#And the plaques get more fucked up over the course of the night

[cryptvokeeper]

I think haunted museums are an underutilized concept

you take so many personal objects from peoples final resting places, at least SOME of that shit is gonna be haunted or cursed.

Night at the museum is the closest we as a society have come to a museum horror story and that’s a damn shame

#Give me a horror story in a museum #give me a theme abt the real horror being the way museums steal sacred or personal objects from their cultures #Give me a museum that knows it’s artifacts are malicious and killing security guards but they’d rather die than give up their status #I was gonna say movie but honestly make it an indie horror game #Fnaf doesn’t get a monopoly on security guard protagonists #Also cuz it’s be cool to run around a museum after dark #Recreate the entire British museum in blender and then make it spooky #I’m imagining a sort of walk around experience where you can read the plaques for different exhibits #And the plaques get more fucked up over the course of the night #Talking about how many people died to get it here or how a persons spirit is screaming for this to be returned #Idk what the gameplay would be maybe something a bit amnesia-esque #No weapon more of a run around and hide #Collecting key cards or codes you need to get to different areas and escape #I’ve never actually wanted to to make a video game but now I’m tempted nooooo #Ugh that’s be so much work #And yet #I’m thinking about all the statues with missing hands and heads and noses #Body horror potential #Museums are so big and twisty they’d be amazing

[defectivefanboy]

hey i’m just asking maybe could you do dating head canons for crimson from helluva boss? nsfw or sfw i don’t mind <33

Absolutely. I love how the fandom is already down bad for mafia man.

hey i’m just asking maybe could you do dating head canons for crimson from helluva boss? nsfw or sfw i don’t mind &lt;;33

Overall notes: Stories written on this blog are GN until specified. While this story uses they/them pronouns, and I don't mind female readers on my blog, I do not write for y'all, and if you are a fetishizer fuck off????????????????? ew.

C/W: Possible OOC, Mentions of kidnap, abuse, torture, murder, death threats, mentions of sexual assault, cursing, spoilers (duh)

Notes: I tried making it as close to mafia man without him just beating you low-key /j, the first part of this I made into a small story without realizing, I hope that alright. Just some build up to it. <3

SFW

Prior to the relationship

"Earth Hell Angel"

Let's ignore the fact he would probably, most definitely never come into contact with any of us. Point blank.

You would have to be making some kind of deal with the Knolastname family, born into riches, or work for him. (I have stories for each in my head)

But let's tinker with the process shall we

The way you two met was by young Moxxie

You were a musician playing at one of the very few operating clubs in greed, operating meaning wasn't just a front for something else.

Moxxie was a teen at the time and being a teen felt a little rebellious. Like of course who wouldn't rebel against their mafia father.

Only issue was, Moxxie was in the middle of a mission when he decided to rebel leaving his father's men to find him in a club listening to a singer.

Crimson was just gonna burn the place down, maybe this time Moxxie would learn to not fuck with him anymore, but he wanted it to run deeper.

He wanted to kidnap who ever the singer was and torture them in front of the young imp to properly ingrain the lesson into him.

What he didn't expect was to be seated at a table each passing night, lit cigar in hand as he waited for the performer of the night.

It slowly became routine for him, and he slowly become your top patron. Enough to were you didn't need to preform so much.

That was until you met a bright eye imp with a tune for music...

And his devilish father

The young imp for express his passion for music, which you could only respond with the same enthusiasm, if It wasn't for the menacing eyes scanning over your body as he whispered to the shark behind him, eyes never leaving you.

This went on for months, moxxie would come and talk to you after shows and show you some songs he made. Though it wasn't just Moxxie paying you visits.

If it wasn't moxxie in your dressing room after a show, the older Knolastname would take his stay.

He often made snide remakes on working in, as he would say, "The only place where even the roaches don't wanna go" while he made himself comfy on the couch in the room.

Originally he had body guards posted around the room, outside the door, and around the outside of the building.

But that ended when one of his men tried to make a move on you while he was on the phone.

Oh boy the look on his face when he came back into the room and saw you being held down by one of the guards.

He doesn't know why, but when he saw the scared look on your face, a silent plea for help was all it took for a whole new line of guards to be instated.

"One bad apple can rot the rest. So its only best he gets rid of them all right?"

He was gonna need a LOT more walls in his home for plaques.

From there on out the only people that were allow in your room were him, Moxxie, oh and him, did he forget to mention that handsome imp right there? yeah him, oh wait thats him, whoops.

It became routine, well, as much as mafia work can be routine.

Each week he'll ask you when you're preforming, then not respond to any other text or conversation after that, because why would he? That's not what he's asking for.

Don't worry though, he still actively listens and pays attention, even making mental notes here and there on some things, but nothing else matters.

He's just going through his mental calendar of the week to make time for each show. <3

And if he's unable to make it, he'll either send Moxxie or a goon with a stack of money to make up

Though half of it just goes to the person who delivers it, you tried sending it back once and the poor goon had to walk back to the club with a bullet in each knee

Soon after moxxie was the only one allowed half the money

He found out the goons were given half the money and were made to give it back, half alive of course.

Dating Crimson

This old man only realized he liked you when he was in an argument with Moxxie.

Moxxie had a date with chez, but Crimson wanted to send him to the club with yet another stack of money.

"Sir, this is the third time you sent them money today. I think they are well off for the night."

"I didn't call you here to think, boy, I called you here to go to that club. I don't want to repeat myself."

"Well, sir, I don't think sending your son with a stack of money is gonna win their love."

The air grew still in the room as silence over took them

"Get out."

Moxxie needn't think twice with that one, as he raced off to his fishy lover (pun intended)

Jesus and thats just before the relationship, I couldn't even imagine what it would be like to date him. (yes I can thats why im here, albeit VERY OOC cough you're not abused cough)

When this man finally has you in his grasp, I hope you don't like traveling far.

He is a possessive lover, like Possessive lover with a capital p.

As much as he hates it, he'll allow you to play at the club, it's not like he owns it or anything.

He does, he bought it awhile ago when he overheard how your boss talked to you. good to not he's not missing... side eye

Oddly enough (I say as I write) he's very touch starved.

He is very handsy the moment you allow him to be, a hand is always on you, if you're not already held close to his side.

"What are you talking about? I keep you close to me so you don't get lost. Can't have you winding up in an unsavory deal down here."

His favorite thing to do is come into your dressing room and hug you from behind as you get ready in the mirror.

Face buried in your neck as his body slumps and his tail wraps tightly around your leg.

Only looking up when your hand runs through his hair and you let out a light giggle, a soft glare pointed at you through the mirror.

Another has to be when you're sitting on his lap in your dressing room, music playing in the background as you softly sing the words to him while you chart your hands through his hair

Crimson never cared for music, to much of a sinner thing for him, mostly because he did business with other hell-born and never interacted with them, but he could appreciate it a bit if you came along with it

Especially when you give him that look, one that would carry the seven rings of hell alone, and it was all for him.

God, he would lock you up away from all of hell in an instant if you let him.

He actually tried once, though it went over quite quickly when you threaten to no longer give him kisses or attention in general, he surprising backed down quickly.

Though his next statement was for you to move in with Moxxie and him. No, not a question, Yes, a statement.

Your belongs had already been moved while you had this conversation. Hope you don't mind.

Oh Oh OH did this make Crimson happy. The first morning he felt a warm body wrapped in his arms, he dug his face deeper into the source.

He could call off his meetings for the day, not like they could do much about it.

Not when he has what he wants right in front of him.

He may never encounter an angel from heaven, but why would he need to, he had his own right here.

Crimson only truly realized this when you barged into his office one night, grumbling incoherent insults carrying a plate of food in your hand.

"You know for someone who gets on me for not eating right you always take it above and beyond."

placing the food on his desk you pull a chair around and sat next to him reaching into your pocket.

"I hope you're not planning on killing me, darling."

"You have a headache, don't you?" "huh?"

"You've been at work for over a day, you gotta have one by now."

Placing a bottle of pain killers on the desk you picked up the fork and softly blew on it to cool it down, before bringing it to his mouth.

Yeah, he could get use to this, he could get really use to this.

And yeah he may not be his son's biggest supporter, but when he sees Moxxie and you gushing over whatever nonsense that came to mind, his home no longer felt as cold like it once did.

NSFW

C/W: Marks, Degrading, Collars, Choking, Smoking,

Did I mention he was a possessive lover? Because he's also a jealous lover, and it tends to end with a few REALLY obvious marks on your body

From the dark and almost concerning hicks that adorn your neck, to the red and angry claw marks that riddle your thighs, the guest started to wonder if you were mauled by a bear.

or a cannibal... Say, did he sound like a radio host?

He doesn't even want you looking at anyone else and if he found out anyone was trying to be with you it would mean their head was mounted on the wall

and yours was planted in the bed... <3

"To think we would go through this again, it's almost as if you want to be treated like a dog"

Mind you he's still an old timer, he isn't one for anything fancy. Aka: you brought up toys in bed and he got a little too jealous at the thought of you cumming from something that wasn't him

"Saying I don't fuck you well enough? That's funny, because if I do recall, your pretty little head was cock drunk before I even did anything, or are you just that much a whore that you need more then one?"

The thought of getting an Ozzie's Mold your own Cock kit did pass his mind once or twice.

Remember how I said he was handsy, I don't know it's because he's a murderer or not, but I do see him being very fond of choking.

It reminds him of a collar in a sense, getting you one has passed his mind too

You would wear it for him right? At least when you two are alone? Just for a bit.

Long enough that he can take some photos of your blissed out face saving it for later, as the metal tag shines slowly with each rise of your chest.

But in all honesty his hand looks much better wrapped around your neck as he ruts into you from behind, growling in your ear as his grip tightens.

Crimson is literally the definition of Grr, bark and growl, and they all happen at once.

It started out with a low growl from him as you talked to a male coworker, soon it turned to him barking orders at you to get on your knees in your dressing room.

What? It's your fault you decided to talk with that low life. He should be rewarded for letting him walk away with half his vision.

I must say though, the old school charm does such wonders.

Especially on date nights <3

He may have already been in your pants, he still goes out of his way to treat it like it's the first time.

Compliments thrown your way as he pours you a glass of wine, all of it over looked by a sneaky tail trailing its way between your legs in the middle of dinner.

You ARE at Ozzie's after all

Those nights end up with you slowly riding him, his hand on your jaw to keep you looking at him.

"Something the matter dear? Do you need help finishing? Just ride me a bit more, yeah? You've been doing so good for me."

Crimson's strong suit... is definitely not his praise, but he does pick up on the small noises and movements you make each time he does.

Yet, he saves it for those soft and affectionate nights. He's still a mafia man at heart, but hey, he's coming around.

One last thing that will set this imp off is you smoking, as random as it may seem. Be it weed, a cigarette, shit, even one of his cigars, his lips(?) are on yours inhaling the smoke you exhale.

You did mention a band named cigarettes after sex at point. Why not put it into action.

Talking about after sex.........

He's fucking terrible at after care. You would be lying through your teeth if you said he was.

He's gotten better after a few months, few meaning over half a year. He's gotten better at least?

It's not everyday a Mob lord is on his knees cleaning up after himself, or running to fetch a glass of water.

Though he makes it up with more trips to the lust ring~

He can't help it, they have the best clubs in all of hell <3

“I never learned to like something, darling. I only let it consume me.” 

#foolish writing #request #helluva boss #helluva boss crimson #crimson x reader #crimson x male reader #crimson x female reader #vivziepop #I story on which he is just beating on you is LK funny to me #thats as canon as you could ever get #request open

[arcielee]

Ask Me Anything

Summary: Aemond asks his professor some questions.  Paring: Modern Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader Word Count: 3162 Warnings: The smutty smut you all wanted, fingering, p in v.  Author’s Note:  Here is part 2, you can read part 1 Hazy Shades of Spring ♥ This was the poll winner and I had to make it into 2 parts. Also, I am also celebrating that I have over 400 followers now! Thank you all so much for reading, it fills me with joy. A shoutout to my muse and editor @f4ll-for-you​ thank you for your unique perspective and helping me become a better writer! ♥ Also, I got this finished on Ewan’s birthday? Coincidence? Yes, absolutely. My planning and scheduling is terrible.  Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @sirenofavalon @annikin-im-panicin @nina2697 @skikikikiikhhjuuh @itsabby15 @greenowlfactif @padfooteyes​ @danika1994 (If there is a strikethrough, it would not allow me to tag you.) 

Mrs. Lannister had been kind enough to share that even though you ended your office hours early on Fridays, you would often remain to finish the lesson plan for the next week. “She’s the only one who does this,” she continued her overshare, batting her lashes. “The rest of the faculty is already gone for the day…even I’m about to leave!”

Aemond returned a warm smile that was close lipped and allowed his cheeks to dimple, noting the faintest hint of rose to her complexion when he thanked her. His gait was languid with his fluid stride to follow the hallway that snaked through the building and back to where he already knew your office would be. 

He saw the glint of your name on the door plaque and it seemed closed; he stopped and rapped his knuckles on the wood, the action pushing it slightly ajar and allowing him to step in. 

“How may I help you?” You had asked without bothering to look up. Your laptop was open and a stack of papers were tidy on the side, but your focus remained on the one in front of you. 

Aemond thought to when his brother first enrolled in your business law course, his arrogance more obnoxious than usual when he came home to say, “My professor is hot and I am definitely fucking my way to an A.” 

Aemond did not even acknowledge the cocksure idiocracy he spewed and remained silent when Aegon would return with weekly updates before he inevitably begged their grandfather for a suitable donation to help him pass your class. He remembered being intrigued by the professor who, despite the board’s pressure, then only gave Aegon a barely passing grade.

Aegon was furious and Aemond only said: “You could always attempt studying,” with his eyebrow cocked.  

His brother moaned. “Wait until you have to deal with her.”

When Aemond entered the classroom, he remembered you were bold with your gaze and without the hint of fear he often met with other professors. Aegon had once described you as a librarian in need of a good railing, but Aemond liked your tasteful, almost bookworm look, how your hair would be twisted back and the glasses you wore during lectures.

He was dutiful with his classes, but with yours he found himself pressing for more; he would push for answers, often getting a rise from his classmates with his constant disputation, but you were unfazed by it, taking the time to pick apart any argument in your eloquent way and even admitting when he was correct with his verdict. Aemond would wait after the room emptied to approach your desk, pleasantries always exchanged and he liked your smile when you once said, “Are you sure you’re only twenty-two?” 

“Age is only a number,” he replied and relished in the blush that dusted your cheeks. 

Aemond could admit to himself he had a slight crush, but he did not understand the extent of it until the semester ended, until that Friday night. 

With Aegon doing a “study-abroad” in Essos, it was put on Aemond to help with the new restaurant. His uncle had been annoying throughout the set-up, using Aemond for menial micromanaging, and he was relieved with the grand opening, just to be rid of the role of Daemon’s tedious shadow. 

Everything is perfect, though, he thought during his rounds, walking the grand staircase towards the bar when he noticed your backside. 

Aemond did not immediately recognize you. For one, your hair was down, your thick main smoothed into a cascade of curls instead of the usual bun or braid your locks would be in. Also, the dress you wore fit to your curves in a way that looked like you had been poured into the garment, not your usual comfort uniform of a top, cardigan, and jeans. 

He was enamored by the curve of your back, how you were curled over the bartop and your attention focused on something, unaware of the few patrons that lingered with the hopes to draw your attention, before grabbing their drinks and moving on. It was the moment you paused to grab your glass of wine that he recognized your profile.

He had to talk to you.

“Professor?” 

Your hesitation was understandable, but eventually you fell into the ebb and flow of the comfortable conversations he would get moments of during your office hours. His heart jumped when you offered the excuse to take you out on the balcony.  He was enamored with the way you held yourself, the smile on your lips and how he never truly noticed the beauty of your eyes or how your lashes framed them. 

Aemond noted the moments you would hem for words, as if it was an internal debate to say one thing before you would give your genuine thoughts and your upfront honesty was something he welcomed. He noticed the flush to your cheeks and nose, perhaps from the bit of cold in the night air mixed with your passion for science fiction, which he had not expected, and that was the moment he stepped in to kiss you. 

You seemed to meld against him with a soft familiarity to his touch. He loved how your expression brightened when he took your hand and how you moved to keep with his strides towards the car he called for. Aemond waited with bated breath when you paused at the car door, watching when you leaned forward and it exaggerated the curves your dress complemented. He would have followed you to the ends of the earth, but you only asked him to come upstairs. 

The next morning, Aemond woke with your curled so perfectly against his chest, his silver hair between your fingertips. He did not move because he did not want to wake you and allow this tranquil moment to end. You were cute when your eyes fluttered open to take in your surroundings and he handed you your glasses. 

You seemed to not want him to leave and he stayed until Sunday. Even then you hesitated to let him go and he made sure to follow up with you, just a simple text that thanked you for the lovely weekend. He followed to ask when you would be available and was surprised when he did not get even an emoji for a response. 

Aemond waited before sending another text, but when he saw he had been left on read, he let it be. Maybe you thought the weekend was a mistake? Perhaps you had not enjoyed yourself like he assumed you had? 

The abrupt end confused him, until he received an alert from Amazon, suggesting a new book release from an author he made sure to follow. 

Your pseudonym, an anagram of your first and last name. 

He read Hazy Shades of Spring in one sitting and knew he had to see you again. 

“Hello, professor,” Aemond stepped into your office. “If you have a moment, I came to seek out your expertise on a matter.”

Your expression was stunned, your lips parted for a moment and your cheeks rosy from his severe gaze, his one sapphire eye glinting in the office light. “Yes, Aemond, hello,” you struggled for the greeting. “Please, sit down. How may I help you?” 

There was the probability of running into him on campus, but you had not expected for him to come directly to your office. Your eyes could not help but drink in his lithe figure, the grace of his movements as he seated himself in the chair across from your desk. His expression would have been stoic except for the slight upwards curl of his lips, amused by your flustered state. 

“I had some questions in regards to one's penumbra rights,” he began, watchful of your reaction with his deliberate words. “I think I could be a victim of unwarranted appropriation and I wonder how that would hold in the court of law?”    

You could feel the blood drain from your face and your tongue pressed against your bottom lip, your teeth biting as you brought it forward to try and relax your jaw. The gesture was subtle with your attempt to calm your nerves, but it was not missed from his intense gaze.

Aemond fucking smirked. 

Your eyes narrowed on him. “You would need undeniable proof of tort liability,” you began, your voice hoarse with your reply and you cleared your throat before continuing. “It would need to be undeniable that your likeness had been used without consent.” 

There was a pregnant pause; you refused to ask what he may or may not have and you watched the dimples line his cheeks with his knowing smile. “I believe I do have proof,” he finally said, reaching into his jean’s pockets and retrieving his phone. “It’s an ebook that was just released.” 

Oh, fuck. 

