood, get another one. And then you place a finger beneath his chin to lift it.

“I mean, it was also brave,” this time, your movements are more gentle, and so is your gaze. “No one ever did anything like that for me. And I should totally thank you.”

He considers the change in you — and welcomes it, grinning boyishly again, his irises the color of the sea that merged with the sky.

“What can I say? I’m doing my best to maintain my very manly image,” Aegon cackles, taking the cold pack from you, wriggling his face a little at the numbness.

“This might sting a little,” you warn him and put the wipe soaked with the antiseptic right to his cut.

“Ouch-ouch-ouch,” he mutters, eyes squeezed shut, nose scrunched.

You let out a short laugh. “That’s a crack in your macho image,” you remark, lightly pressing on his wound for just a moment. “But I am willing to look past that.”

Aegon is suddenly in no hurry to open the eyes. His smile falls away, his glee disappears as if swept away by a gust of wind. He’s both the drifting ship and the force of nature that ruins it.

“I am not the best company, you see,” he says sullenly after a pause, averting his gaze. “I’m all cracks and hollow.”

His wound isn’t bleeding anymore, but his heart is, and you can only patch one thing at a time. You take a band-aid, unwrap it and carefully place over his cut, smoothing out the adhesive edges.

“Leonard Cohen would’ve disagreed,” you respond, your fingers delicately brushing his cheek. “He said that’s how the light gets in.”

Aegon is quiet at first, positively stunned as if you are a guiding star, and he’s only seen utter darkness before that. You almost get shy with nervousness but then he stands up. “Dance with me,” he says, in a voice low and pleading.

“But there is no music, how can —”

He lays a thumb on your lower lip, silencing you. “Shhh, just listen,” he murmurs.

For half a minute you hear nothing, wondering if the walls are soundproof, but then you catch it — the notes of music echoing from the bar, muffled but still audible. You don’t know what song is it, what the lyrics are, what’s it about. But Aegon takes your hand in his — and it’s just you two in the middle of the dimly lit room, the walls separating you from the outside world, your bodies only getting closer, slowly swaying to the faint rhythm.

Him cautiously laying a palm on your waist is what gives you the courage to speak up.

“Someone told me it’s a weird coincidence that you come only on my shifts,” you mention, watching his reaction.

Aegon doesn’t shy away from your gaze. “Not a coincidence,” he confesses. “Does it bother you?”

“Not at all,” you assure him quickly. “I find it flattering that you appreciate my cocktail-making abilities that much,” and then you draw in a deep breath as if you’re about to dunk underwater. “But maybe there’s more to it... Maybe there is another reason?”

You notice his cheeks flushing with a touch of pink, and you expect him to take time to unravel the tangle of excuses or to make some. Instead, he lists fervently, like it’s something he’s always wanted to tell you:

“You are caring. And funny, and gentle. You are easy to talk to, accepting and calm. And you listen, without judgment or disapproval. And you never... you never ask me to be someone else,” that last part is the hardest one — and yet, he adds, “With you, I feel like I’m enough.”

There are no layers left, you realize, — it’s just him: sad and broken and lost. But with his eyes still shining with warmth, his gaze searching and hopeful. He is still beautiful, no matter how scarred.

Your fear crumbles into pieces, small like confetti, and you close the distance between you two, your mouth finding his, hands gliding up his shoulders. For a second his lips don’t move, and his breathing hitches. He blindly tucks away your lock of hair, and his finger slowly traces the angle of your jaw, as if he wants to make sure he’s not dreaming.

And then Aegon tugs you closer, and his hand cradles your face — and he kisses you.

He is tender, his lips soft like the foam of a wave, their movement steady, like he’s writing down all the words left unsaid, leaving you infatuated, breathless, and enamored of him. There are no secrets, no doubts, no regrets. In place of his darkest memories, you are planting new ones, and his affection is blooming already.

When you open your eyes and meet his, his gaze is nothing but loving, and Aegon holds you in his arms, the way you’ve always dreamt of. You brush a few pieces of confetti out of his hair, and you hope that one day his pain will disappear just as fast.

He is broken from the inside out but you find it easy to love every single piece he’s assembled of.

✧ technically, I got inspired by the piano version of that song (it’s sad) and the live version (it’s even sadder), and that was the reason I decided to add a kissing scene. not that anyone asked but now you know lmao ✧ this photoshoot of Tom deserves way more attention ✧ as does his band! go give them a listen ✧ Duck Tales theme guitar cover as a bonus

✧ another one-shot inspired by some music (Aemond x reader) ✧ my HOTD multi-chapter fic because why not ✨my masterlist

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

#aegon targaryen #my stuff #this has been rotting in my drafts for weeks... I am actually nervous lmao #also someone said that song is the hymn of introverts #but I genuinely believe the lyrics work well for Aegon #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aegon targaryen x y/n #aegon targaryen fanfiction #aegon targaryen fanfics #aegon targaryen fics #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen fanfic #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon modern au #hotd modern au #aegon fanfiction #hotd fanfiction #tw self-harm #(< adding just in case but there aren’t any descriptions or anything triggering imo)

[queer-reader-07]

the worst thing about me being a Gen Z with a Gen X father is that i routinely use Gen Z slang & internet lingo around him to the point that he's able to accurately parse what it all means. AND THEN HE GOES AND USES IT AT WORK TO IMPRESS HIS TWENTY SOMETHING COWORKERS

#my dad is a manager at *insert big tech company here* so he works with a fair amount of recently out of college computer science majors #and they're like 'oh haha it's fine john's really smart and stuff but he is kinda old' #but then my dad starts talking like some gen z teenager and they're like 'wah??' #and of course he has to tell them he knows this shit because of me #his gen z child #like when i tell you all his coworkers know about me is that 1) i teach him slang 2) am a stem major and 3) i have pink hair #like what picture does this paint of me? #like. y'all. he told them he knew what rizz means #how am i supposed to recover from this #wrote this ages ago and now i don't even have pink hair anymore #oh well have this silly little post that's been rotting in my drafts for weeks #not good omens #shitposting about the stuff my dad does will never not be funny to me #personal #personal post #random

[transiconlink]

Ok so I just finished rewatching eclipse lake and I just realized something

When I first watched the episode, I wasn’t too sure what to make of this. When Belos said that the Titan had big plans for hunter, I assumed that meant that he was planning to sacrifice hunter in the name of the Titan, and therefore he had to keep him intact for now. Then hollow minds happened and it became clear that Belos didn’t really care what happened to hunter. So maybe hunter is right that Belos was punishing him for what happened with the parlismen.

Then Thanks to Them aired.

We get more context for what it was like in the emperor’s coven. Hunter wasn’t allowed the other scouts; the only time he gets to interact with anyone other than Belos is during his missions.

In the time between Hunting Palismen and Eclipse Lake, I think it’s reasonable that at least two weeks have passed. In Eda's Requiem, there had to have been at least a week where Luz and King were training for the race. In Knock Knock Knockin' on Hooty's Door, it had to have been a week at least since King sent out the message to the Titan Trappers at the end of Eda's Requiem (I'm estimating a week because of the events in Labyrinth Runners, where Luz had been out of school for a week while she was travelling with King to visit the Titan Hunters. Kind of a stretch, but I'm imagining that on boat, it takes a week to reach the Titan Trappers from the Owl House). That's potentially two missions Hunter had missed--two weekends where he had to remain in the castle, by Belos' side. And there's no doubt there would have been more time Hunter would have been forbidden from missions, had he not snuck out to beat Kikimora to the Titan blood.

Belos didn't just keep Hunter from leading missions because he was frustrated in his abilities (or even that the Titan had "big plans" for him)--Belos kept him in the castle because he needed to keep Hunter under his control. It's another abuse tactic he used to alienate Hunter from the real world. By blocking Hunter from missions, Hunter has seemingly no choice but get closer to Belos.

(It's sad to think that Hunter is the predecessor to the grimwalker that Darius was close with. I wonder if Hunter was isolated and monitored as closely as he was because Belos was trying to repeat the same mistakes he had made with the previous iteration of his clone brother.)

I just think it's super fucking cool how everything in this show paint Philip in a worse and worse light. I hope he has a very die <3

#shut up zach #the owl house #toh #toh spoilers #the owl house spoilers #this has been sitting in my drafts for like two weeks haha #i'm not a huge fan of my wording but i need to get this off my chest uwu #hunter brain rot go brrrr

[tabooi]

Giovanni Spano as The Cowardly Lion

In Leicester Curve Theatre's production of The Wizard of Oz

#my gifs #wizard of oz #the wizard of oz #woz #alw the wizard of oz #wizard of oz alw #the wizard of oz uk revival #cowardly lion #the cowardly lion #giovanni spano #this gifset has been rotting in my drafts for like weeks bcuz i dont rlly like how it turned out #but with the way this recording is i honestly think this was the best i could do #some of these are uber shaky but just keep in mind that i tried my best to stabilize them okay #whatever. in every era of slay there is a bit of flop

[nekochanevolves]

idk who needs to hear this but it's perfectly acceptable to watch and enjoy childrens cartoons as an adult without kids if they're fucking awesome. I'm talking about Bluey. I have sobbed SEVERAL times watching this cartoon and I think everyone and their mom should watch it. It's so sweet, so pure. Their world is just so intoxicating. Every episode has this essence of joy, so much so that you can't help but to feel happy while you're watching. 90% of the time its literally just playtime for Bluey and Bingo. it doesn't try to wow you with fantastical imagery or anything like that. It's realistic and slice of life. Bluey doesn't treat it's audience like they're stupid. It doesn't try to tell you how you should feel about specific situations. It's raw. I cried watching the Weekend and Baby Race. Y'all should go watch Bluey. I unironically think it's the best children's cartoon of the decade.

#Bluey #children's cartoon #sorry for rambleing but my brain has been nonstop Bluey brain rot for the past two weeks #I cannot get enough of this show #Bluey brain rot #bluey heeler #First draft #shut up neko no one cares

[im-still-watching-anime]

reading my drafts like damn this is so good i should really finish it and post it as i am actively closing the window

#this blogs drafted posts #the fanfics i have been working on for literal years #you name it #brain is convinced they are the best things i have ever made but REFUSES to work on them smh #i reread my in progress fics all the time because i like them so much and STILL take zero action #like id have to relook at some of my published stuff but im fairly certain that at LEAST my top three of my own fics are unfinished #just rotting away in my drafts smh #can always tell how much i like one of them by how many different versions i have saved #or if they have outlines #i’ll outline for eight years before i write three words #have a bsd fic that has been like 500 words away from being finished for half a year that bothers me every day #and im still NOT working on it #i know this is a common problem and lots of people struggle with it but GOD i really do feel dumb about it lol #like babe just sit down and finish the things if you want them done so badly #i was rereading a few of my wips this week to try and spur myself into writing but just ended up annoying myself lol #and then i nearly doubled the drafts i have for this blog with half written posts #so i just had to complain about myself for a hot minute don’t mind me rip

[poiscnbane]

sissy's relationship with cook is special. he’s family in her mind, for sure, but he exists in a place between brother and father. the age gap between him and sissy is wider than hers with the other brothers, so its harder for her to relate to him. she respects him and will protect him if she needs to, but I don’t think she views him as an equal like she does with most of the others.

