guys can you watch my scp-173 real quick,
i gotta pee
yo sorry i was doom scrolling
you still okay? buddy?
KIROKAZE
almost home

Origami Around

No title available
dirt enthusiast
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

Janaina Medeiros
styofa doing anything
Sweet Seals For You, Always

Kaledo Art

roma★
hello vonnie
occasionally subtle
Cosimo Galluzzi
NASA
One Nice Bug Per Day
taylor price
Three Goblin Art
d e v o n
Game of Thrones Daily
seen from Germany
seen from France
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Finland
seen from Belgium

seen from United States
seen from Türkiye

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia

seen from France

seen from Malaysia

seen from Germany
seen from India
@quackmyback
guys can you watch my scp-173 real quick,
i gotta pee
yo sorry i was doom scrolling
you still okay? buddy?
Bed on Fire | John Logan x Fem!Reader [ chapter one]
Summary: No one knew about John Logan’s crush on Hannah Wells except for Y/N L/N, because every time she was looking at him, he was looking at her.
Pairings: John Logan x Fem!Reader, Garrett Graham x Hannah Wells, [future]Dean Di Laurentis x Allie Hayes
A/N: Ah thank you so much for all the love and excitement. I'm beyond thrilled to have received such feedback! I've have also received a couple requests for a taglist - which I've never done before - so I'll be adding this to the fic. As said before, I have decided to make a series of slight rewrites of the show during some parts to include two new characters (the reader and her brother), along with new scenes and new relationships. I hope y'all will enjoy reading through the first chapter while I'll be going over the outline of the story and possibly pimp my profile since it's very bare at the moment.
Also, the gif inspired the entire fic because those 3 seconds alone I've watched over a hundred times. Gif is by bynatty.
Taglist: @parker-barnes-af @loml-gs
“Remind me again why I let you talk me into showing up like this?” you groaned, tugging at your black turtleneck. At least you’d swapped the green khakis for leather hotpants at the last second. There would be no way you were letting your outfit scream ‘avoid me at all costs’ tonight.
Finn, your twin brother, didn’t even bother to look up as he fiddled with the strings of his teal hoodie. Of course, the costumes were his idea. He’d even left Garrett’s place early just to make your costumes a surprise for everyone.
“You’ve been complaining for over an hour,” he replied calmly as he looked in the mirror, trying to hold your gaze.
“I was hoping it was a joke,” you replied, quickly finding his eyes in the mirror. They were the same color as yours. Most of your features were the same. Your personalities were quite similar as well, even though you would both argue differently.
Finn placed his hand over his heart, faking a shocked expression. “You wound me, sister.” Then he pulled the hood of his hoodie over his head, and a giant beak flopped over his forehead.
Your jaw dropped. “Nope. Ab-so-lute-ly not,” you said, shaking your head and marching over to yank the hood off his head. “This is where I draw the line. I refuse to walk into a party - late, mind you - looking ridiculous just because you do,” you declared, finger jabbing at his face.
“This,” Finn announced, “is art.” He grimaced and pulled the hood back over his head with one sweep, which made the beak hit his mouth and immediately bounce back into place.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, “You’re the reason I will die alone.”
Finn grinned. “You’re just mad because Dr. Doofenshmirtz doesn’t pull as Perry does.”
That’s when you looked down at yourself. You were wearing a long white lab coat over your black turtleneck and hotpants. To top it all off, you were wearing black combat boots to complete the look. Yeah, you were definitely going to get rid of this lab coat as soon as Finn was out of your sight and too drunk to notice you had hit it somewhere, so he was probably never going to find it again. Hopefully, the boys would pull him into taking a couple of shots so it would be sooner rather than later.
“C’mon, we’re going to be late,” Finn said as he grabbed his keys off your desk. Then, if on cue, your phone buzzed from where it lay on your bed. As soon as you picked up the pink checkered phone and turned it towards you, your eyes were met by a text from Allie. ‘Where are you guys??? Sean already left me!?!!’ Another text came through immediately after. ‘I lost Hannah as well.’
‘She is probably with Garrett,’ you texted back.
A few weeks ago, that would have been the weirdest five words you could ever send one of your best friends, but it has become a habit by now.
Before, you were the only one who would hang out with the hockey guys, since Dean, Finn, Beau, and you were childhood friends who went to the same college. Plus, Tucker’s cooking was impossible to resist. He single-handedly improved your diet. It was a nice change not being the only girl at the house who wasn’t just there to hook up, even though Hannah was usually in Garrett’s room.
“That’s our cue,” Finn said while looking over your shoulder, reading the texts Allie had sent you. You shoved your phone into the pocket of your lab coat and followed your brother out of your dorm room. “Lord, have mercy,” you prayed as you slammed the door shut behind you.
By the time you pulled up, the house was bursting at the seams. Finn parked across the street, and the music thumped so hard it rattled the porch and even your car windows. Classic Beau and Dean. “How long before the cops show up?” you muttered, unbuckling your seatbelt. Finn just rolled his eyes and herded you inside.
You barely managed to step through the front door before you were greeted by Dexter with a hug. He sloppily threw his arms around your neck, which barely missed your face. “You made it!” he screamed into your ear.
“Yes!” you yelled back, which immediately made him let go to reach his ear with one of his hands.
He was about to complain about your response when he finally had a moment to comprehend what you and Finn were wearing. “Oh my god!” he screamed again, “I love your outfits! It’s so iconic!”
You smiled and nodded, letting Finn soak up the praise. Once you deemed the conversation over, you peered past Dexter’s shoulder and spotted a cluster of Briar U students, star athletes included, crowded around the kitchen counter, tossing back shots. Mostly Dean and Beau, of course. Their grins were your signal to escape Dexter and make your way over.
“Bambi!” Dean shouted, pulling you into a hug the second you reached them. There it was again, the nickname he’d given you back in high school after your secret drunken adventure and your epic stair tumbles. Sure, you could claim you were just pretending the stairs were a slide, which in fact was true, but no one would buy it. Besides, you secretly loved the nickname and how everyone else let it stick. “So, what are you supposed to be?” he asked, finally letting you go.
You sighed and nodded towards the person behind you. “Just check out the idiot behind me, and you’ll figure it out.” Dean froze, then doubled over in laughter. Beau nearly choked on his shot, eyes wide. “No way,” he sputtered.
“Yes way!” Finn spread his arms as he walked towards the group. “Where’s my award?” He spun around, showing his friends what he called his masterpiece. “Y/n are you-”
“Dr. Doofenshmirtz,” you deadpanned, lips pursed as you finished Tucker’s question for him. Dean was too busy wheezing with laughter to say anything.
“Break a leg, why don’t you,” you muttered to the blond, who was practically on the floor, gasping for air. “Or better yet, break both. That’ll keep you out of getting laid, which serves you right.”
“That’s not very nice, Bambi.” You turned, and there he was - Logan, with those big, dreamy brown eyes you tried not to get lost in. He stood next to Tucker, supposedly part of a duo, though all he wore were wings and a sleeveless shirt that did his arms every favor.
Logan smiled, “I think you look nice,” he added.
Shit. His words made your stomach clench, and your throat tighten, like invisible hands were squeezing every last bit of air from your lungs.
“So,” you lingered at your words, “Who or what are you supposed to be anyway?”
Tucker frowned at your question. “The bees and the birds.” Both hockey players replied, slightly in unison, slightly not. You blinked at their answer. “That’s-” you stumbled, “Why?”
Logan shrugged and smiled his famously wide smile. “It was easy, and Tucker really wanted to make use of the bee costume he had lying around.”
You blinked again. “Why do you even own a bee costume?” you asked, narrowing your eyes. Then you shook your head, hands up in surrender. “Actually, never mind. I don’t want to know.”
“We need to take a picture.” Tucker suddenly demanded. “No,” you replied even faster.
