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— please don't translate, modify, plagiarize, or repost without proper permission, no nsfw, there will be trigger warnings before every fic, will not be writing anything about characters that are minors, unless platonic
summary. Nicknames catch on really quick in your group of friends. And for you, you have been dubbed the Mama to Tucker’s Papa.
pairing. John Tucker x Reader
tags. Fluff, Friends being friends, I have no idea if this is ooc or not, but I tried</3
ice time. 2.7k
Usually, you wouldn’t have minded.
Nicknamed are big in your group. Hannah first became Han-Han to you and Allie, and then later on, Wellsy, when Garrett joined the picture. Allie was Als, then Allie-Cat from Dean, and you were called multiple variations of your name by your two best friends before another one clicked.
And this one was Mama.
Sometimes Mom. Most of the time Mother.
And really, it made sense. You more often than not took on the caretaker role. Designated Driver during parties, the friend who prepares tea and hangover soup the next morning. The one that would be at home in the kitchen than anywhere else.
You really wouldn’t have minded.
If it didn’t mean that being Mama was having a Papa to be paired with.
And that Papa, was none other than Tucker, hockey player, anchor to the boys’ group, and resident cook of the house. One of your closest friends after Hannah and Allie, and most of that stemmed from both of you bonding over your very nurturing characteristics.
Dean started the whole thing.
It happened on a normal Friday night. Everyone had chosen to hang out that night, with the idea of movies, dinner and a few drinks. Soft music came from the living room while Hannah and Garrett argued over the movie considering it was their turn to pick that night. The rest were out on a beer run, and dinner fell on you and Tucker, as it usually did.
Tucker stood beside you at the stove while you chopped vegetables.
Neither of you had actually planned on cooking together.
It just sort of... happened. It was Tucker’s turn that night, and when you got tired of waiting in the living room, you got up and headed to the kitchen.
“Hey.” You sat on one of the stools, leaning forward as you watches him prep. Tucker looked up, and smiled. “Hey. You got bored?”
“Yeah. Doomscrolling while Han and Garrett argued over whether to pick a romcom or a horror movie was amusing only for the first ten minutes.”
Tucker snorted. You watched him grab a pan. “Not surprised. So, you decided to head here?”
“I think I’d much rather be here than there at the moment.” You chuckle. Then you eye the vegetables on the table. “What are you preparing?”
“Mac and Cheese. Probably a lot of it. And—” He gestures over to the vegetables. “Something with those. I haven’t decided yet.”
You hum, tilting your head. “Need help?”
His head snaps up to you, brow raising. “You don’t have to. It’s my turn tonight.”
“Yeah, but I want to.” You shrug, sliding off the stool to take the knife from his hand. “Now scoot over, you work on the Mac and cheese and whatever thing you’ll do, I’ll handle the prep.”
Tucker grins, letting out a laugh before moving to the stove. “Yes ma’am.”
Sometime in the middle of it, you settled in a familiar, but also not familiar routine.
You handed him ingredients before he asked for them. He moved aside before you needed the space. You knew exactly where he kept everything, and he knew exactly how much seasoning you liked adding.
At one point, Tucker held out his hand behind him without looking.
You immediately placed the spatula into it.
And Dean happened to walk in at that exact moment, arms full with six packs.
Both your heads snap up, at the sound of someone entering, Tucker’s hand still holding the spatula, and your arm still outstretched in the middle of handing it over.
The silence lasted three seconds, before a shit-eating grin spread on Dean’s face. “Oh my god.”
You and Tucker blinked at him
"What?" Tucker asked.
Dean stared.
Then he puts the six packs down on the counter, and pointed between the two of you again, the grin on his face not at all wavering.
“You guys are literally like— Mom and Dad.”
You make a face. “Dean, what the hell are you—”
“No, like. I mean, I did comment on it to Allie-Cat about how you two seem to have this flow in the kitchen but seeing it happen just solidified the whole thing.”
“You’re being weird, Di Laurentis.” Tuckers laughs, turning his attention back to the sauce, stirring it with the spatula while you work on what you decided to be coleslaw. You nod along, but Dean shakes his head.
“I’m serious. Wait Allie-Cat,” He calls for Allie who pops her head up from the couch she flopped onto the moment they returned from the beer run. “Agree with me here.” Dean gestures to you and Tucker. “Mama y Papa.”
Allie blinks, then grins. “Yeah, I see it.”
Dean looks back at the two of you. “See!” He points at you. “Mama.” Then to Tucker. “Papa.”
“Dean.” You groaned.
“No, no, it works.” Hannah piped in from her place next to Garrett. “I mean, we already call you Mom as a joke. And Tucker is Dad here. It just works.”
“Oh my god.” You sigh, and turn to Tucker, who doesn’t seem like he has a problem with the whole thing, grinning in amusement when he met your gaze.
“So, we’re calling them Mama and Papa now?” Logan interrupts as he heads down from, looking between the kitchen and living room. He eyes you and Tucker, before nodding. “I can roll with it.”
The nickname stuck, and spread in the friend group like a highly contagious disease. And with the nickname came the teasing.
-
“Oh good, Mama brought snacks.” You looked up from unloading grocery bags onto the counter to find Hannah already reaching for the chips.
"Hannah."
"What?" she asked innocently.
"You are twenty-one years old."
"Yeah."
"You can buy your own snacks."
"Why would I do that when Mama always remembers?"
"Han-Han."
"Love you too, Mother."
Across the kitchen while unloading the other grocery bag, Tucker tried not to laugh as loud at the incredulous look on your face.
You kicked his shin.
He ended up laughing anyways.
-
Then there was the movie night incident.
Everyone had crammed themselves onto the couch, fighting over blankets and snacks.
You'd gotten up to grab more popcorn, and when you returned, your spot had disappeared, because Dean just moved slightly to your spot, and you stared at him.
Dean only grinned, patting the spot where he once sat, which is conveniently, next to Tucker.
You glowered. “Dean.”
He grinned wider. “Sit beside Dad, Mom.”
You froze, and you catch Tucker visibly stiffen, his eyes flickering to you, then to Dean.
Dean looked between the two of you.
"What?"
"Dean," you warned.
"What? Married couples sit together."
"We are not married."
"Yet."
Your friends just exchange grins and teases, your face immediately going hot. You glance at Tucker, and ignored the way your stomach flipped slightly when he met your gaze, before burying his face in his hands at another tease.
He groaned into his hands. "You people are unbelievable."
This time, it was your turn to smile in amusement at his reaction.
Things only escalated by the end of the month with the road trip, which was a six-hour drive to a neighboring city for a random weekend getaway.
You had volunteered to drive the car, and Tucker offered to sit at the front and switch with you when you were halfway.
It was reasonable, so you agreed, and when the day came, it was Dean (again) who made a huge deal about it.
"Oh look."
"Dean." Tucker was the first to give Dean a pointed look while you sigh in the driver’s seat.
"The family car."
You eye him. "Dean."
"Mama and Papa taking the kids—"
"DEAN."
Needless to say, by the time you reached the hotel, your patience was hanging by a thread.
Tucker, unfortunately, thought your annoyed face was hilarious.
"You know," he said as the group unloaded bags, "you get this wrinkle right here when you're mad."
You stared.
He poked between your eyebrows, his grin widening when you nearly slapped his hand away.
"You’re testing my patience.” You glowered.
His grin widened, and he nudged you. "I’m just pointing things out.”
“I hate you.”
He shut the trunk door, and grinned. “Nah. You love me.”
Something in your chest tightens. You choose to instead huff and ignore the feeling, turning on your heel just as Logan comes by to grab the other bags.
-
Months passed, and you thought the joke would have died down along with it.
It kind of did. Because the joke stopped being a joke.
People stopped questioning it. Everyone stopped laughing every time, instead treating it like it was normal.
And it did, because at some point, becoming the Mom and Dad of the group became normal.
It became a fact. An accepted thing.
Which somehow made it ten times worse, because somewhere along the way, the joke stopped feeling entirely like a joke.
At least to you.
And judging by the way Tucker sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention—
Maybe not to him either.
You didn’t know when you started liking him. When it stopped being just a nickname to you. But you could pinpoint when things really started to change between you and Tucker.
It was another Friday night gathering.
Another Friday night where you find yourself in the kitchen with Tucker. Usually, you’d have the others clean up while you lounge in the living room after making dinner, but after another round of jests that Logan started this time:
“You both are disgustingly domestic. Just get together already.” He points out.
Grace, new to the group but had already caught on and was definitely in on the whole thing, nodded along. “It’s cute. Like you’re married and all.” You didn’t shoot them your usual pointed glares, instead opting to look away, but Logan caught the flush in your cheeks and, like Dean, made a huge scene about it enough to get the attention of the others.
“Oh my god you’re blushing.”
Allie looked at Tucker, and grins. “Tucker’s blushing too!”
“Oh my god this is new.” Dean cackles.
You sent them all out for snack and beer runs so that the house would be quiet from all their jests, but you didn’t think ahead far enough because now you’re alone with Tucker.
The silence between you in the kitchen is usually comfortable. Familiar. Easy.
But tonight, its different. Heavy and awkward, like the all of the teasing finally settled into something more real between you two.
You curse yourself for not thinking ahead, busying your hands with drying a plate. Tucker was putting the dishes away, and it was silent for a long time (a minute), until he finally broke it with by clearing his throat.
“So.”
At the same time, you also decided to break the silence, and looked up to face him. Both of your faces were flushed, embarrassment obvious on either of your faces.
“So.”
You both stare at each other for a brief moment, before you both burst into laughter.
The tension cracked immediately.
When the laughter dies down, Tucker nervously shrugs at you, shifting his weight. “So, like, you don’t mind?”
“Mind what?” You blink at him.
Tucker rubs the back of his neck, and gestures vaguely. “Well. The whole… Mama, Papa thing.”
You stare at him, before letting out a shy laugh. “No. Not really. I don’t mind…”
“You sure?” He eyes you for a moment, and the seriousness in his gaze makes your stomach flip. “I mean, I could always tell them to back off.”
You shake your head. “No.”
“No?” A brow raises.
“No.”
He meets your gaze, and you swallow. “I mean, I don’t mind.” You look down at the dishtowel in your hands, and mumbled quietly, “I think it’s cute.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
When you dared glance up again, Tucker was staring.
Not a hint of amusement or anything close to teasing in his gaze. Then he smiled.
It was soft, and dangerous, and you feel your heart stutter in your chest.
“Yeah?” He hums, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity makes you want to hide, but instead, you try to cover up the way your heart is pounding by looking away and grumbling, “Don’t make me repeat it.”
His grin widened. "I wasn't gonna."
"Liar."
"Maybe I was."
You rolled your eyes.
He laughed, and you lightly swing the dishtowel at him, earning an offended gasp and a “Hey!” from him. Your grins don’t exactly fade as you went back into the routine of wiping and putting away the dishes again, but something new has settled between you.
Something warm. Something hopeful. A quiet understanding about something that has been brewing there for months.
Dean noticed first. Of course he did. But it was mostly because neither of you were very good at hiding things. Or that neither of you was exactly hiding anything.
Tucker started sitting beside you more often, and you always saved the seat next to you.
He'd bring you coffee, meeting your outside your classes to walk you to your next one.
Sometimes, you'd drop by to bring him food.
You'd steal his hoodies. He'd let you.
Dean pointed it out to Allie. Allie told him to let it happen.
That wouldn’t stop him from commenting on it when he recognized the hoodie you were wearing after Hockey practice and you tagged along with Hannah and Allie.
"You guys are disgusting."
"Don’t be such a hypocrite, Dean." You poke at him. He scoffs, but doesn’t deny it. I mean why would he deny it, when Allie herself is wearing his hoodie?
You grin, "Exactly."
The funny thing is that neither of you were explicitly going out. No confession, no formal talk. It was just an understanding that settled after that one night, though you did think about actually doing the whole confession thing.
But it seemed like Tucker thought the same thing.
Because just a few days later, sometime around the early afternoon. It was just you and Tucker. A simple invitation to hang out, making lunch and all that.
You were helping Tucker clean up. Again.
Because apparently that was your thing. He was drying dishes. You were washing them.
Routine. Something normal. Comfortable.
"You know," Tucker suddenly said.
"Hm?"
"I think Dean might actually pass out if we started dating."
You nearly dropped a plate, glancing at him with squinted eyes.
"Tucker."
"What?"
"Tucker."
His laugh was warm.
You shook your head, but despite yourself, you smiled. “He would. Definitely.”
The room went quiet.
You glanced over.
Tucker was already looking at you.
The smile slowly faded from his face. Not like in a bad way, just in a manner that was softer. Serious.
Your breath hitches. “Tucker…”
He steps closer, “I’m not saying this because of the whole nickname thing.” He murmurs. “I’m saying this because I like you, and I'd really like to date you. If you'd let me.”
The plate nearly slipped from your hands, but he catches it, setting it down in the sink. His gaze doesn't stray from yours, and you can feel your face heat up. "Tuck."
"Yeah?"
Your heart felt like it was trying to escape your chest.
"You have really terrible timing."
His grin returned.
"You saying no?"
You stared, then tilted your head back and laughed. A beat, and you shake your head with a chuckle, "No."
His expression softened immediately.
"No?"
"No."
The smile that spread across his face was blinding.
“This confirmation that I get to call you my girlfriend now?” You grin.
“Yeah.” And when he leans in, you tilt your head up in response. It's gentle. Careful, and you’re both smiling into it, and just as you pull away, you couldn't help thinking that maybe Dean had been onto something all along.
The next day, you walked into the hockey house holding Tucker's hand.