You force your features to relax and watch his screen light up, filled with text. “His mien is breathtaking, the sharp contours of his features-”

“That description could be used for any protagonist worth noting,” your voice interrupts, almost shrill; you find yourself standing on your side of the desk, your hands pressed on top to anchor you.

“Perhaps,” he replied, his eye flitted to you for a moment. Your breath came out slow through your parted lips, watching as he looked back at the screen and continued to read. “The severity of his gaze was offset by the sapphire stone-”

Your moves are quick and clumsy, coming around the desk and clasping your hands over his; your cheeks are flushed and you are bold with your stare. “Aemond,” you finally find your voice. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

There is a moment that his expression hardens, a flash of an emotion that is wiped away and instead his perpetual smirk returns to play at his lips. He pulled his hands away, pushing to stand while tucking his phone into his pocket.

You fall back as he takes a step towards you, his silver hair spilling forward when he leans forward to hold you attention. “I actually came for clarity,” his eye flits to your lips and he purses his own for a moment. “I had thought we had a lovely weekend together, but every reach out I attempted since had been left on read.” 

“Aemond,” you say his name with your exhale, breaking away and looking at the floor. 

His head tilts with a slight hum as he looks over your stance; your bottom is pressed to the edge of the desk and your arms stiff at your sides, with a hold on the profile that has your knuckles white with your grip, like you could not trust your idle hands.  

“I had thought,” he softened his tone. “I thought I had done something to offend you, or perhaps… you did not enjoy yourself, until…” you looked up and saw the glimmer of hope that danced through the aloof façade of Aemond Targaryen. He didn’t finish the thought and instead said,  “I also came here because I want to take you on a proper date, to go to an agreed location, where I will be punctual and we will have dinner together.” 

You cannot form words; your face is burning and you make a noise of disbelief, a mixture of a gasp with an almost laugh that stops in your throat by the touch of his warm palm to cup your cheek. His hold keeps you from looking away again, his stare intense. “I am telling you what I want, why I came here.” He leaned forward until the tip of his nose touched yours, the breath of his words fans your jawline and you can feel the ripple of goosebumps all over. “But if you are not interested, tell me now and I will stop. I will leave you alone.” 

You did not want him to leave you alone.

In fact, that weekend was on an endless loop in your mind. After he left, you began to write, fervently, and with every keystroke, you poured the intimate, delicious details into a transcript, hoping that when you sent it in, it would empty your mind of him.

It did not and Aemond consumed your thoughts. You remembered the ease of conversation, the comfort of his presence, and how you craved his touch, how alive you felt pinned under his steady gaze. 

Now he was in your office and his steady gaze was burning; you bit your bottom lip, your fervor basked in the flame of his stare, savoring the warmth that he exuded. His scent washed over you, just his proximity made your skin feel aflame. 

The moment ends when Aemond relaxes his stance, falling back a step, and only then did you react. Your hand touches the junction of his shoulder to his throat, your fingers curling around the back of his neck to bring his lips to yours. He welcomes your mouth with a lusty frenzy and you moan when you feel his tongue move to taste your mouth. 

He closes in on you, his thigh pushing your legs apart and his hand on your jaw to tilt your head, moving to ghost his lips on the column of your neck until they reach your ear. “I love that you are a woman of action,” his husky tone and words tickle your skin. “But, remember, I require verbal consent.” 

Your hands move to his jawline, your right hand hovering and careful to not quite touch. “Yes, Aemond, please,” you beg him, your eyes wide. “I wanted to reply but I…” 

He interrupts your words with another kiss and he is hungry to taste you again. Your arm wraps around his neck and the other hand is pressed against his solid chest. His hands move to follow the curves of your hips and wrap around to cup below your ass, bringing you flush against him.

Your hands drop to unbutton your jeans and you feel his warm palms slip into the waistband of both, pulling your underwear as he peels you bare. He presses against you, lifting to set you on the desk edge before kneeling in front of you and unlacing each Converse shoe. Aemond sets them aside and returns to grab the fabric to pull it off; you burn from his stare and he leans to kiss the inside of your knee, his lips trailing your thighs and his hand pulling himself to stand again. 

You watch him bring two slender fingers to his mouth and wet them with his tongue, before they dip between your thighs. A gasp spills from your kiss-swollen lips when he touches you with familiarity, following the crease of your wet folds and the slow curl of his finger inside you. 

He watches your response, the arc of your back with the rub of his fingertips in your velvet walls until you mewl his name. Aemond hums, a smile to his lips, and adds a second finger, continuing the same come hither motion to that same sweet spot. His wrist shifts, allowing his thumb to press against the nub above with ample pressure and you moan loudly to his touch. Aemond continues his ministrations until he feels you clenching; there is a lewd sound of your wet heat and how his fingers continue to fuck you through your climax, until you whimper from the overstimulation. 

You look at him through lidded eyes, still on the curtails of your release; he licks his fingers clean with a grin, his gaze narrowing on you. “Is it better than the book?” 

Your look hardens and you push from the desk, desperate to pull his shirt over his head and the fall of his silver tresses tickle your face; your cardigan falls to the ground, your fitted shirt follows. He is still smug when you place your hands on his chest and push for him to fall back into the chair, your touch falling to unbutton his jeans. 

Aemond lifts his hips to bring it down enough, his hand wrapping around the base of his member. Your mouth waters at the sight and you step to straddle the chair, lowering yourself so he can line with your entrance before you sink further.  

You moan as he fills your velvet walls and he wraps his arms around your waist, burying his face into your neck and allowing you a moment to adjust to his size. With slow breaths, your nails bite into his shoulders and you press onto the balls of your feet to rise and lower onto his length.

There is a soft echo in the office with the lewd noises, the suction of your cunt to take him in and your wanton moans when he begins to thrust upwards, meeting your motion. He presses his lips against your ear with the hot whisper, “Stop clenching or I won’t last.” 

You almost purr from the sensation, turning your head to find his lips. “You’re fine,” your voice is breathless. “I’m on the pill.” 

He stills and you look to see his pupil blown, taking you in; without a word, his hands grip into the soft flesh of your ass and he moves to lift you. You squeak your surprise, your legs quick to wrap his waist as he takes a step towards the desk; the polish wood is cool to the touch when he sets you down, reaching behind you to clear away the clutter and laying you back on the desktop, positioning you until you are nearly folded in half. 

This new angle has you a mewling mess of tears, the flutter of your cunt encourages his fingers to bruise into your hips with a brutal pace until you see stars. 

You can feel the twitch of his cock and a low, guttural groan from the back of his throat with his peak. Aemond leans forward, his forehead damp and pressed to yours, his breath warm with his exhale until it evens again. 

He looks and notices a box of kleenex, reaching for it and is careful to clean the mess. You sit up, still feeling the trough of the waves of your release tingling over, your hand moving to pull the hair tie and your fingers comb out the braid.

Aemond rightens his jeans, but does not button them; instead, he looks at you, another hum as he reaches to cup your face, bringing his lips to your forehead and then tilting your head back to find your lips. You stare at him a moment, warm from his touch and also shy at the realization you are still very much naked. 

“What now?” You ask, pushing to stand.

He pulls you against his bare chest and your heart flutters from his warmth. “Depends,” he murmurs and you pull back to look up at him. “Which restaurant did you want to go to?”

#ask me anything #part 2 #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x female!reader #here is the smut you all wanted #my tumblr kindred spirits #thanks for reading #♥

[yourwinchesterbros]

SUPERNATURAL MAYHEM Part one

The beginning of my favorite crossover is here! I’ve chosen to break this up into two parts as it added up to being over 10k words. Second part will be posted in a few days ✨ If you enjoyed this, please let me know! A like, reblog or comment means so much!

Word Count: 6.5k 

Pairing: Jax Teller x Female Reader x Dean Winchester x Soulless Sam

Summary: A long unforgettable night leaves reader with a new view of the world, but will she choose to explore it? 

Authors Note: This is a crossover I've been searching for and one night decided to write! If you like both SPN and SOA, then you might enjoy this! HUGE THANK YOU TOO @alohomorasomnium​ for editing my flaws, you're simply the best! 

Warnings: Fairly tame, cursing, use of weapons, use of antidote, kidnapping, kissing, angst, some Dom behavior. 

 Darkness. It’s all you see around you, like an empty void ready to consume you. Your head is spinning, trying to make sense of your absence of sight. Your ears ring due to the deafening silence of your surroundings.  

Where am I? Is the first thought that breaks through the fog, echoing in your mind.  

Pain suddenly radiates through-out your body. You realize your shoulders, your collarbone, and your wrists all feel as if they’ve been battered black and blue. You try to shift around but somehow; your wrists are bound behind you. Your confusion grows, your mind fighting through the haze. You blink, feeling fabric brush against your long eyelashes. You try to think back to where you were before this, but even thinking is painful. You instinctively start to rub your temple against the bone of your shoulder in an attempt to push the rough, ratty material that you realize is blinding you. After a few attempts, an old twisted up cloth falls into your lap.  

You’re welcomed to the sight of more darkness. It appears you’re in a room, from what you can make out. Your eyes sting when exposed to all the dust that’s hanging in the air. You stifle a cough, irritated that you’ve been breathing heavily, inhaling basically asbestos at this point.  

What the fuck?  

You blink hard, all your senses coming alive with your eyesight regaining. Pain. Every part of your body aches, your hands are tied to a wooden foundation pillar behind you with what feels like old rope. Its split ends tear into your skin like sandpaper. You try moving your wrists around, to see if the rope will give way so you can free yourself, but it's no use. The bindings, if anything, tighten that much more from your movements. Giving you less and less room to work with. Whoever did this to you, had no intention of letting you go. You shudder at the thought of whoever this mysterious person may be, holding you captive. What they may want…

You refocus your attention, desperately trying to remember anything from before but you can’t seem to recall what happened. Was I at home? Work?

No, there’s no way you’d been snatched from the clubhouse while tending the bar. You must’ve been at home, sleeping?  

You lean forward, trying to use your body weight and the corner of the pillar to separate the rope, but it doesn’t work. As you contemplate your next course of action, a horrifying thought plaques your mind.  

How long have I been here? How long do I have to get out of here before they come back?

With that now in the forefront of your mind, you gain a new sense of urgency. Frantically, you try rubbing the homemade cuffs against the wood. You ignore the fact that the air is still clouded as your breathing deepens in an effort to free yourself. But once again, you fail. You growl in frustration, throwing your hands back against the wood, ignoring the dull aches seeping from the bruises on your battered wrists. As panic and adrenaline continue to take over, you scan your eyes over your surroundings once more, analyzing the area to see if anything can help you.  

With one little window above the wooden stationary table across the room from you, there really isn’t much of a light source. Just a delicate stream of moonlight, illuminating the dust particles dancing in the air, stirred up from your panicked escape attempts. You think again, where the fuck was I? But you come up with nothing.

“God damn it Jax” You whisper to yourself. You knew this was coming, it came for all the women who dared to join the Prince of Charming in his tirades of violence. It was well known history that whoever stood next to Jax, had a death wish. Yes, believe or not, dating the President of a biker gang isn’t as glorious as it seems. Being an old lady makes you an instant target for the enemies of the sons, of which there are many.  

Who found you this time?

That’s right, this time. You’ve been kidnapped before. The Mayans followed you home one night. Before you even had the chance to turn the ignition off in your car, you were ripped out of the seat and taken for negotiation. Then there was the IRA. You were held hostage; your life was on the line once again. Literally on the phone line, with Jax on the other end telling Gaelan he would continue distributing for him in exchange for your survival. And now this. You know your luck is bound to run out. Your breathing quickens as you start to accept the reality of the situation. There’s no getting out this time. Is the club even aware that you’ve been taken? The question you keep coming back to is how long have you been tied up in this dingy basement? The fact that you don’t know the answer to that and probably never will, causes a pit of dread to form in your stomach.

“Fuck” you mutter under your breath as you roughly shut your eyes.

This song and dance is starting to get old. To what end is enough, finally enough? Each time your safety is questioned, you tell yourself that it’s too dangerous to go back, that you can’t handle the life; always watching your 6 as well as your 7-8-9.  

Yet each time you’re rescued, you’re consumed by the ways of the club, and always end up back to square one. The simple fact is you desire the life. The atmosphere, the people, the machines, the thrill... you feel you belong. That your role is meant to be at Teller-Morrow assisting those men in kutte, offering sanctuary and support for the women in tight dresses, to stand beside the old ladies and keep them on their toes. As for the president that sits at the head of the table; for him you’re the reason he stays resilient and clear-minded. Each time you get a chance to see how short-lived life is for those around the sons, you tell yourself you’re on borrowed time. That you need to walk away, that you will leave the life, but you know you speak the language of lies.  

“Quit your bitching” you mumble to yourself, thudding your head lightly against the wood. They’ll find you. They have too. The notorious band of killer bikers always do. You know how much you mean to Jax, and you know they’re probably already on the hunt looking for you. Jax calling all charters for assistance and letting the reaper inside him take the wheel.  

The reaper. That side of Jax, he can smell you. Feel your pull when he needs you. Everyone says that he’s the prince but really, he’s the god damn devil himself. He’s feared among warriors, he puts demons to shame. And your soul will always belong to him, no trade necessary.  

“I see you’re awake.”  

The sudden intrusion of your captors' grating whisper tears you from your thoughts as your whole body goes rigid. Your breathing falters at the realization that you’re no longer alone, your heartbeat getting louder and louder in the growing silence. You can feel the echoing of each beat in your ears. You wish you could turn it off and hide in the dark, in silence.  

“Shh... “The sound slithers from the shell of your right ear across the nape of your neck causing your hair to stand on end as it settles in your left ear. You can’t move, your body is frozen in shock, locked in a state of fear. You can’t even bear to look, to reveal the mystery.  

“It’ll be quick...” the voice drawls out, an underlying tone of excitement riding with it, riddling your skin with goosebumps.  

Just then, you’re startled by a muffled vibration from directly underneath your rear. Holy shit. You’ve had your shitty iPhone 4, in your back pocket this entire time. Regardless, you wouldn't have been able to snake it out from beneath you but the fact that it’s ringing on silent mode, gives you just enough confidence to believe you might get saved. You know it’s Jax trying to get a hold of you.

“Doesn’t matter” you manage to spill out. The two words are all you could say as you clutch onto your mask of composure.

“You won’t receive the same fate.” You whisper, staring ahead. Your eyes glues to an old piece of tape stuck on the wall in front of you as an anchor. You could feel it’s presence right beside you. Feel eyes burning into your flesh.  

“Look at me” the low voice says with a sharp hiss.  

You clench your jaw. You know you have to face your captor. It’s your best chance for an opportunity to escape or buy yourself more time.  

“You see” you start your attempt to distract.  

“When you’re in his grip, there will be no such thing as a quick death” you spit the words as you turn, to stare down your opponent.  

Your eyes grow wide, the second they make contact with hers. A shriek clambers out of your throat before you can even think to stop it, you try to rationalize what you’re seeing in front of you

“W-what are you!?” You scream at her, as you push yourself back as close as you can against the wooden pillar.  

You can’t believe your eyes, as they focus on the woman – no - thing, crouched in front of you.  

A smile slowly works its way onto her face. “I always forget how ignorant you humans are…so unaware of what’s lurking in the dark all around you”  

She creeps closer, stepping over your legs as she does so.  

It wasn’t the fact that her face, lips, arms, her entire body was covered in tattooed lines or that her expression seemed void of any emotion, but it was her eyes. They glowed deep blue. Her silhouette black against the navy hue emanating from her eye sockets. It was unnatural.  

“You’re a monster” You utter the words in disbelief, your eyes wide at the creature staring back at you.  

She advances again, giving you a better look at her disguised form. It looks starved, deprived of meals.  

“A Djinn” her voice echoes as she closes the space between you two. Your mind fills with confusion at her words. You feel her cold touch, gripping your chin. Before closing your eyes due to the blue light blinding you, your eyes focus on her tattoos and how they move… all travelling towards her hand, to her grasp on your face.  

Another wave comes rushing through you, but this time it’s peaceful. Not a nauseating sensation but a sense of euphoria. Your eyes roll back, as her toxins continue to seep into your pores. Your mind is abruptly cleared as a moment of clarity hits you. You find yourself in a different world, such as a dream. Your body completely relaxes without instruction. Everything feels… calm. Calm enough to let yourself fall further into the hallucination.  

“Grab the girl, I got this!” You hear a deep shout somewhere in the distance, or maybe it’s right in front of you. The now familiar haze in your mind makes it impossible to decipher. Maybe there is no voice at all.  

“Dean!” Another voice echoes nearby.  

You feel yourself losing consciousness as your hands are suddenly free from their restraints. Your vision starts spinning once again as you feel yourself being lifted from the ground. The motion of being airborne is enough to make you blackout due to being so vertiginous. The last thing you can remember is your arm wrapped around someone’s neck, as this person carries you in theirs. Your fingertips brush against slick, long hair.  

“Jax?” you weakly whisper before slipping into the darkness once more. 

                                                        ~

“Found it! Jax, I found her!” Juice shouts as he runs through the clubhouse, holding his laptop above his decaled head. Jax, who was just inches from walking out the front door snaps around, his face riddled with worry and downright anger.  

“Where!?” The president barks back, his glare piercing juice’s very soul. He wastes no time as he turns, continuing to the railing outside, which is accompanied by several Harleys. Following Jax were his comrades from the SOA crew.  

“Her cell just came back into service; the ping shows she’s 40 miles out headed towards Oakland. She’s on the highway right now” Juice said, placing the laptop on the outside bench and reaching for his helmet sitting on his bike.  

“Aye, Niners Jackie boy” Chibs speaks as he buckles his own helmet on. Jax looks into his brothers’ eyes with flared nostrils, seething.  

“If they fucking touch her- “

“Go get our girl and bring her back!” Bobby interrupts from the club door, hollering at the cavalry of big men in leather kuttes straddling their roaring machines.  

“I got this; you guys go!” He motions to the men to head out. The clubhouse is accompanying more and more bodies as Jax had ordered a lock down since the discovery of your disappearance. He has learned his lesson from previous threats, it’s the quickest way to make sure all the women, children and other men of mayhem are accounted for.  

Bobby chose to stay back and monitor in case the wrong people came knocking. He was doubtful that this was a distraction tactic but the one thing he did know, is that anything can happen. As he watched the bikers ride out, he was thankful for wearing his black shades, as he would have trouble believing his own concealed expression. There was a chance you weren’t making it back this time, and everyone knew.  

One by one, they follow their leader, silently preparing themselves for the worst. Jax however, was preparing for war while struggling with the ongoing battle in his head.

Jax hates, truly hates himself for being selfish. It’s exactly what this is. He hates that each time your life has been in danger, he has to face the picture of standing over top your headstone.  

Since you came back to Charming, Jax vowed to serve you, protect you, love you. He knew he was destined to be yours when you told him the life didn’t scare you, just the fear of losing him. You agreed to be his old lady, despite all the risks and stand by his side during all the chaos.