“Yes,” he challenged you.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Before Tucker could argue, Logan caught your lab coat sleeve and steered you toward the kitchen corner. His hand brushed your bare shoulder, just for a second, barely there, but you felt it all the same.
Suddenly, a wave of heat crashed over you. Fuck, why was it so hot? How was Dean not melting in that denim suit? You needed this lab coat off. Now, or you’d melt right there on the kitchen floor.
“C’mon, Doc. Smile,” Logan said, looking down at you, blissfully unaware of the predicament you were in.
Doc.
“Screw this lab coat,” you muttered, yanking at the sleeve in a desperate attempt to free yourself.
“What are you doing?” Logan asked, eyes narrowing as he watched you finally wrestle the coat off.
“I don’t like the coat,” you shrugged as you placed the coat on the kitchen counter.
“I do.”
“Well, too bad,” you shot back, locking eyes with him as you debated which layer to ditch next, since losing the coat hadn’t brought the breeze you craved.
“We want to join too!” You heard a familiar voice disrupt your thoughts, and as you looked to your left, you saw Garrett and Hannah appear from the crowd.
So, against your will, you ended up in the stupid picture. Beau jumped in halfway through, then some random guy in a Mike Wazowski costume. By the end, you’d lost count of the photos. Tucker had you in stitches, dramatically posing as ‘the bee’ and grabbing every prop he could find.
And Logan was still right there, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back. Your throat tightened, heart fluttering up into your chest, desperate for more space.
Breathe. You needed to remember to breathe.
An hour later, the party had somehow become even louder. You were leaning against a counter, eavesdropping on the conversation Allie and her boyfriend Sean were having. “Let’s have this conversation another time,” she said, leaving her red cup on the counter and her boyfriend and you to fend for yourselves.
Spotting the abandoned red cup reminded you that your own hands were empty. You pushed off the counter and made your way toward the drink stash.
“Do you think there is something else besides alcohol?” You heard Garrett ask the person next to him who had his back towards you. “For you?” A familiar voice asked back, which made you jump and immediately cover yourself against the wall next to the doorframe.
Logan.
“No, it’s for Hannah,” Garrett explained while opening and closing every drawer. Logan turned towards the counter and put his hand in the sink filled with ice and drinks. “Here,” he handed a closed can of beer to Garrett and smiled softly, “Cans are safer.”
Oh.
Your stomach plummeted like you’d just stepped off a ledge.
“Thanks.” Garrett took the can from Logan and slammed a hand on his best friend’s shoulder, then walked away, presumably to go and find Hannah.
But Logan didn’t move a muscle. He just watched his best friend walk away. And you recognized the look in his eye as Garrett met up with Hannah again. It was soft, as if he finally felt relaxed for the first time in a while. You recognized it because you wore the same one every single time you looked at him.
Something twisted deep inside you. You felt a pang of jealousy that caught you off guard, mixed with heartbreak. The realization settled quietly. Logan had feelings for Hannah.
Oh.
This time, your stomach twisted so hard it felt like it was clawing its way out. Impossible, but it felt painfully real.
“Y/n?”
You blinked and let out a gasp. Your eyes found his as Logan was watching you now. He was leaning against the doorway, holding a red cup, probably filled with beer.
“Huh?” was all you managed. Words wouldn’t come, not after what you’d just realized. It felt like you were trapped in a storm cloud, ready to burst and rain for days.
“You look traumatized. Are you okay?” His expression changed from bright, open eyes to narrow ones, desperately trying to find out what it was that had you in such a grip that you couldn’t even pronounce a word.
You opened your mouth, closed it, then let out a sigh - half frustration, half laughter.
“Yeah, just fine,” you finally managed to scramble some words.
“That’s not what people say who really are fine,” he explained, slightly rotating his head while pronouncing ‘fine’. And then a crooked smile appeared on his face.
You stayed silent. What were you supposed to say? Actually, Logan, I just realized I’ve been crushing on a guy who looks at my best friend the way I look at him. That would go over great. You almost rolled your eyes, but forced a smile instead and took a sip, only to realize your cup was so crumpled it nearly spilled everywhere.
Logan studied you for a second, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Then Tucker yelled something ambiguous from the middle of the room. He shook his head while laughing at the younger boy. “Duty calls.”
“Good luck,” you replied. And then he was gone. You stared after him for half a second too long before dragging your attention back to the red cup in your hand.
“Okay,” you muttered, eyeing your crumpled red cup. “Love this for me.”
“Talking to yourself is usually the first sign of insanity.”
You frowned and looked up. Beau stood across the kitchen, holding his own red cup - uncrumpled, unlike yours, which had barely survived the stress of a single conversation.
You groaned once your gaze locked with his. “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough,” he answered as he strode towards you, leaning against the counter across.
You grimaced and raised your cup. “Amazing,” you said, earning a smile from Beau. He was never loud like Dean, always letting people come to him. Maybe that’s why you loved him being your friend. He understood the art of quiet, and you admired his calm presence. You’d learned to bury your wants deep, not always healthy, but at least you didn’t trouble anyone else. Beau always had your back since he figured this out during the years in high school you spent together, and the number of times you complained about your boyfriends to him.
“You could talk to me,” he said, which made you look up again and smile softly. “I know,” you nodded, “I just don’t know-”
You both turned at the sound of someone shouting Garrett and Hannah’s names. The crowd parted, revealing the pair near the hallway. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Logan watching Hannah, his gaze tracking her laughter. When Garrett tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, Logan looked away quickly, glancing around to see if anyone noticed.
You swallowed hard. Beside you, Beau followed your gaze, watching Logan slip away from the scene. Then Beau looked back at you, noticing the way you watched Logan. “Y/n…” he started, but Tucker’s voice cut him off.
You blinked at the sound of your name and looked around immediately like a deer in headlights. “What?” you shouted to nobody in particular.
“We need you for beer pong!” he yelled back as he threw the small white ball in your direction. Surprisingly, you caught it just before it would have hit your face and immediately shook your head. “No,” you answered fast.
“Yes.”
“We’re not doing this again,” you said, hands on your hips as you set your cup down. Suddenly, Logan appeared behind Tucker, draping his arms over his friend’s shoulders. “I’m with Doc, then,” he grinned, making your stomach drop. You shot him a look at the nickname.
“Who’s Doc?” Tucker asked as he turned his head towards Logan.
“Bambi.”
“Ah.”
“Fine,” you sighed, “but if I win, Logan drops the nickname.” He stepped up, offering his hand. You shook on it, and for a moment, he just stood there. Then he turned to Tucker and mouthed, “Never,” making Tucker snicker.
Beer pong quickly became chaotic, to no one's surprise. The red cups on the table were filled with water to prevent the floors from getting sticky and the house from smelling like dried-up beer. Dean contributed the most to the chaotic game by insisting on acting as a commentator and fully embodying his role as Maverick.
As the game started, Tucker roped Finn into being his beer pong partner. Finn was all in until he saw just how terrible Tucker’s aim was once he hit that tipsy-to-drunk sweet spot. It took about five minutes for them to start trash-talking each other.
Unfortunately, you weren’t much better. Every miss earned a laugh from Logan. It almost made you want to miss on purpose, but sadly, your aim was just that bad. “I swear I’m usually better than this,” you said, wincing as the ball landed four inches from the cup. “Hard to believe,” he teased.
“Have I ever lied to you?” you asked, turning to find him already watching you instead of the game. You stumbled, clearing your throat, trying to shake off the tightness. “No,” he said quietly. He looked like he wanted to say more, but then cold droplets splashed your bare arms, snapping you back to reality.
“Let’s go, Perry!” Tucker jumped and bumped his chest against your brother’s. Then both of them raised their hand in the air and high-fived each other.