#it's all in the family ( slaughter family ). #( headcanons ). #this has been rotting away in my drafts for weeks lmao #( queued ).

[ssluggishh]

english 101. the self esteem killer

#I HATEEE THIS CLASS sorry. im so tired of writing WHY did i choose the 8wk course #i was so determined to do well in this class and then i turned in my first essay and my outlook did a complete 180 #i got full points on that essay. why do i still feel like shit about it. #literally my mental health has declined so fucking much after that essay and i DONT KNOW WHY since i did good on it #ive been turning in less and less assignments these past few weeks as a result bc i cant get myself to do anything #i think i turned in like. one thing last week. out of seven assignments #and theres no late grades in this class so i cant make up those points #i have my third essay draft due tonight and i havent even started it #i just cant get myself to do anything bc for some reason i think it wont be good neough. even tho it was the first time. what the hell #anyway i hate humanities classes i wish i was drowning in equations and chemical formulas rn and im actually rotting away as i write this #two more weeks. i just need to write two more essays. #vent post #college stuff #slug rambles

[roosterr]

love you from afar

note: this has been in my drafts since MARCH. can't decide whether i like it or not lol. @wetsocksinbed angsty fic is up next >:)

pairing: john 'soap' mactavish x gn!reader

wc: 9.5k (oops)

summary: you receive a series of mysterious gifts from a mysterious admirer.

warnings: longing, yearning, pining, best friends to lovers trope, idiots in love, heavy on the idiots part, tooth-rotting fluff

ao3

over the last two weeks, you’ve noticed some odd things happening around you; a good kind of odd, the kind that left you thoroughly confused, but was heartwarming nonetheless.

after going back and forth with it in your mind, you've come to the conclusion that you have a secret admirer. it was odd, and a little hard to believe, but it was the only option that made any sense to you. in all honesty, it was probably just your hopeless-romantic heart clouding your mind with optimism, but one can dream.

the first incident was harmless enough, a small inconspicuous gesture that was so subtle, in fact, that you barely paid it any notice at first.

it was the dead of night, and you’d just returned from a particularly gruelling solo mission, uninjured but bone tired and desperate to collapse into your bed and finally sleep. before you could fall into the blankets, however, you noticed through the darkness of your room something strange.

resting neatly on your pillow, illuminated by the dim light of your phone screen, was a single bar of your favourite chocolate. you didn’t remember buying it, and certainly didn’t remember leaving it there, but it was exactly the kind of pick-me-up you needed after the day you’d had. at the time, you’d chalked it up to you simply being forgetful, devoured the chocolate in record time, and promptly knocked out.

over breakfast the next morning, you'd recounted to the others the mysterious appearing chocolate as a funny anecdote; the five of you had laughed about your terrible memory, and you'd moved on. but now you weren’t on the verge of blacking out, you couldn’t help but think of it as weird.

for the life of you, you couldn’t remember buying the chocolate bar, and it didn’t make sense that you would leave it on your pillow like that. what did make sense, however bizarre it may seem, was someone else leaving it for you – but you had no idea who would do that for you, or why. either way, you didn't imagine that anything else would come from it.

the next incident happened three days later.

during training that afternoon, you were in the middle of running laps around base, when you’d – stupidly – tripped over a ditch in the ground and rolled your ankle pretty badly. it hurt too much to put any weight on it, so you’d sat there in shame with no choice but to wait for a few minutes until gaz and soap caught up to you.

as they rounded the corner, you'd reluctantly waved them over with a grimace at how your ankle was throbbing in your boot. johnny was immediately crouching by your side, abandoning the idea of training to focus completely on you.

"christ, what happened?" he fussed, worry creasing his face and making your own heat up under the attention.

"i tripped…" you mumbled, dragging a hand over your embarrassed expression. it was bad enough that you'd made such a simple mistake, but now the man you were crushing on, hard, was lifting your leg so gently and untying your laces and you were certain you were moments away from cardiac arrest.

he'd ushered gaz away to continue his run, telling him he'd accompany you to the infirmary with a tone that left no room for argument. not that gaz would've, the knowing look he sent you as he jogged away told you he knew exactly what you were thinking.

after making sure nothing was broken, soap had pulled you to stand with an arm around your waist, supporting you with his solid frame when you stumbled. 

"sure y'don't want me to carry you?" he'd teased, earning a laugh from you as you wobbled in his arms. as you chuckled though, you noticed a hint of what seemed like sincerity in his eyes. you'd felt your face burning again at the implication that he really would carry you, if that's what you'd wanted, and quickly started dragging him along with you in an attempt to hide your flustered state. 

he'd kept his arm around your waist the entire way to the medical wing, only releasing you when you were sat in front of the doctor, which did absolutely nothing to calm your racing heart. to your dismay, he couldn't stay with you – you were still in the middle of training, after all. 

"you sure you'll be alright by yourself?" he'd asked as he left, and the concern in his eyes almost finished you off. you were almost glad he didn't stick around to see the effect he had on you.

luckily, after a quick inspection, the doctor concluded that you only had a minor sprain, and you'd be good as new in a couple of weeks. she'd sent you on your way with an ice pack, a crutch, and strict instructions to stay off your feet.

you would've gone back outside to watch the boys (mainly soap) finish the rest of their exercises, but honestly, the embarrassment of what happened had you wanting to curl up with a pillow over your face for the rest of the day; so that's exactly what you found yourself doing.

you must've drifted off to sleep at some point, because once you finally sat up again, the sun had painted the horizon a bright orange, and your stomach had begun to rumble.

as you went to walk out into the hall, you heard the crinkle of plastic under your boot, pausing you mid‐step. when you looked down, you were stunned to find a bundle of three beautiful white flowers – gardenias, you'd found out after googling them later. an incredibly warm feeling blossomed in your chest, and despite your best efforts, your eyes had welled up with tears. you couldn't even think of the last time someone bought you flowers. there was no note attached, meaning you had no way of knowing who had left them for you, which sent your mind back to the chocolate bar from a few days ago.

so i'm not going crazy, you'd thought to yourself, someone really did leave it for me. but still, you had no clue who this mystery gift-giver could be.

you'd carefully picked them up, being mindful of your ankle, and turned back around to put them in your room. there wasn't really anywhere to put them, so you just set them on the ledge of your windowsill and made a mental note to find a vase for them at some point.

when you eventually made it to the mess hall, there were very few people left, leaving the room unusually calm. ghost was sat by himself at one of the far tables, so you hobbled over on your crutch to sit with him while you ate.

you sat down opposite him, and he'd looked up, gave you a subtle nod, and gone back to eating with his eyes fixed on the table in front of him. the two of you ate like that for a while, sitting quietly in each others presence.

ghost had been the first to break the silence, asking you, "how's the ankle?" as he pulled his balaclava back down to cover his mouth.

"just sprained," you'd replied, looking up to meet his eyes. another beat of silence fell over you, before you continued, "did you see who left me those flowers?" you'd asked him; it was worth a shot, you figured not much gets past ghost. to your dismay, he simply shook his head, standing and mumbling a goodbye as he left.

you were only more confused now. if ghost didn't know who it was – and, granted, you wouldn't actually be able to tell if he was lying, but you trusted him – then who would know? the next day, you'd asked the other boys, but they'd all said the same thing, even the captain. so you were left with nothing to do but wonder who on earth could be leaving you these gifts.

after that, it was another four days until your secret admirer struck again.

you'd been in and out of briefings and debriefings and meetings all day, your mind was beginning to numb with all the information that had been unloaded. you were tired; not quite the same exhaustion you'd felt coming back from your mission earlier in the week, though, this time you were at the end of your rope mentally. there hadn't been a moments peace since you got out of bed, and once that excruciatingly long day was over and you were relaxing in the common room, you'd had no energy to actually engage with your friends.

you were nestled into one end of the sofa with gaz next to you, ghost on his other side, and soap in the armchair with a small book in his hands. they were all chatting, with you occasionally saying a thing or two, but you were mostly just zoned out with their conversation serving as white noise in the background.

occasionally, you'd look up and catch soap already watching you, but he'd quickly turn his gaze back down to his book. his attention caused you to be equal parts flustered and confused. if you'd been any more awake, you probably would've asked him if something was wrong, but you were already having trouble keeping your head up as it was.

once you felt your eyes slip closed one too many times, you'd decided it was time to turn in for the night. with a quick 'goodnight' to the others, you'd made a beeline straight for your room – but it was more of a hobble, since your ankle still required you to walk with a crutch.

that night you'd slept like a baby, waking up early the next morning feeling well rested, and thankfully your ankle had even started to feel better. though you still couldn't join the team's training sessions, you had other responsibilities to fulfil, so unfortinately you did have to get up at some point.

you'd just finished lacing up your boots when you noticed it; a single sheet of paper on the ground by your door, folded once in half so you can't see what's written on it. from where it lays, you conclude that whoever left it must've slipped it through the gap under your door while you slept. you'd picked it up and sat back on the edge of your bed to unfold it, your curiosity certainly piqued. it make you wonder, though, what reason someone could have for leaving you a note.

except, when you'd lifted the page it wasn't a note at all. on the slightly wrinkled paper were a number of beautiful pencil drawings – drawings of you. the surprise of seeing your own face staring back at you nearly stopped your poor heart.

the jagged edge on one side of the page indicated that it must have been torn out of a sketchbook, which had interested you even more. you couldn't think of anyone you knew who could draw, let alone who would have a sketchbook dedicated to it.

whoever made this, it was clear that art was a passion of theirs – these drawings were really good. your hair, your eyes, the subtle expression on your features, every line was expertly crafted. it was incredibly flattering, and admittedly boosted your ego a little with how good those sketches made you look.

as you sat there smiling to yourself, you'd glanced up to the three flowers blooming on your nightstand. like the gardenias, the drawings were from your secret admirer, there was no other explanation; and an admirer they were, it was abundantly clear from these sketches that this person had an appreciation for you, if only from afar.

the drawings had been your favourite so far, but unfortunately, it was almost a week until your admirer made another move.

it had been long enough for you to start walking properly on your ankle again, and so you'd been slowly easing back into your workout routine, starting with your morning run. you'd taken it slow with lots of breaks to rest your muscles, but still decided to call it early, which had you back at your locker earlier than usual. as you were rounding the corner to the locker room, you'd heard the door slam closed and a set of heavy footsteps racing down the corridor. you'd only caught a glimpse of whoever it was as they dashed around the other corner, quick enough that you weren't able to see who it was.

you'd been concerned at first, whoever it was had been in a terrible rush, but you'd quickly shaken it off – it wasn't uncommon for people to be rushing around base, especially first thing in the morning. with your own meeting to get to, you'd decided not to dwell on the strange almost-encounter, and carried on with grabbing your towel from the bench and showering.

as you opened the door to your locker to fetch your clean clothes, sitting front and centre on top of them was something you definitely hadn't left there; a bag of your favourite hard candy, unopened, in the space that had been empty not half an hour before. how did these get here? you'd asked yourself, and you stood there confused for a moment or two before the answer came to you.

of course, your secret admirer. you'd felt the familiar giddy excitement bubble up in your chest at the revelation. it had been a while since the page of drawings had been slipped under your door, and it pained you how the gardenias had begun to wilt already. honestly, you'd been slightly worried that they'd given up, or something had happened to them. thankfully though, they seemed to be doing just fine, and you were too with such a pleasant start to your day.

it wasn't until you were sat in the meeting room, munching on your sweets and waiting for the others to arrive, that you realised.

the person, the one who'd been in a hurry as you got back from your run, it was them; that person was your secret admirer. they had to be, you'd concluded, the sweets weren't in your locker when you'd been in there earlier, and you did cut your run short, so they probably hadn't expected you to return so soon – that's why they'd been in such a rush to get away.

the revelation had butterflies swarming in your stomach, the idea of being so close to finding out who it was that held such fond affection for you sparking giddy excitement in you; but at the same time, it filled you with a sickly apprehension.

the problem was that you already knew who you wanted it to be – you had from the beginning – and you worried that uncovering their identity would only lead to disappointment; because there was no possible way john mactavish could feel the same way you felt about him.

soap had always been nothing short of kind and respectful of you, never stepping over the unspoken line if being your closest friend. sometimes, you can fool yourself into thinking he treats you differently – when he checks in on you after missions, when he always saves you a seat next to him in meetings, when he'd practically carried you to the infirmary, all of it ignited a warm feeling in your chest. but then you think about it a little more, and remember that all those nice gestures, that's just who he is. he wormed his way into the heart of ghost, for fucks sake, it was almost impossible not to like him.

you'd been so lost in thought, that gaz sitting in the seat next to you had startled you back to reality.