Even though Jax would never leave the club, he wishes he could. Every day he thought about how you deserved more. Just like him, you suffered sleepless nights, restless days, endless dry throat from all the cigarettes you smoked to ease the stress away. He thought about the way you startle each time your cell rings, adrenaline consuming you as you brace yourself to receive bad or very bad news. This life, it too affects you. He’s selfish because he holds your freedom in his hand. A better existence. Fuck, you’d do anything for this man no matter how deep it hurts. Yet, he’ll never set you free. You are the only light in his days of darkness, his one true love. This life isn’t easy, but no matter what, you always look evil right in the eye and challenge it. You’re a fighter, and you fight hard. It’s another reason why he loves you so effortlessly. You’d listen if he told you to walk away, to leave Charming and he knows it, but he also knows he’d find you dead before ever granting you that peace.  

He tries his damndest to keep his eyes dry, to override the blue with pure red hate, but regardless of his efforts, the tears fall, disappearing into the wind. He wreaks on the throttle harder, hoping the rumble would drown out his sorrow. 

                                                              ~

“Dean, It’s the only antidote we have, that blue eye freak got away. There’s a chance we’ll need this once we find her again and kill her for good.” The agitated voice spoke right beside you.

“Sammy, I’m not saying this again, give her the fucking antidote.” Someone responded from further away. It was hard to tell over the rumble of.. a car?  

“Such a waste, we don’t even know her!” You felt a grip tighten around your arm.

“Give it to her, now!”  

“Fuck!” You shriek as your arm is stabbed with a needle birthed from a large syringe. The sharp infliction snapped you out of whatever previous fog you were residing in or maybe it was the effect of the content that was administered into you.  

“That fucking hurt!” You shout, ripping your arm out of the stranger’s grasp and holding onto the spot that feels like its bruising already.  

“Yeah, well it was that or deteriorate due to your blood getting sucked out, disintegrating your brain” He responds, seemingly sarcastic whilst putting the needle away into a bag.  

“Jesus Christ” The voice comes from the driver seat. You look over at the rearview mirror in the darkness, suddenly catching a glimpse of deep green eyes accented by freckles as he drives underneath a spotlight. His face disappears as the dark of the night envelopes the inside of the car once more.  

You look up at the man who had been manhandling you in the backseat to find him staring back at you.  

“I think it worked” Sam says, looking passively towards the driver. You rub your eyes, as if when you open them again, you’d be back home.  

“Good, we’ll keep her at the motel. Try and stray the Djinn off her scent.”  

“Why? it would make more sense to use her as bait, draw the djinn back in and finish it off.”  

“She doesn’t need to be a part of it Sam.”  

“She became a part of it when she almost died, Dean.”

As you listen to these men banter your conscience becomes clearer. You have no idea where they were taking you, what had happened to the creature that was apparently about to feed on you, and what the SONS may be doing to find you. With rising confusion, you snapped.  

“Who the hell are you guys!?” You blurt out, interrupting their fight. “And what the fuck was that thing back there!?” You point your thumb towards the rear window.

“Because I swear when she touched me, it felt like… I was drifting away...” You shift yourself upwards in the leather seat, well more like a bench, in this vehicle that these men threw you into.  

You watch the man who sat in front of you, his broad shoulders rising as he clears his throat.  

“What you saw… is what you think you saw” Dean says slowly from up front, locking his eyes with yours from the mirror again. “She’s a monster… and she was trying to kill you”.  

“We really giving her the talk right now Dean?” Sam says with his eyebrows raised. You side-eye him, shocked by how comfortable this guy is. You wonder if this is something they’ve done before. “The less people know the better” He continues.

“Might as well, she saw too much and clearly she remembers, don’t you?” Dean asks you.

You rub your forehead with your fingers. This is all too much. This isn’t really happening, is it? You’ve spent the last year running away from thugs, for what? To run straight into the arms of monsters?

You scoff to yourself, then inhale deeply through your nostrils, eyes shut trying to center and organize your thoughts. You’re capable of handling a lot of bullshit, but this is next level. You make a silent agreement to figure out the truth first.  

You open your tired eyes, “Alright, one thing at a time.” You mutter just loud enough for them to hear.

“So, you’re Sam?” You point your finger at the long haired, flannel wearing giant who barely fits inside the car. He nodded; his eyes intense as he continued to analyze you. Maybe to see if the antidote was still working.  

“Sam Winchester” He speaks up.  

“Winchester… okay.” You whisper.  

You glance back to the rear mirror, searching for those earthy forest green eyes.  

“Dean, is it?” You question him in the dark as he continues driving down the wet highway.  

“That’s right sweetheart” You could hear the smirk on his lip, and you barely know the guy… Kidnapper, savior, whatever he is.  

you correct him by giving your name. “That’s a pretty name” Dean replies before his brother interjects with a huff.

“We’re brothers, we work this gig together” Sam says.  

You pause with your brows raised. “Gig … as in … killing monsters?” you speak slowly, feeling silly even saying the words.  

“We hunt monsters, then kill them. It’s sort of a family business” Dean explains.  

You stare at him in disbelief, jaw agape. “Okay…” You drawl out.  

“The thing that attacked you was a Djinn. They infuse their victims with poison, which acts as a hallucinogen, which you learned. As you dream away, they drain you of blood until you’re all dried up. The poison also seeps into your bloodstream slowly shutting down your entire system, hence why you needed the antidote.” Sam ever so calmly reveals what could have been your fate.  

“Right…” You shake your head, still trying to register all that has occurred. It doesn’t help that every time you close your eyes, you see that blue haze, scouring the inside of your eyelids like veins.  Just as you’re about to question more, a white sign with black fonts catches your eye as you speed by.  

“OAKLAND”

“Wait, wait, where are you guys going?” Your voice starts to raise as your panic quickly surfaces.

As if Dean can hear the unease in your tone, he responds softly.

“Back to our motel. You gotta stay there and we’ll go back out and finish the job. We’ll take you home when it’s safe”.  

You hear Sam scoff.

“Yeah no, I think I’ll manage just fine on my own actually. We need to turn around and head back to Charming, like now”.  You turn looking out the back window wondering if Niners are trailing the impala.  

“Oh yeah? Being tied up to a pillar is how you manage? How’d that work out again?” Dean questions, tearing his eyes from the road and meeting your gaze with furrowed brows.  

“Yeah, thanks for saving me, I get it” You spit back with your arms crossed, shooting a glare at Sam who clearly didn’t want to give you the antidote. He shrugs his shoulders back at you.  

“But listen, I’ve got bigger problems on my tail than this monster you guys are hunting, I need to get back to Samcro” You demand, catching Dean's eyes in yours.  

“I can’t do that” he says matter-of-factly as if he actually has control over you.  

“Hah” You laugh out loud. “Little do you know we’re probably being hunted right now” you say with a grin.  

“What are you talking about?” Sam turns to you.  

“I deal with real monsters on a daily basis, your worst nightmare is my constant” You speak with one brow raised. “Have you ever heard of a group called Sons of Anarchy?”

Dean stared at you through the mirror, you could just see his half smile cracking, showing a little bit of his perfect teeth “Oh? Those old boys that ride scooters?” he chuckles.  

And it was as if Dean had summoned Jax Teller, the Reaper himself because there it comes. The loud rumble of the Harleys, sounding like the impending hoof beats of the horsemen of the apocalypse arriving on the battlegrounds of war.  

“We got company” Sam states, as he crawls over the seat from the back to join Dean in the front, he opens up the glovebox and pulls out a pistol.  

“Guys, guys just pull over” you try to suppress the panic in your throat. The last thing you need tonight is to get caught in the middle of a full-blown drive by.  

Just like that, the men in kutte open fire while they gain speed. That’s their first warning to the brothers to pull over. They intentionally miss the impala as they presume you’re inside.  

“Fuck that” Dean curses as he slams on his brake causing an ear-piercing squeal followed by the stink of burning tires - a sharp punch to the nose.  

“Jesus!” You spit as you hold onto the seat in front of you to brace yourself.  

“Stay in the car” Dean commands as he and his brother step out, slamming the doors behind them.  

“For fucks sakes” you mutter underneath your breath as you attempt to crawl over the seat yourself.  

The Harleys come to a screech themselves as the men all then quickly step off their steeds. Each one, reaching and pulling out their weapons to point at the brothers. The sounds of Glocks being cocked simultaneously, echo into the night.  

Sam and Dean follow suit, raising their own guns, facing the crew.

“Jackie boy, these guys are looking a little too white to be niners” The Scotsman shouts to his president.

“She’s with them” Jax murmurs lowly. His skin screaming, he knows you’re in the impala, he can feel it. He takes his helmet off before hanging it on the clutch.  

The blonde man is yet to be armed as he plucks a cig from his pack in an all too calm manner. He slows his strides as he walks over to the brothers in his famous swag, one white sneaker in front of the other. He places his smoke in between his lips before pausing to light the end. His sharp framed face looks eerie, as the light from the flame casts shadows across his cheekbones.  

In the still air the crackle of his intake is loudly audible. The smoke drifting from his nostrils before he exhales

His stance expelled power. His feet planted widely apart from each other, one hand to his mouth assisting his smoke. The other clutching his belt buckle. He let his hand fall down, exhaling once more before breaking the silence and the hair-pulling tension.

“Give her to me” He finally speaks, in a low haunting tone. His eyebrows raise with his words before furrowing. He can see your shadow moving in the vehicle, bringing an instant blanket of relief over him.  

“Not gunna happen, pretty boy. Unlike you guys, trafficking isn’t really our style.” Dean spits out, never wavering his raised hand, gripping his gun. He can only assume these guys wanted to hurt you, that they used you for whatever needs they required. The fact that they’re chasing you down, guns out, demanding for you like some piece of property, enraged him to his very core. He never liked gangs to begin with but a biker gang? What a joke. He’s familiar with the Sons of Anarchy as he’s a man of research whenever he goes into any new town to hunt. Within moments of searching up Charming, the notorious Men of Mayhem found their way onto the Google search page. They seem to cause trouble, attend a charity here and there, then more trouble again. Their reputation, other than running a consensual brothel which is right up Deans ally, bothers him.  

Jax lets out a chuckle, flicking his lit bud to the side of the road. Before it can land onto the wet concrete, Jax pulls out his own piece and points it right at the shorter, dark-haired brother. The taller one flinches at his motions, looking over at Dean. Jax could tell he was trying to read his face, to navigate their game plan.  

The Impala door squeaks open, and a light thud sounds as you stumble onto the road as you pull yourself out.  

“Wait! Don’t shoot” You call out, causing all the men to turn their attention to you. Jax’s breathing stops as he watches you approach him.  

Abruptly, Sam puts his hand across your torso, blocking you from your path; his other still holding the gun.  

“Get your fucking hand off of her” Jax then points the gun at Sam as the men behind him holler with rage.

“Move” you mutter as you shove his hand off, continuing towards Jax unphased as you walk to him in line of his weapon. 

Dean calls out your name, watching you walk to the leader, his heart pounding while thinking the worst.  

Jax scowled at the sound of your name coming out of another man's mouth. He keeps his eyes on Dean as he clutches your waists and pulls you into him. The brothers seemed utterly perplexed that you weren’t a target; more so a member.

With a scowl still residing on his face, he finally breaks the eye contact from Dean to you.

“You okay Darlin’?” He murmurs to you as you lean into him.  

“Yeah, I’m fine, get them to put their guns away Jax” you motion to the armed crew behind him “they didn’t hurt me” He tilts his head at you with confusion, his icy cobalt eyes scanning your face.  

You turn to the brothers, their concern growing. You knew they didn’t want them knowing about their... occupation. You remembered what Sam said earlier “The less people know, the better”

You look back at your dark prince.  

“They saved me Jax, I was tied up in a house” you start to explain “I’m pretty sure it was the Niners, but… I can’t remember shit” you rub your head as you blatantly lie through your teeth.  

The brothers were first to lower their guns, Dean raising his hands in surrender.  

“She’s telling the truth” He says, speaking directly to Jax.  

“We were in the area, heard her screaming, thought we’d check it out.”  Sam explains.

“Did you see them?” Jax asks, clutching your waist tighter, bringing his gun down.

“No, by the time we showed up, it was just her'' Sam pitches. “We untied her, carried her out of the house, just trying to help her”.  

“Aye, and what were the two of you planning on doing to ... help her?” Chibs spoke out as he grabs his scarred cheeks, trying to conceal the pure hell boiling internally. He doesn’t trust these guys as far as he can throw them. Nothing about this made sense.  

Dean scoffs, shaking his head. “She might be right, maybe they do see worse shit than we do” he says, mumbling to his taller brother.  

With a dry chuckle, Sam responds “Yeah, you’re telling me”.

Jax releases you, as he tucks away his piece before sliding both hands into his pockets motioning his chin at them with his jaw clenched.  

“Wanna tell me why you two are driving around Charming in some shit impala then? Besides searching for women in distress?” Jax speaks sharply, his words laced with hostility.  

Dean closes his eyes slowly, his hand curling into a fist. “Shit impala” being repeated in his head. That car is his baby.

“We’re just driving through; we’ll be out of here by tomorrow” Sam intercepts knowing damn well his brother is still trying to recover from that comment.  

“Tonight” Jax demands through gritted teeth. He wanted these men out of sight. It didn’t add up, the Niners haven’t had beef with the SONS. Why were you taken? Why did you stay with them? Did they make you feel safe? Was he not enough?   

“Tsk” the click of Dean's tongue echoes down the highway before he purses his lips.  

“Or what?” he says with a half-smile. He couldn’t help it, he liked to get under people's skin and there was something about Jax that just pissed him right off. It was the entitlement, or maybe it was the fact that you were so calm about the matter, around guns, around bad men. He wondered what kinds of hell they put you through in order to be so tough-skinned.  

“Fuck around and you’ll find out” Opie utters, stalking up to join his blood brother in their battle of wills against these two posers. Settling his deadly glare on the taller one with the mop of hair on his head.  

“Oh, like how you found her?” Dean snaps back, his voice a deep rasp. “Maybe you should take better care of your women or better yet, maybe I should stay in town, just to make sure she stays alive, cause if it wasn’t for us buddy, she’d be cold by now.” He motions his index finger at you.  

Your President jerks forward but before he can get his hands on Dean standing in front of him, you shove yourself in his path, grabbing his kutte in fistfuls. Glaring at his brothers over his shoulder to back down.  

“Jax” you breathe, looking up at him “They’re not a threat!”  

“I really don’t give a shit” He says, leveling you with his dark eyes. That’s when you know he’s plotting his revenge for you later on. Disappearing doesn’t go unpunished, even if you were kidnapped.

You swallow hard. This isn’t the man that was smitten by you, how his eyes would sparkle at the sight of you, the man that appreciated hearing your two cents, the man that would softly ask you to listen to him when he was frustrated, no. This was the Reaper, and he’s very unforgiving. You know when you’re out of bounds with him, and as of right now you’re on the tipping edge. You blink rapidly realizing just how affected he is by the words spat by Dean. You release his kutte from your hands, feeling his anger radiating from his body. Before you can speak, he cuts you off.  

“Sit your ass down on the bike and shut your mouth” he says to you coldly.  

That was a direct order. You’re grateful for the dark of the night as it hides the growing red in your cheeks. You hate when he embarrasses you in front of his soldiers like that. You can feel the looks of concern settling on you, the men in kutte don’t particularly like it either but, that’s what being an old lady entails and you signed up for it.  

Dean watches you with Jax, his entire body tense with rage. He can’t even begin to understand the relationship you share with this man. He can’t fathom how you’re a part of a gang. You seemed so innocent, so defenseless tied up to that pillar in the cellar. Yet here you stand, next to the President of murderers. Hell, he barely knows you but for some reason, he doesn’t want to leave you there. Not until he knows for sure, that you truly feel safe.  

The air is so silent you could hear a pin drop. You slowly make your way over to Jax’s Harley, quietly slipping on his helmet and swinging a leg over the seat. You keep your gaze down, eyes locking onto a little pebble sitting by the kickstand of Jax's bike.

Jax analyzes Dean, how he watches your every step. He grows more and more infuriated as he witnesses Dean struggling not to call out to you, like he thinks he’s some knight in shining armor ready to rescue you from the Dark Prince you’ve seemed to settle with. It looks as if he is worried about you. And Jax simply doesn’t like that.  

“Hey, you gunna be okay?” your head snapped up at Dean who called out to you. His forehead creased with lines as he awaited your response. His carelessness was going to get him killed.  

“Don’t fucking talk to her” Jax shouts as Opie intervened, standing in between. 

“Ill be fine” you responded to Dean in the smallest voice, that it squeezed his heart. You feel guilt rising as you deliberately ignore the glare from Jax for disobeying his orders.  

“Tonight it is then” Sam states, not wanting to pursue this any further. His focus was on hunting, not this ‘who’s dick is bigger’ pit fest. He turns to Dean, nodding his head to the impala. “Let’s go”.  

Dean remains in his stance, his eyes flicker back at Jax once more, letting out a scoff before following Sam.   

“Hey brother, we’ve got the clubhouse on lockdown still. We should get back.” Opie turns to face Jax, trying to read his expression.  

“Time to let these wankers get on the road aye?” Chibs joins in. “She’s safe n with us now” 

Jax stares at the mystery brothers with his brows furrowed. Absorbing all the details of their features, their car, their potential baggage. He would be sure to remember them if they ever step foot near his town again and more importantly, come near you.  

Nothing more had to be said between the standoff of Jax and Dean, their eyes said enough. Jax turns, patting Opie’s chest. “Let’s go brother” he commands.

Collectively the men begin to board their steeds.  

You peer up from your lashes, feeling his presence as he walks towards you. He slips his black leather gloves on and by surprise he grips your face, squeezing your cheeks together before giving you a hard kiss.  

It’s clear he is marking his territory in front of the brothers; you really aren’t sure why he’s so threatened by the two. You deal with perverse men on the daily, but Jax very seldom had this reaction. He releases your cheeks, glaring towards Dean as he stood watching the two of you before opening the impala door. Once Jax sits on the Harley, you wrap your arms around his waist.  

Discreetly you look at the Impala once more, to see Dean looking back at you through his side mirror. You wanted to tell him that you’re thankful he saved your life, to tell him that you’re safe in this club. Well for the most part anyways. You wanted to apologize for the way the sons greeted them. But you knew this was the last interaction you’d have with the Winchesters.  

Your heart sinks when the engine turns over. You don’t like this feeling of uncertainty residing within you. You have so much more to learn about, this whole deal with monsters? Is this Djinn still tracking you down? Are you watching the only people that could protect you, drive away out of town, out of your life? You’re left with so many questions and an atmosphere that makes you feel incredibly alone.  

The machine below you roars to life, rumbling underneath you, the sound growing louder as Jax steers around. He then squeezes the clutch, and revs his engine, causing the tires to spin out spitting up gravel on the side of the highway which coincidentally patters the rear of the impala before heading back to the direction they came from.