“Truce?” Finn asked his friend, and the boy nodded enthusiastically. “Truce,” he confirmed, and they both turned towards you and Logan, who stood beside you on the other side of the table, close enough to touch.
guys can you watch my scp-173 real quick,
i gotta pee
The Subway Car
For weeks youve watched the sleeping man on the subway and wondered why. One night, you finally find out why.
Prod!Yoongi x reader
word count: 3.6k
ao3 link
tags: corporate hell, producer yoongi, yoongi is so soft, this def isnt inspired by me wanting to quit my job rn, x reader, angst, fluff, hopecore, bittersweet, oneshot, maybe i write the coffee date, maybe not
The first time you notice him, he’s asleep.
Not the light kind of sleep people fall into on train rides with their heads tipped back and their mouths slightly open. Not accidental. Not peaceful. This is a full collapse.
The man in the black hoodie is folded awkwardly into the corner seat of Line 2 like his body simply gave up halfway home. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, headphones hanging around his neck, silver hair flattened against the subway window every time the train jerks.
You stare longer than you should, mostly because he looks familiar. Not celebrity familiar or“I’ve seen him online” familiar. Just familiar in the strange way repeated strangers become when your life narrows into routine.
11:43 p.m. Platform 4. Third car from the back.
Every night for nearly two weeks.
And always asleep.
The first night you notice him, you assume he’s drunk. The second night, overworked. By the fifth, you start checking for him before you even board. Tonight, though, something feels different.
The storm outside has turned Seoul silver and violent, rain hammering against the train windows hard enough to blur the city lights into streaks of neon watercolor. People are quieter than usual, shoulders damp from soaked jackets, phones glowing dimly in exhausted hands.
You almost miss your stop because you’re watching the man sleep.
Again.
His head knocks lightly against the glass when the train slows, yet he doesn’t wake up.
Jesus.
You glance around the car. Nobody else seems concerned. Typical. You hesitate before leaning over carefully.
“Excuse me?”
Nothing.
Closer this time.
“Hey.”
His eyes open immediately.
Sharp. Dark. Alert in a way that makes your stomach tighten. For one disorienting second, he looks terrified. Then annoyed.
“What,” he rasps.
You lean back instinctively. “Your stop.”
He blinks at you slowly before looking toward the station sign outside.
“Fuck.”
You try not to smile.
He scrubs a hand over his face and stands too quickly, clearly disoriented. Up close, he looks even more exhausted than you thought. Pale skin. Dark circles. A kind of bone-deep fatigue that expensive clothes and pretty features can’t hide. The train doors chime. He looks between you and the platform. Then sighs.
“Missed it anyway.”
The doors slide shut again.
You snort before you can stop yourself.
His eyes flick toward you.
“You think that’s funny?”
“A little.”
“Cool.”
His voice is dry enough to crack concrete.
You expect the conversation to end there. Usually people avoid eye contact after accidental train interactions. Instead, he sits back down next to you.
The train rattles forward through the tunnel as rain streaks the windows. He closes his eyes again.
“You should sleep at home,” you say before thinking better of it.
One eye opens.
“You should mind your business.”
“Fair.”
Silence settles between you.
Not uncomfortable silence.
Just tired silence.
The kind shared between people too exhausted to pretend they’re functioning.
The train enters its underground subway tunnel and the rain stops hitting the windows as loud, finally giving you a chance to clear your mind.
You look down at your phone again. Three unread emails from your supervisor. One message from your mother asking if you’re eating properly. Another from your coworker reminding you about tomorrow’s presentation. Your chest tightens instantly. You lock the screen.
Across from you, the stranger watches you carefully.
“You got that look too,” he mutters.
“What look?”
“Like if one more person asks something from you, you might bite them.”
You laugh softly despite yourself.
“That obvious?”
“Yeah.”
He says it without judgment.
The train lights flicker once overhead. Outside, thunder shakes somewhere above ground.
Then everything stops.
The subway lurches violently before grinding to a halt between stations.
A collective groan fills the car.
You close your eyes immediately.
Of course.
Of course this would happen tonight.
Static crackles overhead before an announcement filters through the speakers apologizing for delays due to flooding near the tracks. Estimated wait time unknown.
Around the car, people begin complaining under their breath. The man across from you tips his head back against the seat.
“Perfect.”
You check the time.
12:08 a.m.
You still have slides to finish before tomorrow morning.
You haven’t eaten dinner.
Your feet ache.
And now you’re trapped underground during a thunderstorm with a stranger who apparently uses public transportation as a mattress. Something hysterical bubbles in your chest.
You start laughing.
The man looks at you strangely.
“You okay?”
“No,” you admit.
That only makes you laugh harder.
Because what else are you supposed to do?
Your laughter quiets eventually into embarrassed coughing. He watches you for another moment before speaking.
“You work corporate?”
You blink. “How’d you know?”
“You have the eyes.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Dead inside. Expensive tote bag.”
You glare at him. “I’m not dead inside.”
He looks unconvinced.
“You?”
“Music.”
That surprises you.
“Musician?”
“Producer.”
Oh.
That explains the headphones.
And maybe the exhaustion.
You study him again more carefully now. There’s something about him that feels heavy. Not arrogant like some creative industry people you’ve met. Just… worn thin.
“You work late,” you say quietly.
“So do you.”
“Yeah.”
Another flicker overhead.
The emergency lights switch on dimly, bathing the subway car in muted amber. The storm must be worsening.
People begin making frustrated phone calls around you. The producer beside you pulls his hood farther over his face.
“You famous or something?” you ask suddenly.
He gives you a long look.
“Why?”
“You look like you don’t want people recognizing you.”
“That bad?”
“A little.”
His mouth twitches faintly.
“I’m not that famous.”
The answer itself feels evasive enough to confirm he absolutely is. But you let it go.
You don’t really care who he is.
Right now he’s just another exhausted person trapped underground, same as you.
“You got a name?” he asks after a while.
You tell him.
He nods once. “Yoongi.”
The name settles softly between you. Hours pass strangely after that. The train remains stalled while rain pounds somewhere above like the world is trying to cave inward. People slowly filter into silence. Some sleep. Some scroll endlessly through their phones. One elderly man snores loudly near the doors. And somehow, against all logic, you keep talking to Yoongi. Not about important things at first.
Bad convenience store coffee. The worst station exits during monsoon season. The weird smell near Hongdae after midnight.
Easy things.
But exhaustion makes people honest. Around 1:30 a.m., he asks, “You ever think about disappearing?”
The question catches you off guard.
You glance at him carefully.
His expression remains neutral, eyes fixed on the dark tunnel outside.
“Like permanently?” you ask quietly.
“No.” A pause. “Just… for a while.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly.
“All the time.”
He nods like he expected that answer.
“I almost quit last month,” you admit before you can stop yourself.
“The job?”
“Everything.”
The words come out brittle. You stare hard at your hands.
“I spent years trying to get where I am, and now every morning I wake up nauseous before work.” You laugh weakly. “I used to think if I worked hard enough, eventually I’d feel successful instead of tired.”
Yoongi stays silent. Not the fake attentive silence people use while waiting for their turn to speak.
Real silence. Listening silence.
“I keep thinking maybe everyone else can handle life better than me,” you continue quietly. “Like maybe I’m just weaker.”
“No,” he says immediately.
Firm enough that you look up. His jaw tightens slightly.
“It’s not weakness.”
Something in his voice makes the words feel personal.
You study him carefully. “You sound like you know.”
He laughs once without humor.
“I haven’t slept properly in three months.”
“That’s not healthy.”
“No shit.”
You smile faintly. He continues staring ahead.
“People think creative jobs are romantic,” he says eventually. “But mostly it’s sitting in dark rooms until sunrise trying to make something good enough to justify ruining yourself over it.”
Your chest aches unexpectedly. Because you understand that.
Not music specifically, but the feeling of pouring everything you are into work until there’s barely enough left to remain human afterward.