The silence lasted long enough for everyone's gaze to flicker from your joined hands, then back to you.
“Are you guys actually…” Hannah tentatively asks, pointing from you to Tucker.
You nod. He just smiles, simply squeezing your hand tighter, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Mama and Papa finally got together," Dean announced dramatically.
You just laugh, finding a seat on the couch. Tucker instead pulls you onto his lap, smiling widely, and for the first time since the nickname started—
• ☆ . ° .• ° . ☆ John Tucker looks cute in his bee costume. You get cuteness aggression.
Entering the hockey house and seeing your boyfriend in a bee costume became the highlight of your night.
“Tuck.” You gasp the moment you spotted him, and you have to physically stop the urge from making the most embarrassing squeal. It was muffled against your hand as you weave through the crowd. The moment you stop in front of him, you have to fight back the painfully obvious smile threatening to grow on your face, and he only lifted a hand to you.
“No. Baby no.”
“But Tuck—”
The costume was just the barebones of a bee costume. A black and yellow tank and wings, but it was enough for you to find the idea of a bee costume on your boyfriend adorable.
“No.” His lips curl into what could be a pout, and it definitely did not help the fact that you found him absolutely adorable. You bite the inside of your cheek, and his eyes narrow at you.
“Oh my god you’re so cute.”
“Baby.”
“I want to bite you.”
“Oh god.” Tucker laughs, but he keeps his hand raised it like the distance would keep you away from him. It doesn’t, and you immediately corner him, hands on his cheeks while you squeal.
“Look at you!”
“[Name]—”
“You have little wings!” You squish his cheeks.
“It is a bee costume.”
“You look so cute!”
“Yes, babe-“
“And your stupid face!”
“Stupid??” He sputters, but you interrupt him, pressing a kiss to his lips. Then his cheeks, forehead, and anywhere that you can kiss.
Tucker would only laugh, half-leaning into your touch, half trying to fight back by gently trying to pry you away, but its obvious that he isn’t against the kisses. “Guys.” He manages to call out to Dean and the rest in the kitchen. “Help she’s attacking me.”
“You look happy about it.” Dean snorts.
Logan lets out a laugh, patting Dean’s back. “Don’t help him, he’s exactly where he wants to be.”
Tucker finds himself in the corner of the kitchen, your hands on his cheeks while you aggressively shower him kisses, giggling about how cute he looks.
His cheeks are flushed, and he keeps getting knowing smiles and winks from the others when they walk by, none of them really helping him out, instead laughing at the sight of him being completely smothered in kisses by his girlfriend because she’s currently going through what you call cuteness aggression.
“Baby.” He huffs, but it’s quickly replaced by a smitten grin when you only peck his lips as you beam.” Oh, hush, Tuck.” You squeeze his cheeks, grinning widely as your chest tightens at the sight of him. “You’re just adorable in the costume, let me love you.”
“I know, but I’m pretty sure your lipstick is all over me.”
You beam. “It definitely is, but I’m not budging”
His retort is drowned out by the kiss you pull him into, complaints dying in his throat as his lipstick covered mouth only curls into a smile.
𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x fem! bio student! reader
𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : panic attack-esque breakdown but isn't mentioned explicitly, academic pressure leading to burnout induced meltdown.
𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : Being a biology student was no easy feat, especially when every single one of your classes for the past week had decided to not only give you tests on crucial topics, but also make them count towards your final grade. It's the end of said demon-week, and you only have one test left, but when you've been working on a prayer and a concerning amount of coffee, what happens when it just doesn't work anymore?
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 6k words
𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : Sooooo, this was a request as well!! a little bit of comfort for everyone going through it right now! You guys got this and if you dont, lock in and then read this to cure the burn out, the briar U gang and I believe in you. Thank you @pinkyups for the gif and @somebitchprobably-graphicdump for the dividers !
𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 : I would really appreciate if you could send in an ask to be on my taglist, it's easier for me to manage and make sure everyone is added!! here is the post of my current taglist. Also, if your user is bolded, I'm going on a prayer that youve been tagged but Tumblr wouldn't let me properly do so. I would recommend checking your privacy settings to allow other people to tag you.
If only a few months ago, someone told you that you’d be sitting on the kitchen island of briar u’s infamous hockey house. You would’ve spat in their face and thrown out witch allegations. But, as it so happens, you were currently proving yourself wrong since you were in fact sat at said kitchen island, at 2 in the morning.
What was especially life altering was the fact that the hockey house at two in the morning felt fundamentally different from the version people saw during the day.
Quieter, obviously.
There was still the low hum of the refrigerator somewhere behind you, the occasional groan of pipes in the walls, distant traffic bleeding through the kitchen windows in soft waves. Someone upstairs snored loud enough that it periodically rattled the ceiling and every so often the house settled with little creaks that sounded almost human in the dark.
You had been staring at the same paragraph for twenty-three minutes, and you’re pretty sure the windows loading screen was implanted into your brain in that time.
From the outside, you still looked productive enough. Your notes were spread methodically across the kitchen island in organised little piles, colour coded tabs sticking from textbooks, highlighters lined neatly beside your laptop alongside enough empty coffee cups to medically concern most people. Your laptop screen glowed brightly against the otherwise dim kitchen, lecture slides open beside three different quizlets and a half-finished practice paper that had slowly become your mortal enemy sometime around midnight.
Your knee bounced aggressively beneath the stool.
One of your hoodie sleeves had been pulled over your hand completely, the cuff half-chewed from absentminded stress while your other hand tapped your pencil rhythmically against the counter.
Tap tap tap.
Pause.
Tap tap tap.
You reread the sentence again, hoping the information would magically inject itself into your brain. Still nothing.
Your eyes skimmed over the words, recognising them individually but refusing to process them collectively, which somehow felt even more insulting considering this was material you’d already revised twice.
You exhaled slowly through your nose, pressing your temples in an attempt to settle the dull ache behind your eyes.
Fine. Whatever. Maybe your brain just needed a second.
You sat up straighter on the stool and reached for your coffee, immediately grimacing when the cold bitter liquid hit your tongue. It truly was a miracle what a red bull and coffee could produce if brewed together. Thankfully, nobody would know of your creation since you cleaned up the evidence and were currently drinking through the undeniable urge to gag it all out.
Your planner sat open beside you, pages covered in your handwriting so intensely neat it bordered on threatening. Every hour of the week had been scheduled down to frightening precision - lectures, revision blocks, assignment deadlines, office hours, reading lists.
And still somehow, the tasks outweighed the hours- the day you made the schedule was the day you cursed those who didn’t warn you that at Briar, everyone here had already been the smartest person in the room somewhere else.
You had spent most of your life being good at things naturally enough that effort felt almost embarrassing to admit to. High school had been manageable. Predictable.
Briar was different, at Briar, everyone was either born with the syllabus out of the womb or could somehow use textbook pages to roll and smoke a joint- still managing to come out with a 4.0 GPA. Which just meant every mistake, no matter how tiny, felt absurdly catastrophic.
You clicked your pen repeatedly while rereading the practice question in front of you.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Your eye twitched.
“Okay,” you muttered quietly to yourself, dragging a hand down your face. “No, because actually what the fuck is oxidative phosphorylation.”
The kitchen answered you unhelpfully with silence, bar the occasional drip of the sink- which didn’t help since it added another item to you todo list, “tell Logan to fix the kitchen sink”. You prayed your brain would remember it for longer than 20 seconds, but given that it could barely splutter together the material you swore was genetically implanted into your DNA , you didn’t have much hope.
Alright, new strategy- you turned your focus to your laptop. You’d make this test your bitch, one way or another.
The diagram on your laptop stared back at you smugly.
Or not. You glared at the behemoth of a biological diagram, weird, blob-like shapes were sprayed across the screen with equally sharp, taunting labels and colours that honestly, should never be used in association with the human body.
Your phone buzzed from somewhere across the large island, most likely beneath a pile of flashcards- you barely broke eye contact with your goliath. It was probably Allie. Or Hannah. Or someone in your intro to human biology class freaking out about the test.
The notification popped up in the corner of your screen, it was both of them. Teaming up to tell you to go to sleep before your body gave out and somebody had to physically remove you from campus again.
You swiped it away dismissively. Not happening.
You still had two chapters left to revise, one practice paper unfinished and exactly nine hours before the test. Which in theory, sounded manageable. In practice however, you would willingly let Dean teach you about anal sex and somehow understand it better than the words in front of you. Your brain was buffering dramatically against your task list.
You rubbed hard at your eyes before leaning back over your notes again, trying desperately to force yourself into focus.
“Just lock the fuck in.” You whispered to yourself, frustrated with the way your shoulders slumped tiredly and legs began to numb from where they were awkwardly folded beneath you.
Just focus.
Your pencil tapped faster, eyes burning as you forced them to read the same line four more times.
Nothing.
An annoyed groan left your lips, because you could feel yourself slipping.
Feel your concentration dissolving around the edges while your body keeps trying to push forward anyway. Your thoughts felt sluggish and overcrowded at the same time, every tiny unfinished task pressing against the inside of your skull until even breathing felt vaguely unproductive.
And still, you scolded your weary body and brain- convincing them to just keep going. One more hour. One more minute.
Because the alternative was stopping, and you wouldn’t dare consider it. Stopping meant acknowledging that maybe you physically couldn’t keep up with the pace you’d set for yourself- and the mere hypothetical made something uncomfortable curl in your chest.
You reached for another flashcard.
Read half of it and… forgot what it said immediately.
A near hysterical laugh escaped you before you could stop it, fingers curling around the innocent card-stock. You wacked yourself with the flimsy thing before pausing with it pressed against your forehead, squeezing your eyes shut for a second longer than you deemed necessary.
You were fine, it's just a little stress. Everyone at Briar was stressed, and you refused to be the coward who was complaining about a little sleep deprivation and one difficult exam.
Your eyes opened again and landed on the digital clock glowing faintly on the microwave, the numbers slightly blurry.
2:07 AM.
You stared at it for a moment.
Then immediately looked back down at your notes like refusing to acknowledge the time would somehow stop it existing.
Tap tap ta-
The pencil snapped clean in half, one side stayed clasped in your hand whilst the other rolled uselessly away from you. At least something was escaping this revision nightmare. You froze, staring longingly at the traitorous piece of wood, scoffing in a kind of exhausted disbelief normally reserved for personal betrayals.
Then you laughed again, burying your face in your hands.
Dangerously close to tears.
The kitchen light had been on long enough that Logan eventually noticed it in his sleep, not at first, just distantly, somewhere beneath the heavy haze of exhaustion and late-night dreams, his brain registered the thin strip of warm light cutting underneath his bedroom door which made him subconsciously shuffle around the bed, eyebrows furrowing when he sensed a change in the environment around him.
Because you were supposed to be upstairs.
More specifically, you were supposed to be asleep beside him.
Logan woke slowly, one arm stretching instinctively across the mattress before meeting cold sheets instead of your body. For a second he just blinked at the ceiling, disoriented in that miserable way people were at two in the morning, before finally pushing himself upright with a tired groan.
He sat up, swaying tiredly as his eyes adjusted to the rude awakening, his room was dark besides the faint orange glow of campus lights bleeding through the blinds and your side of the bed was empty.
Not recently empty either, the sheets had settled and emanated a chill that suggested you’d been gone for a few hours.
Logan scrubbed a hand down his face and began to search for something to cover up with. He already knew where you’d be.
The same place you always ended up when your brain refused to let you rest.
He shoved himself out of bed and reached blindly for the pair of grey sweatpants abandoned somewhere near the desk chair, dragging them on low over his hips before stumbling toward the door. His Briar hockey team hoodie hung half-off the back of the chair and he tugged it over his head without much thought, still too sleepy to care that it was inside out.
The stairs creaked under his weight, making him grimace and shift his feet experimentally- trying to make his way down quietly without disrupting the hushed atmosphere. The house was dead, Tucker wasn’t flopping around the couch yelling at a video game, Dean wasn’t raiding the protein powder cupboard, Garrett's old classic rock wasn’t blaring out of the speaker. It was just silent.
Then you came into view, and it was like seeing a zombie in a graveyard. Logan stilled in his tracks.
It was exactly as he’d pictured you, hunched over the kitchen island, hair fluttering out the braid you’d messily done, probably when you first fled from the bedroom- your legs were pretzeled beneath you as you stared at your laptop, frozen in time with notes covering every inch of the island around you.
The stool you sat on vibrated from the force of your knee bouncing, even the empty coffee cups and highlighters jolted considerably; from what Logan could make out, almost seven different tabs were open across your screen, the garish light illuminated your face as you glanced up a few times, your hoodie sleeve covering half your hand while you aggressively annotated something in the margins of your textbook with enough force to threaten the integrity of the page itself.
He carefully treaded towards you, close enough to make out the look on your face. Sheer exhaustion plagued your features, not the normal version either, you didn’t have a lick of sleepiness on your face, it was probably wrung out from how wound tight you were. This kind of exhaustion settled beneath your skin and turned every small inconvenience into a potential psychological breakdown
Logan paused briefly for a second, just watching you. His chest tightened a little, because this had been your life for the past week. Barely eating unless necessary, sleep was just a polite grievance that you gave into once in a while when you weren’t studying into the night until your eyes were glassy. And somehow, you still thought people would believe you when you insisted that you were fine.
You muttered something under your breath at your laptop before aggressively clicking your pen- the sound was sharp enough to bring Logan back into the scene that laid out before him.
Click.Click.Click.
“Baby?” He came up behind you, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and pressing his hand against your back. You startled so hard that the pen slipped from your fingers.
Logan immediately felt a little bad when you spun toward him with wide eyes, before you expression settled into something defensive.