BANG!

Your shoulders dip, your ears ring slightly at the sound of a gun going off. You frantically release one hand off Jax, to turn and look behind you, the wind causing your hair to blow across your face. Your eyes scan, as you’re worried that they had killed the brothers. Tig was the last one following the comrade, holstering his Glock with a smirk across his face. With a sigh of relief, you see Sam step out of the impala, to inspect what appeared to be a side mirror blown into pieces on the ground.  

The last thing you saw was Dean stepping out with his hands behind his head, before dropping his arms in frustration. You truly feel bad for them, they don’t deserve this treatment. Surely anyone who offers a hand in protecting your life would be put on a pedestal by Jax but this time, it seemed as if death was as good a reward as any. You feel his chuckle through his kutte, as he’s pleased with Tig’s style of amusement. You place your hands back around Jax, pressing your cheek up against his back. With shut eyes, you try to mentally prepare yourself for the chaos awaiting you back at the clubhouse.  

But due to the exhaustion of the night, you drift in and out of sleepiness on the way back to Charming, your mind replaying the scene of those deep green eyes, accented by freckles underneath the passing streetlights.  

Taglist @sarah-bear706318 @witchthewriter @spaghettificationandpretzels @ambassadortotrilliusprime @freddaemagnifica @deans-spinster-witchs-favorites @spngingerbread21 @davten74 @alohomorasomnium   @withmyteeth

#spn #soa #deanwinchtser #samwinterchester #jax teller fanfiction #winchester #samcro #menofmayhem #crossover #sons of anarchy #dean winchester x reader #supernaturalmayhem #supernatural

[strangefable]

thank you for the many, many tags over the past... let's not count the time. but thank you to everyone who's continued to tag me for wips <3 most recently @inafieldofdaisies, @direwombat, @adelaidedrubman, @cassietrn, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @trench-rot, and many many more, thanks so much to everyone who thinks of me <3

today, i have a little bit of the opening chapter of the atlanta prequel to share:

Micah slowed her bike. Wouldn't do to get pulled over for speeding. Not with what sat strapped to the bike behind her. She felt the hard, sharp edges even through the leather of her jacket. She could almost hear ticking in the back of her mind; that thing may as well have been a bomb.

Hell, a bomb would’ve been less unnerving.

She followed the monotone, mechanical voice in her ear as it directed her to the appointed address. She felt a twinge in her neck as she tried to look up to the top of the building. Dark, ominous, sharp. It was a vague shape in the dark night sky, but it still felt foreboding as she gazed upward.

She pulled her helmet off and shook her head, releasing her hair as well as the chill along her spine. She was just a mechanic, but she was not going to get intimidated by some slick, rich asshole too impatient for his coke to wait for a regular mule.

As she entered the lobby, she saw the sleek marble floors, the stark modern architecture. There were heavy plaques on the wall with mysterious names. An office. A swanky, high tower one. Ballsy place to take in a delivery like the one she carried.

A man behind the security desk eyed her suspiciously. She offered him her sweetest, doe-eyed smile. “Hi, I have a delivery for…” she glanced down at her phone, “Mr. Duncan.” She looked back up at the security guard, still smiling warmly.

He grunted, waved his hand toward the metal detector. “Of course he’s still here,” he muttered to himself, before meeting her gaze.” 38, top floor.”

She hesitated as she stared at the metal detector’s arch. She took a few slow steps toward it, wondering how sensitive it was. At least she didn’t have to explain a gun, since hers was locked safely at home.

The detector went off as soon as she stepped through. She winced and stepped back.

The guard gave her a knowing look. “What’re you carrying?”

She attempted another smile. “Just a knife. It—”

He smirked and waved a hand. “Yeah, you’re not the first. Most of the couriers have some kind of protection these days. Can’t be too careful.” He nodded her through, ignoring the alarm as it went off again.

She nodded and smiled. “Yeah. Thanks.” His casual attitude about the whole thing surprised her, but she wasn’t about to argue. She wanted to get this over with and get the fuck out of here.

The whole place reeked of wealth and prestige and it made her skin crawl. So much metal and isolation from a single natural thing. So cold and uniform. She hated shit like this. Not that she’d admit it aloud, but it made her ache for home.

The elevator stopped at the top floor, and Micah ducked out swiftly, grateful to escape the grating music that jangled her nerves even more. Why did the wealthy always have such bland taste in everything?

She entered another lobby, but straight ahead was a formidable wall with a list of large, brass-lettered names behind a block of marble that must’ve been a reception desk. The woman seated there had a strained look on her features as she glanced over at Micah. Instead of a greeting, she only offered a stony, questioning stare.

Micah made a small sound in her throat. “Uhm. I…I have a delivery for Mr. Duncan. Urgent, I was told.”

The woman’s eyes went glassy at the name, and her expression seemed to grow even tighter. “Of course. Down the hall, Fourth door on your left.” She pointed to a hallway to her right.

Micah nodded and followed the directions. The lighting was low everywhere, probably dimmed to save cost outside of normal business hours. She wondered what kind of business it was they did here, then she stopped herself. She didn’t want any details at all. “I’m just a mechanic, that’s all.” She mumbled softly as she came to a stop outside the large, solid wood door.

It was floor to ceiling and she felt a sudden urge to run anywhere else. Instead, she lifted her hand and rapped her knuckles against the wood.

“Yes?” The voice was smooth and sure, the barest edge of a threat beneath the word. Why did the image of a shark swerving beneath the water flash into her mind? She shook her head and pushed open the door.

“Delivery for Mr. Duncan.” It felt so stupid to say, but what the fuck else could she say? This was not her job. She would not let this become her job. She didn’t want the heat of being a mule; she’d made that abundantly fucking clear.

Yet here she stood.

“Come in.” The voice was clipped and cool, all business, but with an attempt at warmth. A small measure to pretend at civility, she supposed. She opened the door.

To her surprise, this room was not all sharp, sleek steel and concrete. It was lined everywhere with deep, rich wood. The scent of it filled her lungs, soothing, familiar. She blinked as her eyes took in the shelves lined with thick, heavy looking tomes. There was a wet bar taking up a whole wall, and it was where most of the room’s light came from.

That and the Tiffany lamp sitting on the gargantuan desk in the middle of the room.

A large, sleek, black, leather chairback greeted her. “You’re late.” The chair swiveled suddenly but soundlessly. A man with piercing blue eyes and a firm mouth stared at her. He peeked his fingers together in front of his face. One eyebrow lifted slightly as he took in the sight of her. “And you’re new.” A glint flashed in his eyes.

She narrowed her own. “No, I’m not. I’m doing a one time favor. Because, I’m told, you were very… insistent.”

His lips curved into a mirthless half smile. “Oh, is that how they phrased it?”

She snorted. “I could read between the lines. Not exactly anyone’s first choice to send a mechanic, but no one else was aw—available.” Her eyes darted away from his. “Mierda.” The whisper escaped her lips before she could stop herself. Shit. SHIT. She was saying too much.

She felt his eyes as he trailed them down her body. She felt them lingering around her curves, so easily displayed by her tight leathers. She shifted her weight and clutched her helmet closer to her body, as though it were a shield. A poor one, but what else did she have?

When she looked up again, she found his eyes staring directly into hers. His expression was unreadable as he forced his gaze on hers. She resisted the urge to clear her throat or look away. Something in his eyes reminded her of the predators she’d faced in the backcountry. You don’t look away from a predator when it’s sizing you up, so she steeled her nerves and met his gaze, her lips pressed thin and straight.

He smiled. Tight. Sharp. Too feline to be real, despite the straight, glaring whiteness of his teeth. It was a smile meant to disarm, but she knew better. “They have been rather… less than satisfactory of late. I’ve been considering exploring other avenues.” His eyes looked her up and down once more. “However, I might be amenable to changing my opinion.” As his eyes met hers again, the weight of his meaning settled heavy on her shoulders.

She shrugged slightly. “That’s above my pay grade. I’m just here to give you what you ordered.”

He ignored the package she held out to him. “You’re not curious?” He took a step toward her. His hand lifted, but instead of the package, he slipped his fingers around her wrist.

She shook her head. “They don’t pay me for that.”

“What do they pay you for?” Another step closer. His fingers tightened. His other hand rose to rest lightly against her waist.

tagging onwards (no pressure at all ever <3) @ivymarquis, @v0idbuggy, @derelictheretic, @henbased, @redreart, @wrathfulrook, @confidentandgood, @damejudyhench, @florbelles, @jillvalentinesday, @marivenah, @harmonyowl, @unholymilf, @shallow-gravy, @g0dspeeed, @strafethesesinners, @fourlittleseedlings, @voidika, @foibles-fables, @chazz-anova, @josephseedismyfather, @turbo-virgins, @roofgeese, @i-am-the-balancing-point, @poisonedtruth, @simplegenius042, @incognito-insomniac, @dumbassdep, @theelderhazelnut, @legally-a-bastard, @aceghosts and anyone i still have managed to miss in this list. (also if you don't want me tagging you, drop me an ask or a dm and no questions will be asked <3) edit: trying to fix tags.

#it is always so hard to know which pieces to share and where to cut into the full story #i had forgotten how difficult those choices are to make agh #anyway here is part of the beginnings of what happened in atlanta and how john and micah first met #i am loving writing this story again #hopefully that is enough tags to keep me out of any sitewide searches now #micah hale #ship: our sins make you mine #fablemade #strangefable writes #wip wednesday #if that doesn't work and this still just... i will delete everything #possibly my whole blog idk #not feeling great any more tonight

[saltygilmores]

Thoughts While Watching Gilmore Girls, Season 2, Episode 10, "The Bracebridge Dinner" Part 1

You can read my previous reviews here.

Brace-Bridge Din-Ner Brace-Bridge Din-ner Brace-Bridge Din-Ner YEAH!!!

Motivational Plaque: In a Sea of Run Away Little Boy's, be a Bracebridge Dinner. This is my third favorite episode after "They Shoot Gilmores Don't They"?" and "Lorelai's Graduation Day"! (I know I said it was #2 in my previous post but I somehow forgot about LGD). I can watch it over and over!

It's a beautiful winter's day in Star Hollow. There's a crisp chill in the air, the unemployed townies are hard at work building snowmen, Taylor Doose has assembled yet another front for his financial crimes ("The Stars Hollow Winter Festival", not to be confused with "The Stars Hollow Winter Carnival") and somewhere in North Carolina, Diet Logan is getting hazed at Military School. Ahhhhh. *breathes in* All is right in the world. For now. Lorelai and Rory are complaining that Snow's mouth is crooked and Rory says she has "stroke mouth" which is not a very nice thing to say, and all I could think about is poor Milo.

Me when Dean shows up in a few minutes (but at least he mostly stays in his lane and manages to not completely ruin this episode for once).

No, no, no, no. CHRISTOPHER is in this flawless episode? How did I black him out of my memory?

Jackson's like, "Uh, come again Sookie?"

Uh oh is right. Of course he has a sign that says OBEY. with a giant creepy eye. GTFO out of my 3rd Favorite Episode, what are you doing here you fucklenut? "I know Rory has a school break coming up and I'd like her to come and visit for a few days." How CONVENIENT. Summary: Crusty:Ask Rory if she wants to visit me. Lorelai: Okay will do. ANNYWAAAY Does anyone else wonder where Jess is whenever he isn't around? Just me? Okay..

Have I ever mentioned how fascinated I am by the offscreen, unseen world of the Rory-less life at Stars Hollow High School? Yeah, I know, several times. I admit it's kind of weird that I'm obsssed with an imaginary world where Dean would be a main character.

PUT ON A COAT SWEETIE YOU'RE GONNA CATCH PNEUMONIA!

I am Jess Mariano's defense lawyer, and whatever this Chuck Presby did, I'm sure he deserved it.

Those curly curls. "You saw it was me Jess, why did you keep punching?" *shrugs* "I had momentum." Valid defense. Free my client he is innocent.

Thiiiin lips! Oh he mad. "Luke's coming to the dinner with Jess." "I'll put Jess in a room with Miss Patty." "There will be no Jess left in the morning." I'm starting to think Miss Patty is on a sex offender registry.

Me to anyone who doesn't like my commentary.

Who let Crustypher have a dog? Where is the dog? Should I call the ASPCA?

An appearance by Babette makes any episode better.

Clara is me. I am Clara.

Is this the debut of Jess' Ugly Oversized Vomit Brown Coat? What wretched church donation bin did Liz find this thing in? The only inanimate object I despise more than the Stars Hollow Bridge is this coat.

Hi.

Dean: He better not do that all night. Do what all night? Wave at people? Shut the fuck up.

Hi.

(portrait of the author watching this scene)

Jess & Luke reacting to "there are horse drawn sleighs outside and everyone gets a ride." Lorelai: There's something so magical about Stars Hollow this time of year. Luke: Yeah, there's the magical plumbing supply store where I bought a magical toilet float last year. Listen up everybody! Luke Danes has learned the secret of parenting and he's going to tell us what it is! Luke: I learned that sometimes you gotta lie to your kid to spare them a lot of hurt. Liz knew that Jess had some time off from school, but she never called, so I lied to him and told him his Mom wanted him to come home but since he was still adjusting here that I thought he should stay, and that his Mom was really upset by that but I insisted he stay here. He bought it hook, line and sinker. Heh heh. What?

Also. Like Liz Danes would be sober enough to know or care that he was on winter break.

Jess, sweetheart, my love, my darling traumatized baby boy, my little cupcake sweetymuffin cutiecookie with precious sprinkles on top, here's my credit card, go buy yourself a new coat. You deserve a treat after all you've been through. #BurnThatCoat

I just think it's reaaaal shifty that they bought Liz into the show as a regular character and they made her surface level cute and quirky! Look at the goofy hippy making bracelets for the renaissance faire! Teehee! Did they think I would forget shit like this? NO. I HATE HER.

Now, I think I should get something important out of the way in regards to these reviews. If it seems like I'm not saying much about Jess or Jess&Rory, it's not beacuse I don't absolutely adore the ever loving shit out of him. But everything that can ever be said about Jess and Rory has been said at this point. They have been analyzed, dramatized, scrutinized, gificized, lyricized, TaylorSwifticzed, FanficiSized and picked apart like a herd of hyenas going to town on an antelope. i don't think any other couple in the history of television whose tenuous and let's face it, quite unhappy relationship only lasted less than one season has been dissected as much as Literati. So if I don't put every little interaction, every line, every breath they take under a microscope and gloss over some things, don't hold it against me. Never you fret. Jess Mariano is always on my mind. Besides, my style is more about cynical mockery, searching for Millennial references, picking apart the things no one else cares about, coming up with new and creative ways for Dean Forrester to die, searching the background for misspelled signs, and begging Jess to buy a new coat. So yes I am intently watching the cute scene with Jess and Rory in the sleigh. I promise. With that out of the way...let's continue.

'The gang's all here. So nice. Ran out of room, part 2 in another post, you know the drill.

#gilmore girls #rory gilmore #lorelai gilmore #luke danes #jess mariano #literati #gilmore girls season 2 #The Bracebridge Dinner #Denise Rewatches Gilmore Girls #Ugly Vomit Coat

[lasthumaninwales]

Okay so, by way of an explanation of my blog title, which no pne asked for...

In my family, I am very much the one who is into spooky shit. I'm the one who likes horror movies, who reads scary stories, who wants to go on ghost walks and visit haunted places... but for whatever reason, I am not the one who ever sees anything.

However, what does happen is that people tend to see things around me.

When I was 19 I went to Egypt with my grandmother. We took a cruise down the Nile for a week, visited a lot of ruins and temples, as one does. And, about halfway through the week, we were in a visitors' centre for one of said temples, sat in the dark watching a video, and my grandmother had a full on supernatural experience sat right next to me.

Apparently, a woman dressed in traditional ancient Egyptian clothing - headdress, long white dress, the works - appeared at her side, hands held out to her in a 'prayer' position. I was sat on the next chair over, and I saw nothing. My grandmother said she was trying to get to me, to get my attention while this was happening, but despite us being inches apart she couldn't reach me.

The next day she saw a carving on a wall, and told me that it was the woman she saw. The carving was of the goddess Isis.

Everyone joked about it when we got home, talking about how my grandmother must have had too much to drink the night before, but like... we could barely afford to drink water on that trip, she hadn't had a glass of wine since the first night.

In more recent years it's my wife who keeps seeing ghosts. My wife... has come around to more spooky hit since we've been together, but neither really believes in nor in any way likes ghosts and haunted places. And yet...

We went on holiday to Yorkshire, and in York I insisted on going to The Golden Fleece, the most haunted pub in a city that's already haunted as fuck. When I went to the bathroom, I got a text from her saying "Please can we leave soon." My signal was a bit rubbish so I didn't reply, just went back out to the bar to tell her that sure, of course we could leave.

Her: Thanks, sorry, I just got a bit freaked out because I thought I saw something behind the bar. It's okay though, I'm fine now.

Me: Really? What was it?

Her: Oh it's nothing, I just looked up and there was a guy behind the bar, and it was a different guy to the one who served us. I looked away for a second and he was gone. He must have just gone through to the other bar, it's nothing.

Me: Yeah? What did he look like,

Her: I don't know, he was facing away from me, tall, dark hair, wearing a big red coat.

Me: ... Did you not read the descriptions of the ghosts that are supposed to haunt this place? On the plaque outside?

Her: ... No?

Me: A red coat you said? Like, a modern one?

Her: No, like a long wool one, old fashioned...

Me: One of the most famous ghosts in this place is a highwayman called One Eyed Jack. He wears a long red coat.

Her: ... I wish you hadn't told me that.

Then closer to home, we were driving back from the next town over late one night a few weeks ago. It was cold and raining...

Her: I feel bad, I feel like we should have stopped for that girl.

Me: What girl?

Her: The girl stood by the side of the road back there.

Me: I didn't see anyone...

Her: She was stood looking out onto the road, on your side. She had a white coat on, did you not see?

Me:... A white coat?

Her: Yeah...?

Me: You know that bit of the road is meant to be haunted, right?

Her: NO?!

Me: Yeah, some kids coming back from a concert saw a young woman dressed in white at the side of the road back there. She stepped out in front of the car, they thought they'd hit her, felt it happen, but when they stopped there was no one, no body anywhere, not a mark on the car. I told you this story...

Her: I DIDN'T KNOW YOU MEANT HERE!

Me: Shit, babe...

A couple of nights later we were making the same journey.

Her: -sounding reluctant and strained- ... She was there again.

Me: ... the girl?

Her: Same outfit. Standing in the same spot. Identical.

Me: Babe... I was deliberately looking this time, and I didn't see anyone.

Her: ... Shit.

So, yeah.

I don't see ghosts, but I seem to facilitate other people seeing them.