“What kind of music?” you ask.
“Hiphop. Producing mostly.”
“You like it?”
The question lingers.
Then he shrugs.
“I used to.”
That hurts more than it should.
Outside, thunder cracks violently overhead and the train lights flicker again. For a brief second the car plunges completely dark. Instinctively, your hand catches his wrist.
Warm.
Solid.
The lights return immediately afterward.
Neither of you move.
Your fingers remain loosely wrapped around his sleeve while your heartbeat trips over itself in embarrassment.
“Sorry,” you murmur quickly, pulling away.
“It’s fine.”
But his voice sounds quieter now. You settle back into your seat, heat crawling up your neck. The train remains motionless.
2:07 a.m.
You’re both too tired for self-consciousness anymore. Yoongi eventually falls asleep again beside you instead of across from you this time, shoulder barely brushing yours every time the train creaks.
You should move.
Instead you stay perfectly still.
There’s something strangely comforting about his presence. Maybe because he doesn’t ask anything from you. Doesn’t expect you to smile prettier or answer emails faster or become more ambitious or resilient or useful.
He’s just here. Breathing softly beside you. Human. At some point, your own eyes drift shut.
—
You wake to warmth.
And weight.
For one confused second, you don’t understand why your neck hurts until you realize your head is resting against someone’s shoulder.
Yoongi’s shoulder.
Mortification hits instantly.
You jerk upright.
“Oh my god-”
“It’s fine,” he mumbles sleepily.
His voice is rough from sleep.
Your face burns. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“You looked like you needed it.”
The simple sincerity of that answer silences you.
Outside the windows, you can see the sunlight pouring in from the tunnel entrance. The train still hasn’t moved.
Your phone battery sits at 11%.
Six missed calls from work. Your stomach drops immediately.
“Fuck.”
Yoongi glances over.
“Problem?”
“I have a presentation at eight-thirty.”
He checks his phone.
“It’s almost six.”
“Oh my god.”
Panic blooms sharp and immediate in your chest.
Your breathing turns shallow.
No no no-
You can already picture it: your supervisor’s expression, the disappointment, the humiliation, another conversation about commitment and reliability and expectations-
Suddenly the subway car feels too small.
Too warm.
You press a hand against your sternum.
Breathe.
But your lungs won’t cooperate.
“Hey.”
Yoongi’s voice cuts through the static in your head.
You look at him sharply.
“You’re panicking.”
“I’m not-”
“You are.”
Your vision blurs slightly.
Embarrassing.
God.
Not here.
Not in front of a stranger.
Yoongi shifts toward you carefully.
“Look at me.”
You do.
His expression remains calm despite the exhaustion written all over him.
“Breathe slower.”
“I can’t.”
“Yeah, you can.”
His voice stays low and steady.
“Match me.”
He inhales slowly.
Exhales.
Again.
You try to follow despite the tightness clawing through your chest.
Gradually, painfully, the panic eases enough for air to reach your lungs again.
You close your eyes briefly.
“Sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
You laugh shakily. “People usually get uncomfortable.”
“I’m too tired to get uncomfortable.”
That startles a laugh out of you. He smiles faintly at the sound. And suddenly the atmosphere shifts. Softer somehow.
Outside, rain continues pouring endlessly against the city. Inside, dawn wraps the subway car in muted gray-blue light while exhausted strangers sleep around you.
Yoongi studies you quietly.
“You hate your job that much?”
You hesitate.
Then nod.
“I used to love it.”
“What changed?”
“I think…” You stare down at your hands. “I kept waiting for life to start after work.”
He goes very still beside you.
Like the sentence hit somewhere vulnerable.
“I kept telling myself once I got promoted, once I earned enough, once I proved myself…” Your laugh comes out hollow. “But every year I just got more tired.”
Yoongi looks away toward the rain-streaked windows.
“I get that.”
Something about him suddenly feels unbearably lonely.
You wonder when he last slept in a real bed. When someone last asked if he was okay and meant it. Whether he even remembers what rested happiness feels like.
The thought settles heavily in your chest.
“You know,” you say carefully, “you don’t have to ruin yourself to make good music.”
His smile this time is small and sad.
“That sounds fake.”
“Probably.”
“But nice.”
The train finally jerks forward around 6:40 a.m.
A quiet ripple of relief moves through the passengers. Yoongi exhales slowly beside you.
“We survived.”
“Barely.”
“You gonna skip work?”
You laugh incredulously. “In my dreams.”
“You should.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
Easy for him to say.
But something dangerous blooms briefly in your mind anyway: calling in sick, going home, sleeping for twelve hours, ignoring every expectation waiting for you above ground-
The fantasy hurts.
When the train finally reaches your station, neither of you move immediately.
The doors slide open. Cold rain-scented air rushes inside. You stand reluctantly.
“This is me.”
Yoongi nods once.
“Right.”
For some reason disappointment twists unexpectedly in your stomach.
You barely know him, yet the thought of walking back into real life feels worse now somehow.
“Thanks,” you say softly.
“For what?”
“Last night.”
He looks at you for a long moment.
Then quietly:
“Get some sleep.”
The doors begin chiming.
You step backward onto the platform. Yoongi remains seated inside the train, hood up, eyes exhausted. For one strange suspended second, you both simply look at each other.
Then the doors close.
And the train disappears into the tunnel.
—
You think that should’ve been the end of it.
Subway strangers are temporary things.
Brief intersections.
But three nights later, there he is again.
Same train.
Same car.
Asleep.
You stop short when you see him.
This time, though, there’s a takeaway coffee balanced precariously beside him.
You stare at it.
Then at him.
Then, before you can overthink it, you sit beside him and gently tap his shoulder.
His eyes open instantly again.
Sharp.
Alert.
Then softer when he recognizes you.
“You again.”
“You’re going to spill your coffee.”
He blinks down at the cup like he forgot it existed.
“Right.”
You try not to smile.
“You look terrible,” he tells you.
“Wow. Thanks.”
“You too.”
“That’s fair.”
Something warm flickers briefly in his expression.
You sit beside him while the train rattles forward through Seoul’s midnight glow. Neither of you mention the fact that this already feels familiar.
“You skip work?” he asks.
“No.”
“You should’ve.”
“I know.”
You glance sideways at him.
“You sleep?”
“Also no.”
“Hypocrite.”
“Yeah.”
The corners of his mouth twitch. You notice then how beautiful he is when he’s relaxed enough to stop guarding himself.
Not polished beauty.
Not celebrity perfection.
Human beauty.
Tired eyes. Soft voice. The slight slump in his posture from carrying too much for too long.
You wonder suddenly what his music sounds like.
As if reading your mind, he asks, “You listen to rap?”
“Sometimes.”
“Damn. Brutal answer.”
You laugh.
“What about you? Do you listen to corporate presentations recreationally?”
“Only the really sexy ones.”
He snorts quietly.
Victory.
The train rocks gently beneath you. Outside, rain still falls.
Lighter tonight.
The city glows silver beyond the windows.
“Why do you always sleep on the train?” you ask eventually.
Yoongi stays quiet for a moment.
Then: “It’s the only place nobody needs anything from me.”
The honesty of that answer lands heavily between you.
You understand immediately.
On the subway, nobody cares who you are. Nobody expects productivity. Nobody asks for perfection.
You just exist.
“I think,” you admit softly, “this is the calmest part of my day too.”
He looks at you then.
Really looks at you.
And for the first time in months, you feel understood without having to explain yourself into exhaustion first. The realization is terrifying, yet comforting.
The weeks after that become dangerous in quiet ways.
You start looking for him every night. Sometimes he’s already asleep when you board. Sometimes he’s awake, headphones on, staring blankly out the window. Sometimes he saves you a seat without acknowledging it directly.
You never exchange numbers. Never make official plans. But slowly, inevitably, the train becomes yours together.
You learn things accidentally.