"gonna share with the class?" he'd asked with a teasing smirk, gesturing to the sweets sitting on the table in front of you. he'd reached out to grab one, but you'd pushed his hand away and snatched the bag to your chest.

"no way," you'd said with a playful glare, sending a quick smile to soap who'd taken the seat on your other side, "these are from my secret admirer, get your own."

gaz paused. "...your fucking what?" he had an incredulous look on his face, and you'd forgotten that you never actually told the others about it. "soap, you hearin' this?"

soap looked almost panicked when you'd turned to him, but he didn't have time to respond, as that was the moment price had walked through the door and announced the start of the meeting.

"i'll explain after," you whispered to gaz, who gave you a pointed look that said 'you better' and turned his attention back to price. you'd stifled a chuckle and looked back at soap, expecting him to have a similar expression, but he was already facing forward. you'd frowned at this; you and johnny would always whisper back and forth during meetings – a way to keep eachother entertained, as well as an excuse for you to sit close to him – but today his face had an odd air of seriousness to it. oh well, you'd thought somewhat downtrodden, just have to talk to him after.

and that's what led you to the present, where you'd been explaining to the boys everything that has happened over the last two weeks. well, you were mostly telling soap and gaz, ghost honestly didn't seem that interested, though the captain did have a rather amused expression as he listened.

"so you have no idea who it could be?" gaz had turned sideways in his chair, leaning forward slightly with his eyebrows raised. he looked to be in disbelief, and you were almost inclined to feel the same.

"nope, not a clue." you sighed, turning from gaz to look at the others around the table. price was standing with his arms crossed, giving you a similar disbelieving look, and ghost had that familiar unreadable look in his eyes.

"someone went in your room while you were gone?" ghost's low voice caught your attention, "bit creepy, innit," he grumbled, his gaze darting between you and somewhere next to you. he did have a point, you supposed, it was a bit weird.

"well… maybe a little, yeah…" you trailed off. perhaps he had a point, but you found yourself not wanting to believe it; all of the mystery person's gestures had been so sweet, thoughtful, it was hard to think they had any ill intentions.

that, and your heart has already made up its mind about who it should be.

"don't be like that, lt., whoever it is meant well, didn't they?" gaz chuckled, the grin evident in his voice.

"christ…" ghost mutters, shaking his head in exasperation.

"it may be a slight invasion of privacy…" you begin; and it's true, but after the first incident, it didn't appear that anyone had been inside your room again. "but it was only once. and it was just a chocolate bar, it's harmless. besides, are you really telling me you've never been in anyone's room when they're not there?" you continued, earning only an eye roll from ghost.

"and you haven't tried to figure out who it is?" price asks from his position standing opposite you, across the table.

"no, i wouldn't even know where to start, it could be anyone…" you try to think of anyone to suspect, but your optimistic mind only draws one name; the object of your affection, who happened to be sitting directly next to you. unfortunately, the two of you were strictly friends – no matter how much you longed for something more.

"i think you should investigate," gaz's smile makes you think for a moment that he knows something that you don't, but you brush it off. he didn't even know about your admirer until you told him, how could he? it wasn't like they were leaving any hints. "whoever it is obviously really likes you."

"you think?" you unwrap another sweet and pop it into your mouth as you consider his words.

"yeah! and, we could even help you investigate," gaz gives the others a hopeful, if slightly suspicious, smirk.

"speak for yourself…" ghost leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest, the picture of uninterested, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"could be a good bonding exercise," price had the same entertained tone in his voice as he looked between the four of you, "any thoughts, soap?"

you hadn't realised until the captain brought attention to him, but soap had been uncharacteristically quiet during all this; since before the meeting, actually. he hadn't said a word to you yet today, which had you a little worried. usually the two of you couldn't shut up when you were together. you turn to look at him, and find him looking wide-eyed back at price.

"i don't– ah, maybe…" he stuttered, looking between price and the table rather than meeting your concerned eyes, "...they're just shy? don't want to be known yet?"

"oh, y'think, mate?" gaz fully laughed at that, sharing a look with both ghost and price that held something you couldn't understand. now you're thoroughly confused.

"well, maybe he's right," uncertainty laced your voice, their reactions throwing you for a loop. "if they wanted to be known, they probably would've shown themselves by now, right?" you turn to soap, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else – but he meets your gaze with a tiny smile.

"so you're not going to investigate?" you look back at gaz, who has that incredulous look back on his face, and from the corner of your eye you see price and ghost both shake their heads.

"they can show themselves when they're ready, i don't want to push them." your mind was made up; if your secret admirer wanted to reveal their identity, then they would, it's as simple as that.

"but–" gaz tries to argue, but price quickly interrupts him.

"right, enough, you lot, clear out, you've all got work to be getting on with." he gestures for you all to stand, and after grabbing your sweets, you follow the others out of the room.

for the rest of the day, you endured endless amounts of teasing from gaz, and he even got some of the people from other units in on it. it had your face burning when they cooed over how romantic your 'mystery lover' was. you could only pray that they got over it soon, in the back of your mind you were slightly worried the attention might scare off your admirer, and you certainly didn't want that. but although you told the others you'd wait for them to reveal themselves in their own time, you'd be lying if you said you weren't practically dying to know who it was.

✹✹✹

"hey sarge," a voice sounds from beside you, drowning out the din of the mess hall around you. turning your head, you see it's a private; one you don't really know, but you give her a polite smile anyway. "i've got a message for you." she continues, producing a folded piece of paper from behind her back.

"a message? who from?" you ask, taking the paper from her when she holds it out to you.

she giggles, giving you a sly smile, "a secret someone," and with a suspicious wink, she turned around and left.

with the note in your hand, you look to gaz and soap, a baffled expression on your face. "does she mean my… admirer?" they both shrug at you, sharing an equally perplexed look between themselves.

"go on then," gaz says, "what does it say?"

you unfold it, and scan the neat handwriting of the message. soap and gaz watch as you read it, their curiosity overwhelmingly present in the way they leaned forward to try and see.

your face falls, and you frown. the note was signed – 'your secret admirer' – but you couldn't ignore the sinking feeling in your heart.

"what's up? what does it say?" gaz notices the change in your expression, standing up from his chair and leaning fully over the table to read the note himself. you hand it to him, your good mood from this morning completely soured.

"apparently it is from my admirer," you begin, not bothering to hide the dejection in your voice, "telling me to meet them outside in five minutes."

the pair don't say anything, too stunned to form words as they continue to frown at the words in front of them. this can't be right, it just can't be, your mind laments, if johnny is sitting here, that that means he's not–

"seriously? just like that?" gaz interrupts your thoughts. he sounded annoyed underneath his shock, and you find yourself feeling the same way. "sorry, but i find that hard to believe – they didn't even leave a card with the flowers, did they? it just doesn't feel right to me."

you look to soap, who has yet to say anything on the matter. he doesn't meet your eyes, boring holes into the table with the anger in his gaze. your frown only deepens at his expression, the look on his face so unlike him it almost has you forgetting all about the cause.

"who knows," you sigh, plucking the note back out of gaz's hand. "this probably won't take long, i'll–"

"wait, you're going?" soap interjects, the frown on his face set much deeper than your own. his sudden question caught you off guard, paired with his irritated expression, and you almost thought he was angry with you.

"yeah, i mean, what's the harm, right? might as well just get it over with." you stand as you respond, folding the note back up. even if you were setting yourself up for disappointment, you still wanted to at least hear this person out; even if it wasn't him.

"what's the harm?" johnny scoffs – at you or at very idea of all this you aren't sure – and joins you in standing up, throwing his arms out with such annoyance, it catches you off guard. he gestures sharply at the paper in your hand, "this– whoever that is, it's pure shite! you can't see that?"

now it's you who scoffs at him; where is this hostility coming from? yesterday he seemed as though he couldn't care less when you were telling everyone about it, and now all of a sudden, he thinks he has all the answers?

"how would you know?" you shove the note into your pocket, your earlier sadness quickly morphing into annoyance.

as you move to walk away, johnny looks like he wants to say something more, to stop you, and you hesitate. you want him to; whoever your admirer was, whoever that note was from, none of it meant a thing if it wasn't him. all you wanted was for him to look at you the same way you look at him. gaz is looking at him too, subtly gesturing for him to do something, but he doesn't speak, doesn't meet your eyes as your face drops again.

"exactly, you don't. i'll be back in a minute." you huff, and without another word from either of them, you turn on your heel and make your way out of the mess hall.

it's safe to say your mood had swiftly and effectively been ruined. the disillusionment of realising that your secret admirer was someone other than johnny was one thing, but his sudden attitude towards you was the final straw. your face was decidedly sour as you trudge through the corridors, still with a slight limp which was only fuelling your annoyance for how your day was going. 

the cool air of the courtyard makes your skin bristle as you push the door open, taking a moment to survey the area as you stand in the entryway. to the left stands a lone figure, and you recognise his face, but – like the private from earlier, who you assume is his friend – you can't remember ever having spoken to him. with a deep sigh, you blink away bitterness in your expression and make your way over to him.

his grin is wide as he shamelessly checks you out while you approach, and you instinctually cross your arms over your chest. you come to a stop in front of him, frowning in a look that you hope screams uninterested.

"hey, sarge." he has an overly confident air to him as he speaks, shuffling closer under your scrutinising stare. of course he wouldn't take the hint.

"so it's you, then?" you ask, your voice flat and void of any emotion. you just wanted this to be over with, but it seemed luck just wasn't on your side today.

"it's me," he confirms, the blinding grin still plastered to his face as he inches even closer, "you surprised?"

"yeah, actually. i didn't know you were an artist." you reply, voice flat, and you watch him blink once in surprise. you raise a brow at his bewilderment, your patience already wearing painfully thin. he chuckles awkwardly in an attempt to hide how you so obviously caught him off guard.