#long post #ghosts #i heard a ghost in edinburgh but didn't see anything

[chocolate-failure]

It's probably time for an update. This shit has been fucking stressful. I never talked about Talullah and I don't think I will in any detail. DIg almost died because he refused to put aside his pride and turn around before he was extremley ill, in turn almost killing me in the process. He spilled my water and couldn't make it through the trail so we had to go backward on a trail that wasn't designed for it. I didn’t have enough time to rest because I was worried about leaving him alone and I kinda never want to go hiking with him again and that's pretty much the in and out of it.

I went to the dentist this past Thursday and was told that while I have been taking care of my teeth that they are all rotting out of my face hole to the tune of a cool $20,000. I need 3 root canals and 4 crowns. That isn't even getting into the 12 some odd fillings I need on top of that. But yeah my teeth were super clean, no tater build up, very little plaque. Which like... I rather have years of build up and a mouthful of teeth that aren't on the brink of rotting 🥴 The dentist told me some people just have bad teeth and that's just really mfkn disappointing. Cuz like of course I purge but it's not as bad as when I was a kid and in recent months hasn't been everyday. I always make sure to wash out my mouth and brush with fluoride mouthwash whenever I purge. I even keep the shit on me when in out and about. When I was a kid I was brushing maybe a few times a week and purging upwards of 6 or 7 times a day. I remember one day counting 14 times and being proud of that shit. God I was so mfkn stupid. But I was also a fucking child. I needed a doctor. I needed therapy, not to be forced to eat by my mother. That only resulted in my teeth rotting out of my face. And being told that makes me even more phobic of food. As delusional as it sounds it very much feels like food is what got me here. It's not like I can undo what my mom did or take something from her to make me whole again, but food... I can continue to avoid that right?

I haven't purged since going to the dentist which is not as impressive or brave as it is pathetic. And the days leading up to the dentist I was pretty good at keeping the purging to a minimum but it wasn't in anticipation of going to the dentist. Anyone who knows ed knows that it doesn't give af about alleviating the stress of whatever else is going on in your life. In fact, it only gets worse as a product of you having other things going on. God I wanna be fucking dead.

Lmfao despite being in fucking crisis right now I was doing okay for the past week. I had an appointment with a psychiatrist last Wednesday and she gave me 3 weeks of latuda samples and a prescription for latuda that I can actually afford. For anyone looking to get latuda the site is canadadrugsdirect.com, they have the generic version that comes out to $100 for 100 40mg pills. For me that's 200 doses which is enough for half a year if I play my crazy cards right. Hopefully I won't need more but even then 100 doses for $100 is way more manageable than $500 for 100 doses for American Latuda. God I fucking hate it here.

Rn I'm at 153, in the tub trying to get that down to something more manageable. I've been extremely stressed this week because of the dentist and dig had a tantrum in the store yesterday that just completely depleted my battery. I'm so fucking done. But of course after getting over the initial shock of all my teeth rotting I drank a bunch of shit and ate more than I usually do. I actually didn't eat a wh9le lot but whatever is going on with me made me super constipated. I drank some dieters tea last night and my poop came out like rabbits' that's never happened to me. It happens with laxatives and smooth move tea but never dieters tea. Whatever is in that shit it literally will give you diarrhea. It just makes my shit loose af but I have really bad chronic constipation so I can actually count the number of times I've had diarrhea outside of being a baby on 2 hands. And I wouldn't be surprised if I asked my mom if I didn't have very few instances of diarrhea as a baby. I literally have some undiagnosed it's and noone wants to fucking listen to me. It's not normal to only shit 4 times a month or have to manually activate your metabolism to avoid having an impacted colon. God I fucking hate this.

But yeah, I ate prob a few hundred under a normal 2000 calories yesterday maybe 1200... it wasn't a lot but maybe I'm also retaining water due to stress either way I went from 146 at the beginning of the week (Tuesday) to 155 this morning. It's driving me up the fucking wall. It feels like I never get a chance to find equilibrium or maybe it just doesn't exist for me. Idk but I'm kinda fucking losing it. It's been nearly 5 months I've been stuck around the low 150s and high 140s. It's been an absolute nightmare and it feels like i can't trust myself or my body to do well by me. I feel like I'm falling apart and I've really only gotten better at pretending I'm fucking fine.

#journal #progress #the big shrink #153 #med

[lunena]

𝐎𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝.

Pair:  Na Jaemin x female reader Genre:  Fluff, smut, slow burn, college au, sports au (basketball), strangers to friends to lovers, angst (very minor) WC:  26.2k Synopsis:  A public, handsy encounter with your schools’ star shooting guard sparks a string of run-ins on campus that can’t simply be downplayed as coincidences. After acknowledging the sudden spike in brushes, a connection blossoms between the two of you. Warnings:  Mature language, alcohol consumption, sexual content, protected sex​

▻ 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

  Sports games are the quintessential experience of college, especially Friday night games. Everyone comes together to root for their school, everyone is on the same side. Food, drinks, and smiles are in abundance as everyone–both players and fans–has their eye on the prize: the win.

  Basketball is no exception, and given that your school’s team is notoriously good, game nights are especially important. It doesn’t help the volume that this sport is played indoors, but it only gets those in attendance even more excited for the night ahead.

  The crowds are fun at first when the excitement is fresh; when everyone files into their seats with their friends and they take turns hyping the crowd up in preparation for their team to take the court. But when the crowds’ excitement takes a break, it’s momentarily just hordes of sweaty bodies that ooze the scent of beer and body odor.

  “I’m gonna go grab a drink,” you yell to your friend Kim over the distant failed attempt at a crowd chant.

  “Bring me back a water! Fucking parched.”

  You flash a thumbs up before maneuvering your way through the row of seats and into the aisle, and there you can easily slip away into the lobby where the food stands are. Vending machines are closer, but the concession stands always sell goods cheaper than the machines. That, and the walk is a nice way to breathe some fresh air to get you through the rest of the game. Or rather, help you deal with the stench and loud slurred words around you.

  “Two waters, please,” you tell one of the girls running the stand and you exchange the money and bottles with smiles. The lobby isn’t too far from the gym as you can still clearly hear the cheers and shouts of disappointment at the poor officiating, but you take your time on the way back.

  History floods the lobby with walls lined with years and years of plaques and famous names, and cases filled with trophies and jerseys of old players. Your school’s sports department didn’t have tens across the board, but the sports your school did excel in, they excelled. The women’s soccer team won a title seemingly every other year. The football team rarely made it to the championship game, but they always ended with at least a winning record and a strong foundation to build on for the next year.

  The men’s basketball team, the school’s pride and joy, always makes it to March Madness: the college basketball championship tournament. Whether they make it to Sweet 16, Elite Eight, Final Four, or the championship game itself. They are always in the championship series, and they always play hard and lay it all on the court. Being a journalism major with possible aspirations of pursuing the lively world of sports, of course, you’d follow attentively. That, and you simply like the game.

  The loud cheers from inside the gym immediately erupt into the near-silence of the lobby as you open the door and return to the stuffy air. It’s the middle of the third quarter, the Bulls are up by ten and haven’t lost their lead throughout the game so far, and you’re confident they won’t. The team is the healthiest they’ve ever been–they have all of their starters on the floor and whoever’s left on the bench is checked in and ready to rotate in if need be. March Madness is coming. The fans can feel it. The players can feel it, and these guys have their priorities and goals in order.

  You pause at the corner of the gym, focused on the plays, the technique, and the trick shots. You sigh in contentment. This is your school's team. This is what you could be gifted to work with under your journalism major, and it’s exciting.

  Your eye catches on your friend in the crowd, waving in your direction, motioning with her hand for you to come back to her. You nod, moving towards the bleachers, though you don’t make it far.

  A wall slams into your side with unchecked force, pinning you into the railing at the end of the bleachers. A hot, sweaty wall. Though, it isn’t a wall. It’s a body, a stomach, a chest. A guy. Jaemin Na, to be specific.

  “I am so sorry,” he expresses, breathing heavily. Your eyes are wide, unsure of what just happened in the literal two seconds you looked away from the court. You couldn’t respond, say it was okay. You couldn’t even remember where you were.

  “Um.” You’re sure you have whiplash.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, brain seemingly moving fast as yours is stuck in time.

  “I, uh,” you stammer. “Am I?” you question, very sincere, though he chuckles.

  “I don’t know, I kind of–”

  “Na, come on!” his teammate calls, and it’s only then you’re made aware of his hand on your waist as his fingers tickle the covered skin in their release.

  “Again, I’m sorry!” he calls with a smile, jogging backward a few steps until he fully turns around and resumes to an unfortunate turnover resulting from his very unsuccessful attempt at saving the ball. You’re left in shock, slowly catching up to the present moment and coming to realize what was going on and where you were.

  Water. Friend. Right. 

  Your legs bring you up the bleachers and to your friend, who looks at you with an all-knowing grin. “Well, that was intimate.”

  “Huh?” you utter, passing her a bottle before twisting the cap off of yours.

  “Jaemin plowing into you? Hello?” She waves a hand in front of your face, and you swat her away. “Do you know him?”

  “Of him. Why? What even happened?”

  “I don’t know. The ball was bouncing in your direction, he ran after it, flung it back toward the court, then boom.”

  You take a sip of your water, cooling down as you piece together the moment prior. He was saving the ball from going out of bounds. Makes sense. “Oh. Okay.” You take another sip.

  “He was pretty handsy,” she nudges your arm, and you choke mid-swallow. She giggles evilly.

  You watch the rest of the game in silence, your head jumbled from getting rocked. Such a brief encounter shouldn’t have you distracted. It shouldn’t have you thinking about the way he pinned you, but it did. Jaemin doesn’t know you. You only know of him from watching and following the basketball team’s games. And yet, here you are, thinking about the heat from his chest amidst the unwanted heat from the crowd.

  The game ends, and your prediction was right. They never lost their lead and smoked the other team. Cheers from the crowd die down and bodies bleed from the stands, meeting up with their friends to see where the victory party is or filing outside to hurry home. Among those hurrying to their cars is you, alone, as your friend fell behind at some point. Your hand slides over the door handle but halts at the sound of a voice behind you.

  “Hey!” the voice calls. You turn, surprised to see Jaemin stopping before you in a large black sweatshirt, his basketball shorts, and a gym bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Hello, again.”

  A beat passes until Jaemin finally speaks. “Uh, I’m sorry–again. About earlier. Reckless on my part.”

  You chuckle, finally able to provide a real answer as opposed to the stammering mess you were before. “It’s fine. It’s what the game can do to you, I guess.”

  He cocks his head to the side, amused with your response. Noting that you don’t plan on adding anything, he continues. “I don’t think you remember, but we had that art history course together last semester.”

  You cross your arms over your chest in thought and lean back against your car, mind tracing back to the course. Ah, yes. The class was meticulous, detailed, specific to the professor’s style, but it wasn’t hard if you followed correctly, which you did. Therefore, you didn’t feel a need to mingle in that class. “Oh, yeah. Honestly, I don’t remember anyone that was in that class. She never had us do any group work,” you say, and he nods as he realizes you’re right. “What were you doing in an art history course, though?”

  He rocks onto his heels. “Well, aside from basketball, I am an art history major, so I think the course would benefit me. Just a tad,” he holds up his pinched fingers, and you roll your eyes with a smile.

  “Okay, okay. Fair enough. That’s interesting though. Big shot shooting guard Jaemin Na is an art major? Would have never guessed.”

  “Never judge a book by its cover,” he winks.

  You throw your arms up in surrender as you push off of your car. “Well, Jaemin, it’s been nice chatting with you, lovely getting assaulted by you, but I’m sure you’re tired so I will get out of your hair.”

  He shakes his head with an innocent laugh and a bright smile. “And I’ll let you get going as well. It was nice talking to you…” he trails expectantly, and you take the hint.

  “Y/N,” you provide, and he repeats assuredly. “It was nice talking to you too, Jaemin.”

  “Hope to see you around.”

  It’s ridiculous how such a minor, insubstantial conversation put such a dorky smile on your face for the duration of the ride home and then some. It’s ridiculous that your roommate was even able to point it out and question it, and it’s extra ridiculous that you lied and said “it’s nothing.” What an odd night, what a peculiar guy. Though you’re sure given how you pretty much have never run into him on campus before, that won’t change now. Oh, well. 

· · ─────── · ·

  The weekend passed like any other with studying, papers, friends, and booze. Same faces, same drinks of choice, same ripping your hair out over the courses you wish were over and done. The weekdays littered with classes and cafe stops rolled around as usual, except for one minor difference: you saw Jaemin everywhere.

  Of course, it isn’t weird to see fellow students on campus. You cross paths with nearly one hundred people daily. However, despite this semester being only a couple of weeks in, everyone’s schedules are pretty fixed at this point. If anything, you’d be seeing less people, as the only option now is to drop. You see the same faces on your way to and from classes, in the parking lot, at the cafe between or before classes. Yet now, after your brief interaction, Jaemin has been thrown into the mix of people. Though maybe, you were never really looking, to begin with.

  The first time was on Monday. You spotted him across the courtyard talking with a friend, and if you’re being honest, yeah–you stared. Just a little. Mostly because you never see him outside of his games, and even then, your eyes simply brushed over him on the court, too busy focusing on the game itself.

  He caught you. Of course he did. And after meeting your eyes, he smiled. A warm, welcoming, friendly smile. So you returned with the same expression and went on your way.

  That was only the beginning. The next day you ran into him again, and he flashed that same smile, and you returned the same way. The day after that he spotted you in the coffee shop across from campus grabbing your morning coffee before your first class. This time, he actually greeted you, and you in turn. But a simple “hey, Y/N” was all he managed before one of his basketball bros pulled him away in the same breath, snipping away any potential for a conversation to blossom.

  Until Thursday came along. You had just gotten out of your one class for the day and were ready to head home and dive into the weekend. You enter the empty elevator, phone in your hand, pulling up Kim’s contact to call her until a person slips in right before the doors close.

  “Hey, you,” the person says cheerfully, and your eyes land on none other than Jaemin. It should’ve been expected at this point.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” you smile.

  He leans to press the button to the ground floor until he sees you already have, to which he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Heading home?”

  “Yup. You?”

  “Yup, thankfully.”

  Silence sweeps in, and shockingly, your mind leans towards speaking up to continue talking to him, though you don’t know what to say, or why exactly you feel inclined to spark up a conversation with him during such a short elevator ride. Luckily, he fills the silence and halts the ramblings and confusions taking place in your brain.

  “Hey, listen. Would you want to get coffee sometime?” He grips the strap of his bag a little tighter, and why you notice the minuscule action, you couldn’t say.

  “Very direct,” you state. “I’m always down for coffee.” His grip loosens, knuckles regaining some color, and you find yourself grinning. “On you, though. I think you owe me after nearly concussing me,” you say, teasing.

  He attempts to hold back a giggle, failing. You never had a clear picture of Jaemin and what he’s like. Probably because until now, you’ve only regarded him as your school’s starting shooting guard. The silent star on the court, the laid-back student on campus. Of course, you hear about him outside of sports, along with a handful of others on the team. A good portion of them are in a frat, and though Jaemin isn’t officially a part of it, he’s treated as a member due to his connection and his basketball status. Girls fawn over him. Guys look up to him. You’ve never heard anyone speak of him as a heartbreaker or player of sorts, but he’s the team heartthrob: everyone wants a piece.

  Well. It seems that you’ve been paying more attention to him than you initially thought. As opposed to your perception of him as a skillful leader, now, you find him peculiar and a bit dorky. “Fair enough,” he nods, continuing after a beat. “Are you free now?”

  “Yeah, actually. You don’t have practice?”

  He shrugs passively. “I do. It’s later though, I have time.”

  The elevator door opens and he gestures for you to exit first. Fortunately, you both were in the building located closest to the cafe across the street from the campus, so the walk was close to nothing and you were there in no time. With the short distance, however, you didn't have time to decide what you were going to order. Should you be modest and order a regular coffee? Or should you just go for it and buy the most expensive, extravagant drink they have to pull his arm? You weren’t that evil.

  “Medium latte, please,” you order, then step to the side so he can move forward and order his own.

  “Regular coffee, please.” Jaemin glances over, face looking expectant as he waits a moment before returning his attention to the girl behind the register. “That’ll be all.” He shoots one last glance, and you realize he’s waiting for you to order something else. You wave him off, and he finishes paying for your drinks. Well, he insisted. Should have ordered the fancy drink.

  Even with pulling away from the fancy beverages, you still had to wait for yours to be made, while Jaemin received his immediately upon paying. You moved down the counter as Jaemin went to the table against the wall to fix up his drink. He turns to join you, but as he returns, you receive your drink and he follows you back to the table to spice up your own order. Not that it’s awkward already, but you’ve obtained your drinks as planned, and suddenly you’re searching for the next move or the next word.

  “What time do you have practice?” you ask, laying out a timeline in your brain.

  He checks his watch as if it had the answer and it wasn’t something he should already know. “Five. We can sit if you want?”

  It’s nearly two in the afternoon now, and even though you have some work to get done along with his dawning practice, you agree with a nod, and the two of you start in the direction of a table for two against the back wall. Though, given the lack of space in this coffee shop, it isn’t that far away from the entrance and all of the other happenings.

  Jaemin’s hands cup tight around his coffee, his elbows digging into the table, his shoulders raised just the slightest towards his ears. He’s cute, eyeing his hot coffee as if he can magically transport its warmth to span over his skin. It is chilly in here, though. You’d think given that it’s the middle of winter, heat would be a default.

  “So, Mr. Star Shooting Guard. What made you major in art history?”

  He grins sheepishly. “Well, I’ve always had a knack for art. Not necessarily producing art–like I can’t draw or paint for the life of me. I just like studying it.” There is a spark behind Jaemin’s eyes. Yet another feature that catches your eye. “Learning the meanings behind pieces, the creative process of the artist, how it fits into a certain era. It’s just all so fascinating.”

  Not that you ever undermined his intelligence just because he’s a basketball player, but his passion for something other than what he’s known for is intriguing. On the court, you know the face of determination and drive well. You know what passion performed successfully looks like, so you know Jaemin loves his sport. But this new side of Jaemin–the art history major who’s interested in how pieces of art came to be–there’s a passion hinted in his eyes that pulls your interest and demands your respect. It makes you want to hear more.

  Before you can pry into his choice of studies, a guy approaches the table with a bright smile in the short few steps from the front entrance. “Hey, man. How’s it going?” the guy asks in greeting, sparing you the tiniest of glances before returning his attention back to Jaemin, and Jaemin extends his hand with a simple nod.

  “Hey. See you at practice later?” Jaemin asks, and as opposed to any question he’s asked you, there’s a speck of dismissal in his dry tone. Nothing to read into.

  “Yeah,” the guy nods, mildly suspecting, and retreats toward the counter.

  “Teammate?” you ask.

  “Yeah, sophomore. Doesn’t get much playing time unless some of the starting five are out.”

  You want to continue dissecting his art history interest, but he cuts off your thoughts by asking questions of his own. “Enough about me. What about you? What are you studying?”

  The corner of your mouth pulls before you drop your head, your eyes burning holes into your cup. “Journalism is my major.”