He likes mint gum but never finishes the packs. He works best after midnight. He hates bright studio lights. He writes lyrics in his phone notes when he can’t sleep.
He learns things too.
You stop drinking coffee after 10 p.m. because it worsens your anxiety. You secretly wanted to study art before choosing business. You cry when overly stressed but only in private.
One night he falls asleep with his head against your shoulder. Neither of you comments on it. Another night you bring him convenience store food because he admits he forgot dinner again.
“You’re starting to mother me,” he mutters around a mouthful of triangle kimbap.
“You’d die without supervision.”
“Probably.”
He sounds completely serious.
The thought unsettles you more than it should.
Eventually, one rainy Thursday night, you ask to hear his music.
Yoongi goes strangely quiet.
“You don’t have to,” you add quickly.
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
He stares at his hands.
“I think if you hear it, you’ll know too much about me.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
Because maybe that’s already true. Still, after a long silence, he hands you one side of his headphones.
The song that fills your ears is raw.
Not polished.
Not commercial.
It sounds like insomnia feels.
Lonely piano layered beneath sharp percussion and lyrics spoken so quietly they almost disappear into the instrumental. You look at him slowly when it ends.
“It’s beautiful.”
Yoongi immediately looks away like praise physically hurts him.
“No one’s heard that one.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s honest.”
The confession settles between you like something fragile.
You want desperately to ask what happened to him. Who taught him exhaustion like this. Why he looks so unbearably sad whenever the train reaches his stop.
But some wounds reveal themselves slowly.
So instead you lean back beside him while rain traces silver patterns across the windows.
And for the first time in a long time, neither of you feels completely alone.
—
It happens in November.
You finally break.
Not dramatically.
No screaming breakdown or public collapse.
Just one Tuesday afternoon sitting in a conference room while your supervisor criticizes your presentation for the third consecutive hour.
Something inside you simply… empties.
You stare at the slideshow projected against the wall and realize with terrifying clarity:
If you keep living like this, you will disappear.
Not physically. Worse. You’ll become numb enough that nothing matters anymore. That night, you board the train shaking with exhaustion.
Yoongi notices immediately.
“What happened?”
You sit heavily beside him.
“I quit.”
His eyebrows lift.
“What?”
“I quit.”
The words feel unreal even now.
Your chest tightens.
“I walked out.”
Silence.
Then: “How do you feel?”
You open your mouth automatically to say you're scared.
Instead, unexpectedly:
“Relieved.”
Yoongi studies you carefully.
Then, slowly, he smiles. Not the tiny exhausted half-smiles you’ve gotten used to. A real one.
Soft. Proud. Beautiful enough to steal the air from your lungs.
“Good,” he says quietly.
Your throat suddenly aches.
“I don’t know what I’m doing now.”
“Nobody does.”
“You seem weirdly calm about this.”
He looks down at his hands.
“Because I think I’m about to do the same thing.”
You blink at him.
“The producing?”
“I haven’t made something I love in a long time.”
His voice turns quieter.
“I think I forgot who I was before all this.”
The admission cracks something open between you. The train hums softly beneath your feet while Seoul rushes past outside in blurred lights.
You look at him carefully.
This man you met by accident. This exhausted stranger who slowly became the safest part of your days.
“You know,” you murmur, “I used to think the train was depressing.”
Yoongi huffs softly. “It is.”
“No, I mean…” You smile faintly. “I think it was just lonely before.”
Something unreadable flickers across his face.
Then the train slows toward your station. Your stop.
You stand reluctantly.
But this time, before the doors open, Yoongi speaks.
“Wait.”
You turn back.
He looks strangely uncertain suddenly.
Vulnerable.
“Do you…” He exhales slowly. “Do you want to get coffee sometime when we’re both less miserable?”
Your heart stutters.
“You mean intentionally?”
“That bad of an offer?”
You laugh softly.
“No.”
The doors slide open.
Rain-scented air spills inside again, and suddenly you realize something terrifying:
You don’t want to leave him behind this time.
Not on the train. Not in passing. Not as another temporary almost-connection swallowed by routine.
So instead of stepping out immediately, you hold his gaze and say quietly:
“I think maybe the man I kept seeing asleep on the subway was exactly what I needed.”
Yoongi stares at you as something soft and astonished breaks across his exhausted face.
Outside, Seoul keeps moving.
Rain falls. Trains run. People hurry endlessly toward lives that wear them down.
But inside the dim subway car, beside the man who understands your exhaustion better than anyone ever has-
you finally feel awake.
ao3 link
yall ever feel like you’re being stalked. like youre obviously not but it lk feels like it.
"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"
“And what kind of king would Camelot want?” 🏰⚔️🐉
I think I am in love with you
No
Skipping the storyline and going straight into the fucking part..
does anyone know how to make friends? my best friend and i recently parted ways and i don’t have anyone else, i don’t know what to do :(
my genuine reaction when i remember that jon snow is canonically a munch
“i can fix her, i can fix him, i can fix them”
i think we need to work on you first.
How I feel reading smut while being scared of intimacy in real life
looking at myself in the mirror after reading smut
PLEASE JUST ONE CHANCE
PLEASE JUST ONE CHANCE
the alchemy || Will Lenney
“where’s the trophy? he just comes running over to me”
part one of THE ALCHEMY. part two here
pairing: will lenney x fem!reader
warnings & tags: friends to lovers. idiots with tension. idiots in denial. slowish burn. lots of nerdy football talk + a side of Willne.
summary: The two times you were recruited to play in a Sidemen charity match, and the one time you score.
a/n: hello!!! this is based on the 2022 sidemen charity match, but for convenience purposes, it's set in 2023. for the plot, of course.
also, i’m tired of looking at this so this is being posted without review! i promise part two will have more will, i’m just setting us up for success in part one. you’ll absolutely love it.
please enjoy <3
wc: idek at this point
The buzz that interrupted your sleep wasn’t what concerned you, it’s the fact that after you had hung up the first and second time, there was a third call. Begrudgingly, you toss your sheets aside and sit up, eyeing the phone on the bedside table. To no surprise, it was Simon.
You were no stranger when it came to working with the Sidemen. Starting off as a crew member who was good with a camera, slowly you were incorporated into videos, and eventually had the confidence to create your own platform. After leaving the Sidemen to focus on building your solo career, most of your audience didn't know where you gained your footing, becoming a bigger public figure outside of their work.
Getting a phone call from Simon wasn't uncommon, needless to say. You were always ready to film, to bring in new ideas for them, to be on set. After all, you had been friends with the lads for years.
"Hello?" you croak, trying to smooth down the hair that was knotted in the back of your head.
"Y/n! How are you, mate?" Simon's voice was overly chipper and sweet, too sweet. You eye your phone for a moment before pressing it back up to your ear. It was too early in the morning for either of you to be awake.
"Christ, Simon, I know you aren't just calling me at seven in the morning to ask how I am," you replied. Simon sighs briefly before letting out an airy chuckle.
"Alright, I need to ask you for a favor." That's what you were expecting. His voice hesitant and low, it made you wonder what this could really be about.
"Okay, go on then," you yawn. You weren't sure why Simon was being so ominous; you had done the lad loads of favors in the past. Bringing in extra camera crew, reaching out to other influencers, helping plan out events-
"Would you sub in for Andres for the charity match next week? I know it's last minute, but he had other conflicts, and you're one of my best mates. You-" Simon rambles before you swiftly interject.
"Simon, what are you waffling on about? You can't be serious," you say seriously. The grogginess from waking up immediately disappears, and you begin to regret picking up the phone.
"I know it's mad, but we've tossed around a ball quite a bit before-"
"I haven't seriously played footy since I was in high school! I can't imagine the shit I'd get if I were to even step foot into that stadium."