"ah, yeah i uh–" he stutters, but you cut him off before he can make too much of a fool of himself.

"in fact, i don't actually know you at all. i couldn't recall your name even if you held a gun to my head." the hiss in your voice reveals just how over this whole situation you are. he opens his mouth to spout something else you have no interest in hearing, the sleazy grin falling from his face, but you hold a hand up to silence him. "so i'd really appreciate it if you left me alone."

"but–"

"and stay out of my room, and my locker, too. if it happens again, you're getting reported." you spit the final words at him, and turn on your heel to leave. before you can take another step, he grabs your elbow and spins you back around to face him, causing your ankle to twist awkwardly, which sends a fresh jolt of pain up your leg. you hold back a groan and fix him with a deadly glare instead.

"hey, c'mon, don't be like that!" you wince as he practically demands, getting much closer to you than was necessary, even with you arching backwards to put some space between you. "at least gimme a chance,"

"just leave me alone." you hiss, pulling your arm out of his grip and before he has the chance to do or say anything else, you hurry back the way you came, your limp noticeably more pronounced than earlier. thankfully, the private – jackson, you’d just about been able to read on his jacket – didn’t follow you back to the mess hall, which proves that he has at least half a brain. you hoped that he’d take the hint to stay away from you, but somewhere in the back of your mind you were preparing yourself to be hassled by him in the coming days; he certainly seemed the type.

you were gone less than ten minutes, but in that time most of the lunch crowd had cleared out, leaving the room a lot quieter than it had been. as you shuffle towards soap and gaz, still sitting at the same table, they both turn to look at you, and you can tell by the way both their expressions drop that they sense something is off.

"what happened?" gaz asks as you take your seat across from them, trying to hold back a wince when you put too much strain on your ankle, "your face says it didn't go well."

you sigh, looking between both of them, lingering on soap who’s already watching you with an intensity that has your face heating up. "it didn’t. it was just some private who can’t take no for an answer." you grumble, resting your cheek in the palm of your hand.

"your ankle okay?" soap asks, holding your gaze until you relent and look away first. you want to tell him not to worry, but you find it's impossible to lie to him, not when he's looking at you like you're the only person in the room. "what happened?" he presses, his voice taking on a dangerous tone.

"its nothing, he just– i just twisted it a little." you trip over your words under his stare, looking to gaz for help, but you find that he has a similar – albeit less intense – look of concern on his face. the silence hangs between you for a moment as you wordlessly try to convince them, but they see through you. "alright, fine. when i was leaving, he grabbed my arm and pulled me back, and i pulled my ankle."

if johnny had been pissed before, he was furious now; his eyes were dark underneath his furrowed brow, his lips turned down in a frown that looked more like a snarl. to see someone usually so easygoing with such a threatening look on his face was almost worrying, the only reassurance being that you know it's not directed at you.

"that prick… who was it?" gaz isn't nearly as affected as soap, but he's clearly annoyed by the audacity of the private. you shake your head, urging them to just let it go; he wasn't worth the trouble, after all.

when johnny says your name in that deep, gravelly tone, your heart skips a beat and your eyes snap to meet his. "who was it." he asks, but it's not a question anymore, and every fibre of your being is telling you to just give in to him.

"jackson. i don't know his first name…" you mutter, slightly flustered by the way he's acting. the tension in the silence that follows is nearly suffocating. from where his arms rest on the table, you notice johnny repeatedly clenching his fists, seemingly having some sort of internal battle with himself.

"what a bellend…" gaz grumbles, pausing for a moment to shake the disgust from his face. "so, what about the whole 'secret admirer' thing then?" he leans back in his chair, eyes darting to soap's profile then back to you.

"i don't know…" you sigh, "didn't really seem like something he was capable of, but i guess i don't really know him, so–"

"yeah, he doesn't seem the type, does he?" gaz interjects, with a newfound energy at your words. you narrow you eyes, sensing an ulterior motive, but let him continue. "i mean, buying you flowers, sweets– seems a bit too thoughtful for such a twat."

his jab coaxed a laugh from you, "maybe; i guess i was pretty disappointed when i saw it was him, though."

"oh yeah? expecting someone else, were you?" gaz has a grin on his face, one that has you worried that he's clocked on to your true feelings.

"something like that…" you clear your throat, suddenly feeling a little too seen for your liking. "anyway, i'd better get going, desk duty is no joke," you slowly stand up, making sure to be careful of your newly irritated ankle, and adamantly avoiding eye contact with either of them.

"yeah, me too, cap said he needs my help with something." gaz stands as well, giving soap a pat on the back and a suspicious wink as he walks off, which you willfully choose to ignore.

"you gonna be okay?" johnny comes to your side as you shuffle around the table, his hand brushing over your back to support you. butterflies begin to flutter at the feeling, and you scold yourself for being so easily affected. he seems to have calmed down a lot, the anger from earlier overtaken by his concern.

"yeah, i'll be fine, i think i'll just have to grab my crutch," you smile at him and take a step forward, wincing as you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

"c'mon, lemme help you," he tilts his head to meet your eyes, his worry evident within them. his hand is warm on your back, you have to hold yourself back from leaning into him. "cannae have you hurtin' yourself any more."

"you sure? don't you have work to do too?" you have every intention of taking him up on his offer, but you couldn't help feeling guilty for needing his help like this.

"i'm sure lt. can survive a few extra minutes," johnny gives you a reassuring smile, already ushering you out of the mess hall.

"well, don't blame me when has your head," you grin back at him, relishing in the comfortable feeling of being so close to him. distracted by his proximity, you momentarily forget about your injury and without thinking, you put too much weight on it as you take a step. with a pained gasp, you wobble on your good foot and pause to give your ankle a break.

johnny moves his arm to sit securely around your waist, gently pulling you to lean fully against him. "you sure you don't want me to take you to the infirmary?" he asks, lifting your arm to wrap around his shoulders.

"no, no– they're just gonna tell me to rest, and i'll be sitting down all day anyway," you move to continue on your way to your room, but he stays put. 

"you should still get it looked at, might be–"

"johnny." you stop him with a hand on his chest, "i'm okay."

you watch his adams apple bob as he gulps, his eyes flickering to where your hand is touching him and back up to your own, almost too fast to notice.

"right, right. sorry." he dips his head, breaking eye contact. you pull him gently, and the two of you start walking again. "you know jackson well?"

you scoff, frowning as you recall the events of earlier. "what? no, before today i didn't even know his name. he seems like kind of an arsehole, to be honest."

"really? made that bad of an impression, eh?" his lopsided smile feels oddly smug, but you decide not to overthink it.

"like i said, can't take a no." you grumble, pinching the bridge of your nose with your free hand, "i doubt this is the last time i'll have to deal with him…"

"he's not gonna bother you." johnny states, with a finality that is as stunning as it is comforting.

"...if you say so." you don't press any further, wanting to simply move on and forget about the whole thing. you'd gladly never think about that arrogant private again.

before you know it, the two of you are standing in the hall outside your room. his grip around your waist loosens as you push open the door, and you're all too aware of the cold feeling left behind as he lets go.

"thank you, for helping me." you shoot him a grateful smile, grabbing your crutch from where it leant against the wall, propping it under your arm.

"course," johnny pauses, looking past you to something in your room. "you… kept the gardenias?" he asks, his voice quiet, almost disbelieving. you tilt your head, a silent question, but he's still staring at the flowers.

"yeah, they're…" you begin, but his words have you pausing too; he didn't seem like the kind of person to be interested in floristry, you'd certainly never heard him say anything about it before. but somehow, he'd identified the flowers on your end table with no problem. "...they're nice. i like them, even if they do look a little sad now."

when he finally meets your eyes again, there's a distinct redness to his face that wasn't there before, and you feel your heart beginning to race with renewed hope. it could be that he just likes flowers, but if he already knew they were gardenias, maybe he…

"right, i, uh– i should get going, or ghost might actually kill me." johnny's voice had a dazed quality to it when he spoke.

"alright, i'll see you later then," you give him a small smile as you step back into the hall next to him. the two of you look at each other for a moment before you speak again, holding back a laugh, "you gonna go, or just stand there all day?"

your words seem to snap him out of the trance he’d been in, and he shakes his head in an almost comical manner, "right! right, sorry, bye!" he sputters, waving over his shoulder as he jogs away. you chuckle to yourself as he goes, and start walking the opposite direction to get started with your own work.

✹✹✹

you didn't see soap again until the next day, considering that he was strangely absent from mealtimes both last night and today. thankfully the incident from the day before hadn't done any further damage to your ankle, so you were up and about without the need for your crutch after a good night's rest.

you'd just dropped off a folder of paperwork in price's office – which you'd completed in fairly good time, thanks to being stuck behind a desk for nearly two weeks – but as you descend the staircase, you're almost knocked over by someone flying around the corner. you caught yourself with a hand on the railing, blinking away your surprise and glaring at whoever had carelessly bumped into you.

much to your chagrin, it was jackson, and you feel your face naturally falling into a frown at the realisation. you’d been expecting him to try and change your mind about yesterday, but true to johnny’s words, he had yet to bother you about it; actually, you hadn’t seen him at all since then, not even at breakfast or lunch, but it's not as if you were complaining. 

though, as you stare down at him from the step above, you notice a deep purple bruise decorating his cheekbone that definitely wasn’t there yesterday. your frown turns from malice to confusion as you wonder how he could have gotten it in the span of less than a day, it looked like he’d taken a serious punch. you couldn’t say you felt bad for him, but it did look painful.

"listen, about yesterday… i- i lied,." jackson mutters, eyes glued to the floor to avoid your own. he was shuffling in place, as if he was preparing to bolt at any second. your eyes narrow as you process his words.

"what?"

he clears his throat. "i lied. it wasn’t me, i just said it was because one of the guys bet me i couldn’t get you to go out with me." he admits. the way he keeps avoiding your eyes, glancing around like he was waiting for someone to jump out at him has you a little suspicious, but your heart still soars when you realise what he means.

jackson wasn't your secret admirer, so your hopeless romantic heart could still dream that it was johnny. the flutter of butterflies even distracts you from the insulting notion that he only wanted to go out with you for a bet.

"seriously?" you ask, your shock evident in your voice as you stare him down. finally his eyes land on your own, an embarrassed grimace overtaking his nervous expression. it's a stark, satisfying difference to his arrogant overconfidence from before.

"yeah. i’m sorry, okay? i don’t want any trouble, it was just–" he cuts himself off, but when you give him a questioning look, he can't tear his eyes from the space behind you, and only mumbles what sounds like a ‘sorry’ before scurrying off back the way he came. you watch him go, thoroughly confused by the whole interaction, but not a moment later a voice from where he was staring brings you out of your thoughts.

"y’alright? little shit wasn’t botherin’ you, was he?" soap's voice cuts through the quiet, and you turn to see him descending the stairs to stand next to you.

you shake your head, "no, no, he just–" you hesitate, your mind going back to yesterday and the gardenias. "he lied, it wasn't him."

"really?" he asks, but his voice doesn't sound surprised at all. you're not sure if you imagined it, but for a moment his expression changes into something like satisfaction.