  He waits for you to continue, but after realizing you don’t plan on it, he pokes around. “Journalism? Anything specific?”

  You exhale a stale chuckle. “Nope. You’d think with it being my senior year I’d have it figured out, but I don’t. I just know that I want to write and report.”

  It’s not that you haven’t delved deeper into the major. Of course, you’re aware of all the possibilities it entails, but with an abundant number of possibilities comes heavy indecision on your part. One of the most intriguing fields of journalism for you so far has been sports, because, for starters, it interests you. You’d never lose your drive when reporting on teams and players that you already watch so frequently and that you know a decent amount about. Also, because it’d simply be easy for you.

  “I like sports, too. Not playing, but watching–following every play. So maybe something with that.”

  Jaemin’s eyes light up, his body perks. “You like sports? Like what?”

  “Basketball and football for the most part. I know them, I like them, so I think something in that field of interest would come easy. I don’t know, though,” you sigh, dismissing your own train of thought. Your eyes run in slow circles along the rim of your cup, cascading down the side and land on where your hands grip.

  Jaemin’s foot nudges yours under the table, prompting you to look up at him. “Well you don’t need to have it all figured out, even if you’re out of here soon.”

  “Easy for you to say.” Harsh. You didn’t intend for it to come out so sharp, and your tone makes you recoil in your seat. He didn’t deserve that. “I’m sorry.”

  A soft smile spreads on his face. “It’s okay.”

  With a glance up at the clock hanging above the door, you decide it’s best if you head back home and get a headstart on your studies and leave him to get ready for practice. “I think it’s time I head home. Have an exam coming up that I am not prepared for in the slightest.”

  “What class?” He grabs his bag.

  You chuckle at the coincidence. “History of Art 104, actually.”

  He throws his arms up after slinging his bag on his shoulder. “What?! Who’s your professor?”

  “Same woman we had for 103 last semester. DeLaurentis.”

  “Alright, you’re kidding. I have her for the same class.” He grabs his coffee from the table and begins toward the door. “As much as I love art history, this class feels nearly impossible compared to the previous courses with her.”

  “It’s crazy hard,” you add. “Hey, would you want to study together? Maybe you can provide some crucial insight and I’ll somehow be able to manage this exam.”

  “Yeah, of course. Maybe talking about it with another person will help cement this stuff into my brain,” he smiles, and you both stop on the sidewalk. “I have an away game tomorrow, but what about Sunday? I have a light practice in the morning but I’m free for the rest of the day.”

  “Sunday is great. Library? Is two okay?”

  “Perfect.” He smiles, conversation seemingly concluded before his eyes go wide for a flash of a moment. “Oh, hey, wait. Take my number down in case something comes up.”

  You pull your contacts and insert his number as he lists off the digits, then stuff your phone back in your jacket pocket. “Alright. I’ll see you Sunday, then.”

  “See you, Y/N.”

  You cross the street toward the parking lot where you had parked, but once at the other side, the urge to turn around for one last interaction spins you at your feet. “Hey, Jaemin!” He turns, shoulders straight and body perked up at the sound of your voice. “Kick some ass tomorrow!”

  Jaemin laughs at the volume of your spirit in such a public setting and flashes a thumbs up.

· · ─────── · ·

  It’s not a close game in any way you look at it. The other team is not at the same skill level, does not have the same weapons that the Bulls have. Jaemin went into this game knowing that, though. He knew it would be an easy win, but that doesn’t mean he takes it easy.

  Jaemin still leaves his all on the court, just as he would any other game. This is opportune practice, and he’s grateful that his teammates approach this game with the same mindset as him. Why put the bare minimum of effort in and win by twenty when you can challenge yourself and win by forty?

  There are three minutes left in the game and in the current thirty-two-point lead they have, Jaemin has twenty-seven points on the board and counting. The other team even had home-court advantage, yet the Bulls still ended up toying with them in front of their own fans.

  Jaemin has his other passions and other things he loves. He majors in art history and he doesn’t view it as an easy major to fill his pastime while he isn’t playing basketball. Though as much as he finds it interesting, basketball is his true number one. That is the career he wants to pursue, that’s the path he wants to follow.

  When interacting with Jaemin, you’d never be able to see the adrenaline-hungry menace inside of him. On the court, Jaemin has his eye on the prize. He’s entirely focused on getting his team the win, more so than racking up his own points. In doing so, he’s become one of the feared faces of the Bulls–a face other schools know well. 

  His strength lies in three-pointers, creating open shots for himself in impossible situations, and making it look effortless. He has an eye for the opponent's next move, and he knows when he can shoot successfully and when he needs to pass. More often than not, even in times when he should pass, he knows he can give himself an open slot to shoot and score. It’s not ego–it’s confidence and knowledge. It’s him knowing what the best move to make is, and his teammates trusting him to do so.

  Part of his success has Renjun Huang to thank for it; being the best point guard for miles, assisting the perfect shots by creating open slots, and giving him sufficient time to find his rhythm and shoot. They’re a dangerous tag team to other schools, but a necessary powerhouse for their team. Their agility combined has created such skilled, tricky plays that would otherwise be impossible to pull off. 

  As the clock winds down to two minutes, they’re all smiles on the court as they’re purely having fun now. Jaemin shows off his handles and his stepback, Renjun shows off his speed and swiftness, and Jeno Lee, the starting small forward, debuts his windmill dunk.

  It’s unusual for a team to keep their starters in the game with such a large lead, but they begged to stay in. It’s frowned upon to risk an unnecessary injury, especially with such a team certain to make a playoff run, but they had their break during the third quarter. They want to finish this with a bang. This is a team that’s determined with their minds set on one thing: the championship title. 

  One minute left and now they’re running the clock down. Jaemin has to give the opposing team props, though. They put up a fight where other teams would have given up long ago. All they can think about now is showering, changing, and going home to their beds. Though for Jaemin, on top of being greedy for his bed and thinking about how warm and comfortable he’ll soon be, he thinks about your study date this weekend and smiles. He’s so distracted by the thought he’s caught with a travel violation and the ball is overturned. Not that it matters at this point, but it’s still inconvenient.

  The buzzer sounds and the game is over, and Jeno jogs up to Jaemin and slaps him on the back with a curious gaze and a playful grin. “What was that about at the end?”

  “What was what about?”

  “You just traveled. That’s, like, unheard of with you.”

  “There were thirty seconds left, it’s not like it matters,” Jaemin says, nodding up at the scoreboard. Jeno grins and nods in agreement and begins to jog toward the locker room.

  It doesn’t matter, Jaemin repeats in his head.

· · ─────── · ·

  Sunday has come suddenly, and to say you weren’t looking forward to today since parting two days ago would be a blatant lie. Jaemin is peculiar; you’ve thought that since the moment he caught you in the parking lot after that fateful game. From the coincidental encounters on campus to learning of his silent passion for art history, he continues to pique your interest.

  You wait outside of the building that holds the library, sitting on the worn bench with your bag placed next to you and your phone in hand, fiddling with the case as you wait for his arrival. The sky is a light gray, but in the distance, you can spot the darker clouds rolling in from behind the treeline. Despite how much you like the rain, you curse yourself for forgetting an umbrella and hope Jaemin had checked the forecast and brought one.

  Jaemin saunters down the path leading straight toward the main doors, eyes catching your form sitting on the bench, gaze glued to your fingers playing with your case. “Hey,” he calls out.

  You peer up, smiling at the new company. The campus is fairly empty today, with the exception of a few stragglers entering and exiting the building you’re currently in front of. The library and the university shop are the only things open on Sundays, so it’s to be expected that campus would be eerily quiet compared to the usual life it contained. “You wouldn’t happen to have an umbrella.” 

  “No, was I supposed to bring one?” He pats his pocket where his phone is placed, clearly thinking that maybe you had sent a text asking for one and he hadn’t received it.

  “No, it’s fine, we’ll just deal with the rain later. Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” he responds.

  The two of you make your way into the building and walk down the hall to the entrance doors of the library. It comes as no surprise that the library is as vacant as the campus is, save the one girl at a computer and the woman behind the desk. Jaemin holds the door open for you to enter and follows behind you, gesturing for you to choose where they sit.

  When in the library, you always opt for the lower level where the large windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling of the very top floor. Couches sit in one corner below the stately staircase cascading into the lounge area, then some more on the opposite side of the area with a long table in between. “Table or couches?” you ask.

  “I’m sure I’d be a little more productive at a table, but would you mind if we sat at the couches? ‘Light practice’ today was a little rougher than anticipated.”

  You comply with a nod and a smile before heading down the stairs to the couches placed in the corner, tucked away and sandwiched between the wall of the stairs and the endless windows with an unobstructed view of the dawning rainstorm. He plops onto the cushions with a drained sigh, taking a moment before pulling his textbook, notebook, and pen out of his bag. You’re sure he’s tired, but you can’t help but appreciate him coming here. You fall into the spot beside him.

  “Hey, I just want to apologize again. You know, for ramming into you at the game.” He taps his pen against the cover page of the textbook, meeting your gaze for only a second. “I got a taste of it this morning, maybe in the world’s twisted way of avenging you,” he giggles, “but it did not feel too great.”

  The sudden memory of that flash encounter floods your thoughts, and you’re unsure what to say. It wasn’t too big a deal to you, and honestly, it was only shocking because of how quickly it had happened. Nothing against Jaemin, you were serious when you told him it’s what the game can do to you. Still, his dwelling on the moment catches you off guard. “Oh, don’t worry, really. It’s, um… It felt fine.”

  It felt fine? What does that even mean? Not that he hurt you–he definitely didn’t, though you swore at that moment you would develop whiplash–but it felt fine?

  It’s clear he catches onto those three words, though as opposed to confusion, a mischievous shadow casts over his eyes–the first glimpse of teasing making its way to the surface of his demeanor. “Oh? Fine, you say?”

  You push his arm and he chuckles wholesomely, the sound shooting straight to your heart and your lips, involuntarily tugging up into a smile. He rocks back to nudge into your side, and you shake your head, pulling out your own necessities before beginning your quest to understand the history of Japanese art.

  For the most part, studying is silent–with occasional sessions of quizzing each other on which piece of art is from what year and the characteristics attached to each era and style. The library remains fairly empty with so much as a couple of people in and out. At this point you’ve both completely melted into the couch, your feet tucked under you and his propped up on the coffee table. The rain started soon after you settled into your corner and hasn’t let up since, pouring in ferocious waves, with the accompaniment of a few bolts of lightning and roaring thunder. That wasn’t in the forecast.

  You sit distracted, eyes drawn to the weather just outside of the window, listening to the rain pelt the ceiling angrily and the wind whistle and whip through the trees as if it has a vendetta against the world. The sky grows darker, but the bolts of lightning continue to flash on cue, brightening the area in quick flashes.

  “Hey,” Jaemin calls, his elbow nudging you, shocking you a bit out of your daydream. For a moment you forgot you weren’t alone, forgot what you were doing, too lost in the storm carrying outside. As mild as your reaction, he still catches it. “Scared of storms?”

  “No, just got distracted.” Your gaze switches from him back to the chaos ensuing beyond the window, and he follows. The storm is worse than you had anticipated, and you’re dreading the walk to your car. “I really don’t want to walk in that,” you mutter.

  “We could just stay here and wait it out,” he offers, his eyes earnest but he immediately pulls back. “Unless you have somewhere to be. Then we can just make a run for it.”

  “Nope, nowhere to be. Though, I am getting a little tired of staring at this textbook.”

  He chuckles, nodding in agreement. “And I’m a little hungry, you?”

  You sigh. “Yes.”

  Jaemin closes his pen and his notebook into his textbook and sets it on the table. “Take a walk with me to the vending machines?”

  You nod, setting your own things onto the table beside his and stuffing your phone into your pocket before getting up to follow him out of the library and down the hall. If it were any other day, you wouldn’t leave your stuff unattended and out in the open like this. But given that there’s not a soul in the library with you now, you don’t stress about someone coming in to steal your notes.

  As you both approach the vending machines, you scour the contents inside and pick a single thing that will hold you over until you get home and can begin dinner: a bag of chips.

  “What are you looking at?” he asks.

  “Chips. You?”

  “Not sure. I don’t know if I want chocolate or something sour and fruity.” His eyes are squinted as he thinks deeply about what mood he’s in.

  You point at the row of chocolate bars. “I think chocolate is perfect for a rainy day, but it’s your call.”

  He looks at you as he takes in your words, teetering back and forth before landing on his final decision. “Chocolate it is.”

· · ─────── · ·

  College is not college without frats, parties, and frat parties. There’s a spectrum for students: on one end are those who attend these parties ritually, and on the other are those who sit back and tease the behaviors of the demographic at these parties. You find yourself directly in the middle, avoiding those who are invested in frats and poking jokes but still gravitating to the party scene.

  This brings you here, at the house of your schools’ star quarterback. Though the football team’s season wasn’t necessarily a losing one, it was far from stellar with strong flaws both offensively and defensively, so what exactly the team is celebrating tonight is lost. They didn’t even make it to a bowl game. But your friend was dying to come, and you yourself needed a night out.

  Though it’s not quite a frat party, the hosts' frat is in attendance as well as the sorority and a handful of people from other sports teams. One of those teams is the basketball team, which comes as a shocker because unlike the football team, they are having a flawless season so far, so why they’re currently at this party when they have a reputation and a streak to maintain is odd. Reckless, even.

  “Oh, I see Jen! I’m gonna go say hi,” Kim states loudly over the music.

  “Alright, I’m gonna see what they have to drink. Want something?”

  “Of course I want something. Surprise me.”

  You wink before nodding her over in the direction of her friend from class, then start in the opposite direction to the kitchen. It’s a direct path, no one in your way, yet your vision goes blurry the moment you approach the archway leading to the area.

  A hand is on your arm, pulling and spinning you away from the kitchen until you’re standing still in front of none other than Jaemin. “Hey!” he greets happily, pulling you into a hug. The pace is as shocking as that first encounter, and it takes you a second to register his greeting and his arms around you, but you finally settle and giggle, wrapping your arms around him. 

  “Hey, Jaemin.”

  “You’re here. I didn’t think I’d see you tonight.”

  “I didn’t think I’d see you either”–you eye his cup–“Jaemin, what is the basketball team doing here?”

  He chuckles and drops his head. “Ah, don’t worry. Renjun and I have the team on a strict two-drink limit. Plus, I’m not a huge drinker, to begin with.”

  Like your deal with Jaemin before he rammed into you, you know Renjun only by name from following the team and their games. Renjun is the team's point guard, aka the leader. You don’t know him as a person, but given his position, it’s only fitting that he’s the one to monitor the players on such an occasion. He’s insanely smart on the court from what you’ve seen of him. He knows the right plays to call, he passes at crucial moments that could make or break the game (almost always make), and he’s quick, slipping through the other teams' players with ease and mischief.

  “Alright. Good.”

  “No drink yet?”

  You squint your eyes. “Well, I was about to get one but someone pulled me away.”

  He feigns distaste. “How dare they. Come on, let’s get you a cup.”

  With a roll of your eyes, you follow him into the kitchen where he leads you to a countertop covered end to end in liquor bottles. The budget of these parties is one thing that always baffles you, seeming near impossible for these college students to afford, but you never question free booze. “So what will it be?”

  You scan over the plethora of different bottles until your eyes land on an unopened bottle of your preferred tequila. “Would love a shot, but my friend is locked in conversation over there.”

  “I’ll take a shot with you.”

  “No, you will not.”

  He’s already reaching for the bottle and two plastic shot cups. “I’ve only had one drink. Still have one left, this can be considered my second.” He sets the cups down and to his surprise, he turns to find you looking at him with worried eyes. “It’s fine, Y/N. I can’t let you take a shot alone.”

  With a sigh you concede, unable to hide the smile growing on your face. “Well, then, let’s do this.”

  He pours the shots and hands you your cup, and the two of you link your arms before downing the contents. You shiver at the burning in your throat but recover quickly, ready for your next drink. As you check the counter for a possible concoction you could make, a guy in a Bulls Football cutoff tee approaches Jaemin with his hand extended. “Na, what’s up?”

  Jaemin takes his hand with a faint smile and nods, they bro-hug, and he quickly returns his attention to you. “So, what drink next?”

  You stare up at him for a moment, the guy still in your peripheral vision, bemused by Jaemin’s dismissal of him to talk to you. “Uh,” you start, and there you are again, left momentarily speechless by Jaemin. “Vodka. Vodka sprite is good for now.”

  He smiles before making the drink for you, brushing off the guy almost as a nuisance. Maybe there’s some unspoken bad blood there that you don’t know about, but the guy seemed fairly friendly when approaching Jaemin. Not that Jaemin was rude to him, he just wasn’t particularly interested and didn’t feel the need to force conversation.

  Upon handing you your drink, you take a sip, and Jaemin eyes you expectantly. You peer up at him. “Damn, okay. You’re a bartender too, now?” You tease and he laughs wholly. “This is dangerously good, Jaemin.”

  “Come on, let’s go play pong.” He starts in the direction of the dining area where the fancy dining table has been moved aside to fit the cheap folding table topped with red plastic cups. He reaches his hand behind him and you grab hold, squeezing through groups and keeping up with him as much as you can. It’s not that packed, but there are a decent amount of people, so it was a nice gesture from Jaemin.

  The sleeve of his gray team sweatshirt falls over his hand a tiny bit, caught between your hands, and your eyes follow the fabric up his arm and to his upper back, then the rest of his body. The sweatshirt is big but it fits him perfectly. Oversized yet not drowning him in the garment. He wears black jeans on the bottom, seemingly unripped from the angle you’re currently inspecting him. Why you’re inspecting his outfit is lost and you quickly catch yourself, bringing your eyes back up to follow where he’s guiding you. Though, in your poor attempt at looking away from him, you notice the gold chain hanging around his neck, peeking out from underneath the collar of his sweatshirt. What is it about gold chains?

  You make it to the table as the current game is about to end, with Renjun and their teammate Jeno on one team and two guys from the football team on the other, who are currently getting crushed. “We’ve got next,” Jaemin calls, and Renjun nods in his direction before sinking the last cup.

  “Well, come step in. These guys couldn’t keep up–very similar to their football season.”

  The other guys throw their arms up, and Renjun and Jeno laugh at their dismay. Shuffling into the spot left empty at the end of the table, Jaemin places his hand at the small of your back for a brief moment. “Y/N, this is Renjun and this is Jeno, my teammates.”

  Jeno looks from you to Jaemin with squinted eyes, then back at you with a warm smile. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “I hope you’re any good at pong because while Jaemin may be a menace on the court, his pong game is nonexistent,” Renjun teases.

  “Oh, is that so?” you ask, looking up at the boy beside you.

  Jaemin shakes his head, his glare shooting daggers across the table at the one critiquing his beer pong abilities. “Not at all. Let’s kick some ass,” he mimics your words from the week prior, and you giggle.