"I know-"
"And I'm the only girl! That's like a misogynist's nightmare, a woman who can think and compete!" Getting on your feet, you pace around your room like a madman. Your free hand finds its way into your hair, coarsing through it multiple times, stressfully.
"Would you let me finish? Then you can decide if it's bollocks or not," Simon asked finally. You heave out a breath of air and then hum in response. The least you could do is give him time to try to convince you.
"Look, it's the first time a lot of them have played football, and some of them play like it's the first time. It's really about having a good time, " he explains, which admittedly puts some of your worries at ease- and gets a small laugh out of you.
"Also.." he says hesitantly, hitching his breath as he trails off. You roll your eyes and groan. Of course, there's more to it; there always is. You sit back onto the edge of the bed, foot impatiently tapping on the wood floor.
"I may have called Will, and he may have told me to ask you; he promised me that with enough begging.. you'd say yes," he says, almost like a question. There's a small hint of teasing when he says it, and you can practically see the prat smiling through the screen.
Your end of the call goes silent. A flush starting at the tips of your ears and growing at the bulbs of your cheeks.
..
In 2018, the day before the charity match, you met Will in person for the first time. You knew of him through brief passing and mentions of him from Cal and the other Sidemen. Yet you never spoke to him until you were messing around with your camera during practice, getting ready to film the match the next day.
"This is who I was telling you about, Will," Cal smiles, grabbing your attention from the camera. You peer over your shoulder to see a younger lad with dark hair standing beside him. You politely set the camera down on the bench and extend your hand out to him.
"Hi, I'm y/n, I've heard good things about you!" you smile, and he leans down, weakly taking your hand and shaking it.
"Hello," he responds, his once loud chatter with Cal made you assume he'd be much more talkative. But now he is quiet and fidgety, and it makes you wonder if you've already made a bad first impression.
"Y/n is our best camerawomen. I ought to get you familiar with her; maybe you can get some good screen time." Cal smirked. Will shoves him lightly with a chuckle.
"I'm not all bad, I reckon," he insists, and you put your hands up defensively.
"Hey, we'll just have to see on the field, won't we?" you express, grabbing the large equipment and getting ready to move it inside. You stand up, getting a better look at his face. He's tall, his hair short and freshly cut, his jawline is carved out sharply, making it hard to go unnoticed.
"Cheeky," Will commented, crossing his arms over each other. And unknowingly, a grin had worked its way onto your face, your tongue pressing against the inside of your cheek. You shrug,
"I gotta get going, it was nice meeting you Will,"
..
Since then, you and Will have kept in contact frequently. He interacted with you on social media, had you come to feature in his videos, and texted you almost every day. Seeing one another once every few months had become every weekend when you moved closer to London. And you can bet that this didn't go unnoticed by anyone. Sharing clothes, traveling together, posting each other, seeing each other more than your own family— you can only assume why everyone has their presumptions.
Yet, you were great at denying, avoiding, and more importantly ignoring these blistering questions on if they or won’t they.
"So.. you called Will first, before calling me?" you ask slowly, processing it yourself. The pads of your fingers rub against your temple, then smoothing your palm across your cheek hoping it would brush away the pink that dusted your face.
"Yeah," Simon says quickly. "Is it more convincing now? "
"Fuck off,"
"I know it is," he insists. You mutter profanities under your breath before letting it go silent.
Because it is much more convincing knowing that Will had that kind of faith and trust in you. It's more convincing knowing the person closest to you would be right by your side. You weigh out the options in your head. If you do play, you'll get to say you played in front of 30,000 people, raised money for charity, and more importantly, were able to help out some of your closest friends.
"Simon, I don't know.." You mutter hesitantly, biting the nail on your thumb. Sure, you had played footy competitively in high school and tossed a ball around here and there with the lads, but other than that, you hadn't really played in a few years now.
"C'mon, you don't have to be any good, it's for charity y/n! You have to! There will be loads of fans happy that you're playing!" Simon coaxed. You shake your head instantly, knowing that half the boys lived and breathed football.
“You can’t say I don’t have to be any good when you’re probably one of the best players out there.” Countering his argument, you can tell you're at the breaking point. He's cracked you down efficiently, being nice, complimenting you, bringing Will into it- It's working so well you almost hate him for it.
“I’ve exhausted my options, y/n, please, this one time, and I’ll never ask again.” Simon protests. You huff, exasperated, and without letting another beat pass,
"Alright,"
"Alright?" he repeats, the surprise evident in his tone. You gnaw at your bottom lip, adn squeezed your eyes shut before speaking again.
"Yeah, okay, put me in." You decide finally. You can hear movement on the other end and a few other voices shout in delight. Of course, he couldn't be alone when he made the phone call.
"Oh my god, this will be legendary, thank you, thank you, thank you," Simon begins excitedly, which brings a smile to your face. Simon, even though he always was teetering on the edge of your limit, was charming and kind and that's what makes it hard to deny him.
"You're playing center, by the way. See you in a week mate!" and the phone call clicks. There, you're left to stare at your phone screen, watching as you get added to a group chat and texts start to roll in.
One week, seven days, to magically get good at football again. Right, well, it’s much too late to turn back now.
"Cheers," muttering to yourself. You fall back onto the bed, checking your messages to see a new one from Will.
"wanna show this novice the ropes?"
Word obviously spreads fast, is the first thing you think. And then you snort, with a quick eye roll, the pads of your fingers drumming against the screen.
"fuck off" you begin to type but instead you text back,
“pitch at 6 sharp"
And almost immediately Will texts back,
“wouldn’t miss it :)”
⚽️...
You arrive to the pitch first, bringing an old ball covered in dirt from when you had last dribbled with Chris. Will arrives shortly after, a wide smile and an excited pep to his jog.
“Six sharp!” he says, checking his watch to show you it's exactly 6pm. Will is very timely; he’s considerate of people's time and even makes an extra effort to arrive early. He never wants to be the wanker who shows up late and wastes others time and efforts.
"That ball is just filthy, innit?" he comments, his true Geordie accent making a clear appearance. You roll your eyes quickly.
“I don't see yours anywhere,” you respond, finishing up tying the laces of your shoes. You rock on your feet a few times, creasing the shoe and getting it to warp around your feet snugly.
"Fair enough." Immediately, Will picks the ball up and twirls it between his fingers. "What should we do first?"
You both practice dribbling, passing, and shooting. Eventually, moving on to striking and stealing, which gets aggressive, causing you to have bruises all along your legs. Will thinks that after a while, it's a good idea to mess around so you both don't end up hating each other. The time passes by swiftly, the sun setting behind you both before you realize it.
The sky is highlighted with hues of orange, yellow, and a deep red in the horizon. You turn to look at Will; his shoulder grazes your side, and as if on cue, he looks at you, too.
He silently smiles, and for a second it’s all it is, but then his hand comes up and brushes the cool of your cheekbone. He brushes the stray hair that fell, tucking it behind your ear. Smoothing down any hairs that stuck out on the back of your head with his palm.
Will always find an excuse to touch you, to be physically closer. He’s an affectionate person, you’ve always riddled it as. Oh, there’s a stray hair on your face, oh a piece of fuzz on your sweater, don’t worry if you’re nervous— his hand crawls its way onto the small of your back. And every time he did something like this, your feelings soared and free-fall in the air. You don’t know how much longer you can swallow down the shyness you feel when it happens.
Instead, you give him a small shove.
“Stop it,”
“I was just helpin’ ya,” his voice squeaks.
“Just like how you helped get Simon to convince me to play in the match next week?” You shove the ball into his chest, backing up, motioning him to play. He lets out an airy chuckle, rolling the ball onto the field and dribbling it between his feet.
“Heard about that didn’t you?”
He kicks it toward you.
“Mhmm. “
And you kick it, hard, right back.
“I didn’t help him; all I did was suggest that he ask you because you’re reliable.” Will tried to dribble around you, but it rolled just far away enough for you to steal it.