“I’m studying.”
Logan’s brows lifted as he unscrewed the bottle slowly,
“Yeah,” he said slowly, voice still rough with sleep, “I gathered that.”
You huffed quietly and looked back down at your notes, this close up, he could see how much worse you looked. There were faint shadows beneath your eyes, and you posture had curled inward, hostile in that specific way when you were overwhelmed but trying to hide it
“When did you come down here?”
“Like…” You squinted at the microwave clock, “Midnight?”
Logan blinked.
“Baby, it’s two in the morning.”
“I know what time it is.”
The sharpness in your voice surprised the both of you, mainly you, since you recoiled back and tightened your face apologetically.
“I didn’t mean-”
“It’s okay.”
Logan cut you off gently before you could spiral into apologising. He shifted closer, resting one hand against the counter beside your thigh while looking over the mess of notes in front of you.
Biochemistry.
Jesus Christ.
“You should come to bed.”
“No.”
You didn’t even look up from the equations scribbled onto the paper in front of you, dismissing the idea entirely, like the suggestion itself stressed you out.
You rubbed hard at your eyes before looking back down at your laptop screen.
“I still have so much left.”
Logan studied you quietly for a second. Normally, he would’ve pushed harder. Normally, he’d already be halfway through physically carrying you upstairs while you complained dramatically over his shoulder.
But this version of you would’ve gouged his eye out without thinking if he dared something like that. This version of you was overstimulated, overworked and balancing precariously on a thread built by your psyche.
So instead, Logan just moved beside you, dragging a stool closer so he could slide in and rest a hand on your thigh absentmindedly, leaning lightly into your shoulder.
You exhaled shakily through your nose, when he ghosted his nose against your cheek, nuzzled delicately.
“What are you working on?” he asked softly, tilting his head to squint his eyes at the paper that twitched under your fingers.
“Oxidative phosphorylation.”
Logan stared at you.
“Gesundheit.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched slightly.
“There are literally ATP synthase pathways in my nightmares now.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s not. I wish it was”
Logan hummed sympathetically like he understood literally any of what you were saying. He didn’t, but he knew enough to know that when your voice sounded too tight, the content was hammering around in your brain with the elegance of a troll.
You clicked your pen again.
And again.
And again.
Logan’s gaze drifted slowly across the kitchen, the empty coffee cups he had noticed before now seemed to be stained an odd ochre colour, definitely not coffee but he wouldn’t question what concussion you had brewed to stay awake. He stopped himself from scolding you about the untouched granola bar beside your laptop and instead focussed on the way your notes depicted the journey of your mental state unravelling, starting out neat and ending up in frantic scribbles.
He squeezed your thigh once, “You eat anything?”
A pause.
Your pencil stopped moving and you bit your lip as you thought. Not a good sign.
“Yeah.”
Logan waited for you to elaborate.
“…today?”
You glared at him weakly.
“That feels judgemental.”
“It’s meant to feel concerning.”
“I had coffee.” You looked over to the sea of cups beyond your materials, blinking at the odd colour their insides seemed to have picked up. That’s not a good sign for your stomach, a problem for future you entirely, “...which I brewed with redbull”
“Baby.”
“I know.”
The words came out as an exhausted sigh.
Logan’s thumb rubbed slowly against your thigh.
“You can’t study properly if you’re running entirely on some demon-drink and the hatred of your TA.”
You let out a short laugh at that, then immediately regretted it when your head throbbed. Logan’s frown deepened when you pressed your fingers against your temple.
Your breathing had changed slightly, thinner, more aware of the toll this was taking on your body. Every inhale was getting caught halfway down and each exhale came out shaky.
He watched you stare at the same page for several long seconds without turning it, watched your eyes scan the same line repeatedly, your fingers tightening in your hair where they were buried- cradling your head.
Your knee bounced harder against the stool.
“Hey.”
You didn’t answer immediately, instead your jaw tightened.
“Baby.”
This time you looked at him, and Logan felt his chest tighten at the shiny film over your eyes. As if you were teetering on the edge of crying, and the only thing blocking the dam was your insistence to continue studying.
You looked away almost immediately, shoulders pulling tighter.
“I’m fine,” you muttered quietly.
Logan, had stopped pretending to believe that about ten minutes ago.
He stayed beside you, one hand still resting lightly on your thigh, thumb moving in slow, grounding circles like he was trying to keep you anchored in the room. He didn’t speak much anymore. Just watched. Quietly observant in that way of his that always felt slightly unfair, like he could read the parts of you that you hadn’t even admitted existed yet.
You didn’t realise you leaned into him but your head had come to rest on his shoulder as you continued to highlight pages. But when you hit a certain word with the electric blue ink, you paused, re-read it and frowned.
“Wait,” you muttered under your breath, you immediately sat up straight and flipped the page back, then forward again, then back.
Logan didn’t say anything, but his thumb had frozen against your leg, his eyes darting worryingly between how fast your fingers were flicking the pages and your face, that was starting to crumple with realisation.
You scanned the entire paragraph again. Then the page. The words weren’t changing, but they might as well have been. They blurred together at the edges, refusing to hold shape properly no matter how many times you forced your eyes over them.
Your stomach tightened.
“No,” you whispered quietly, more to yourself than anything else, your fingers flying to check the lecture slides, then your revision guide. A slow, sinking realisation started to form in your chest.
“No, no, no,” you said again, this time sharper, somehow sitting up straighter as if posture alone could fix the situation.
Logan’s voice came gently from beside you, but you could barely hear it. A rush of panic roared in your ears and it felt as though you were drowning and he was standing above you- trying to communicate through litres of pitch black water.
“What’s wrong?”
You didn’t answer immediately.
Your eyes darted everywhere, from where you were flipping pages with increasing urgency, to scanning headings, rereading annotations you had definitely written yourself but suddenly didn’t recognise as useful.
This wasn’t the right topic.
You had spent hours on the wrong section.
Hours.
Your entire brain stalled for a second, like a car that had been slowly, painfully screeching up a hill- and at the last minute some unknown force engaged the hand brake and you were now rolling down at a speed you couldn’t stop even if you tried
Then, as if somehow slamming on the breaks would help, it tried to compensate by speeding up.
“That can’t be right,” you said quickly, breath thinning slightly. “I swear I already did this. I- I literally did this two days ago.”
Logan leaned forward slightly now, “Baby-”
“No, no, it’s fine,” you cut in immediately, too fast again, the rubber was burning as the wheels grinded against asphalt. “It’s fine, I can fix it. I just need to- I just need to switch it and then I can catch up, I still have time I just-”
Your laptop trackpad clicked aggressively as you opened another document.
Logan watched as your hands shook violently with each click, your breathing shallowed and shoulder tightened even more than before- your knee was bouncing so fast that it felt like your entire leg was vibrating against his hand. It was like you were slowly collapsing into yourself, and all he could do was watch with a concerned expression on his face.
“Hey,” he said again, softer this time. “Look at me.”
“I am looking at you,” you snapped automatically.
Your voice cracked at the end of your sentence and you froze- letting silence interrupt your world speeding to an untimely end.
You swallowed, and then tried to laugh. Maybe if you could trick your body into thinking this was all just one big joke, it would stop trembling like you were in an active war zone. It didn’t come out right, more like a choked sob.
“I’m just being stupid,” you muttered, turning back to the screen too quickly. “It’s fine. I can still revise it, I just lost time but I can make it up if I-”
Your eyes wouldn’t focus entirely, and when your cursor hovered in the wrong place guided by your fingers, that were quaking so uncontrollably, you ended up deleting the entire window.
Your stomach dropped.
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
Then again, louder.
“Oh my god.”
Logan straightened slightly, his hand moving to hover over your forearm- but dropped it back to the familiar place on your leg, “Baby.”
“No, I’m fine,” you said immediately, too quickly again, voice shaking now whether you wanted it to or not. “I’m fine, I just messed up a bit, it’s not- it’s not a big deal I can fix it I just need to-”
You tried to re-open the tabs, but your laptop spluttered hopelessly, lagging out in front of you. Your breath caught when the entire screen went black and rebooted, the forced update screen blinked cruelly at you. And then you felt something in your chest whimper and crumple, like a house of cards met with the softest breeze.
“No,” you said again, but this time it wasn’t frustration, it was fear that made your voice waver as your hands stilled over the keyboard
“I can’t- I can’t do this,” shaking your head you brought a hand over your mouth, almost disbelievingly, like you were hearing someone else say it.
Logan’s hand immediately left your thigh.
“Hey,” he said firmly now, moving closer. “Hey, look at me.”
You didn’t. Couldn’t. You were transfixed by the slow spinning pinwheel over and over and over- like it was hypnotizing you into staying upright in your seat.
“I’m so behind,” you said quickly, words spilling out now that the dam had broken. “I’m actually so behind I don’t even understand how I’m supposed to catch up and I thought I was doing okay but I’m not and I just wasted so much time and I don’t- I don’t have time for this-”
Your voice broke properly at the end, and then the tears finally fell. You didn’t sob, just heaved heavy breaths that were interrupted by copious floods of salty liquid barrelling down your face. It wasn’t dramatic the way you fell apart, it was like throwing a pebble down a ravine, and waiting to hear the sharp sound of it dropping to the floor, you could only notice it if you listened very carefully.
You blinked hard immediately.
Once.
Twice.
Angrily.
As if that would fix it.
“No,” you said again, wiping at your face quickly with the back of your sleeve. “No, no, I’m fine, I’m literally fine I just- this is stupid I shouldn’t be crying I just need to fix it-”
You went to reach for your textbook and pen, you’d do it the old fashioned way then.
Logan stopped you immediately, both hands wrapped around yours, gentle but firm. He pulled the pen and textbook out of your grip, dropping them somewhere on the table.
The thud echoed too loudly in the quiet kitchen.
You froze, staring at him like he had just pulled the plug of your life support. Your breathing became uneven now, chest tightening in a way that made speaking harder.
“I need that,” you said, voice small but urgent. “Logan, I need that.”
“No,” he said softly.
You face crumpled in exhausted confusion, finally spilling over the edges of your carefully curated container of anger and frustration.
“I don’t have time for this,” you whispered, voice breaking again. “I don’t have time to fall apart right now.”
Logan’s expression shifted, something within him went still as he rubbed your knuckles,
“Baby,” he said quietly, and there was something different in his tone now. Less concern about the work. More about you. “You’re not falling apart.”
You let out a broken laugh and gestured to the minefield of study materials in front of you.
“Yeah,” you said shakily, wiping your face again. “Yeah, I am.”
Logan waited for you to continue, as if he didn’t see any evidence for your argument. The silence wrapped around you, compelling you to speak- your voice softer, smaller than before,
“I can’t mess this up.”
Logan barely hesitated, he reached up and cupped your face gently, forcing your attention away from the table and onto him.
Your hands were still trembling slightly where they hovered near your lap. Logan’s palms were on your cheeks, steady and warm, keeping you anchored in place like he was afraid that if he let go you would dissolve back into the kitchen air.
And you just stared at him, not really able to focus on his eyes properly, like your brain hadn’t fully caught up to the fact that the panic had nowhere left to go.
Logan’s thumbs moved lightly under your eyes, brushing away the last of the tears before they could fully settle.
“Hey,” he said again, quieter now. “You’re okay.”
You nodded immediately, a sharp pang in your chest hit you like a ton of bricks, you felt guilty for taking up precious revision time- and for the fact that Logan had dragged himself out of bed because of you.
“I’m fine,” you whispered, but it came out thinner than you meant it to. “I just- I just messed it up.”
Logan didn’t respond right away, just looked at you, how your eyes kept flicking from him to the notes and back to him. Like you were gauging how long you’d be away from them. He couldn’t wrap his head around how you could be sitting in front of him and still think this was about the notes on the table.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” you said suddenly.
Your gaze stayed fixed on the kitchen island, as if the mess of colour-coded organisation and half-finished revision sheets could still be fixed if you just looked at them long enough.
“No,” you corrected quickly, shaking your head slightly. “No, I am doing this, I just- I just need to focus I just lost time and I can’t afford to lose time right now because if I lose time I fall behind and if I fall behind I-”
Your voice cracked halfway through, your eyes widened and you blinked hard, already angry at yourself.
Logan’s hand didn’t falter, instead they rubbed soothingly along your cheekbones,
“Baby,” he said gently.
But you weren’t listening anymore, the words spilling out now that your restraint had snapped, “I’m not supposed to be like this,” you said, voice breaking around the edges. “I’m not supposed to be the person who can’t handle it. I can handle it, I always handle it, I just need to fix it I just need to-”
Suddenly the tears were back, springing up to your lash line and bubbling down your face, you blinked immediately, wiping at your face like it was instinct rather than thought.
“No,” you whispered again, frustrated now. “No, stop, I can’t do this right now-”
Logan pulled you forward, a gentle tug on both your shoulders- you stumbled off the stool, kicking it back slightly until your forehead dropped against his chest, like your body finally gave up pretending it could hold itself upright alone.
Your hands curled into the fabric of his hoodie, tight at first, as though you were trying to hold yourself together through him- because you weren’t looking at the screen anymore, meaning there was nothing left to organise the chaos with.
“I’m sorry,” you said immediately, voice muffled against him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m just being stupid I don’t know why I’m crying I just need to fix it I just-”
“Hey.”
Logan’s voice cut through gently but firmly.
“Hey. Stop.”
Your breath stuttered, and Logan thought that maybe he finally managed to get you to pause. You tried again anyway,
“I just messed up a whole section and I don’t have time and I thought I was doing okay but I’m not and I’m- I’m behind and I can’t be behind, I can’t-”
Your voice blubbered completely on the last word, you pressed your face harder into his chest like that would erase your stumble. Logan’s armed tightened around you, a slow exhale contracting his chest in relief, that he finally managed to create a boundary between you and everything else.