  Jaemin and Renjun grab a ball each and square off, holding each other's stare while counting down to make their shots, and Jaemin sinks it, where Renjun’s ball is off rolling through the feet of the crowd. You two are up first.

  The game moves pretty quickly, but there is never a substantial lead on either side. It’s neck-and-neck, and with at least one cup gone from each side in every round, you wonder where the fun and the ease is in playing a game in which you’re required to put a ball in the hole (pong ball in a circular solo cup) with three of the starting basketball players. Obviously, being skilled at this game is second nature to them.

  There are four cups left on either side and thus far, the opposing team has been fairly vocal about how easily they’ll crush you and Jaemin, despite how close the game has been. They’ve talked the talk, and surely they’ve walked the walk, but it’s still anyone’s game.

  The boys had reached their drink limit before the game started, so part of what’s custom in this game–taking a swig of your drink every time the opposing team makes a shot–isn’t taking place. It isn’t much of a downer, however, as it’s easily overshadowed by the very present competitive tension. Beer pong is a fun, silly game, but boy can these guys immerse themselves into the game.

  Jaemin isn’t too outspoken. Not like the two on the end of the table, who are having a blast tossing insults that are meant to distract you and Jaemin, but are immediately shut down by you two sinking successive shots. Two cups left now, they still have four.

  Jaemin brings his hand to your lower back as he did before, but this time, it lingers. He moves in close, his lips at your ear. “Let’s win this thing, partner.”

  Your eyes flash up to him and you catch a handsome, devilish grin presented proudly on his face. He gleams down at you, and at this moment, you see that same fire in his eyes that you see when he’s on the court. Except this time, it’s directed at you, his new teammate, and he’s trusting in you and your alliance to shut out the other team. Well, he said it. Let’s win this thing.

  To say the ending of this game was dramatic and heavily climactic would be an exaggeration because promptly after deciding to end it, you simply did. Jaemin draped his arm over your shoulders and pulled you loosely into his side, executed his shot, made it, then you shot and also made it. Renjun and Jeno had an opportunity at redemption, of course, and they could have had a chance after Renjun’s bank shot, but Jeno fumbled his by overshooting, resulting in your win.

  You and Jaemin turn to each other simultaneously and instinctively high five with your free hands, bright smiles on both of your faces. “Quite a team we make,” he says.

  “The best.”

  He winks, and your smile falters just a bit. He’s winked at you once before, but given the proximity, it has a power–and as corny as the action is, he pulls it off well. Effortless. It’s almost attractive.

  “Rematch! That was pure luck!” Renjun argues jokingly, though you’re almost sure he’s actually really upset with losing.

  “Sorry boys, but I’m gonna go take a lap and look for my friend, make sure she’s alright. Maybe later?” you offer, genuinely interested in another game with these guys.

  Renjun nods. “We’ll be here. Jaemin, can I steal her from you? You can have Jeno.”

  “No thanks, I’m fairly happy with my partner.” Jaemin squeezes your shoulder and shoots you one last smile, to which you return the expression before slipping away and patting his arm. You head back toward the kitchen first.

  There are more people here than when you first arrived, but making your way around is still possible without getting pushed and shoved. There’s a decent amount of people in the kitchen either pouring themselves drinks or raiding the fridge. You’re not one to snitch, though, and honestly, it’s understandable. Drinking makes you hungry. Next party the host throws, he’ll learn to put a padlock on the fridge. Maybe chain it up.

  As plentiful as the people in the kitchen, your friend isn’t one of them, but you remember you told her you’d grab her a drink a good while ago, so for an attempt at forgiveness should she be irritated, you make her a quick vodka sprite.

  You continue your trek from the kitchen into the hallway, standing on your tip-toes to look down the length of the area, but she isn’t there. Heading into the living room, you stop in front of the crowd of people, preparing yourself for the impenetrable huddle of people. Just as you take your first step, your eye catches on Kim still talking to her friend on the other side of the living room, and you fall into relief at not having to cower through these people.

  Walking around the group, you finally make it to your friend who catches you out of the corner of her eye and immediately puts her hands on her hips. She waves her friend off, and upon seeing you, meets you halfway. “Where were you?!”

  “Playing pong. I’m sorry,” you flash an awkward, apologetic smile. “Drink?”

  “Uh, yeah. You said you’d get one for me, like, two hours ago!”

  You roll your eyes and laugh. “We have not been here that long, Kim.”

  She takes the drink from your hands and chugs a good amount, clearly wanting to rid herself of her current sobriety. “Who were you even playing pong with? I’m your forever pong partner.”

  “Jaemin.”

  “Jaemin?!” she yells, and your eyes go wide at the volume. “Him again? What, did he body slam you into the table by accident and offer a game of pong with him as his way of making it up to you?”

  You know she’s speaking nonsense out of shock, and why she’s shocked is a mystery to you, as there’s nothing to be shocked about. But you can’t suppress the laughter at both the image of Jaemin body slamming you into a folding table and her reaction. “No, Kim. We’re friends and he wanted to play pong.”

  “If you hadn’t gotten me a drink, I’d be mad at you for giving your first pong game of the night to him.”

  “Do you want to go play a round? Renjun and Jeno are expecting me back at some point tonight.”

  She throws her hands up in disbelief, her drink splashing over the side of the cup a bit. “Them, too? Y/N, you’ve basically infiltrated the basketball team.” You laugh again. She really is your comedic relief in this life without even trying. “But no, not now. Right now, I want to dance with my best friend.”

  Kim grabs your hand and pulls you into the crowd, already dancing before she settles you two into a spot. People aren’t really dancing, no one ever really does at parties of the sort, but that has never stopped Kim, and it’s never stopped you from standing right there with her, dancing as ridiculously as possible. You always questioned why people would come to parties, why they’d put so much effort into the playlist, only to stand there and not enjoy the music.

  You dance for what seems like hours–enough to count as a workout and definitely enough to sober you up faster than normal. But drunk or sober, you two enjoy the music all the same, and even if the song isn’t quite to your tastes, you turn to each other and find it in the other to dance through it together.

  You move and grind and shuffle until you’re sure your feet are wearing away. You’re definitely sweating, but you like to think of it as your skin glistening, glowing. When you and your friend lose yourself to the music, you lose sight of anyone but your friend, and the same goes for her. It’s just the two of you enjoying this moment, forgetting everything outside going on, good or bad. But you whip your head to the side and as opposed to continuing on, your eye catches on Jaemin in the dining area near the pong table, standing with a few boys from the basketball team. He’s looking at you, and though the smile on his face is almost completely indiscernible, his gaze is soft. It’s warm. It pulls you in, pins you down, captures your attention–and suddenly you’re not dancing anymore.

  “Hey, why’d you stop?!” Kim yells.

  You jerk your head to turn toward her and quickly snap out of the trance, standing completely still now. “I’m gonna go make another drink. Come with?”

  She nods enthusiastically, beaming the brightest smile, and you grab her hand and lead her to the kitchen. Thank god you’re leading the way, facing away from her. Otherwise, she’d point out the permanent, faint smile brushing your lips and pester you until you told her where it came from. It came from Jaemin, you think. Why it came from him is something you’re unsure of.

  “So what was that you said earlier about a pong game you’re expected to participate in?” Kim asks once in the kitchen.

  “Jaemin and I beat Renjun and Jeno, so they want a rematch. I don’t know if they’re still over there, though. Might have to wait until later.”

  She reaches for the tequila and two shot cups. “Alright. Well I want a formal introduction to your new best friend Jaemin, as well as a shot with you, since we haven’t taken one yet.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  As she pours the shots, you scan the dining room where Jaemin just stood moments prior, but he’s nowhere to be found now. He couldn’t have left yet. You only just walked into the kitchen to pour shots. There’s no way he gathered Renjun and Jeno and scurried out of the house in the five seconds it took you to walk from the living room to the kitchen without being stopped and blocked by people. You’re proven right as fingers tickle the small of your back. That seems to be a habit of his. “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” you smile up at him. Before you’re given a moment to think back on the sensations brought upon by him that you felt prior, Kim clears her throat. “Oh–Jaemin, this is Kim. Kim, this is Jaemin.”

  They exchange greetings and Jaemin is his usual charming, welcoming self. He doesn’t linger on the introduction, however, and Kim isn’t one for small talk–she simply wanted a proper greeting.

  Jaemin leans down toward your ear. “Renjun’s waiting for his rematch,” he relays. He has a deep, rough voice–one that carries in rich vibrations through your body to the tips of your fingers and toes. It is its own genre of intoxication; it makes you feel alive.

  “Well, then, let’s do this.” You nod to Kim, link your arms and quickly down the shots. You both shake away the burning sensation, giggling in unison at your reactions.

  Whether from the shot you just downed or from the energy he sends rushing through you, you suddenly reach for his hand as he did prior, only this time you intertwine your fingers to lead the way to the pong table. You don’t look to see his reaction, but his fingers locking into place and his hand squeezing yours is enough to let you know that this is alright.

· · ─────── · ·

  You can officially say that you and Jaemin are friends. He isn’t someone you know of that if you ran into him while out and about you’d simply say hi; he’s someone you go with when you’re going out and about, and you can’t pinpoint the moment your friendship made that jump, but it’s nice nonetheless.

  You text him more than you’ve texted anyone, for no particular reason other than that his conversation captivates you. Not that you speak about deep topics and theorize how to save the planet from further climate damage, but he engages in conversation and before you know it, it’s three in the morning. Not great for either of you, but neither of you makes an effort to put the phone down.

  It goes outside of the phone, as well. If you’re done with work or you’re out near the school, and you know he has practice, you’ll swing by afterward and surprise him.

  “I was out, figured I’d catch you before you left,” you say, “I come bearing goodies.” You wiggle the bag and he exaggerates shock.

  “All for me?!” he asks.

  “Hell no. But I did snag some candy for you,” you say as you reach into the bag, pulling out a box of Nerds.

 Jaemin takes the box and grins down at it. “So thoughtful,” he coos, throwing his arm around your shoulders and pulling you into him before starting toward the lobby doors. You wrap your arm around his waist almost mechanically, as if it’s something so natural for you to do with him. Entirely natural, not quite yet, but it’s definitely comfortable. “Thanks, Y/N.”

  “Of course. I expect to be compensated, though,” you say jokingly, holding out your free hand as you emerge from the lobby out into the winter night.

  He spares one glance at you before pulling you down, his free hand coming to your head to ruffle your hair, and laughter booms into the deserted parking lot. “Okay, okay!” you choke out, and he immediately eases up. You shake your head at his antics and look up at him, and what you see prevents any more teasing from taking place.

  His smile is so wide, so devoid of any stress practice may have dumped on him and stress the dawning game may be causing him. It transfers right to your lips, and you’re a bundle of happiness walking side-by-side with him.

  Unknown to you, Jaemin knows he’s head over heels, because with every little thing you do his heart only twists more, his skin flares, his lips curl. But this wasn’t the first moment of realization.

  He first saw the signs after a home game last week. It was the middle of the week against a subpar team, so attendance was fairly low–consisting of parents of guys on the team and girlfriends and boyfriends alike, or alumni who have nothing better to do than dwell on their college days. 

  But there in the middle row was you and your friend Kim, the one you danced with and had brought back to the pong table to play with them. You sit and watch the game attentively, and despite it being the total opposite of a monumental game, he finds it amazing how he can see the delight burn bright in your eyes all the way from the court.

  It’s when Jeno passes him the ball but overthrows just an inch, and Jaemin has to hurl his body to save the ball from going out of bounds. It’s saved and Jeno retrieves the ball, but it takes Jaemin a few hard steps to get his footing before turning and heading back onto the court. As he turns back to the court, though, he looks up at you and jokingly gestures for you to come down, followed by mimicking a pushing motion, clearly drawing your minds back to the game where he threw his body into you.

  You laugh. A hearty, full laugh that he can hear from his spot at the edge of the court, and it pulls his mouth into the widest smile, one traced with pride, though he isn’t quite sure where the pride came from. But that smile ignited something within him, something his teammates were able to point out before he even noticed.

  He had one of the top performances of his college basketball career that night, and to any passing eye, they would say it’s because he played against a poor team. To his teammates and friends, though, they know better. Especially Jeno.

  The buzzer rings and the defeated opponents gather their stuff off of their chairs and head into the locker room, while Jaemin’s teammates celebrate the easy win. Jeno approaches Jaemin after the excitement dies down, clutching a towel around his neck. “You better keep her around if she’s doing this to you,” he states bluntly, which catches Jaemin off guard. Before he can shut the statement down or question what he means by that, Jeno is jogging into the locker room, and Jaemin is left to ponder the comment. Is this really because of you or is it because it was an easy team?

   And suddenly, he remembered what he told himself during his sophomore year. He was just starting to get more playing time and his coaches began watching him more closely, and he was performing great. He had the promise of making the starting lineup and being a star that major league teams would have their eye on, but soon after getting into a relationship with his then-girlfriend, his game began to plummet and his focus ran rampant. The relationship was not a healthy one and was ultimately forced, with both of them crumbling under the pressures of college life and peer expectations. After the mutual breakup on the note of poor communication and a negative impact on both of them, he removed himself from the dating field, unofficially swearing all of his energy into the game and making it into the national league. Maybe it was rash for him to swear off dating so completely after one short, failed attempt, but his game has shown that it wasn’t for nothing.

  Jaemin’s mind delves into both possibilities behind his stellar game as he bags up his stuff in the locker room and heads back out into the gym, where he finds you standing alone near the lobby doors. At the sight of him, you wave and flash a bright smile. One that matches his excitement for the win, one that says you’re proud of him.

  That was the moment he knew that his performance wasn’t because he had it easy. It was because of you, and that was the moment he knew he was screwed.

· · ─────── · ·

  These days, encounters with your roommate are sparse with passing greetings and short-lived conversations to keep you going. Aside from that, you don’t know much of what’s going on in her life and vice versa. Despite living together, you two rarely see one another, as she spends a good amount of time at her sister's new place deeper in the city. So the fact that you’re both in for the night is both shocking and a blessing. You have time to catch up and spend some time together.

  The Bulls had a game tonight. You haven’t missed a home game yet this season and despite the fact that they played at home tonight, you still pulled out for tonight to both get some work done and catch up with your roommate. It doesn’t quite matter, though, as it’s almost guaranteed they win. With their perfect season so far, there’s no way they’d lose such a meaningless game as such.

   Well. You were sure they’d win until a text pings your phone.

    (9:26 PM) Jaemin:  We lost.

    (9:27 PM) You:  What?! How!!

  He responds by hitting the call button, his name and face filling your screen. You get up from your spot on the couch and enter the kitchen. “Jaemin?”

  He sighs. “We lost.” He sounds dejected, crushed. His voice is low but there’s no background noise. You assume he’s in his car.

  “I know, Jaem. You said that. Are you okay?”

  “I just can’t believe it,” he mumbles. You lean over the counter, digging your elbows into the surface.

  “I’m sorry. I wish I was there.”

  He exhales the breath of a chuckle; so faint you’re unsure if you made it up. It’s the “yeah” that he mumbles within the same breath that lets you know you heard correctly, and with that realization you’re unsure if he’s upset with you or just upset in general. Maybe he just wanted his friend there.

  “Are you heading home now?” you ask.

  “Yeah. Still at the school but I’m leaving in a few.”

  You look in the direction of where the living room is and where your roommate is bundled up on the couch as she watches the documentary you both chose. This is the first night in a while you two have had time to spend together–one that isn’t full of studying silently at the same table. It fills you with guilt how much your heart is leaning toward Jaemin tonight, but by the sounds of it, he’s pretty distraught over their first–and hopefully only–loss of the season.

  “Could I come over?”

  “Wha– Tonight?” he chokes out.

  “Yeah. Unless it’s too late.”

  He clears his throat. “No, it’s not too late. I should be home in five so just give me like twenty.”

  You smile. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”

  After your farewells, you pad back into the living room to rejoin your friend momentarily to give her the rundown. “So, I’ve gotta go for a little.”

  “Why? Is everything alright?” she asks, concern stitched in her features as she leans forward.

  “Everything’s fine! That was Jaemin–”

  “Oh,” she sings, “booty call, huh?”

  You shake your head in shock as your eyes shoot wide open. “I’m sorry?”

  She smiles, eyes squinted, and nods as if she knows all. “It’s alright, I totally understand. He’s hot.”

  “It is not like that. The Bulls lost their first game tonight, he’s a little upset.”

  “And he called you for comfort?”

  “Well, yeah. We’re friends. Wouldn’t you call your friend up if you were upset?”

  She nods some more, eyes squinted once again, but the smile has pressed tight into a line. “Yeah,” is all she manages to say.

  “Okay, well I’m gonna get changed then I’m gonna head out.”

  “Alright. Be safe,” she says with a wink as her smile makes a return. You dismiss the weird undertones of her words before heading to your room to change out of your pajamas and into something still comfortable, but a bit more presentable. 

  It takes a little under ten minutes to get to Jaemin’s place so you take your time before heading out. You rummage through your freezer for any ice cream to bring. Lucky for you he isn’t too picky or specific when it comes to flavors, so you grab the new tub of vanilla and stash it into a bag before checking in with your roommate and waving yourself off.

  By the time you get to his place it’s roughly ten at night, as you went ahead and gave him ten extra minutes after getting home. You stand at his front door, bag in hand, shivering in hopes at least one of them won’t keep you waiting there too long.

  Jaemin lives in a house near the school with Renjun and Jeno. Upon forming a friendship after making the team, the trio decided to rent a house together after junior year and have lived here since the start of the fall semester. You’ve never been here, so the nerves of entering a new environment are kicking in right about now, but you’re familiar and comfortable with these guys, so the nerves are almost entirely overshadowed.

  Renjun opens the door. “Hey, Y/N.”

  “Hey, Renjun. How are you doing?” You speak to them as if they lost their family pet, because you know for them, the pain is real and very much present. When you’re part of a stellar team that’s expected to win games–and has won every game so far–it takes a toll once you bomb that expectation. It feels disappointing.

  “Disappointed, but what’s done is done,” he shrugs, stepping aside to make room for you. It’s not funny. You know they’re upset, but the degree of dejection in their demeanor makes you want to laugh. You suppress the urges.

  “I know, I’m sorry. Where’s Jaemin?”

  He nods his head off in some direction behind him. “Kitchen.”

  “Hey, Y/N,” Jaemin says from behind Renjun. Saves you from the awkward search for the kitchen being that you don’t know where it is.

  “Hey, Jaem. You okay?” Softness coats your voice to a degree almost too much for you to handle. Can you handle another round of mushy consolation? Hopefully Jeno doesn’t walk in, round three is impossible. This is the extent of your sappy emotional support.

  “I’m fine, just bummed.”

  “I know, but I come bearing ice cream, so let’s not think about the loss and instead dig in.”