"yeah, he was about to say something else too, but he just ran off," you sigh, walking down the last few steps. soap follows close behind, a hand hovering near your back. "did you see that bruise on his face? wonder how he got it…"

"looked nasty, eh?" a laugh escapes him, and you admire the way his lips curve, the creases around his eyes as his smile reaches them. "maybe he finally got what was comin' to him."

his face was close to yours, a lot closer than you could reasonably handle without losing your nerve and making a fool of yourself. realising you had yet to respond, you clear your throat and start walking down the corridor, your eyes to the floor and a burning in your cheeks.

"if he never speaks to me again, it'll still be too soon…" you grumble, willing your heart to calm down as he comes up next to you in a few long strides. "anyway, what have you been up to? i haven't seen you all day." with a quick glance, you see the easy smile he has falter slightly.

"i was, ah–" he avoids your eye as he stops himself, a beat of silence passes before he continues "nevermind, i– i was… looking for you." your heart skips a beat, but you scold it for being so eager; the two of you were teammates, friends, he could be looking for you for any number of reasons.

"looking for me? what's up?" you turn your head to face him as you walk, a curious tilt to your brow.

johnny comes to a stop, and so do you a moment after. he looks at you, fidgety and shifting on his feet, with his hands stuffed in his pockets. the look on his face is unsure, uncomfortable, like he was debating running off like jackson had done a minute ago.

he's nervous, that much you can tell. but despite the slightly awkward tension, you you wait for whatever it is he's struggling to say.

"i… uh– y'know what, i actually forgot." johnny hangs his head, pulling his hands from his pockets and scratching the back of his neck.

at his words your heart sinks, and you can't help the disappointed look that takes over your expression. "oh? are you–"

before you can finish, he drops a hand on your shoulder and steps ahead of you, turning around so you're face to face. "listen, ghost is waiting for me, so i gotta run," he smiles again, but it's weaker this time, almost forced as it doesn't quite meet his eyes.

"right… better not keep him waiting."

"right," his reply is short, and the tension between you only grows every moment he avoids your eyes. "i'll see you later though, promise." he flashes you another false smile, gently patting your shoulder, before turning on his heel and swiftly escaping down the corridor.

"bye, johnny." you release a sigh, from longing or exasperation you're not sure, watching his form disappear through the doors.

✹✹✹

despite his promise, once again you don't see soap for the rest of the day. at dinner you'd questioned ghost on his whereabouts, but he only told you that he had no idea either. this time however, you got the strong feeling he was lying to you.

still though, you couldn't find it within yourself to be annoyed with him. you could see clear as day that something was going on with johnny, and if he didn't want to confide in you about whatever it is, then you certainly won't be the one to push him.

having finished today's obligations, you decided to head straight to your room once you'd finished eating. you open your door, a sigh escaping you as you prepare to collapse for the night, and stop dead in your tracks.

a folded sheet of paper lays in front of you, standing out against the emptiness of your floor, crumpled like it had been screwed up and flattened out again. a sense of déjà vù overcomes you, for last week, when you'd received the sketches of yourself in the same way. for a moment all you can do is stand there, staring at the paper, processing.

eventually, you do step into your room, shutting the door quietly behind you and picking the paper up from the floor. you keep it folded until you're sitting on the edge of your mattress, hands shaking ever so slightly with the anticipation.

you're not sure what to think, as you sit burning holes in the paper with your stare. after yesterday, you thought you were done with the idea of your secret admirer; but then again, jackson had admitted to you earlier that he'd lied when he met you yesterday, and the whole reason you weren't as interested after that was because your pipe dream of the mystery person being johnny had been shattered. but now that the identity of your admirer was once again a mystery, you couldn't help but want to dream like that again. 

with a defeated groan, you decide to just rip off the bandaid and read the note. you unfold it, immediately noticing the scratchy handwriting – the opposite of the note jackson gave you, so thankfully it couldn't be from him.

you hear your heartbeat in your ears as your eyes scan the words in front of you.

i stayed up all night trying to write this note, but nothing i came up with felt good enough, so i'm just going to say it. i'm your secret admirer. i know you probably won't believe me after that bastard yesterday, but i need you to know anyway. i used to think that love just wasn't my thing, that i'd never find someone i wanted to spend my life with, but that changed when i met you. i didn’t realise it at first, but it's always been you. you're my person, and i can't hide it anymore. i love you. maybe i'm a coward for giving you a note instead of telling you face to face. but if you don't feel the same, you can throw it away, or burn it or something, and i'll never bring it up again. your heart, johnny

the silence in your room borders on deafening as you sit completely still, reeling from what you'd just read. you didn't realise you'd stopped breathing until you release a shaky breath.

all this time, it was johnny.

every longing glance, every touch that lingered just a little too long, the racing pulse every time he says your name; it was all reciprocated.

every time you thought you could never have him as anything more than your best friend, you were wrong.

he cared enough to leave you a pick-me-up after a hard mission, buy you flowers when you got injured, draw you the way he saw you, gift you things he took the time to notice you like.

all this time… he'd felt the exact same way you do.

you set the note down next to you, bringing a shaky hand up to cover your mouth that had fallen open in shock. there was only one thing to do, in your mind, and that was to run into johnny's arms and make up for all the lost time you've spent pining over him.

in seemingly no time at all, you find yourself standing at johnny's door, your fist poised to knock. theres a moment of hesitation, but before your apprehension can cloud your mind, you let your knuckles rap on the wood once, twice, three times, and take a step back as you wait for a response. after a second or two – which felt a lot longer than it actually was – you hear the sounds of footsteps from inside.

another moment passes, and you assume johnny is standing on the other side with his heart in his throat just like you, short-lived before he finally swings the door open.

he looks at you, eyes wide and like a deer caught in headlights, the way he holds himself uncharacteristically shy as you stare each other down.

"the note," you finally murmur, and johnny almost flinches, clearly fighting the urge to look away from you. "tell me you meant it." you continue, taking a miniscule step closer to him. you hear his breath catch in his chest.

"every word." he whispers, gaze flickering down to your lips and back up to your eyes again, and your heart misses a beat.

with no hesitation this time, you hook your arms around his neck and pull him towards you, crushing his mouth against yours in a desperate kiss that's as much teeth as it is lips.

johnny groans into your mouth, his hands flying to your waist as he turns and walks you backwards into his room. the door gets kicked shut behind him once he's got you inside, neither of you breaking apart more than enough to draw a single ragged breath before meeting in the middle again. with another needy whine into you he pushes you up against the wall, caging you in with his broad shoulders and his arms around your waist.

the weight of his arms around you, the feeling of his stubble prickly against your face, the softness of his lips against yours; it's everything you've been waiting for, and now you finally have him, he tastes sweeter than you could've ever imagined.

the two of you stay like that for moments that feel like hours in each other's embrace, only pulling away when your lungs are burning and your lips are swollen. leaning your head back against the wall, his eyes meet yours with such adoration it sends your heart fluttering all over again.

"i'll take that as a good sign," he mumbles, a lopsided grin lifting his features. his joy is so infectious you can't help but mirror his expression as you drop your head to rest on his shoulder.

his chest rumbles with an airy, disbelieving laugh and he tugs you impossibly closer, resting his cheek against the side of your head. standing chest to chest now, you can feel the hammering of his heart against yours and the way his skin burns under your touch.

"you’re my person too," you murmur into him, one of your hands moving up to tangle in the strands of his mohawk, "always have been."

johnny's arms wind tighter around you as he releases a deep, content sigh. he's hugged you countless times before but somehow, this feels different while still staying exactly the same. the heat radiating from him is soothing like it always has been, the knowledge that your feelings are reciprocated only making it that much sweeter.

"why'd it take us so long, eh?" he utters, tender and loving in the way he runs his hands over your back and sides.

"we're just idiots…" you reply, "gaz is gonna have a field day with this."

johnny laughs again, pressing his lips to the side of your head so you can feel his smile. "oh, he clocked us a long time ago, bonnie."

you can't help but groan as you imagine how gaz will tease the both of you for how oblivious you've both been.

he lifts you up by his grip around your waist, carrying you over to his bed and flopping down onto his back with you on his chest. a satisfied groan escapes him as he settles, burying his face into your hair and inhaling a deep breath.

you're enveloped by the scent of him – gunpowder, and the faint smell of something burnt, but it's pleasant and familiar nonetheless.

"yer stayin' with me tonight, non negotiable." he murmurs, running a hand up and down the length of your spine.

"fine by me." you tilt your head up to meet his eyes, and find them already locked on you. "so, about jackson…"

johnny scoffs, lightheartedly frowning in response. "yer gonna bring his name up while yer in my bed?"

"he looked really spooked when he saw you earlier," you begin, smoothing your hand over his chest. his eyes widen at your words, his hand freezing as he looks away from you with a distinctly guilty expression on his face. you narrow your eyes, holding back the amused smirk pulling at your lips. "johnny… did you…"

he clears his throat, and by the way he can't hold your gaze for more than a second you can tell he knows he's been caught. there's no stopping the laugh that bubbles up from your chest at his reaction.

"...i may have, uh– potentially put some fear o'god into the little bawbag…"

"soap!"

#soap x reader #soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #mw2 x reader #cod x reader #141 x reader #call of duty x reader #mw2 #cod mw2 #call of duty #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #roosterr writes #releasing this into the wild like an injured bird

[sunboki]

— KEEP IT BUSINESS. a Lee Minho fiction

Lee Minho x f. reader

TROPE. best friends to lovers, coworkers! au, first kiss? au (hehe), domestic/soft minho, fluff

WARNINGS. cursing, making-out, inexperienced kissing, annoying coworkers

WORD COUNT. 6.9k words

AUG'S NOTES. so glad to have finally completed this!! it’s been rotting in my drafts for weeks and i just had to write a happy ending for these two grandparents 🫶🏼

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. Life can be a mess, and with you and Minho as the only two singles in your office building, an impertinent Valentine’s day leaves no choice but to make a pact.

or alternatively :

If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.

Four years.

It’s been four years since you first met Lee Minho, working with him at the same company, becoming the best of friends. And yet, the same dread lay specially reserved for the same season.

The season of love, or, to most people, Valentine’s day.

.

.

.

Alarm set for 6:30AM. Work from 8:30AM to 4PM. Every day of the week, every year.

Initially, the experience was relatively enjoyable. It paid well, wasn’t too harsh on hours, and other coworkers minded their own business (at least in your case) without being a pain.

Then the loneliness set in.

It was subtle at first, a tiny pang in your heart when you returned home to a dark, cold apartment while others would be greeted by a pet, a loved one.

So when Lee Minho, a new member of the company assigned as your apprentice came along, you tend to think meeting him was, in a weird, spontaneous manner, meant to be.

And four years later, when he had grown from that apprentice-ship and became established as an employee, you still hold onto that “meant to be” philosophy.

Busied chatter fills the downstairs cafe, familiar faces alike brimming with conversation, breath coffee-stained.

Peering across the various assortment of tables, you spot him, two identical cups in each hand, wearing that bemused expression as usual.

At this point, Minho has memorized your order by heart, arriving early after his daily stop by the nearby animal shelter (whose manager knew by heart). Most morning’s you’d await a picture of the newest addition to the feline section, a photo he proudly shows off like his own trophy.