Will runs towards the goal post, attempting to block you or maybe even tackle you, you aren’t sure. From the times you’ve watched Will play, his limbs tend to fly around and it’s like he’s just experienced walking for the first time.
“And not because you know I wouldn’t say no to the prat?”
“Look, to make it up to you I’ll score you a goal at the game,” Will offers, making you raise your eyebrows. He says semiseriously, but you have a feeling it’s more joking than anything. He was always good with banter anyway.
“Yeah right,” You walk back, running up to the ball and kicking it with the side of your foot— flying into the right corner of the net.
Wills eyes widen as he watches you jog over to grab the ball again.
“And you’re the one who needs practice?” he pipes, forgetting about the conversation. You smile shyly and shake your head, grabbing the ball and handing it to Will.
"You think too highly of me, Will." His hands cup yours, causing you to look up at him. The eye contact is soft, yet his eyes squint, and you notice the small clench of his jaw.
"I don't think so. I reckon others think the world of you as well, " Will retorted seriously.
There it is again. What is so small and meaningless to him is the grandest gesture you could ever receive. Whatever way you feel is growing, and you're letting it kill you. You can hear it in the silence, see it with the lights off, and feel it when he steps into a room. It has never been clearer to you than now.
Will notes the silence on your end, reeling back his hands and letting the ball drop to the ground. He scratches the back of his neck before sweeping the ball between his feet and turning around.
"We should focus, shouldn't we? Keep practicing," he mutters absentmindedly. The words are caught in your throat, itching on the tip of your tongue. It takes every atom of your being not to blurt out your every thought. You try to ground yourself by moving your fingers, shaking off the tingling feeling Will left. Your mouth opens to say something, anything, but it snaps shut at the sight of the geordie man looking back at you.
So, instead, you ignore the interaction completely.
"Yeah, let's do that, practice."
And that’s what you did. Every day for a week, you both played until your fingers were numb and noses pink from the chill. The sun would be long gone, the stars visible in the dark, the dim lights that lit the field flickering during the times when they were ready to turn off.
And every night, when Will offered to take you home, you said yes. Will would walk on the side of the sidewalk closest to the road, his shoulder would bump into yours, and you would listen quietly to anything he had to say. He would go on and on and on the entire way home, and you still would ask if he wanted to come inside your flat for a few.
A few minutes would be you showing him your next video, and then you would cook together, and he would sit on your couch and scroll through his phone. The time moved quicker than it did on the field, causing you both to stay up late into the night.
“Where are you going?” You question from the couch, eyeing the way he begins to walk over to the door. He stands up straighter than before, looking at his phone, and then back up at you.
“Home, it’s late,” he reminded.
“Exactly. Stay, don’t act like you haven’t before,” you insist, already going to grab a few blankets and pillows for Will on the couch.
Some nights weren’t always like this. Sometimes, you’d watch something on the telly, and he’d scroll through his phone. Your body would press against his casually, like you two have done for months. Except you're more weary and hesitant, feeling like your every move was a gesture of something more.
For a week it felt like you two were playing house. It was odd, and you knew it. Everyone knew it. When James would call Will there would be quiet snickering, loud teasing. Faith and Sabina would ask for updates after seeing both of your story posts. When Simon called Will to see if he was coming to training day, he asked to speak to you knowing you’d be around.
Yet this didn’t stop the overnights at your flat, it didn’t stop Will from doing his work from your room, it didn’t prevent you from doing loads of laundry together, and it definitely didn’t stop you both from taking the train together to the hotel the day before the match.
⚽️…
The ground below you rumbles from the audience in the stadium. As the time passes you know it’s getting closer and closer to the start of the match. Your leg bounces up and down as you stretch in your own locker room, your hands shake putting on the red uniform, there’s a dryness in your throat that not even all the water in the world could wash away.
“You alright?” Wills asks quietly as his hand slips onto your shoulder. He’d been asking if you were okay ever since you lot left the hotel. And everytime you responded,
“Yeah, yeah,” except your eyebrows were knitted together, your hands picked at the beds of your nails, and you could barely interact with anyone without feeling like passing out.
“Don’t psyche yourself out, darlin. I make a fool of myself every year, all you have to do is show up and you’ve done your part!” he says delicately. You inhale through your nose at the nickname, jaw clenching to focus on breathing. All you do is nod, giving him a small smile.
You aren’t sure what will kill you first, the charity match, or the yearning in your heart. And hopefully, it’ll be the charity match.
Once everyone begins to stand, it’s three o’clock, and just like that the world begins to move incredibly fast. The lads begin two straight lines, moving through the tunnel swiftly. They all seem so confident and excited and you don’t think you even remember how to run. With Will standing infront of you, he’s the only thing that is blocking you and your vision from the roaring crowd outside.
Forgetting his gopro is on, you tap on Wills shoulder
“I’m literally shitting myself right now Will,” he laughs and he takes your hand in to his for a moment with a small squeeze,
“We’ll be all right, swear,” and by the time he turns around, you’re out in the field and the roar of the audience is jarring. You’re convinced your head whips an entire 360 to get a good look at how big the crowd was.
Once you’re down the field, you’re shaking hands with the opposing team. You nod politely and greet your friends, making polite, quick, small talks with JJ, Vik, Josh, Harry, and then Simon. You brief him with a handshake and shove at him lightly,
“God if this goes to shit, i’m blaming it all on you, ya know that?” you joke and he laughs loudly.
“I’ll keep that in mind, y/n”
You greet Chris, Tobi, and Jimmy finally before jogging your way to center to get ready for the kick off. You look back and squint your eyes to see Will as right wing, he can see you and he shows you a thumbs up. And for a moment, it washes away your nerves, until the whistle blows and the game has begun.
..
The first half of the match goes by incredibly fast. Chunkz and Niko make the first goals of the match, allowing for the teams spirits to remain high. You’re able to say that you helped assist Niko with his goal, tackling the ball under four large men. The next goal was made by Vik, and as a good sport, and friend, you made your way over to congratulate him properly.
You stay close to Hp and Chunkz during this time, the only two you feel like trust you enough with the ball. The banter is great but the encouragement they give you is better.
As the sweat beads on your forehead, your chest rises and falls quickly. Everytime you manage to catch your breath, you’re off running again. Your eyes squint looking towards Danny, seeing him get ready for the throw-in. You look around at your team and you eyes are quickly looking for Will, to see he’s already looking at you.
There’s a small smile followed by a little wave. You feel your chest tighten again, this overwhelming feeling is all so sudden and new. The sweaty palms, the overthinking, the flush on your neck. Hopefully it’s all from nerves, and not just from the Geordie man.
The moment ended as quick as the moment came, because Danny Aaron’s then throws the ball into the field. Luckily for you, you were on the edge of the box. The ball comes rolling toward you fast, you’re able to dribble it between your feet, swiftly moving past Callux. You decide to create space between the two of you, but with the other team circling in on you, the only thing to do was shoot.
So, you shoot.
The ball is headed straight towards the net and looks like it could make it past the post, but to your disappointment, the ball bounces off the post and goes right back onto the field.
“Shit,” you mutter out, a hand wracking through your hair ready to run after the ball again. But, Theo is quick to take the ball from under one of the lads on the opposing team, making a quick recovery by striking and making the goal.
A breath you didn’t know you’d been holding finally came out. While you smile and clap for Theo, your energy is low and you are so tired.
“Y/n!” a familiar voice yells from behind you, and you’re quick to turn around. Wills hair is pushed back and sweaty, yet he doesn’t think twice before engulfing you into a bone crushing hug.
“Not making a fool of myself am I?” you ask, pulling away to look at him. Will chuckles and shakes his head immediately,
“That’s a joke, right? You’re ridiculous,” he says sincerely and breathlessly. You thank him briefly before substitutions start to happen, allowing there to be some down time.