You tucked your face into his neck and loosely wrapped your arms around him, you wished you could hold him just as tight- but your limbs were exhausted. “You’re not behind,” he murmured into your ear. You let out a shaky laugh that turned halfway into a sob, Logan somehow held you harder against him.
“Yes I am.”
“No,” he repeated, firmer this time. “You’re overwhelmed.”
You stilled for half a second, torn by the accuracy of what he said- you couldn’t fully tell if a weight had been removed for your chest or if it had been pierced by his words. Either way, your breathing hitched again.
“I can’t be overwhelmed,” you said quietly, like it was an unspoken rule you were breaking. “There’s too much to do.”
Logan lowered his head slightly, pressing a kiss against your forehead.
“You’re allowed to be overwhelmed,” he mumbled into your skin.
You wished he hadn’t said that, because it had been the right thing. Or wrong thing. To make your shoulders shake once. And the minute the first racking sob emerged from your throat, you were crying properly the next. Deep, exhausted crying that you had clearly been holding back for far too long, you clutched his hoodie tighter, fingers curling like you were afraid of falling if you let go.
“I don’t know how to stop,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to stop doing this.”
Logan hummed, slowly dragging his hand up and down your back, rubbing soothing warmth through your clothes and against your spine.
“You don’t have to stop,” he said softly. “You just have to breathe for a second.”
You shook your head pitifully against him.
“I can’t waste time.”
That made him pause, then pull back, just enough so he could tilt your face up to meet his eyes.
“Look at me,” he said gently.
You were stubborn to hold onto the one piece of dignity you had left, but the way the words were said so firmly in the space between you two, you couldn’t stop yourself from following his gentle command.
Eyes still wet and red, your expression crumpled in a way that you would normally never let anyone see. Nevermind watch so up-close, letting them look at you the way he was, like you weren’t something to fix, or scold into productivity, just you.
Like a prized possession that had started collecting dust on the same old shelf, and someone had picked you up and dusted you off- Logan studied you like it was the easiest thing in the world for him to love you.
“I do not care about your GPA right now,” he said quietly.
A laugh slipped out of you again, broken at the edges, “That’s easy for you to say.”
“No,” he said immediately. “It’s not.” His hands pressed into your face more firmly, as if he could permeate his intentions deeply into your pores.
You blinked at him, owlish and tired- vision jumping with each uneven breath.
Logan wiped under your eye with his thumb again, slower this time, like he wasn’t in a rush to move past any of it, “You don’t have to earn being okay,” he said.
You leaned back into him without thinking, forehead pressing into his shoulder as your breathing slowly started to even out in small, uneven waves. He held you there, one hand stroking your hair, the other spread across your back- keeping you close so you could safely fall apart.
You didn’t realise when the crying faded into soft hiccups and ebbed into soft breathes but the feeling didn’t resolve itself into manageable, malleable calm. Instead it changed shape, less sharp around the edges but stretched thin all over your body, planting its roots into your chest.
You had moved to the kitchen floor at some point, your head resting on Logan's shoulder as he stroked your hair. The kitchen was finally quiet, peacefully coexisting in the nightly hush with the rest of the house.
The microwave blinked at you. “3:30 AM”
For some godforsaken reason, your body decided to remember everything you were holding back, bottling up, choosing to bring it back all at once.
Your breath catches in your throat, high enough to make you stutter while your eyes begin to flutter with unshed tears. Logan froze with his hand buried in your hair, pulling away to analyse your face when he felt your fingers tighten in the fabric of his sweater. His hand shifts at your back, not rushing you, just adjusting like he’s already bracing for whatever direction this takes.
“Hey,” he calls softly.
You open your mouth, but it was as if you had inhaled a whole packet of tear stained tissues- your answer doesn’t come out cleanly, instead it's broken, cracked around the edges instead.
“I thought I was done,” you whisper.
The tears come again, but differently this time. Less explosive. More like something that had been waiting politely in the background and finally got permission to exist again. You press your forehead back into him automatically, like your body already knows where to go when it stops trusting your head.
“I hate this,” you say, quieter now, words muffled against his chest. “I hate that I can’t just… be normal about it. I hate that I turn everything into this thing I can’t control.”
He doesn’t interrupt, instead he tightens his arms around you, tucking you further into the grooves of his body. You try to match the way his chest rises and falls, your breathing coming out shaky, broken.
“I was doing so well,” you add, like that matters, like it somehow redeems the fact that you aren’t now, “I don’t want to be like this,” you admit, the words spilling faster now that they’ve finally been let out. “I don’t want to be someone who breaks down over a test question or loses control over nothing and makes it everyone’s problem I just- I just want to be okay without it being this complicated thing I have to manage all the time.”
You press your lips together, a sinking feeling filling your stomach- you begin to pull away, accepting the fact that you shared too much, felt too much, hurt too much, for him to still willingly sit with you on the kitchen floor.
But Logan doesn’t falter, his arm stopping you from going too far. He brings one hand up to the side of your face again, gently guiding you back to him before you can disappear into yourself.
“Don’t do that,” he says quietly.
Your eyes are wet again.
“I’m embarrassed,” you whisper.
“No,” his voice is hushed but the word shoots out harshly. Like he couldn’t believe that you were still worried about how strong you forced yourself to be.
“Yes I am.”
“You’re overwhelmed,” he corrects again, softer this time, but firm in the way that he refuses to let you rewrite it into something cruel.
Your jaw tightens, because you know he's right and you can’t argue with it. If you couldn’t rebuild your shattered armour, you’d wipe it clean- and salvage what was left by wiping your tears away harshly with the back of your sweater. Logan catches your wrist gently before you can.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Stop trying to erase it.”
His eyes dart between yours, watching how you slumped in paralyzing relief. Relief that you didn’t need to think about the armour, that you didn’t need to present yourself as infallible.
“I don’t know how to not be this,” you admit quietly.
Logan’s eyes steel protectively, “You don’t have to know that,” he says.
You shake your head slightly, still crying, still trying to steady yourself like it’s something you can logic your way out of, “I do,” you insist. “I do because I can’t keep- I can’t keep doing this where I fall apart and everyone has to-”
Your voice breaks again which prompts him to pull you in, firm arms bracketing around your body, a hand sliding into your hair with the other pressing steadily into your back, holding you in place while you shake.
He kisses your hair, “You’re not doing anything wrong,”
“I don’t feel like I’m okay,” you whisper.
“That’s fine,” he replies immediately. “You don’t have to feel okay to be okay.”
You let out a small, broken sob against him like your system is finally losing the argument it’s been having with itself all night. Logan shifts slightly, guiding your head up to look at you properly, your face is flushed, messy, completely uncontrollable in a way that terrified you. His thumb comes up to brush away the fresh tears.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly.
Your body eventually begins to loosen, your breath reaching a slower equilibrium- hiccuping in between but your shoulders begin to drop and your fingers let his sweater out of their death grip.
“I didn’t mean to ruin the night.”
Logan closes his eyes briefly like he’s trying not to react too strongly to that sentence, then he opens them again and shakes his head down at you, “You didn’t ruin anything,” he says.
You give him a look, a look that says, “Sure buddy, and those aren’t crater sized bags beneath your eyes”. Logan leans forward and presses his forehead gently to yours, “No more fixing yourself tonight,” he says quietly. “Okay?”
The air hangs heavy around you as you hesitate, pressing your lips together until you nod, slowly, hesitantly. And ever since this had started, your breathing finally didn’t feel like a chore to push out of your lungs, instead it flowed gently from your mouth in placid waves.
Logan stays with you like that for a long time, intertwining your fingers together and cradling you against his chest, running his knuckles along your cheekbone until your eyes flutter shut.
—meet cute situations with genshin characters!!
feat. Thoma, Kazuha, Albedo
note. if u haven't noticed, most of these consists of Thoma. My baby boy. I miss him.
THOMA
The little coffee shop tucked right between a bookstore and a flower shop has become part of your routine before you even realized it.
Every weekday morning, without fail, you would push open the glass door just as the soft chime overhead rang, and every weekday morning, the same warm voice would greet you before you could even take two steps inside.
“Good morning!” It’s simple. Just a simple greeting but it was spoken with the same familiarity that never failed to make your lips curve into a smile. And the source of that greeting is none other than Thoma, the shop’s most beloved employee.
The employee whose photograph had occupied the "Employee of the Month" board for so many consecutive months that some customers jokingly claimed management had simply given up choosing anyone else, and you could see why.
Thoma somehow managed to take orders, prepare drinks, answer questions, clean tables, calm down upset customers, and still have enough energy left to ask how everyone's day was going.
It was honestly unfair.
Especially because he was cute.
Painfully cute.
The kind of cute that should have been illegal before eight on a monday morning. You’re pretty sure he’s the sole reason why the cafe has this much traction, but maybe you’re just exaggerating.
"Your usual?" His voice brings you out of your thoughts, and you blink. Right. You were staring. Now that's embarrassing.
You move to order, but he’s already halfway through preparing your drink, and you pause. “I didn’t even order yet.”
“You didn’t need to.” He grins, and points to you with a syrup bottle. “Medium vanilla latte. Extra shot. Less ice.”
You laugh. “Oh my god. Have I really come here that often?”
“Enough that I’d be worried if you stopped showing up.” The words slipped from his mouth so naturally that it took both of you a second to process them.
Your eyes widened, and Thoma froze mid reach for the espresso machine. Then his ears immediately turned pink as he stammered, “Ah– I mean– Well–”
The poor man looked like he wanted the espresso machine to swallow him whole, and you let out a laugh, waving a hand, “It’s okay.” You giggle. “I get it.”
His shoulders relax, and he purses his lips slightly as he starts the espresso machine. “You’re mean, you know that?”
You snort. “Me?”
“You enjoy watching me get embarrassed."
A beat, and you grin. “Maybe a little.”
The dramatic sigh he lets out gets you to laugh again.
Truthfully, these conversations have become your favorite part of the day. What started months ago as brief exchanges while waiting for your order had slowly evolved into ten-minute chats.
Then fifteen.
Then entire afternoons where you'd sit near the counter with a drink while Thoma worked, talking whenever the shop wasn't busy.
You learned he loved dogs, and he learned your favorite books.
He would tell you stories about difficult customers, and you complained about work.
And somewhere along the way, seeing him became something you actively looked forward to.
Apparently, you weren't the only one.
Because one afternoon, as you stepped through the door after a particularly exhausting day, Thoma looked up from the register, and the moment he spotted you, his entire face brightened.
Actually brightened.
Like someone had turned on a light.
"There you are." The words escaped before he could stop them, his tone filled with relief that you stepped through those doors. And if possible, his ears became even redder.
You felt your heart do something embarrassing in response, while you just smiled, “Yep. Here I am.”
For a moment, neither of you looked away.
Then a customer approached the counter, and the spell broke.
Still, the smile lingering on Thoma's face remained for the rest of your visit.
When it came time to leave, he handed over your drink. "See you tomorrow?"
The question sounded oddly hopeful, especially when it’s paired with the same hopeful glint in his eyes. You take your drink, and smile,"Same time as always."
His grin was immediate. "Okay."
You wave goodbye before stepping outside. The autumn breeze greets you as you walk down the sidewalk, sipping leisurely for a few minutes, before you finally glance down at your cup.
And you pause, because there, written neatly beside your name, was a phone number.
For a second, your brain completely stopped working. Then you looked closer, raising the cup higher —If you're interested :)
Your face grew warm. Very warm. You’re definitely blushing.
It takes just a few seconds before you make a decision and you spin around, retracing your steps back to the cafe.
Through the shop window, you could see Thoma pretending very hard to wipe down a perfectly clean counter.
The second your eyes met, he smiled. It’s nervous– hopeful, and despite the distance, you could clearly see the red coloring his ears.
You smile back, lifting the cup, and his expression brightens instantly.
By the time you got home, you were already dialing the number.
The call connected after only a single ring. "Hello?"
You blinked, lips curling into an amused smile. "Wow. That was fast."
The silence that followed was immediate, and Thoma clears his throat. You can already clearly see him rubbing the back of his neck as he murmurs, "...I was definitely not staring at my phone waiting for you to call."
You snorted. "Uh-huh."
"You don't have proof." His voice sounded so ridiculously pleased that it was impossible not to smile.
You could practically picture him pacing around his apartment.
"So," you said, settling comfortably onto your couch. "Was writing your number on customer cups always part of the service?"
A laugh crackled through the speaker.
"No."
"Just me?"
A pause.
Then, softer:
"Just you."
And somehow, hearing that made your heart flutter far more than the phone number itself ever could.
KAZUHA
The first time you met him, it was because he spilled coffee all over your table.
You had arrived at the café early, as usual. The morning rush had yet to begin, leaving the small shop pleasantly quiet. Soft music drifted from hidden speakers while sunlight filtered through the large windows, bathing everything in warm golden light. It was peaceful enough that you had settled into your favorite corner seat with a book in hand and a freshly made drink beside you, fully prepared to spend the next few hours in comfortable solitude.
You heard footsteps approaching from behind just as you reached for your cup.
Then— Thunk.
The edge of your table jolted, and your drink tipped over. You could only watch in despair as your coffee spilled across the wooden surface, and irritation bubbles in your chest at the same time you hear a startled “Oh.” from the person that just tipped your drink over.
You look up– and promptly forgot about the coffee, because standing beside your table was quite possibly one of the prettiest men you had ever seen.