You’re genuinely surprised his residence isn’t a constantly growing cat-kingdom.

“Looking forward to it?”

Brows furrowing, you sidle to his right and dish the warm beverage into your grasp.

“Looking forward to wha— wait wait don’t say it. I want to pretend it doesn’t exist.” Hurriedly waving your hands, Minho cracks a grin.

The cursed word in question being: Valentine’s day.

You can’t say you hate it. It never did anything to you, nor did it leave you heartbroken. To put it simply, the office over the first few weeks of February was a close-resembling spinoff to Singles Inferno except, much spicier and way too inappropriate in broad daylight.

Meaning, for the past five years (four joined by Minho), merely mentioning said season of love urges impending dread and deep frowns.

“All I’m gonna say is I would not want to be a doctor over Valentines,” You wince, sipping the warm drink with a squeamish face.

Minho sighs vehemently, propping an elbow against the computer cart behind him.

“I bet you could witness more vibrators in that hospital than in an Adam and Eve,” He grumbles, watchful eyes surveying the daily crowd occupying tables and chairs in the building’s downstairs café.

Slamming a fist to your chest to correct your breathing, your eyes practically bulge from your skull, evidently caught of guard.

Leave it to Minho to make you suffocate before your shift even begins.

8am is prime time for socialization—otherwise before Mrs. Song decides to unleash her wrath on newbies. She has good intentions, sure, but let’s just say most anyone was petrified upon first meeting her.

Luckily, your department with Hyeongmi, Minho, and Felix was secluded on the far side of the building, leaving you out of the woman’s hair, free to work as you please.

Yet, Mrs. Song wasn’t the problem, not when it came down to the month of February.

Your phone’s alarm signaling to start moving momentarily wards off the thought, and either of you begin toward the elevator, flat expressions describing the sinking feeling better than words.

Back at it, again.

Because by your lunch break, you can’t fathom entering the cafeteria, not if it costs you your life.

Everywhere you look someone is making out, confessing their love, or, worst you’ve seen it all day, genuinely fucking in the bathrooms.

Perhaps you’d send Minho a text you’re making an escape by eating in the office, invite him up for some solace.

Except, it seems he had the same idea.

Scrambling through the door, you enter at the same time, heaving sighs of exasperation upon securing much needed privacy.

Making prolonged eye contact, your thoughts come spilling out.

“If I witness another make-out in the stairwell I’m ending it all.”

“Boxes of chocolates are officially ruined for me now.”

Four years and it never gets old. Same old painful memories, same old excitement for the day to come and go. And it’s not like you hate the holiday itself, you two just.. heavily dislike the immense bucketloads of PDA and office hookups that come along with it.

Not-so-gracefully flopping down onto your chairs, you practically shovel food down, gladly accepting the few rolls of gimbap Minho places onto your plate.

Customary sharing. You give him some of your food, he gives you some of his.

In those brief minutes of silence do you get the opportunity to fully comprehend your own thoughts, prior to Minho clearing his throat.

“Drinks at my place?”

Your grown loudly in agreement.

Minho : Okay, I’m leaving, follow me in thirty minutes

Glancing up, you watch your counterpart lift his brows your way and call out his departure, sifting through the doorway, cross body bag thumping against jeans.

Hyeongmi was downstairs, which, as awful as it sounded, was great not having to endure her nosiness.

This was how you stayed unbothered. He’d leave, and thirty minutes later you would too in order to (for now) avoid Mrs. Song (and Hyeongmi’s) pestering.

It couldn’t have taken the clock longer to reach 4:30PM. So by the time the beloved minute hand struck 4:29 you practically lurched from your seat, almost tasting sweet freedom before a face showed up right before you slipped through the exit.

Hyeongmi’s face.

What she’s talking about you can’t seem to understand, mind trained on escaping and escaping alone.

“C’mon now, you two are the only two in this building without a date. It’s been four years, Y/n! You need to let loose!” Hyeongmi emphasizes, dizzying your head the longer she shakes your shoulders.

“You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right? I’m telling you, it’s a sign—“

“Sorry Hyeongmi, I really have to go-“

Fastening your bag tigher across your body, you make a mad-dash as far away as possible, pretending to ignore the “use protection!” she shouted before the crisp evening breeze nipped your nose.

Use protection my butt, you grovel, ushering the scarf further above your chin as if to secure as much warmth possible.

She doesn’t know anything, not about how you took him under your wing as your apprentice the first year he joined, not about how much Minho loves cats, or how the keychain on that crossbody bag of his is a keychain you bought for him.

Simply placing it, she’s a person lead by the assumptions of others and adopting them as her own.

It irritates you.

Veering to your right, you thank his decision to house nearby, arriving at the foot of his porch after a mere ten-minute walk.

Delivering a few knocks on the townhome’s doorway, you note the paint chipping, colorful exterior worn from the sun’s rays.

Everything from the few cracks in the sidewalk to the relatively invisible stain of coffee on his doorknob lay memorized by frequency—his property second nature to you.

“Never have I hated being single this much,” You whine, slumping onto his couch after hurling your bag atop a hook in the foyer.

And despite the lack of response, you can tell Minho heard you. The faint, breathy chuckle enough evidence of his presence.

Perched on a chair he’d likely dragged from the kitchen, a feline companion occupies his lap, both comfortably relaxing on the patio, wine glass in hand.

Accordingly arranged on the countertop is another glass (you presume as yours), that you pour the vinegar-tinged substance into.

“I mean.” Slightly struggling to haul a neighboring chair to his side and simultaneously avoid splashing wine everywhere, you eventually find an equilibrium.

“It’s not like I asked to be single, I’m just too busy to consider a relationship, y’know?”

Minho absentmindedly hums, urging you to take a much-needed sip of the orchid-colored liquid.

Finally, you sigh out the last of your evening’s thoughts.

“..Hyeongmi caught me on the way out.”

Nor does this occasion need a reply either, the man’s suppressed giggle suitable enough.

“Mm.. I’ve got an idea.”

Carefully allowing the elongated glass to clink atop a translucent table, you cross and uncross your legs, welcoming the rustle of life around you into your eardrums, easing the cluttered space of your brain.

“Shoot.”

He clicks his tongue, gaze flitting to the emerging moon overhead.

“If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.“

Making a surprised sound to yourself, you break into unadulterated laughter, about to call him hilarious before taking into account this is Minho you’re referring to, and the likelihood he’s joking on any matter is unlikely.

Sure it sounds cliché, but it’s Minho, why not?

…And perhaps that decision was made with a few glasses of wine in play.

“I’m in.” You grin, returning his outstretched hand by bumping your glasses before downing the remaining gulp, cheeks aglow, alcohol ridding your breath a distasteful stench.

Tipsy. Minho is charming normally, but especially when he’s tipsy.

He’s got this way of speaking that could get any unsuspecting girl reaching to unzip his pants in a second, sultry, half-lidded eyes drinking the person in front of him, talking like he has sugar lining his lips.

When Minho is tipsy, he’s tempting. You didn’t need four years to teach you that.

That, and the spare pajama set folded in his top drawer reserved solely for you on nights like this—too gone to go home.

Although, as you rise to your feet and head to the bathroom, pulling said silk pajama shirt over your head, Hyeongmi’s words reverberate again.

You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right?

Hm. Minho was always a recluse though. And with your history, obviously he’d have some liking for you.

It’s been four years, Y/n! You need to let loose!

Turning to stare at yourself in the mirror, you sulk, head hanging low.

What if you did something tonight? Something risky, something testing the limits this friendship borderlines. You’re both drunk, likely willing.

Then again, does Minho want this too? Did he ever intend to “let loose”?

Anxiety plagues you, hurriedly scurrying your pants over your legs and exiting to find Minho still seated in the same spot, appearing all the more tempting without having to do a thing.

You blame the alcohol.

Stamping forward as if you prepared a speech, you stop just behind his chair, mustering any ounce of liquid courage manageable.

“Minho.”

He grunts.

“You’re really pretty.”

Let loose. This is letting loose when it comes to Minho.

What, you thought you were gonna fuck? Yeah, that’s a funny one.

Winding himself around to see you, his lips wind into a sweet smile, urging you closer with a mere look before he reaches forward and taps your nose, dark eyes roaming your face.

“I’ve always thought you were pretty too.”

And perhaps, caught in a trance from his glittering stare, something did happen those four years you’ve been together after all.

You blame the alcohol.

The impulsive part about this “date at twenty-five” pact you had forgotten to consider was the fact both of you were twenty-four, meaning in less than a year whatever plan Lee Minho had stirred up after plenty glasses of wine would oil it’s gears into motion.

Thankfully Valentines comes and goes, and Summer creeps dangerously close, the longer hours of daylight and lingering sunshine enough to make every work-day feel extra laborious.

First day of summer, Minho texts you, asking if you want to join him on a walk.

Mind you, it’s 10AM in the morning, an hour you couldn’t fathom waking up at on the first day of summer.

You groan and flop back down, shutting off your phone and slamming the pillow over your head in a pitiful attempt at falling back asleep.

Only for your doorbell to ring twenty minutes later.

Over.

And over.

And over.

The urge to screech compels your barely-awake form, legs wobbling out of bed to feebly reach the doorway in a sleep-ridden haze.

Of course, lo and behold, Minho lies responsible, clad in running shoes, a pair of shorts, and a black nike zip-up.

He’s evidently pleased—whether from how disheveled you appear—or that he actually got you out of bed in the first place by the lingering smile tugging at his lips.

You hate to say it, but he’s annoyingly attractive, there’s no denying.

“Caught you at a bad time, hm?” He tips his head down to make eye-contact, peering through wild hair and lidded eyes at your half-alive self.

All you can manage out is a minuscule grunt, about to close the door before Minho jars his hand in, inviting himself inside much to your dismay.

Like instinct, he heads straight to your closet, surveying the chaos his insistent door-bell ringing caused before fetching a sweatshirt to pull over your head and a pair of socks from your drawer.

Though, as you wake up a tad bit more, you hurriedly keep him from putting your socks on for you as he bends down, shying away with an irritated whine.

“If this is what dating you is like I’m calling off the pact,” You mumble, stomping toward the door with Minho pushing you forwards without chance of escape.

He giggles, seeming to contain utmost glee witnessing your temper tantrum.

“Oh trust me sweetheart, the fun never ends.”

He’s hopeless too, apparently.

Lucky for you, your friend’s visits occurred sporadically, meaning the 10AM wake up calls weren’t a daily routine of headaches.

In contrast, summer passed by in a flash, and you were shoved head-first into a packed schedule for a second time as the autumn leaves shriveled into crisp browns and oranges.

Autumn was always welcomed. It meant the chilling cold was approaching, yes, but it also signified apple cider being added to the downstairs café menu and—on those especially chilly mornings—bundling your neck in the scarf Minho bought you last christmas.

As for him, he frequents pointed shoes and straight-legged pants, his fudge-colored hair perfectly complimented by pumpkin scented fragrances and dusky red backdrops.

Brisk mornings call for thinking. And as you walk, you come to the indefinite conclusion apple cider fits Minho. Sweet, but not saccharine. Warm to the touch, reminiscent with a charming aftertaste. A silhouette that comes and goes as it pleases, leaving soon enough for you to crave it back again.