Which give you the time to remember what he said to you the first time you had practiced together.
“You still promised me a goal,” You mention, before looking into the gopro on his chest, “Will owes me a goal today, and I better get it,”
“I didn’t promise anything,” he counters quickly. Your head tilts at this, with wide eyes, and he nervously laughs and rubs his neck. Even though he knows you’re joking, he still feels the need to fulfill it.
“You know what, I’ll.. do my best to. I can promise you that, y/n.” And without warning, the lot of you are off again.
…
4 - 3
After the first half of the match, it’s looking promising for your team. Theo scored another goal, and spirits were still high. You were able to switch out and take a needed breather. But after the second half of the match started, that’s when your team started to take a tumble.
You were off the pitch until Pinero got injured, and needed a substitute. So with half a bottle of gatorade and an electrolyte packet in your system, you hopped to your feet and ran back on the field. Once you hear that Simon is getting switched out with Chris, you sigh.
“Fuckin’ hell,” you mutter under your breath, knowing that Chris is a force to be reckoned with. Speed also gets switched off the field, and you’re not sure without him you guys could win. You look around hoping to find a familiar face, but for some reason you can’t find him. Where is the left wing player?
Your thoughts are interrupted by the blow of the whistle, allowing the match to continue. You see the ball fly in the air, and you’re on your feet, going wide incase someone needs to pass. But the ball goes farther and faster than you could run, that’s when you see Will.
Will runs from left back and goes towards the net like he’s a striker. He runs right past Ethan and Harry, getting a close range of the ball. Once Chunkz taps it down, Will slides toward the ball, knocking it into the net.
In the 80’ minute, Will scores what could be the final goal of the match.
“Oh my god,” you say aloud, mouth agape.
In the moment you got tunnel vision. All you could see is Will getting on his feet and spin on his heels looking for something, someone. Everyone starts to run towards Will, to congratulate him, to dogpile on him. But when his eyes land on you, he bolts toward you with all his might.
As he’s running, he’s yelling something, pointing at you. He says it multiple times, too quick for you to make out.
“What!?” You yell breathlessly, leaning forward like you were going to be able to magically tell what he said. But without warning Will comes crashing into you, the impact causing you to stumble backwards, almost losing your footing.
Guess you’ll have to find out what he said later.
When you pull away, you grab onto his shoulders firmly, bouncing with delight.
“Did you see that? I haven’t scored a goal like that ever, i’ve always been in the back—“
“I know! I know!” you cut in between his excitement.
“I’m so glad you were here to see that—“ He’s quickly cut off by the rest of the team congratulating him. Patting him on the shoulder, squeezing him into a brief hug, Chris even comes over and says he’s done well.
You begin to back off to get back into the center field, watching as the smile on Wills face takes over him completely. He radiates warmth, sunshine, and complexities. The ache with quiet yearning, watching him celebrate. There was nothing in the world like it, and if it meant having Will this way rather than not at all- you’ll live with this ache forever.
8 - 7
The match finishes briefly after Will scores. Manny scoring at the 86’ minute tying up the two teams. And Simon, of course, gets the last goal of the match putting his team first. Your team is able to score another point, Theo ends up stepping up to kick the ball and Pie face blocks it from the net. Meaning, the Sidemen have won. Regardless, everyone is in a good mood no matter the turnout. All the players rush towards the field, congratulating each other, briefing the match that just ended.
You thank Hp and Chunkz for a good game, and shake Theos hand for being another good defensive player with you.
Simon makes his way over to you and he puts his hands on the tops of your shoulders, shaking you gently.
“See! It wasn’t so bad was it?” he teased. You roll your eyes and lick the dryness off your lips, admittedly, it wasn’t so bad. After you got over the burning in your chest, the ache in your sides, and the soreness in your thighs.
“Uh no, no, wasn’t too bad. I stayed with Hp and Chunkz a lot of the time, we were all playing really well,” you say before asking how Simon think he did.
“I got a hat trick and three assist, what more could I have asked for?”
“That’s fair,” is all you can respond with. All you can think of is the times you could’ve tried to score, the times you weren’t able to make a good pass, or interfere a pass. Simon reads your mind as he sees the conflict on your face, quick to bring you back to reality.
“I mean you were really great. A few assists, you and Theo on defense was a nightmare, there is no complaints on my end. I hope you consider coming back and playing again, Y/n, seriously.” Simon squeezes your shoulder one last time before he sees Harry, the two rushing towards one another excitedly.
You turn around to see Elz and Munga coming up to you with their mics, a cameraman following. They pull you away from the group of lads whilst everyone gets ready to clap around the stadium. Taking a step back upon seeing the camera, a lopsided smile creeps up on your face.
"Y/n, what an incredible match. You were all over the pitch this game! Can you give us some words about your first time playing in a Sidemen charity match and how it felt?" The mic comes in your face, and you let out an airy chuckle.
"Yeah..um, I haven't played footy since high school, really. When Simon asked for me to play, I was.. reluctant at first, you know, but now I'm really glad I said yes." You rattled on.
"We saw some great strikes on the pitch. How do you feel about barely missing the goal during the first half?" Munya asks.
Licking your lips, you let a beat go by for a moment so you can think. The question poses room for scrutiny from the audience; you can feel your stomach churn, anxiety creeping up on the hairs on the back of the neck. You knew if you seemed too confident, people would not like that, but if you seemed too humble, people would condemn you too.
"Uhm... That's a great question," you begin to say, craning your neck to look for comfort. Your eyes try to find someone in the swarm of people, desperate to get away from the hosts.
"It was my first time! I definitely could've made it if I had been a bit closer or wasn’t getting closed in on,” you finish honestly. There, you see Will is staying back to wait for you. His eyes are wide, and his head is slightly tilted; it's a tender look that was being reserved for you.
"We are thrilled to have you here, and we hope you come back next year,” Elz says and you thank them both quickly before jogging over to Will.
He doesn’t say anything, instead all he does is wrap his arm around your shoulder and guides you to where everyone else is doing their claps around the stadium. You’re curious to see if this moment will make the video, or any of the other ones between the two of you, after all it is up to Mikey.
You find yourself smiling at the crowd, the people, the cameras. In that moment, you truly felt like you belonged and deserved to be there. Saying hello to fans, signing papers, and receiving handmade items. Although, you knew that once this was over, you'd be under mass criticism. You'd go on Twitter and see everyone criticizing how you played, but getting the validation from your mates was all the resignation you needed to tune those other voices out.
“Why the sour face?” Will leans down to whisper to you, amongst the ruckus the lot is making as they leave the pitch.
“Nothing gets past you,” commenting, crossing your arms over on another. He rolls his eyes and groans at this.
“I know you,”
For a second you debate sucking it up, going to the pubs to celebrate with everyone after. Or, going back to the hotel room for the night, and getting ready to leave as soon as possible to see your cats back at home.
“All I want to do is go home, really,” you sigh. Wills face doesn’t change, all he does is hum in response before looking at his phone to see the time.
“Yeah? Why don’t we go back to the hotel and get going,” he suggests simply. You quirk an eyebrow, knowing that prior he was more than willing to go to the pubs with everyone.
“Is.. that what you want?” asking hesitantly. Giving him time to think, and change his mind. But without another beat passing he nods his head.
“Not what about what I want, let’s get home,”
He flashes you a soft, genuine smile that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle. Will smooths your hair done with his palm like always, before silently walking to the locker room to change.
You’re left to stand there, cheeks flushing. Home. Insinuating that home is with you. All of this feels so natural, the soft touches, the quiet intimacy, the longing stares. You wonder how long it’s going to take for you to crack, to risk it all and reveal the raw truth. But, for another day, you can hold on to the pieces of Will that you already have.
TAGLIST:
@mosviqu @ivvees-blog @ooostarwarsfandom501st
( if you would like to be on future tag lists please ask!)