Soft white hair framed his face, touched faintly by the morning sunlight. Crimson eyes widened with genuine alarm as he stared at the disaster he had accidentally caused. There was something almost unfairly gentle about him, from the calmness in his expression to the way he carried himself, like a breeze made human.
For a brief moment, the two of you simply stared at one another, and the pretty man bows his head, "I am terribly sorry."
The apology was so sincere that it completely disarmed any irritation and thought in your head to snap at him. He quickly muttered, "I wasn't paying enough attention."
"It's okay," you said automatically.
Your response makes him frown. "It is not." And the firmness in his voice caught you off guard.
His brows furrowed slightly as he examined the puddle spreading across the table. "I interrupted your morning and sacrificed your coffee in the process."
A small smile tugged at your lips. "I mean, you put it like that..."
"I should make amends." Before you could answer, he was already turning toward the counter.
Several minutes later, he returned carrying not one drink— But two.
You blinked. A server had come by earlier to wipe away the mess, and you just stare at the two cups in his hand. "What's this?"
"The replacement." He placed one cup in front of you.
The second cup followed shortly after. "And the apology."
You stared at both drinks. A beat passes, then you stare at him, then back at the drinks. "I… I think that's too much compensation for one spilled coffee."
A small laugh escaped him. "Perhaps. But my conscience tells me I should do this." He gestured toward the empty chair across from you. "May I sit?"
You found yourself nodding before your brain fully caught up. The smile he gave in response was enough to make your heart skip embarrassingly.
The conversation started simply enough.
From names;
“Kazuha.”
“Like, the instrument?”
He chuckles, and even that makes your stomach twist from the butterflies.
“Sure, whatever makes it easier for you to say it.”
To favorite drinks, and even just the simple “What are you here for?”
What should have been a brief exchange somehow stretched into an hour, then three more hours.
The book you had originally intended to read remained forgotten beside your untouched bag, because somehow, listening to Kazuha speak was much more captivating. Everything sounded poetic when it came from him. Small talk about the changing weather, his comment on the smell of coffee in the cafe, and even the way the sunlight reflected against glass.
At some point he spent nearly five minutes describing the wind outside, and you listened to every single word.
Not because the topic itself was particularly fascinating (who waxes poetry about winds on a Monday Morning?), but because he was.
There was something incredibly easy about talking to him.
The conversation flowed naturally, moving from one subject to another without awkward pauses or forced effort. He listened attentively whenever you spoke, never interrupting, always seeming genuinely interested in whatever you had to say.
By the time evening arrived and you both went your separate ways, you realized two things. First, your original plans for the day had been completely ruined, and second, you had developed an enormous crush on the stranger who had spilled coffee all over your table.
Honestly, it felt like a fair trade, especially considering the free drinks, and the cute guy you met today.
You expected that to be the end of it. Just a once in a liftetime encounter that you would remember years down the line and smile about.
Instead, you saw him again the very next week. You were seated in the same corner seat, intending to read the book you couldn’t read last time, and with the same coffee on the table– and you catch sight of Kazuha just as he walked through the cafe door.
He noticed you too, and his expression brightened with that small, gentle smile. You lifted a hand in greeting, and he returned the gesture before approaching. Kazuha opened his mouth to greet you, then– Thunk.
The table shook, and you both stared down at your tipped drink. A beat passes, and Kazuha closes his eyes while you burst out laughing.
To his credit, he looked genuinely horrified at himself.
"I have done it again."
"You have." You giggle.
"I owe you another coffee."
"You do."
That became the beginning of a very strange tradition.
For reasons neither of you could explain, Kazuha somehow possessed an alarming ability to accidentally bump into your table. It doesn’t happen all the time. But often enough that it became apparent that it would definitely happen.
The third meeting ended with another spilled drink.
The fourth nearly did.
The fifth absolutely did.
After that, Kazuha eventually stopped pretending it was unlikely. One morning you watched him enter the café and head over to the counter almost immediately, before approaching you with the two drinks and his own.
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your own coffee. "Kazuha."
He sat down across from you, smiling sheepishly. "I have accepted my fate."
"You bought a backup drink?"
"There is approximately a seventy percent chance I spill yours."
"You calculated it?"
"I estimated." His expression remained completely serious, and you laughed even harder at that.
Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, he accidentally clipped the side of the table while reaching for his bag. As expected, your drink tipped, and in the same movement as him wiping the spilled coffee, the backup was pushed towards you.
Neither of you even reacted anymore, but the amusement in your face was palpable.
It had become expected. Normal, though it wasn’t exactly sustainable, but he didn’t seem to mind. It was just another part of your mornings together, and if anyone asked, you would insist it was merely unfortunate coincidence.
You would absolutely ignore the fact that Kazuha somehow always ended up sitting with you for hours afterward. Or that your meetings would extend past the cafe and into daily routines of walks and texts until late into the night.
After all, some people meet through fate. Some meet through chance.
And some meet because one extraordinarily charming man keeps accidentally knocking over their coffee until they fall in love with him.
ALBEDO
The café was full.
The kind of full that you would have to crane your neck to look for seats, and would also make you immediately regret even stopping by on a weekend afternoon.
Every table was occupied. The line stretched halfway to the entrance. Conversations blended together into a constant buzz of noise that filled the entire room, and good for you, because you had somehow managed to secure one of the last available tables near the back window and were currently protecting it with the determination of someone defending valuable real estate.
Your coffee sat untouched beside you as you scrolled through your phone, reading through emails and texts before you would start on your own work.
Then a shadow fell across your table, and you looked up.
Ah.
A very attractive man stood there, and you had to blink a few more times to make sure you aren’t daydreaming.
Blond hair fell neatly around his face, pale turquoise eyes regarding you with quiet curiosity. There was something oddly elegant about him, even dressed casually. The way he carried himself was calm and composed, as though the crowded café somehow existed separately from him. He was holding a laptop bag, and in the other, coffee.
"Excuse me." His voice was soft as he greets you, and you straightened your back and tilted your head. "Yes?"
He glanced around the packed café, "There don't appear to be any available tables."
You nodded. There really weren't. You had to dash through the cafe to claim this one.
"Would it be alright if I shared yours?"
Did you hear him right? You blink. A cute guy was asking to sit with you.
A very cute guy.
Snapping out of your thoughts, you nod, offering a smile. “Sure.”
"Thank you." His lips curved into a small smile at the response, and he slides into the seat across from you
You settle into silence, with the cute guy across from you taking out his laptop and a few papers, while you try your very best to not stare at him. Because you just have a cute guy working across you and—
He starts bringing out more papers, and soon enough, when you glance back up at him, he has a stack of papers, printed and handwritten and suddenly your brain hurts because there were so many diagrams and equations written there. Chemical formula’s, research notes, graphs… what even is that word there??
You stared for approximately five seconds before deciding that whatever he was doing was far beyond your level of understanding. Dear god is he building something or what?
You wouldn't have been surprised, because he did exude the academic type but wow, just staring at the papers hurts your brain.
The stranger continued typing away completely focused, occasionally making notes in the margins of a paper before switching to another document.
The sheer amount of concentration was honestly impressive… and intimidating.
You glanced down at your own table space, and your contribution consisted of a coffee and a half-finished novel, plus your laptop that you’re supposed to opem minutes before but you got distracted.
Suddenly you felt very underqualified compared to his stack of complicated equations and numbers, but, still– you couldn't exactly waste this opportunity.
Cute boys didn't just randomly sit across from you every day.
"So..."
The typing paused, and his really pretty eyes moves up to you. “Yes?”
You immediately forgot everything you planned to say, and your mouth dries. Just for a bit of courage, you sip your coffee and gesture over to his papers. "...that looks complicated."
A small silence followed, and he looked at you like he was trying to figure something out, and to your surprise, he smiled. It’s a small, faint smile, but you count that as a success.
"It can be." He hums, and you lean over to look at the paper at the very top. “What exaclty is all of this for?”
His gaze drifted toward the documents. "Research."
"Research for what?"
"Alchemy."
You blinked. "...alchemy?"
Another small smile appeared.
"It's essentially chemistry."
"Oh."
That sounded significantly more reasonable. Or maybe not. You’re just trying your best to not fumble but maybe you actually are fumbling right now.
You glanced at the formulas again. Yeah, nope, you can’t find a good topic related to whatever those are. "Right."
His expression softened.
"You don't seem convinced."
You shrug. "I'm trying my best. I look over and my brain starts to hurt"
A quiet laugh escaped him, and the sound makes you blink. Because now you’re very much screwed with how his laugh just made him more attractive and you hope you’re not messing up your chance.
The conversation continued from there, though admittedly awkwardly at first.
You tried asking about his work.
He tried explaining.
You understood approximately twelve percent of it, and eventually, the two of you mutually abandoned that topic for the sake of everyone's sanity.
Then his gaze landed on the book beside your coffee. "You've read that?"
Your eyes lit up. Finally. A subject you could actually contribute to.
The conversation became significantly easier after that. You did get each other’s name in the middle, and you find that Albedo really matches his entire vibe.
He reads surprisingly the same things as you, so your find a middle ground by talking about your favorite books. Authors. You got him to share a theory on one of the series you both were fans of, and you found it cute that he had his own conspiracy theory for something very mundane.
You didnt notice when the early afternoon eased into dusk. When his papers stopped recieving attention entirely and you didn’t notice your coffee becoming cold, and you completely forgot that the reason he sat down in the first place was because there were no other seats available.
By the time evening arrived, you were actually disappointed when he finally began gathering his things.
"I should return home."
Your heart sank slightly. "Oh."
Albedo paused, and gave you a small nod and a smile. "I enjoyed speaking with you."
Your chest warmed, and you smiled back. "Me too."
And then he left.
You stare after him, before it hits you that you didn’t even get his number or social media. All you know about him is his name, that he liked books, he understood terrifying chemistry papers, and had a smile capable of causing emotional damage.
Tragic. Absolutely tragic.
Well, damn, atleast you had a nice afternoon.
Just a week later, you saw him again. He entered the cafe doors, and this time, the cafe wasn’t crowded. You could count atleast eight empty tables, so you won’t exactly get your hopes up that you’d be able to talk to Albedo again.
Then a shadow over your table, and you look up.
Albedo stands next to your table, coffee in hand, laptop bag in the other, and you blink.
Then you smile. “Hi.”
"Hello." His gaze briefly flickered toward the empty tables surrounding you, then back to you. "May I sit here?"
Your heart nearly launched itself out of your chest, and you look around again. There were literally empty seats everywhere.
You look back at him, fighting desperately to maintain a normal expression. "Sure."
He smiled that same small smile that made your chest twist, and settled across from you again. This time, however, you notice he brought significantly fewer papers, and suspiciously, he seemed far less interested in working than before.
You glanced at the mostly closed laptop, then to him, squinting your eyes at him, before an amused smile grows on your lips.
And judging by the faint upward curve at the corner of his lips when your eyes met— Albedo knew exactly what realization you had reached.
After all, there was no shortage of empty seats in the café that day.
• ☆ . ° .• ° . ☆ Garrett Graham and his sleeping gf
He does not want to get up.
Despite practice starting in thirty minutes, he really, really does not want to get up. Because Garrett’s sweet, clingy girlfriend is still wrapped up next to him.
Your arms are around his waist, head tucked close to his neck, and you’re adorably dead to the world- unless he moves right now.
Which he has to.
But Garrett Graham does not want to.
He lets out a pained sigh, and slowly starts to move his hands to yours so he could gently pry you away. Unfortunately, you stir, and his chest immediately tightens at the small grumble you make, followed by a mumbled, “Nooo…”
“Baby.” He mutters, lips twitching up in exasperation. “I have practice.”
You pout, and Garrett has to fight the urge to accept his fate and lie back down, but he continues, “I need to go, babe.”
“Noooooo….” You whine, but you loosen your grip on him, enough for Garrett to slip away and get up. “How long again?” You slur in your half-asleep daze, and Garrett glances over at you, a soft smile growing on his face as he takes your disheveled, sleepy state.
“An hour or two.”
“Mki,” You mumble, and he watches you instead grab his pillow and hug it to your chest as you basically curl back to sleep. How you could get even more adorable, he doesn’t know, but he also knows if he stays any longer, he really would be missing practice.
Garrett laughs under his breath, and before you slip into dreamworld, he presses a kiss to your temple. “See you later, baby.”
You make a sound between a hum and a jumble of words, and Garrett smiles, before you hear the door of his bedroom click shut.
summary. he couldnt help himself, not with how pretty you looked today.
tags. Cuddling, kisses, compliments
feat. Thoma, Zhongli, Ayato, Kaveh
THOMA
Even after a year of being with you, Thoma still couldn't get over how beautiful you looked.
Ethereal, even.
And even in the most mundane things such as simply cleaning the house, going out or even just standing, Thoma couldn't help the endless compliments that would fall out of his lips.
Even today, as you busy yourself in the kitchen (after slightly forcing Thoma to sit down and let you return the favor of him cooking for the both of you), the blonde has a smile on his face as he watches you.
"God, You are so beautiful."
You pause, wide eyed as you turn your head to loom at him. "Pardon??" Did you hear him right??
He just smiles, standing up from his seat and wrapping his arms around your waist. He nuzzles his head unto the crook of your neck.
"So beautiful. So pretty." He mumbles into your skin, loud enough for you to hear.
You let out a laugh, turning your body so you could embrace him back. "Thank you, love."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
"I can't believe someone as beautiful as you is mine."
You laugh at his words, completely taken aback, yet still endeared by the affection in his words. "You're flattering me, baby."
"'M not." He protests, pulling away for a moment to gaze at you. "You truly are beautiful. So beautiful that I don't want to leave you every morning."