Regarding summer, he was sort of like a beach day. A vacation in the midst of roaring deadlines, the comfortable lull of waves buzzing your mind into a hazy, salty escapade.

Although as December plucks each oak of its splendor, a call on Sunday morning truly marks the season of winter.

“..Y/n?” Minho murmurs, his voice groggy, hoarse. You make a sound of acknowledgment in response.

“I think I’m sick, can you drop off some meds at the door?”

Pressing your phone close to your ear, you debate on your desire to scold him, remind him each time he gets a winter cold he should dress warmer.

Of course, your lips stay shut (just like they always have for the past few years), and you reply with a “Be there soon, hang tight” before ending the call and gathering your belongings.

At the supermarket you check out seaweed soup, multivitamins, and allergy relief—things of which you hope will alleviate some of his symptoms.

Eternally grateful for the spare key you’d been given a while back, you enter the home, calling his name until an exasperated sign of life was heard (more like coughed) from the bedroom.

Inside lay Minho, a distressing array of tissues scattered in all directions, clustered beyond belief. His nose is soured pink from incessant stuffiness, lips cracked and dry. Dark circles sag beneath tired eyes, worn disposition evidence of his condition.

Quick on your feet, you scour the bathroom for a thermometer, the device’s loud beep signifying a blaring fever as you hover by his bedside.

Watching the bowl of instant soup spin aimless circles in the microwave, Minho’s call knocks you out of your daydream, worriedly padding to where he lays.

“Come here.”

You oblige, arriving to his right, about to ask the matter until his fingers link with your own, bringing the back of your hand to his jaw, resting there.

If you had been warm before, an entirely new definition to sweating has been reached at this point.

“You’re warm,” He whispers, rubbing his face against your hand like a needy cat wanting attention.

How unfair a human can be this round.

Practically bounding from the inside, you use the excuse of the microwave beeping to race off, hurriedly disappearing into the kitchen while remaining ignorant to the way Minho’s gaze follows you.

Returning with a soup platter meticulously carried between your tight grip, you sigh with relief upon sitting the steaming concoction down. Oh so slowly, a frown grows at your face upon noticing the expectant stare boring into your head.

“Yes?”

He juts out his bottom lip like a kicked puppy from your nonplussed tone, nudging the covers over himself till only those calculating eyes peek out.

“I’m not feeding you.”

Minho all but whimpers, and you suppress the urge to smother him with a pillow right then and there, hating how easily he sends goosebumps prickling the back of your neck, heat scalding your ears.

“No.”

“Y/n.”

You quite literally feel like the cruelest person in existence because why is he looking at you with that face, saying your name like that.

Grumbling beneath your breath, you begrudgingly collect a spoonful, bringing the utensil to his already pursed lips.

Spoonful by spoonful do you feed him as if he’s a dependent toddler, his satisfied hums earning a stern glare in return.

Only when he finishes eating do you get up, reprimanding him on taking his meds without much bite to your words.

“And don’t take too many of these, alright? If it gets really bad, call me again. Otherwise, try getting sleep.”

“Yes ma’am.”

And of course he has to be endearing.

Such a pain.

You’ll stop by tomorrow.

If Minho was the apple cider in autumn and beach days in the summer, he’s the prettiest of snowflakes in the midst of winter.

Memorable, fleeting. Melting in your touch.

The annual Christmas party the company hosts steadily approaches, your coworkers ringing your phone insistently with noticeable anticipation.

Though just like autumns chill, December soars past idly, reigning in a new year and a new digit added to twenty when asked your age.

Your winter premise only heightened the anxiety compiling in your gut, a feeling you hadn’t recognized until the following day—the first day back to work in January—dawned.

January 1st’s introduction means you’re both officially twenty-five, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact Minho hasn’t texted you yet or the valentines pact in itself setting you on edge.

What would it be like to date Minho? Would he kiss you, the same way male leads in K-dramas did? Hold you as you sleep, wish you goodbye with a kiss to your cheek?

The mere thought sends rivets of electricity blazing your fingertips, feeling like an utter fool for imagining such scenarios.

Now you’ve haunted yourself for worse, leaving only dread in tow.

Arriving at the office the first day back, you attempt at making yourself look as collected as possible, definitely not bothered.

Worse, the root of your troubles walks in unbothered as you’ve been trying to do for the past few hours, the room working in deplorable silence before a note wedges itself behind your keyboard, Minho slipping past in its wake.

It takes all your will-power to ignore the crumpled piece of paper as best as possible, your index itching to unravel whatever lay inside.

Noon is when you finally give in, lungs failing to produce air upon reading the contents, practically choking on nothing.

Come over to my place after work.

What is this, his way of declaring your pact officially in action? What if he calls it off, saying it was only a joke glasses of wine granted?

As Hyeongmi said before, everyone has the hots for him, so why don’t you? Why does the thought of him calling it off put you on edge?

Or maybe you do. Maybe you do have feelings for—

Woah. Stop there.

Luckily, your internal chess match went unnoticed, leaving only the buzzing of your ears and the ticking of the clock loud.

A certain fondness sat between either of you from the start, since becoming acquainted you’ve instantly clicked—sly remarks and playful teasing merely one more thing keeping you alive (minus coffee).

So when something crossing the border between friends and lovers arose, a sort of nervousness bubbled in your gut.

Minho was a shoulder to cry on for you, but was it like that?

You could rely and depend on each other whenever, but could those feelings ever turn into love?

Of course they could, and they likely would’ve if it weren’t for either of you being so work-oriented—making you even more worried.

Although, you can’t simply flee. You’re an adult.

..And Minho will find you in a heartbeat if you decide to run.

Never had you been hesitant to leave office until now, and trodding one foot in front of the other causes your legs to turn into jelly.

Minho probably isn’t this nervous. He’s probably in a great mood, treating the occasion like it’s just another casual day.

Never before was it difficult, whether difficult is referred to as placing a key in a doorway or walking inside, everything seems so.. eminent.

Like when you walk through this door, an entirely new side of Minho will show face. A romantic side of Minho.

Yet, there’s no rose petals lining the hallway, nor scented candles scattered here and there.

What is there to expect with dating in your twenties anyway?

Plus, Minho’s well, Minho. If he wanted to, he likely would’ve flat-out asked already.

Something you’re surprised about, however, is the triangular string decor swooping from the ceiling, the party hats by the sink, a single birthday candle placed in the center of a cupcake. Simple, perfect.

Although, the perfect factor came with the man responsible, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, bracing himself on the countertop with a particular glow in his irises—whether it be from the lit candle you aren’t sure—that sets your stomach into a garden of butterflies.

A surprise party. He threw you a surprise birthday party.

And it’s then as enter the kitchen, brain barely recognizing each advance forward, you realize it.

You really, really want to date him.

And you really, really don’t want to screw this up.

Staring at each other, you rise up on your toes to place a careful, feather-light peck on the smooth, flushed skin of his cheek.

Slowly, he turns his head, a conniving smirk revealing the outline of his teeth whilst investigating your breathlessness.

“Someone’s daring,” He mumured, cocking a brow amusedly.

You poke his side, groaning that he shouldn’t look too far into it before he nudges you, your frown returned with a subtle nod—directed at the forgotten cupcake.

“Well you already gave me a kiss, so wish for something else.”

“Choke,” You respond, but there’s still no bite to it. Some things never change.

Minho gently holds your hair back for you, allowing you to lean over and blow out the candle. No bite.

Your wish?

Let Minho and I go well. I like us.

Every bit of it was the truth.

Hopefully this wish of yours can come true.

Maybe.

Seated on the living room floor do you finally relax, your shoulders slumping down after hours of monstrous tension. Seems you’d forgotten he was your best friend before anything else.

“So.. how does this work?”

‘Work’ as in, the dating deadline’s here, what’s next?

He purses his lips—a habit of his—blinking rapidly.

“Like friends? Except we get the kissing and sex pass in between, right?”

You smack his shoulder. He smiles, childishly extending his pinky out to you.

Linking yours, you press the pad of your thumb against his. An unspoken gesture.

“Together?”

Through thick and thin. Your way, as it always was, always had been.

He has stars in his tawny-globes for eyes.

“Together.”

Minho’s hands are warm in the midst of frigid temperatures.

Spring isn’t too far off, but the bitter winds remain ceaseless and unrelenting, whipping your hair every which way, scattering a plethora of goosebumps along your skin.

Never had you held hands like this with someone before, nonetheless Minho, and yet, a connection lies inside the initial awkwardness. The silent assurance, whether it’s his thumb smoothing your palm or occasional squeezes, telling you he understands, that you’re not alone, or how he patiently waited by the door the entire time you were getting ready, claiming he didn’t want to dirty your place with his shoes.

It’s sort of revitalizing. Curious and inquisitive in his lingering touches, additional notes—reminders on your coffee cup, questions asking whether you want to stay over afterward, if he can give you a kiss on the cheek.

One in particular you recall:

I miss you. Scribbled in bleeding ink.

Your introduction as lovers had been a field day of trials and questions for the two of you, though when it came down to the public’s knowledge, you began debating on the “curiosity killed the cat” theory.

This morning, catching a glimpse of the company’s logo in the distance, you assign yourself as the cat. Too interested, now suffering the consequences.

Granted, you wouldn’t take back moving to relationship status, but it was a lot easier to brush off comments if you were Minho.

Hyeongmi being the main one responsible for said comments.

Morning passed by seamlessly, prioritizing work above all else, too busy typing away to for any interruptions.

..Until a midday conference.

Seated right next to each other, his fingers slowly thread with yours beneath the table, sending the man a perplexed (and slightly nervous) expression in response.

More so, the comforting casualness caused you to barely recognize Mrs. Song reaching below to fetch her fallen pen, a gasp of surprise stilling the conversation at her realization.

“Are you- Are you two holding—?”

Panicked, you smack his hand away, stomach plummeting.

Not expecting him to stubbornly grab your hand again, a miniature frown draws across his perfectly rose lips.

Pouting.

Lee Minho is pouting because you’re not letting him hold your hand.

Unbelievable.

If the situation could escalate further, the she-devil herself (Hyeongmi) throws her head down to spare a glimpse, allowing you to fully accept your demise. A demise that, one way or another, needed to happen.

This was simply an early death.

“You’re kidding! No way you guys are a thing?” The eccentric girl mouths the last words, eyebrows drawn to her hairline.

And just like that, your relationship with Minho ventured out of your pocket and into a brand new wilderness.

“So…what’s it like living everybody’s dream?”

Headed to the bathroom, Hyeongmi stops you, leaned over the mirror, carefully inspecting her plum-colored lipstick.

“What?” You pique, confusedly glancing between her and the empty stall you’re trying to nonchalantly slip into.

“I mean, the entire company’s talking about it. Tell me, are you guys actually official? Or is this all just for the attention? No offense, but-“

“I...”

Want to punch you in the face.

You keep it to yourself.

“I’m gonna go.”

Synonymously, both your bladder and your appetite completely disappeared.

Although, she doesn’t leave you alone.

You’re frantically searching for excuse after excuse, speed-walking and taking the stairs any chance available.

Unfortunately for you, she’s everywhere. At some point you’re certain a tracking device is hidden somewhere on your clothes.