Thoma holds you to him, leaving sweet kisses on your face as you giggle. "You are so beautiful, love, don't think I'm just flattering you."
You sigh, a flustered and adoring smile on your lips as you nod. He proudly smiles, before nuzzling his face into the side of your neck again, his arms tightening around you as he pulls you closer. You just smile, and rest your head on his, basking in the complete love and adoration Thoma has for you.
ZHONGLI
He has always appreciated the beauty of life and the beauty of the world around him. With so many years that he lived, Zhongli is not new to the concept of beauty.
But you? It was like his whole idea of beauty was made into human form. He loves you as you, in all your glory, your beauty, and he thanks Celestia for the honor of meeting who he calls the Goddess of Beauty.
You are not a stranger to his musings. His constant praise, and everytime you refuse those praisings, he simply listens to you, patient and gentle, before offering that soft smile of his.
Today is no different.
The evening sun paints Liyue Harbor gold as the two of you sit together over tea. Zhongli speaks calmly about the stories behind the buildings nearby, about old traditions and forgotten history, and you listen with fond amusement. You always loved hearing him talk.
But eventually, his amber eyes drift toward you once more, and his words come to a stop.
"...What?" you ask with a small laugh.
Zhongli blinks, almost as though he had forgotten he was staring. "Forgive me. I was merely admiring you again."
You feel heat rush to your face immediately. "Again?"
"Mm." He lifts his teacup gracefully. "No matter how many years I may live, I do not believe I shall tire of it."
"Zhongli—"
"You doubt me still?" His tone is amused, warm. "My dear, I have witnessed mountains carved by time and seas shaped by the heavens themselves. I know beauty when I see it."
You avert your gaze, flustered beyond belief while he chuckles softly at your reaction.
"It's unfair when you say things like that..." you mumble.
"And yet they are true."
His gloved hand reaches for yours carefully, thumb brushing over your knuckles with such tenderness it makes your chest ache.
"You are beautiful in ways that surpass appearance alone," he says quietly. "Your kindness, your patience, the way you continue to love others so openly... those are things I cherish most."
Your expression softens, heart swelling from the sincerity in his voice.
Zhongli brings your hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss against your skin.
"And selfishly," he murmurs, golden eyes half-lidded with affection, "I am grateful that such beauty chose to stay beside me."
You can only laugh softly through your embarrassment, squeezing his hand as he watches you with enough fondness to make even the oldest stone in Teyvat seem fragile.
KAVEH
He looks up from his plates and sketches, neck strained and his back hurting from how long he sat there, but it seemed to go away when he sees you, and the exhaustion fades almost instantly.
You're sitting across the room, quietly reading while the warm light from the windows spills over you. Your expression is relaxed, peaceful, completely unaware of the way Kaveh is staring.
His pencil slips from his fingers.
You glance up. "Hm? What's wrong?"
"...Nothing," he says absentmindedly, still looking at you.
You narrow your eyes suspiciously. "You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"The staring."
Kaveh scoffs dramatically, leaning back in his chair. "Can you blame me?" He gestures toward you as if presenting a masterpiece to an audience. "Look at you."
You blink. "What about me?"
"What about you?" he repeats incredulously. "You're beautiful. Distractingly beautiful, actually. I was trying to work."
A laugh escapes you as you set your book down. "And somehow that's my fault?"
"Absolutely." He points accusingly. "You sit there looking all pretty and then expect me to focus on architectural calculations?"
You snort, shaking your head while he rises from his desk with a groan, stretching his sore muscles before making his way toward you.
Despite his teasing, the moment he reaches you, his expression softens completely.
Kaveh kneels beside your chair, resting his chin on your lap as he looks up at you with tired but adoring eyes.
"I mean it, you know," he says quietly. "Sometimes I look at you and think maybe the gods spent too much time on one person."
Your face warms instantly. "Kaveh..."
"No, seriously." He smiles lazily. "It's unfair. You're beautiful when you wake up, beautiful when you're tired, beautiful when you're laughing at me—"
"I always laugh at you."
"And you always look beautiful doing it."
You roll your eyes fondly, fingers brushing through his hair. He melts immediately beneath your touch, sighing contentedly.
For someone so expressive and dramatic, Kaveh's affection never feels exaggerated.
Every word he says comes from somewhere painfully sincere.
He tilts his head into your hand and smiles softly.
"You know," he murmurs, "I think you're my favorite thing I've ever seen."
AYATO
Often, he wonders how he was able to be with someone such as yourself. Quite a partner he has, with a beauty unmatched in his eyes. All your flaws, he adores, and all your imperfections, he tells you are what makes you the beauty he loves.
Ayato has always been composed. Elegant. Refined. But around you, those carefully maintained walls become softer.
It happens during quiet moments most.
Like now, with the two of you sitting in the estate gardens beneath the evening sky. You speak absentmindedly about your day while Ayato listens, chin resting against his hand, a small smile on his lips.
You pause mid-sentence.
"...Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you've fallen in love with me all over again."
His smile widens ever so slightly. "Perhaps I have."
You stare at him for a moment before groaning softly, already flustered. "Ayato."
"What?" he asks innocently, though amusement glimmers clearly in his violet eyes. "Am I wrong for admiring my partner?"
"You say these things too casually."
"And you grow embarrassed too easily."
You huff while he chuckles quietly, reaching over to brush a stray strand of hair away from your face.
His touch is gentle. Careful. Reverent.
"You are beautiful," he says simply, as though it is the most obvious fact in the world. "Not because you are flawless, but because you are you."
The teasing in his voice disappears entirely, replaced with something softer.
"Sincerely, I think your imperfections are my favorite parts of you."
You blink at him in surprise.
"The way you frown when you're concentrating. The way you get irritated over small things. The moments you doubt yourself despite being wonderful..." Ayato's thumb brushes against your cheek. "Those are the parts that make you real. Human. Precious."
Your heart aches at the tenderness in his gaze.
He leans closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
"I spend much of my life surrounded by masks," he murmurs. "So when I am with you, and I see every honest piece of who you are... I cannot help but think you are the most beautiful person I've ever met."
You laugh softly to hide your embarrassment, but Ayato only smiles knowingly, pulling you closer against him as if he intends to keep you there for the rest of the night.
ft. music teacher!Venti x f!reader
summary. the students he teaches have never seen him cry. Until today.
warning. sad (?) angst but its hurt/comfort
now playing: ‘So This is Love’
“Alright! Who’s next?” Venti lightly calls out to the class with a bright grin. “C’mon now, it’s just one performance, don’t be shy!”
The well-known and loved music teacher of the university, Professor Venti has always had this cheery grin on his face. A bubbly teacher, whose humor always lightens up the atmosphere and brings smiles to his students’ faces.
Today is no different and with a light and airy tone, he encourages his students, greeting them with a smile and a few words to keep his students' spirits high as they perform an activity he gave them the other day, which is to perform a song with any accompaniment of their choice. It’s a small activity, something that is usually done as warm-ups to larger scale activities so the students don't mind it much.
Then the music starts playing, and the smile on his face strains.
He knows that intro. He knows it well.
And god, he can feel the tears coming in.
No, he tells himself. Not in front of the students.
But as Venti listens to the student sing, tears begin to blur his vision.
He inhales, trying to maintain his composure, but the feelings of longing and… shit, he’s crying. There are tears falling down his cheeks and as the lyrics echo in the room, he lowers his head as he inhales again.
It's your song.
“My love!” You giggled, gesturing for Venti to join you in the living room. Your song is playing from your phone, and with a fond smile, Venti steps over to you. A hand to your waist and another to guide you, you waltz around the room. Your laughs fill the man's chest with undeniable adoration and love and when you pull him in again for another dance, smile wide as he dips you, Venti decides to marry you.
Your favorite song, that whenever he is home, it's the song playing in your shared home.
The song from your favorite movie.
The song he had danced you to before going to his knees and proposing.
The song that you had sang, hummed and played so much because of how much you loved it. The song that he had refused to listen to after your death.
This is the first time in months he hears the song, and something in Venti shifts and suddenly, the song is over, and suddenly, everyone in his class is turning to look at their music teacher.
“Uhm. Sir?” The student who had just finished singing stands confused. The class is silent with surprise.
Professor Venti– happy, always smiling, always eager to cheer everyone up in his class– now crying?
Venti clears his throat, but his voice is shaky. “Sorry. I.. the song- it…”
He inhales. “Class is over. Sorry guys.” He plasters a wide smile, but now, his class can see that its fake. “See you tomorrow, yeah? Don’t forget to practice for the upcoming recitals!”
His students glance at each other, confused and concerned, and he could tell that want to ask more– but the wavering of his smile and his glassy eyes are enough for them to back off.
Choruses of “Yes sir” and “I hope you feel better sir” echoes as they file out of the room, one by one, sneaking concerned glances at him.
The last student leaves with a soft click of the door, and Venti is left in the silence of the Classroom.
It’s the suffocating, heavy kind of silence.
His smile drops the moment the door clicked shut, shoulders sagging as he presses the heel of his palms against his eyes with a quiet, broken laugh.
“God,” he whispers shakily. “Pull yourself together.”
But the tears keep coming anyway.
The classroom is still filled with traces of the song. The lingering melody hums in his ears like a ghost, curling around his chest and squeezing painfully tight. He can almost hear your voice over it— soft and warm and teasing.
"You’re off beat again, love." Venti teasingly says. You only hit his chest, laughing loudly.
"Am not!"
"You absolutely are."
And then your laughter. Bright and sweet enough to make his chest ache.
Venti sinks into the chair behind his desk, elbows on his knees as he lowers his head. His wedding ring catches the afternoon light filtering through the windows.
He hasn’t taken it off.
More like, he couldn’t take it off. Even though months has passed since then, and still, every morning, his hand would instinctively reach across the bed for you, only for him to still when he isn’t met by your sleeping frame.
Every morning, he remembers. The emptiness that would follow as he gets up. The untouched side of the closet. The silence that would echo in the apartment.
There’s no humming from the kitchen.
No dancing around the living room instead of dinner because your favorite song started playing from your phone.
There is no you.
And the music of the once lively home filled with quarter notes and time measurements has stilled into a seemingly constant rest.
The song was never supposed to hurt this much.
Well, to be fair, he hasn’t exaclty played that song ever since you died.
A quiet knock sounds against the classroom door. Venti hurriedly wipes at his face, forcing himself upright. “Sorry, class is over—”
The words die in his throat when the door slowly creaks open, and a few of his students peek inside hesitantly.
“...Sir?”
It’s one of the girls from the front row clutching her notebook tightly to her chest. Behind her are two others, awkward and uncertain.
Venti quickly laughs, though it sounds strained. “Ah, didn’t I dismiss you all already?”
The students exchange glances.
“We just…” one starts carefully, “wanted to make sure you were okay.”
And his smile strains as his chest tightens at the words. Because they look genuinely worried.
One student quietly steps forward and places a bottled water on his desk like he’s approaching a wounded animal.
“You don’t have to tell us anything,” another says softly. “But… you looked really sad.”
Venti stares at them for a moment before smiling weakly.
Kind kids. You would’ve adored them. His throat tightens.
“The song just reminded me of someone,” he admits quietly.
Their expressions soften instantly. “Oh.”
The room falls silent again, though this time it’s gentler, echoing with the air of understanding.
One of the students hesitates before speaking. “Someone important?”
Venti looks down at the ring on his finger, and he whispers, “Yeah. Someone important.” His voice is not like his usual cheer and bright energy. Something quieter.
The students all followed his gaze, and collectively deflate at the realization. They all knew their professor was married. Just… not the exact details. It’s not like Venti was vocal about it either.
They’ve seen the framed picture on his desk before. The one Venti always smiles at whenever he thinks nobody notices. A picture of you laughing while holding onto his arm.
“Oh…” the student murmurs again, quieter this time.
Venti notices the realization on their faces and laughs weakly at the look on their faces. “Hey now. Don’t look at me like that.” He inhales, and looks at the picture on his desk, voice softer than what the students are used to. “She loved that song, you know? Played it almost every day.”
A fondness slips into his expression then. Painfully tender. “She’d drag me into the living room just to dance with her.” Despite everything, the memory makes him smile.
And for a fleeting second, his students see it. Not Professor Venti. Not the endlessly cheerful teacher.
Just a husband hopelessly in love with someone he lost.
One student sniffles, lips curled into a sad frown. Another looks seconds away from crying themselves. Then quietly, carefully, the same girl from earlier asks, “Would… would you like us to stay with you for a bit, sir?”
Venti blinks. The concern in their eyes is so sincere that his chest hurts.
You always told him music connected people in strange ways. Maybe you were right.
His smile this time is small. Real. “I’d like that,” he says softly.
So the students stay. Talking to Venti quietly about things that happened in their previous classes. Minor things. Small events. But it settled quietly in his chest, quiet conversation filling the once-heavy room as the sun slowly dips beyond the windows.
And for the first time in months, when the melody of So This is Love lingers in Venti’s mind— it doesn’t hurt as much.
feat. Varka, Zhongli, Thoma
setting. Modern AU
summary. You caught a cold and called in sick, not expecting a concerned co-worker (who is not just a co-worker) to ring your bell and take care of you.
Everything hurts.
Your throat, your head, your damn entire body. Why are colds so damn painful and annoying and– A harsh cough brings you out of your frustrated thoughts, and you could only groan at the pulsing ache in your head. You reach out for your phone by your bed, and call in sick.
The moment your manager’s voice echoes a “Bye and get well soon!” You’re out like a light.
Only to be woken up probably an hour later, with a knock to your door.
ZHONGLI
Opening the door and being greeted by your co-worker is not what your sick and half-asleep brain managed to comprehend. One moment you’re opening the door, and the next you have Zhongli in your kitchen, heating up the soup he said he brought for you.
The thing is, Zhongli isn’t just a co-worker.
You just happened to be co-workers after a few years of not meeting each other since college, and your friendship simply rekindled– but it’s still not something your sick ass can comprehend at the moment.
Because for one, Zhongli has been your work crush. Hell, college crush before you went your separate ways and now he’s in your apartment. Two, he’s heating up soup for you. Three–
“Wait, shouldn't you be at work?”
The man in question simply stirs the soup with an almost offended level of calm, as though appearing unannounced at a sick co-worker's apartment was the most natural thing in the world.
“I requested a half-day.”
You blink, your mouth parting slightly before you manage a “You what?”
“The workload today was manageable.” Zhongli glances over his shoulder, golden eyes briefly meeting yours before returning to the pot. “Besides, your condition seemed rather severe from the message you sent me this morning.”
Your condition. You snort.
The message he was referring to was one you typed before passing out: Caught a cold. Ow. Dying. Can’t come in.
“That's what convinced you?”
“I found your choice of wording concerning.”
You stare. Zhongli continued stirring, like the actions of requesting a half-day out of concern for a friend/co-worker was normal. It’s a good thing that their workplace wasn’t as strict as usual companies.
“Oh.” You mumble, eyes flickering from Zhongli, then to the soup. For some reason, your face is hot. You reason its from the fever.
“You also seemed to have neglected to take medicine.”
Your eyes widen. “What? How’d you…”
“Your medicine cabinet is empty. You were supposed to go out after work for those, I remember you speaking out it yesterday.”
Your mouth opens, and shuts. Right. You did mean to go out today to fill up your medicine cabinet again, and your body also decided today was a good time to shut down just when you’re out. “Right. Well, my body apparently hates me.”
Zhongli laughs under his breath. “It would seem so” He looks away from the heating soup to the paper bag on the counter. “There’s medicine there. I’ll give it to you with the soup.”
Following his gaze, you notice the familiar paper bag sitting neatly on your counter. Medicine. Soup. You spot a cap of bottled water peeking out, and Zhongli continues speaking, mentioning even throat lozenges.
You hadn't even asked. And the other thing was that he remembered what you were talking about the other day, too.
Something warm settles heavily in your chest. The problem with Zhongli has always been this.
He cared, in ways that weren't loud or needed attention, but just in the small, quiet little things.
Like how early in your work days, he got you your coffee order, and surprised you by still remembering how you got your coffee even years later. In the middle of work, he would send you links to articles or videos that would pull you out of the bored haze of work.
Once, he even replaced the dead batteries in your handfan when you complained about it.
Zhongli cared in a way that slipped beneath your defenses before you realized what was happening– and made it impossible for you to not fall harder every time.
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
He pauses, and for the first time since arriving, Zhongli turns fully toward you. His expression softens, “You are ill.”
The answer comes so simply that your heart nearly stumbles.
“Still…” You mumble.
He sighs, quietly, and the next thing you know, he’s crossing the kitchen. Before you can react, a cool hand settles against your forehead.
Your entire brain short-circuits.
The gesture lasts only a few seconds, but it feels longer than just a few seconds. “You're still warm.”
You forget how words work, “Oh.”
“Your fever appears lower than this morning, however.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You should eat before taking medicine.”
“Right.”
Zhongli studies you for a moment. Then his lips curl up. A small, faint smile. Gentle– and it's really, seriously dangerous for your heart.
“You seem particularly compliant today.”
Your face burns.
And unfortunately, your fever can no longer be blamed for it.
THOMA
If Thoma was a light, he would have blinded you already with the large smile he gave you the moment you opened the door. “Hi.”
“What are you doing here?” You squint at him, tugging your blankets closer. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“Yeah. Actually.” He scratches the back of his neck. “It’s my day off”
You blink. Oh. Right. “Right.” He lifts the bag in his hand, and you’re once again hit by that sweet smile that won you over years ago.
“I heard you’re sick. So I got you soup.”
And now he’s in your kitchen. Heating up soup for you.
You're watching from your position on the couch, coughing and sniffing and you did offer to heat it up on your own, but when you stumbled the moment he handed you the bag, Thoma insisted he do it instead.
He’s always been like that.
Thoma, your friend turned co-worker and in the past months has become something of a not-exactly co-workers and more of a crush on each other.
You’d think you weren’t obvious.
But there’s a bet (that neither of you are aware of) going on in your office regarding when exactly the two of you will stop dancing around whatever this is.
Apparently everyone is tired of waiting.
But you don’t know that, even if your fellow co-workers kept teasing you about it. You kept denying them. I mean, sure, maybe Thoma is the one who brings you your coffee everyday. Maybe he remembers your favorite snacks and would hand you one whenever he knew you were feeling hungry. And perhaps, he smiles differently when talking to you. But that doesn't mean—
“Careful.”
You nearly jump when a warm hand steadies your shoulder. Apparently you'd been staring. Again.
Thoma laughs softly.
The sound is embarrassingly nice.
“You looked like you were about to fall asleep sitting up.”
“I might.”
“Well don't.”
You purse your lips. “You’re so bossy.”
“Only because you're sick.”
You can’t even argue with him at this point.
The smell of the soup fills your apartment, and moments later, Thoma places a bowl in front of you, before taking a seat on the smaller couch near you. “Eat.” He nods to the bowl.
“Are you just going to keep staring at me?”
“Well, if it's to make sure you’re eating, then yes.”
“That’s weird.”
He huffs a laugh, the soft smile on his face just making you stare at him just a bit longer. Because even in your sick daze, his smile is just pretty. “Just eat, will you?” He mutters with a fond smile, and you roll your eyes, but you still obey.
“Good?” He asks you the moment you have your first spoonful, and Thoma watches you melt. “Mm.”
His shoulders visibly relax, like he was hoping you would like it. Something in your chest tightens at the relief in his face, and you pause, searching the smallest details before speaking.
“You were worried for me.”
“Of course I was.” His response is immediate. The way he lifts a brow like it was expected he would be. “I mean, you sounded pretty miserable when you called.”
“You were there?”
“Yep. Well, I just caught bits and pieces of it.” He repeats it again. “And you sounded miserable”
You cough, and let out a groan. “Well, I still am.” Another cough wracks your body, and before you could reach for the glass of water on the table, Thoma is already handing it over.
“You know,” you mumble after drinking. He puts the glass back, and you continue eating the soup. “you're making a very strong case for keeping you around.”
His eyebrows rise. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” You lift the spoon to your mouth.
Thoma smiles, and he looks like he wasn’t even registering what he was saying. “Good. That’s kind of the point.”
The answer comes far too quickly.
Both of you freeze, and you stare at Thoma, the spoon very much still in your mouth.
Silence– And you watch as pink creeps onto Thoma's ears.
Your own face feels suspiciously warm, and you put the spoon back in time for Thoma to abruptly stand up. “I think I should make tea.”
You laugh. Then cough. “You're running away.”
“No I'm not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Thoma points a finger at you. “You focus on recovering.”
“Thoma—”
“Nope.”
“Thoma.” You laugh despite the itchiness and pounding headache.
“Finish your soup.”
“Coward.”
“Soup.”
And despite his attempt to hide it, you don't miss the smile he wears all the way back to the kitchen.
VARKA
The knock that wakes you up is loud. Not really aggressive. Just loud.
Three knocks that are both firm and somehow cheerful. You groan, planning to ignore it as you shift in bed. It’s more of a, you can’t find the will in you to move– then your phone buzzes near your bed.
> Big guy dude: Open upp
You squint at the screen, because your fever-addled brain takes several seconds to actually process what your reading.
> You: why
The reply comes immediately, and you have to blink at the words that pop up.
> Big guy dude: Because I’m outside.
Another squint, then you scoff in sruprised.
Somehow, despite yourself, you find yourself opening the door, and the first thing you see is Varka’s grin, followed by the enormous bag hanging from one arm– then the too pleased look on his face.
“Morning.” Surprisingly, Varka’s voice isn’t the usual boisterous one. It’s lowered, and more softer to keep your head from pounding.
You blink at him. “Morning.”
Five minutes later, he’s in your apartment like he lives there. He ushered you to your couch, then placed the really big bag on the kitchen coutner, already rolling up his sleeves. From your spot on the couch, you squint at him then at the bag.
“Did you just buy half the store?”
“No.”
You give him a look, and he smiles at youi sheepishly. Then he starts bringing out the things inside. Soup ingredients, medicine, fruit, tea… “Are those crackers??” You gape as he brings out several containers of food. “Oh my god, Varka.” You glare at him, he avoids your gaze.
“You did buy half the store!”
“I was worried! And I was being, what people call as, prepared.”
“You brought enough food to survive a natural disaster!”
“Well, I mean,” Varka shrugs. “What if your cold gets ambitious?”
You groan, and he lets out a laugh when you attempt to throw the couch pillow. The sound of his laugh fills the apartment effortlessly, and its unfair how it immeidately makes you sink into the cushion, despite your glare. Becuase you always like his laugh. More or less, liked Varka himself.
And he’s about 90% of your problems.
Because Varka isn’t just your co-worker. He’s your close friend. Your incredibly attractive friend that you insist doesn’t smile at you differently despite your other co-workers jests.
You refuse to look closely at the implications, because, you reasoned, Varka smiles at everyone. So you’re not exaclty an exception.
Your thoughts are cut off when a cough has you curling up on the couch, and the next thing you know, just as your coughing fit ends, a large hand offers you water.
When you look up, Varka is frowning as he lifts a hand to your forehead. Your heart stutters, and you force yourself to focus on the water.
“You okay now?” He mutters– soft and gentle as he takes the glass.
Wiping your mouth, you nod. “Yeah. I’m good” He eyes you carefully, before nodding back.
“Have you eaten?”
You make a face, and Varka narrows his eyes. “Not even breakfast?”
When you shake your head, he sighs, and moves to get up. “Okay, I’m fixing that immediately.” He gently nudges you to lie down. “Lie down first. If you fall asleep, the soup can wait till you wake up.”
You move to protest, mouth parting, but he quickly shuts you up with a look. Grumbling, you settle on the couch. “Bossy.”
That makes him snort, the serious look in his eyes softening into amusement as he grins.
Your chest warms. For some reason, Varka always seemed to make things feel a bit better in an effortless way. Even if your head still hurts and your body still aches real bad.
He grabs the couch blanket, and drapes it over you. “Five minutes.”
You didn’t fall asleep.
So now you have soup on your lap, and Varka in the ktichen, getting your medicine ready. By the time you’ve gone through half the bowl, your body starts shutting down again, exhaustion settling heavily over you.
You barely register Varka taking the bowl from your hands before you fall asleep on it. But you do register him adjusting the blanket over you again, tucking it gently– and you register his fingers brushing hair away from your face.
“Get some sleep,” He murmurs softly. You catch the affection in his tone, but you’re too sleepy to even call it out. You do manage to crack an eye opne, mumbling a quiet, “Are you staying?”
The question slips out, and you barely register it.
For a moment, Varka freezes, his gaze set on you, eyes dangerously soft and close to affection. “Yeah.” He nods. “I’m staying.”
And maybe it's the fever or maybe it's the exhaustion. Or it’s just the way he says it.
But as sleep begins pulling you under, you can't stop the small smile that finds its way onto your face.
The last thing you hear is Varka's amused chuckle, and the quietest words he's spoken all day. “I’ll even stay longer if you wanted me to."
ɢᴇɴꜱʜɪɴ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀꜱ — people in the film industry
note. Not written with the intention of an x reader It’s more of just character studies in the form of putting them as tropes, AND it was just me yapping on how they would be in the Film Industry LOL.
note (2). again, posted back in 2021 in my old account, as part of a series.
feat. Kaeya, Lisa, Zhongli, Kokomi, Gorou, Ayato
KAEYA
as… A-List Actor
An A-list actor that is also titled as the Most Scandalous Actor of his generation™. His manager (Jean), is stressed out with how much scandals the tabloids manage to make out of every single interaction and comment he makes.
It’s routine at this point, for Kaeya to get a scandal every month. Maybe a dating rumor one month, a rumored feud between him and a co-star, or maybe something else. Let’s just say that whatever scandal it is, he’s atleast had them once in his life.
He would probably have a preference to starring in Action Films more so than Romance ones. Kaeya’s either the really smooth, suave main character, or another smooth, suave Relevant Side character.
I mean, he has the flirty vibes, when I thought about it before, he would have much preferred starring in Action movies that don’t have much romance lol.
But he still gets casted in romance films a lot. He would get the characters without as much romance (despite fans’ insistence lmao). Kaeya would either play the cool bestfriend, have a minor role… but most, if not all the time, when he does gets casted, its the bestfriend role to none other than Hotshot Male Lead, Diluc Ragvindr.
Kaeya and his brother urge to annoy Diluc in every aspect of his life. It’s actually very funny how often they’d get casted together and Kaeya would just be his usual self with the sole goal of annoying Diluc. (And when Diluc actually starts falling for a co-star, then maybe he’ll tone it down just a bit to help the guy).
This was peak 2021 ragbro yearning speaking, lol.
When Kaeya gets casted as the Male Lead for a series (his first romance series), there was backlash considering his past– but no can refute that he’s a talented actor. There’s a reason why he’s an A-list, okay? He just likes Action films more, but he is naturally charming so it makes sense.
Though when asked why he accepted the role, fans noted that he looked at the direction of his co-star, i.e the female lead of the series (you). When the series ended and Kaeya could take more roles, it was also noted that there was an increase in romance films in his discography— and they’re all paired with you.