Almost there. From silently pleading help with your eyes to legitimately hiding in your workplace, today couldn’t have been more of a joke.

Or so you thought.

“Y/n?”

“Yes, Hyeongmi?”

“With Minho,” She nervously fiddles with her earrings. “You don’t have to tell me but.. how’s the bedroom?”

Apparently, it can go lower.

Before you can respond to her shamelessness, a grip fastens on your shoulders, cologne distinct enough you can tell exactly who it is.

Your beach day.

“Hyeongmi, you do realize that’s rude, yeah? Let’s not cross boundaries we shouldn’t cross, got it?”

All the while Minho smiles, this cloying, “I dare you” sort of attitude no one can argue with.

Averting her attention, she speedily raises up, humorlessly laughing off the tension while excusing herself from the room.

“You okay?” He whispers, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, pressing a chaste kiss there.

Yeah, there’s no getting used to this.

“Yep,” You say, though there isn’t much sincerity it.

He knows.

“Wait for me here, let’s walk home together.”

Ah. You want to kiss him.

“Minho.”

He turns on his heel.

Kiss me.

You’re holding his collar now, the option on the tip of your tongue, his lips a hairbreadth from yours.

Close, closer.

No. Not yet.

Either way, what do you know about kissing? What if you screw up?

Not yet.

“..Okay.”

Your gaze flits down to his lips if only for a second. A small, cheeky grin adorning his face as he follows your movements.

It’s hard to focus when he leaves, because all you can think about is the possibilities. What if you had kissed him? Would he have kissed you back?

By the way looked at you, the logical response would be: yes. Most people don’t stare at someone like that without the intent to kiss them, right?

Though somehow, you can’t help but feel unprepared, a complete novice in this battlefield of love.

Where Minho took you afterward was a mystery, merely happy to be away from the confines of your desk—letting his eager hand guide you wherever he pleased.

Shielded beneath the shade of two trees, your destination, Yeouido Park, is a spectacle during the transition period of winter to spring. You’d oftentimes spend hours here, basking in the relief a break grants. A spectacle where you two first truly met.

“Alright, be honest with me.”

He spins you around till you’re face to face, carefully analyzing your facial expression.

“Are you really okay? After Hyeongmi said that, I couldn’t stop thinking..”

Oh. That careful crease in his eyebrows, sympathetic.

He’s breaking your heart.

You realize now why everyone falls in love with him.

“Of me?”

The words come out involuntarily, a step forward in the newness, paving light through the darkened abyss.

“Yeah..” He says, a little winded while doing so.

Minho cares, he always had, yet, it’s your first time hearing it aloud.

“Y/n.”

Blinking yourself back into reality, your face grows warm, not intending to deliberately space out right in front of him.

He leans forward, causing you to shrink back into your skin as a kiss is planted right atop your nose, the man wearing a satisfied grin.

“Hey- You can’t- It’s not Valentines yet—“

“And why would I wait until Valentine’s day?”

Another deeper red burns your cheeks, and you scorn the way he gets under your skin—a way that makes every insult dissolve like powder on your tongue.

He notices, but decides not to prod further, lightly bumping your hip with his own as a signal to follow.

“Tomorrow is the day, y’know,” You mumble, kicking rocks with the tip of your shoe.

“Are we gonna turn into those couples?” He asks, pretentiously puckering his lips, eyes squinted shut.

You burst out laughing.

“I would break up with you first, sorry Minho.” Said puckered lips transform into a playful scowl.

“What? No treat for valentines?”

Blinking babydoll eyes up at you, you wrinkle your nose, coming to recognize what “treat” he was implying.

Earlier you would’ve kissed instantly, but an inkling of stubbornness kept you from giving into him this time.

Sneaking behind you, he ducks down, voice low enough for only your ears to hear.

“Didn’t seem you were too against it earlier.”

And with that, he races off, entirely too happy with himself and not likely to live down your reaction. Because you can’t disagree.

Since when were Lee Minho’s lips so kissable?

Knock.

Knock.

Your attention strays from the mirror at the sound, wondering if it was simply a figment of your imagination only for the sound to ensue.

Knock. Knock.

Who would be at your door at this hour in the middle of the week?

There’s a name on your tongue, but you don’t contemplate any longer, tiptoeing to the doorway to peer through the peephole.

And the sight before you makes every ounce of suspicion worthwhile.

Minho, holding a bouquet of roses and things unknown behind his back, is reciting.

He’s staring at his shoes, bouncing back and forth on his heels nervously.

Lee Minho is nervous.

Wanting just to stand there and watch him rehearse, you finally give in after a third knock scares you out of your wits—hesitantly opening the door and trying to placate the most surprised expression possible.

His eyes round as saucers, you literally watch the gears in his head turn in real time, extending the flowers out to you.

“Happy valentines. These are uh, for you.”

And his ears are red.

You’re going to implode from how cute this is.

Attempting to stave down the alarming amount of happiness you’re experiencing, you hold the flowers in one hand, awaiting whatever lie behind his back.

Although, as the outline of a box of chocolates appears, so does… a shampoo bottle.

What.

Bathing in a long silence, you can’t help but wonder you’re genuinely hallucinating. Glancing from his face to the literal shampoo in hand, he mirrors you, confused for a reason you’re trying to figure out as well.

“Is that… a shampoo bottle?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you were running low the last time I came here.”

…

You’ve never received a valentine before, but this automatically took the cake.

Is it possible to fall in love after you’re given a shampoo bottle as a gift on valentines? Apparently so.

Nonetheless, work flashed past, barely able to register a thing between the many congratulations you received and the absence of Hyeongmi (assumed to be due to the brown-haired charmer beside you).

For now, you savor the freedom of the day, finally able to escape the pains of before and wallow in a new kind of excitement. Love.

Love delivered by Minho himself in the form of mini scraps he’s folded into hearts, slipping heart after heart onto your desk at any opportunity to the point you bump his leg beneath the table in warning.

He cheekily smirks in return, stupidly innocent face scheming with malice.

He’s getting an absolute kick out of this, and you hate to admit you enjoy it just as much.

As usual, you wait behind for him to catch up on your daily commute home—an activity you did long before any romantic feelings became involved.

That’s it. Minho’s pinpoint of romance.

Shampoo bottle, walks home, extra coffee, notes.

Minho doesn’t openly express his love, not unless he feels either adventurous or obligated. Instead, he studies. Your habits, the things you enjoy, your actions, preferences. That particular coffee order you liked, how you had ran out of shampoo.

Oh how you love him.

Though, rounding the sidewalk to your place, Minho grabs ahold of your wrist. In response, as soon as you turn your head, you’re mere centimeters from his face, simply standing there, proximity willing either of you not to move.

Initial words dying out, he slightly edges to the side, cocked in a way that has your mind racing.

Nose, cheek, but never lips.

No.

Your hands act before any other part of you, blocking his lips from yours.

“We-“

The look he’s giving you, shock.

You feel a hundred degrees hotter.

“We need to go inside,” You excuse yourself fast, the man tailing behind, grip still loosely attached to your wrist.

Quickly shutting the door behind you, it’s an immediate embarrassment flooding your frame that allows you to speak, words bursting outward in an uncontrollable cacophony.

“Minho I’m so sorry I have no idea what I was doing, I shouldn’t have done that, it was a stupid idea. I didn’t mean to offend you or anything-“

“Hey, slow down. I’m not going anywhere.”

His tone serves as the much needed breeze fanning your face, cooling you down enough to articulate sentences properly.

“I’m sorry, we’ve just never kissed on the lips and I feel like I’m gonna be horrible and kill the mood. This is stupid, I know, just.. bear with me please?”

His eyebrows furrow, forming together the equation piece by piece.

“You’ve.. You’ve never had your first kis—?”

You hush him furiously, slumping onto the couch dejectedly.

Yet, Minho doesn’t laugh nor pick fun regardless of how hilariously idiotic the occasion is. He’s quiet, concerned almost.

You add that to your long list of things you love about him.

Inhaling gradually, your focus flits to the window, collecting yourself, easing the frantic rush-hour traffic rampaging in your skull.

If you were one of those paper hearts he made, he’s pulling apart each careful fold in this very moment. Unraveling the layers till your bare self is exposed in all its anxiousness.

“I hate it. It feels like a part of that teenage youth everyone talks about is something I’ll never get to experience. I was too busy caring about school, and now I feel like I’ve missed out.”

Soaking in a quietness, you jump when he places a hand over yours, softly tracing the skin of your knuckles, glossy as he watches, carving each perfect aspect of you into memory.

“Well you may not be seventeen, but you’re never too old to learn to kiss.”

One hand cupping your jaw to garner your attention, you’re met with a glass-like visage.

Gentle.

“And I can teach you how.”

It’s always been business, you’ve always been business. Which is why, now confronting what feels to be the highest peak in your love life, you’re left a completely blank canvas. No rules, no instructions.

It’s terrifying.

“Min- Minho, I really haven’t done this before.”

You hastily pique, scooting backward in the cushions.

Curse the shakiness of your voice.

“If you don’t want to do this, tell me. We won’t.”

You quickly shake your head.

No, you want this, you’ve wanted this too badly to back out now.

“Then let’s take it slow, okay?”

It’s horrifically awkward at first, a tiny peck, then a bit longer till your arms creep over his shoulders, his fingers once holding your jaw steady now resting on your neck.

Best word to describe it? Messy.

“Breathe through your nose.”

“Minho— I’m suffocating here—“

You sputter back, quite literally heaving for breath.

Yes, it was otherworldly kissing him, and he was an insanely good kisser, but did this really require your lungs to practically burst?

“Are you teaching me how to give a blowjob or kiss?”

His smile transforms mischievously, a sneering laugh slipping past. You already know he’ll make a sly comment.

Minho winks. “We’ll get to that later.”

“I lost my urge to date you. Bye.”

“Noooo Y/n~” He whines profusely, warm hold on your waist beckoning another kiss filled with hushed giggles and incessant jeers from either party—ensuing a halfway unbuttoned shirt and quite possibly the most greedy ten minutes known to man.

Out of breath, he pulls back from your stomach, the ticklish feather-light kisses planted there earning a stifled giggle from you while he blinks upward, seeming to be focused on something.

“Minho?” You question, ignorant to how unbelievably obsessed with you he is, more than ever in this moment.

From your damp, sweaty skin to the few hairs stuck to your forehead. Your swollen lips, the way you laugh, your stomach dipping with the action. He doubts he’ll ever get tired of this.

Reaching forward as if caught in a trance, he tenderly tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, voice barely audible upon pressing his forehead against yours.

And in the seclusion of your living room, tangled up together on the sofa, it’s just the two of you existing in this world.

“I hope you know I really meant it when I said I thought you were pretty too.”

Ah. He remembers. All that time ago.

Of course he does.

Kissing you for a time you can’t remember, you begin to wonder if that birthday wish of yours had came true after all.

Your feelings for Minho had always existed somewhere inside of you. Your head, your heart. A tiny inkling into something more, a could be. Two individuals wishing, waiting to make a move.

It seems the Valentines Pact sealed the deal.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

FIC TAGLIST. @gimmeurtmi @jisuperboard @porang-poranglinos @palindrome969 @stayceebs97 @inniescandy-01 @idklin0

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