Giggles during script-reading. He can’t take romance lines seriously, and often would comment on “Wow, that’s kind of cheesy.” and when he could, he would make the lines a bit more not cheesy. Or his charm just somehow makes it better.
Despite his scandals, co-stars always call Kaeya a very charming, and sweet man. The media just tends to phrase things differently. Though other scandals did end up true (Dating rumors, feuds… well, no one’s perfect.)
LISA
as an… A-list Actress
Lisa has a very wide range of roles, though her genre usually falls under Romance. She played femme fatale’s, stepmother roles, villains, a hero, sweet older sister, a mother, and once as a side chick though Lisa mentioned she wouldn’t do that kind of role again unless the side chick had more depth in the script.
She starred with Kaeya once in a Monsdadt related series and gave the bisexuals and everyone in between a collective heart attack.
The type of actress that would stream, and when she does, it’s usually treated as a Marketing trick, but she just likes doing it. Greets her viewers with a “Hi darlings! I’m currently in the set for the upcoming series…” LOVES calling her fans cuties, darlings or honey.
Not as controversial, but she is similar to Kaeya’s flirty nature. She did have her own scandal and backlash for being flirty, and her past roles didnt exactly help accusations of her being a bitch or something related to that. (Misogynistic industry, we all know this)
At some point, Lisa gave up with correcting it and would just, watch. Her and Kaeya has a very bad habit of fanning the flames of their rumors and gives their PR Teams heart attacks.
ZHONGLI
as a… Film Producer
He started out as a producer of documentaries. I mean, the man is very knowledgeable, and I’d like to think he has the passion for these kinds of films.
Zhongli would eventually branch out as work on movies that range from Comedies and Romance, and maybe here and there a test drive for Horror. He produced two (2) Action films, and despite fans begging him to switch from his Documentaries to Action films because of how good they ended up, Zhongli just politely declines the suggestions.
Interviews with Zhongli takes so long. It’s not that the interviews are bad, no, he just tends to yap a bit too much and most of what he said has to either be cut out or the editors just decide that they should just keep it in for the funsies.
Once, he lectured the interviewer that was rude to his actors the day before (behind the camera), but his interviews have a running gag of being longer than the usual interviews.
He ends up with a babysitter more often than not. Kinda like Tom Holland but instead of making sure he doesnt spoil things, the babysitter makes sure Zhongli doesnt end up rambling: “starts rambling” “whoa ok peepaw, you going a bit off track”
His crew and actors all call him peepaw because when he started producing films that needed a wide range of actors and he met Kaeya and Hu tao, the two decided that maybe it would be a funny callname. It stuck, and now Zhongli has to live with it.
But also, Since we established that Lisa is the type to stream and post behind the scenes a lot, and Zhongli wasn’t public except if you dig through documentary facts– so imagine Lisa’s stream catching Zhongli in the background and she introduces him as their producer, and he ended up trending with the tags and comments of “BRING BACK PRETTY PRODUCER”
Zhongli has become the reason why people watch backstage and behind the scenes cuz hes always in every clip, and he gets edits of his doing the most basic things with the most grainy ass pictures you could ever imagine.
KOKOMI
as a …. Stage Director and Producer
The most overworked Director and producer you could ever think of. Someone please save her from herself and her terrible work habits (Gorou is trying his best here).
She’s strict when she’s leading because she wants things to work, but like canon, she already has back-up plans and when interviews ask her, its astounding how much back-up plans she has in place. Her genres involve action, maybe military based ones since it’s canon how she likes those, and barely does romance.
I think she never did romance, and she’s like, so shy when it was suggested she try romance genre, but she’s highly sought out with how well she manages things. She is covering a lot of jobs and leads a lot of things, so please, she’s overworked, but she denies it a lot.
She ended up taking a super long break after her movies took off and she had to go through the whole workaholic being prevented to work by her friends in the industry lmao. Get her off the phone and tablet and lock her in place.
AYATO
as the… Ceo of an Acting Agency turned Actor.
The Kamisato Agency has already made so many promising actors under them, but their current ceo, Ayato Kamisato, is as mysterious and elusive of the tabloids as ever. The only known face of the Agency is Ayaka.
There’s a running joke in the Film and Acting Industry about him being an Urban Legend because everyone seems to mention him, but no ever saw him. Never appeared in tabloids, and in interviews, it’s very specific that he doesn’t show his face LOL.
The only times you get pictures of the elusive and mysterious CEO is when he appears in others’ headlines. Mostly in the background though, and only for professional related meetings and such.
But the whole elusive thing got thrown in the wind when Ayaka wanted Ayato to show his face in the red carpet once since it was her movie and she was a nominee for Best Actress. She just wanted her brother with her, and because he just loves her so much, he agreed.
Ayato Kamisato was trending for weeks.
He does start appearing more often after that, and tried out a few roles out of curiousity. People accused him of using his authority, but he’s a Kamisato, can you blame his talent?
He plays whatever role he can get. Though he has the strange preference for playing the hot kid that dies first in Horror and Slasher films. That’s all the acting you’re getting from him.
GOROU
As an… Assistant Producer turned Actor
He acts as a side hustle. His main job is making sure Kokomi doesn’t die from overworking. He just often appears as background charaters or a side character that appears once in an episode then never again. (Those acting gigs were when the actor supposed to turn up was sick or bailed, or where was a few people missing and he could just fill in the role without much to do).
Gorou, unfortunately, underestimated his own cute charm, and does not realize he has a fanbase from the small acting gigs he picked up here and there. Fans kept begging him to come back in a bigger role, but he kept refusing bcause, again, his main job is more of an assistant producer than an actor.
Once, though, he played the soft second male lead (after weeks of offers and Kokomi telling him to just try it it), and his character got more attention than the Male lead.
Everyone rooted for him to be endgame because Gorou really sold the sweet, second male lead vibes with the painful yearning and such. Even the first male lead (Diluc. Again. Jk), when the series ended, admitted that he thought Gorou’s character would have been a better match, but the writers didn’t want to stray as an adaptation.
The demands for Gorou to be endgame became so much that they made a spin-off where he got the girl LMAO.
When he does finally accept another offer as the Lead, the hype and exctiment was big and he almost wanted to back out. I think its obvious already that I think he plays characters in romance films a lot-
Miss hina is a thing here too though. Like, Yae Miko was adamant he play Miss Hina. The poor boy would never let her put it on his discography and he would never admit it outloud.
Until someone in an interview dug a bit too much, and it trended.
summary. You adore Caleb’s freckles. He doesn’t.
note. Yes, me realizing Caleb Xia has freckles.
Caleb runs a hand over his face as he stares at his mirror. His frown deepens the longer he looks at himself. The marks that dot his face are the subject of his gaze. He isn't fond of them. Not really, not after he got multiple hurtful remarks over it as he grew up.
He does his best to not bring attention to it the older he gets. It became a habit to cover his face often, when he laughs, when he smiles, when people tend to stare at him a bit too much.
But you were vocal about how much you liked his freckles.
When you were younger, you raved about them, wishing you had your own. He didn’t see the appeal, but he liked it when you stuck your face close to his and admired the dots.
He loved it when you ran your hands over his face, brows furrowed as you murmured about how cute it was. If that made him flush 50 shades of red, then you didn’t notice.
You’re still obsessed with them, years later.
Even when he doesn’t understand why, staring at the mirror in the early morning or late night, trying to make sense of what made the small dots on his face endearing to you when to him it was just an insecurity. Brows furrowed, lips turned down as he judged his own appearance.
He hears your footsteps before he sees you. The soft, familiar manner of your feet on the floor– something he could recognize anywhere. You were looking for something in the bedroom, with the way you were opening and closing drawers like you were on a mission.
When you open the door to the bathroom, your voice echoing against the tiles, he didn’t move from his place in front of the mirror. “Caleb, have you seen my eyeliner? The new one that I just got this week?”
Your reflection appears behind him, searching around the bathroom, still in his hoodie and when your gaze lands on him, you see the small flicker in his gaze.
You frown. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” He mumbled, a bit too quickly than he hoped.
Your eyes narrow immediately.
Caleb looks away first.
The silence stretches for a moment. It's the silence that exists between two people that know each other too well, and in the way you stare at him through the mirror, Caleb knew you always clocked him.
Your arms cross over your chest, and he avoids your gaze, fixing it on anywhere but your reflection. The sink, the faucet– and the eyeliner you were looking for hidden behind the toothbrush cup.
That alone tells you enough about what he was doing in front of the mirror, and you sigh. Quietly. “Caleb.”
“Mhm?”
“What were you doing?”
“Nothing.”
Your frown deepens. His gaze moves to you for only a split second, before you catch him looking at his own reflection. It’s a short moment, but you could see the way he looked at the freckles scattered across his cheeks and nose. Then it clicks, and your expressions soften. “Oh.”
His jaw tightens, and he avoids your soft gaze again.
The silence that follows is heavier than the last one. It’s not heavy, nor uncomfortable. But vulnerable in a way that Caleb doesn’t let himself be around you too often.
Because he is supposed to be the strong one. The protector.
And to him, it’s stupid that this measly negative thought on his own features is making him this way.
"They're still there." His voice comes out quieter than expected.
You blink. "What?"
"The freckles."
For a second, you simply stare at him. Then you almost laugh.
Not because it's funny. But because of course that's what had him standing in front of the mirror at six in the morning looking like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "They've been there your entire life, baby."
"I know."
"So why are you surprised?"
"I'm not surprised."
"You seem surprised."
He shoots you a look that makes you smile. He groans, just as you laugh. “There you are.”
“What?” Caleb frowns.
“You’re finally looking at me.”
He pauses, and the soft look in your eyes makes his ears turn pink. Your smile only widens as you step towards him. Your arms wrap around his waist, and you peer through the side to the mirror, humming. Caleb relaxes against you, moving you until you’re standing next to him in the mirror. Your eyes meet his through the mirror, then it drifts downwards to his freckles.
There are more than most people notice. Tiny constellations scattered over warm skin.
Some are darker than others. Some are barely visible unless sunlight hits them just right.
You have every single one memorized. A fact Caleb would never recover from if you told him.
Unfortunately for him, you decide honesty is important in relationships: "I think I know at least twenty-seven of them."
His eyes widen. “What?”
“Twenty-seven.” You tilt your head up at him to look more closely at his face. His eyes are widened slightly, brows furrowed, voice pitched slightly higher in disbelief. “You counted?”
“Maybe.” You shrug.
“You counted.”
“Maybe.”
“You;re insane.”
You grin, and lean up to peck his cheeks. “I know.”
Caleb lets out a mix of a laugh and a huff. His ears are completely red now, the flush spreading to his cheeks as he shuts his eyes at the absurdity of you counting his freckles.
When he opens them again, he catches you staring. Again.
It’s not like you hide it, at this point.
His voice drops into a mutter. “I don’t get it.”
“Hm?” You meet his gaze.
“I don’t get why you like them so much.”
You tilt your head and watch him carefully. You watch the uncertainty hiding beneath his expression, the remnants of old words. Old comments. Old wounds. Things said carelessly by people who probably forgot them the moment they spoke, but they were things that Caleb had quietly carried for years.
You reach up, and your fingers brush against his cheek. Gentle. Careful.
As though touching something precious.
Because to you, he is.
Your thumb glides over the bridge of his nose. Over the freckles resting there.
Caleb's breath catches, and you smile softly.
"Because they're yours."
His eyes flicker.
You continue before he can interrupt. "I don't like them because they're perfect." His gaze remains fixed on yours as you continue, your fingers still on his skin, tracing lines between his freckles. "I like them because when I think of you, I think of them. When I picture your face, I picture your freckles." You laugh quietly, "You know, when I was younger, I used to think they looked like stars."
His expression falters.
And you know you've won the moment he looks away. Because Caleb only looks away when he's overwhelmed.
"I still do."
His throat moves and Caleb looks back at you. Your other hand moves to the back of his neck, pulling him a bit closer so you could trace more of the freckles. "They make you look like you."
You cup his face. His hands immediately find your waist, like its instinct to him. And really, it is.
"There isn't a version of Caleb in my head without them."
Your smile softens.
"And honestly? You'd be less cute without them."
"Don't."
"You would."
He grumbles your name.
"You absolutely would."
"Stop."
"I think I'd cry."
"You would not cry."
"I'd mourn."
Caleb drops his forehead against your shoulder with a groan. A genuine one this time, one not out of frustration. Just hopeless, because just by your hands on his face, and your sweet, embarrassing words, he has been completely and utterly defeated by you.
You laugh, wrapping your arms around him, and his arms tighten around you immediately.
The bathroom falls quiet again. But this silence feels different.
Comfortable– Warm.
After a while, you feel him nudge his face against your neck, followed by his muffled voice."Twenty-seven?"
You burst out laughing.
"I knew you were still thinking about that."
"Twenty-seven?"
"Actually, it might be thirty."
Caleb makes a sound that suggests he's reconsidering every life choice that led him here.
You only smile wider and gently move his face up so you could press a kiss against his temple. Then to his cheeks – like you were kissing every single dot on his face.
Until his face is burning red enough to rival the sunrise peeking through the bathroom window.
The funny thing is, Caleb never truly learns to love his freckles.
Not the way you do. Not the way you look at them, like they're something worth admiring.
He can't rival the way you love it.
But over the years, he slowly stops hiding them. Stops treating it like something wrong on his face.
Because whenever he catches himself doing it, he remembers the way you look at him.
Like every freckle is something precious.
Like every single one belongs exactly where it should.
And Caleb stops frowning at the sight of them in the mirror.