  The corner of Jaemin’s mouth curls and if he’s trying to suppress a smile, he’s failing miserably. Whether it’s the ice cream itself or the feature of bringing it as consolation, his mood does a quick 180 as he grabs the bag and heads for the kitchen. “Thanks, Y/N. Are you sticking around?” Renjun asks, guiding you two toward the kitchen.

  “Possibly, if you guys would like the company.”

  And they would. They insisted that you stay and hang out with them for a bit, which has led you here: the four of you lounging on their couch watching Transformers as it nears midnight. The ice cream is long gone as they devoured it immediately with motives of taking their mind off the loss with sugary goodness. Since arriving two hours ago, you did a good job at keeping their thoughts preoccupied. Until now, as their sadness has turned into confused debate.

  “I just can’t pinpoint the moment they got the one-up on us,” Jeno states.

  “We started with a near ten-point lead, it should’ve stayed that way,” Renjun chimes.

  Jaemin sits closest to you, legs crossed and perched on the coffee table with his arms folded in front of him as he watches Jeno and Renjun discuss the moment they slipped up. “I don’t know, but why a sophomore would feel comfortable enough to make such a critical shot as two guys are on him makes no sense to me. None. Nada,” Jeno says as his eyes are on the screen, but you’re sure the only thing his mind is seeing is the mental replay of said moment where their younger teammate took an impossible shot instead of passing the ball. You know sports, but this is a sore subject, so you let the boys talk it out and figure it out themselves.

  “Yeah, he screwed up, but obviously there were other issues present if we had a double-digit lead then lost it,” Jaemin pipes up. 

  “Not to be a douche here, dude, but this was your worst game this season,” Jeno comments, and you clutch your pillow tighter, both because you’re unsure if an argument is about to ensue over that comment, and because you simply figured Jaemin wasn’t part of the problem. It’s a rash assumption to make–no one’s perfect. But not once did you consider performance, so the thought of Jaemin struggling has you curious and a bit saddened.

  Jaemin flashes a brief look over at you, and in the seconds his eyes linger on you, there’s a glimmer in his eye that doesn’t shine positively. His eyebrows are knit with sadness, mouth in the faintest frown, before he looks back to the screen and his face flushes of any emotion. “I know,” is all he responds with. He doesn’t rebut, he doesn’t put up a fight. He simply agrees. But the look he gave you makes you curious. It almost makes you sad, because you can read enough into it. There’s a reason Jaemin didn’t perform well tonight–a reason he isn’t verbalizing. 

  “Jeno, you were no star, yourself,” Renjun throws without caution. If Jeno’s comment didn’t start an argument, you were sure that one would. Time to step in.

  “Why don’t you guys take some time at practice tomorrow to discuss the issues rather than bicker about it? I’m sure there were problems both offensively and defensively on everyone's part, and not just three people. Games are a team effort,” you chime in, to which all three boys look at you attentively. You know you’re right, it’s just a matter of how these boys will take the advice. 

  Jaemin smiles suddenly, a stark contrast to the sadness tainting his features mere moments ago. His smile is so beautiful, you don’t dare pry into what upset him and scratch the memory from your mind.

  Jeno and Renjun giggle in sync with one another, and you shoot a confused look their way. “What’s funny?!”

  “Nothing. It’s just the fact that you’re completely right is making me laugh, for some reason,” Renjun says.

  “And the fact that you totally just had an inspirational Optimus Prime moment,” Jeno contributes.

 Renjun eyes him with a smirk at his analogy before continuing. “But the point stands. You’re right–winning is a team effort as much as losing is a team loss. I wasn’t great myself tonight, either.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Jeno mumbles, to which Renjun slaps his arm. 

  You laugh, then look at Jaemin, who still wears the same content smile. It’s amazing how significantly his mood has changed from that initial look your way to now. His face is void of any gloom, to the point you question if you even saw it, in the first place. 

  But being able to lighten the spirits of these guys in one shot makes you feel content yourself. You understand how disheartening it must have been to lose for the first time this season, and even though it’s only one loss, it opens the door for more. 

  “You have to be there for the next game, though, Y/N. In case we need more words of encouragement,” Jeno says.

  “I’ll be there.” And you will. Despite whatever schoolwork you have to do, you always manage to make time for the games. Tonight was under different circumstances for your roommate, though you ended up ditching her, anyway.

  Jeno and Renjun turn their attention back to the movie, but Jaemin’s eyes linger on the space between you two. “You’ll really be there next time?” Jaemin whispers, eyes lifting to meet yours.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good. I missed you tonight.”

  The way that admission pulls at your heartstrings should send alarm bells ringing in your head, but in some odd turn of events, it stills you into the moment; into his presence. It propels your gaze onto his lap and you take in how much space is really between you, making you suddenly crave to inch closer and cuddle up to him. For comfort purposes.

· · ─────── · ·

  If Jaemin is to be honest, it’s a bit embarrassing attending a party after a fresh loss. He knows fellow athletes will ask him what went wrong, why they slipped up, and what it means for the rest of the season. Jaemin doesn’t want to think about any of that, however. Despite the initial embarrassment, Jaemin came here to take his mind off of the loss. That, and he was hoping he’d run into you again. Maybe Kim had pulled you along to yet another party.

  Since the loss and finding solace in your company the night of, Jaemin’s prior notions about his stellar performance during the one home game have been confirmed by his poor performance during the game you didn’t attend. When he looked into the stands and didn’t see you, his stomach twisted, his eyebrows furrowed, and he found himself searching for a bit longer than he’d like to admit. He even let his eyes linger in the away teams fan section. He thought maybe seats were limited, but he knew that wasn’t the case. You simply weren’t there, and that was unheard of.

  Your words of inspiration for the boys as you all sat on their couch stuck with all three of them, but even as positively as they resonated with Jaemin, he still found himself distraught by how deep this must be for you to affect his game because you weren’t there. When he came to that realization, his brain almost exploded.

  Renjun offered to drive the three of them to this party tonight, stating that he can have fun without alcohol. Jaemin felt bad, but he needs a drink badly, even if he’s not crazy about alcohol. Tonight he just needs to scratch his indifference, go for it, despite the two-drink limit. Just means he has to make them strong.

  Jaemin doesn’t need to let loose because of the current control you have over his heart. That doesn’t scare him, it doesn’t make him upset, nor does it make him feel any negative way. It’s the loss that’s putting a damper on his mood. You’d think to lighten the blow he’d get right in the gym and start working on what went wrong during the game, which in almost all cases, is what he’d do. He isn’t sure why, but tonight he just wants to hang out with his friends and relax.

  His eyes scan over the plethora of liquor bottles, gears spinning in his brain as he thinks of what drink he should make himself.

  “What are you thinking? Vodka sprite?” you ask beside him. He turns, startled, but eases upon seeing you.

  “Ah, you’re here,” he says, throwing his arm around your shoulders as you slip your arm around his waist. Comfort, he thinks. Happy. 

  “In the flesh. But seriously, what are you thinking? Because I’ll take whatever you’re having.”

  His eyes continue to scan and his thoughts ponder over the slew of quick and easy drinks he can make. “I don’t know, I can’t seem to make up my mind. Did you have an idea?”

  You bring your free hand to your chin, pretend to think hard. “Rum and… do they have cherry coke?”

  “Yeah, over there. That’s good?”

  “Oh, Jaemin, prepare yourself for a new addiction.” 

  You slip out of his hold for a moment to grab the contents and make the drinks for you both. Jaemin watches you longingly as you prepare your drinks, like a child who has lost their balloon into the blue sky. It’s amazing how much he craves your physical touch; how much he wants to sling his arm around you and never let you leave his side. Yeah, a party is a great way to let loose, but your presence is the best comfort.

  “Here,” you turn around, both drinks in hand as you hold one out for him. “Try it.” While you both lean against the counter, you gaze at him expectantly with bright, sparkling eyes, and boy does his heart melt at the sight.

  “Alright,” he chuckles before taking a sip, and you’re right. It’s his new addiction. Seems he has two, now. 

  Jaemin has no idea where Renjun and Jeno went off to, or if they’re even still together. He hung back in the kitchen too long for them to stay with him, but he doesn’t mind. It left him here to be found by you. “Where’s Kim?” he asks.

  “Somewhere. She had to make her rounds first,” you say, taking a glance around before returning your attention to Jaemin. “How are you feeling?”

  Jaemin exhaled a stale laugh. “You know, it’s funny. I’ve been dreading getting asked that since I got here, but having you ask me that makes me feel a bit nice.”

  “Yeah? How so?” 

  “It doesn’t feel like you’re asking indirectly. Like, you’re asking how I’m feeling but what you actually mean is why I played terribly. It doesn’t feel like that,” he shakes his head. “It’s like you’re asking because you genuinely want to know how I’m feeling,” he says, gaze falling into the cup.

  “Well, because I do want to know, Jaem.”

  He smiles, eyes never lifting, because he doesn’t have to read your facial expression to know that you’re being honest. He can hear it in your tone, and he knows you’d never feign concern.

  “I feel okay now. Relaxed.” And he does. He came here with his two best friends, he has a drink in his hand, and now he’s here, in the kitchen with you. 

  Before anything else can be said, a guy approaches Jaemin. Normally, he’s open to people coming up to him and talking game. He likes getting technical, and he likes when people ask about the season, because usually, all he has to say are great things. 

  Tonight, he doesn’t want anyone to come up to him and talk about the season, nor does he want anyone to interrupt your conversation, either. Yet people seem to love doing that, especially when he’s with you.

  “Yo, Jaemin,” the guy says as he extends his hand out for Jaemin to take. They bro-shake, and Jaemin doesn’t say a word. “Sorry about the loss last night, man. But jeez, what happened out there?”

  And there it is. Distaste creeps over Jaemin’s tongue as he concocts an answer. He never gets angry, never steps out of line, and surely never starts arguments. That isn’t going to start now, but if Jaemin had his way, he’d simply walk away with you in tow without even entertaining the guy's annoying question. But that’s not the kind of guy he is.

  “We just slipped up,” Jaemin says dryly. He can feel his body jittering, yearning to get out of the kitchen.

  “I guess you did. It’s crazy, you guys never just slip up.”

  Jaemin’s eyes squint for the quickest second. He’s well aware that they never just slip up, just as much as he’s aware that he has a hardworking team who puts their all into every game and practice. He doesn’t need this guy who has no relation to basketball to tell him.

  As if you could read his mind, Jaemin feels your arm snake around his waist once again, squeeze his side once, before speaking up. “They’re well aware of what went wrong and have since tackled the issues–just watch the next game,” you say to the guy, then turn your head to look at Jaemin as he habitually throws his arm securely around your shoulders. “Let’s go find Kim, she’s probably lost by now.”

  Jaemin doesn’t need a savior. He’s level-headed, calm, and can approach almost any situation life hands him with ease. But having you swoop in and pull him away from this guy–who you probably don’t know and Jaemin surely doesn’t know the name of–has relieved him beyond measure. He feels himself sigh, unknowingly holding in a breath. “Sounds good.” He waves the guy off, and you two head out of the kitchen.

  “Thank you,” Jaemin says upon exit, tightening his hold around you just a bit more.

  “Don’t mention it. I know you don’t want to linger on the loss unless it’s productively at practice, so I made myself useful and saved your ass. No big deal,” you shrug, to which Jaemin rolls his eyes. His eye roll is a sham, though. He knows he’d have been dragging himself through that conversation if you hadn’t been by his side and stepped in. He never expected it of you, but he’s thankful for you being his rock without you even knowing.

· · ─────── · ·

  Studying is your best frenemy in college. It’s your helping hand, your guiding light. Though sometimes, no matter how many times you read over your notes and quiz yourself on a topic, you just can’t seem to understand. 

  Like tonight, you and Jaemin have been hard at work studying since the moment he arrived after his practice ended, tackling every course you guys are in. Starting with your partly shared art history course, you’ve since moved on from art history to your other courses that need attention as well. Maybe the inability to retain information is due to not having Jaemin to bounce topics and concepts off of, maybe it’s having to sit there and focus while Jaemin writes little notes on ripped pieces of paper and passes them to you, then feigns ignorance when you question him. Notes reading oh hey, fancy seeing you here :-) or what is math? how does one math, and the final one reading so hungry it’s impairing my vision. can’t read.

  “Jaem?” you call from your bed to the boy sitting at your desk, head in hands.

  “Yeah?” He turns in the chair to face you.

  “Let’s go make dinner. We’ve been at this long enough, I think.”

  He bolts out of the chair with alarming speed, reaching over the bed to grab your hand and pulls you off to trail behind him, leading the way into your kitchen. You’re fascinated by how comfortable he already is at your place; it makes you feel comfortable yourself. It surges warmth through your skin as well as the warmth from his sweatshirt he threw at you earlier, telling you to wear it because he could tell you were cold. You were–cold, that is–but you have a plethora of sweatshirts and sweaters of your own to choose from. Something about not wanting to get up, or something about the idea of wearing his sweatshirt; the guy flying up your list of favorite people. It’d save a trip to your closet and you know how good Jaemin smells, so you threw it on without a fuss.

  He takes a look around the kitchen, familiarizing himself with the layout, and you lean against the counter as you watch. “So what’s for dinner, chef?”

  He turns to you. “Ah, see, you joke–but you’ve never had my cooking.”

  You tuck your hands into the sleeves of your–his–sleeves and cross your arms. “So you’re telling me you cook? And your food is good?”

 “Maybe.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Raid my kitchen for whatever you need.”

  He glances around one last time in thought, hand stroking his chin. “Do you have ramen?”

  “I’m sorry–ramen?” you repeat, now unsure if he was serious about the good cooking bit. You push off the counter and open the cupboard behind you, pulling out the bag of ramen packets. He smiles, and now you’re sure he was teasing you about his fine cuisine skills.

  To your surprise, as he boils the water in a pot you handed him, he searches your refrigerator for contents to add. “The trick to a good bowl of ramen is how you execute it,” he says into the cold products lining the shelves.

  “Yes, chef.”

  He turns to shoot you an annoyed glare, to which you laugh, and he continues pulling items out. “You don’t have everything I use, but I can make do.”

  Jaemin lines everything on the counter just as the water begins to boil. He grabs the noodles and places them in carefully so as not to splash, but snags the flavor packets too. He explains that you put the noodles and the seasoning into the water together so that the noodles absorb the flavor rather than float bland within the flavored water. It’s a smart tip, and if the assortment of additions on the counter didn’t tell you he was serious about being a good cook, that tip was.

  He proceeds to crack a few eggs into the water, which is a new trick you hadn’t tried. He plays around with them in the pot, dispersing the yolk into the water and cooking the egg white through. Once he deems it finished, he takes the pot over to the sink and drains most of the water, leaving only a bit at the bottom.

  “Here’s where my secret flavor comes in,” he turns to you and winks.

  You watch him grab the milk carton and pour it into the noodles, careful so as not to add too much. His eye is focused on the noodles. He knows the right color the broth is supposed to turn. It’s the same focus you see on the court, the same focus you saw during the pong game. You’re beginning to realize you love it when his determination comes to the surface. When a flame sparks in his eyes, and you can pinpoint the exact moment it takes over and drives him forward.

  Jaemin grabs a spoon, sets it into the pot to fill with the milky broth and brings it to your lips. You blow on it warily, then bring your mouth around the spoon and taste. He’s watching you–you can feel that fire in his eyes burning into you. It’s intimate, and despite how warm and tasty his cooking has proven to be, you can’t help but get caught up in the proximity once again. You can’t help but get caught up in the fact that he just cooked a meticulously simple meal–and the fact that you want him to cook you meals like this for the rest of your life. It makes your stomach twist and flutter. Your eyes meet his and he can tell right away that you like it. You smile at the warm contents, he grins at your reaction.

  He separates the noodles into two bowls and adds equal amounts of milky broth to the contents, then grabs the bag of shredded cheese to top it off. He sprinkles carefully, just as he had poured the milk, and he speaks up. You almost miss it over your intrigue in him completing this fairly easy dish. “You can’t add too much cheese, otherwise it will completely dominate the noodles and the flavor.”

  Once he has added the cheese, he reaches for the scallions. You had no idea they were even in your fridge–probably your roommates.

  It’s as he reaches for the vegetable that it hits you: the line between a new friend and a potential love interest is blurring. How such a regular motion has opened the Pandora's box of emotions, you don’t know–but it flows rapidly and suddenly every look, every comment, every notion in your friendship is tinged with romantic undertones. It’s such a fresh realization you don’t have time to consider whether this thought; this feeling is reciprocated. All you can do is stand there, blindsided as you watch him complete your dinner, and relish this new feeling. However, you’re not given another second to think on this warmth in the pit of your tummy as he speaks again.

 “You can add this as a garnish, but you don’t have to–why are you smiling like that?”

  You bring your fingers to your lips, feeling the sneaky smile that had crept onto your lips. “What? No, nothing–just… I don’t need scallions on mine, it looks great as it is.” You shove your hands back into the sleeves, momentarily embarrassed. For the first time, you’re feeling embarrassed in front of Jaemin, and it’s all because of him.

  He smiles warmly as his hand that holds the green vegetable drops to the counter. “If you say so.”

  Rather than cutting some up and garnishing his dish, he grabs the milk and heads to the fridge, stuffing the items away. His back is nice–wide plane, firm with soft tinges, inviting. You want to smush your face into it. And when he turns, the light casts over it, showcasing the hills and valleys from his neck down to his as–

  “Y/N, what?” he chuckles, though genuinely a bit concerned this time.

  You shake your head. “What?”

  “These faces you keep making. You’re licking your lips now.”

  Licking your lips? Alright. Reel it in. “Just excited to eat. Come on, let’s go back.”

  To say you have a lot to think about is an understatement, and to say your progress in studying came to an abrupt halt after realizing your feelings is not an exaggeration. You sit back at your spot on your bed, he returns to his spot at your desk, and you eat over conversation about what you’re both working on and Jaemin’s upcoming games.

· · ─────── · ·

  Saturday mornings are slow and easy. They begin by waking up and easing into the morning light, shuffling out of bed and into the kitchen with tired greetings if your roommate is around, making a mug of coffee, and enjoying said coffee at the island in a moment of peace and quiet before getting ready.

  This Saturday morning, however, is more or less the opposite.

  Rain is never the issue. Especially on lazy days like Saturdays, you quite love the rain. It’s an added excuse to stay inside and cuddle up, maybe make a movie marathon out of the day or take the time to spend with your roommate if she’s around. 

  Lately she’s been spending every other weekend over at her sister’s, this weekend included, which means that today is one of those days. You have the place to yourself. The morning is not smooth sailing, however, as you wake with a raging migraine. Migraines aren’t new, but the slew of thoughts pressing in your pounding brain–aiding in the pressure–are.

  You like Jaemin. It may not be a new development, but it’s definitely a new recognition. Being that the realization only took place the night prior, as well as finding yourself stuffed in the house with no company and no reason to leave, you quickly decide to take the day to mull over these new feelings you find yourself with. 

  Your main issue is that up until last night, you loved the way your dynamic was progressing and establishing with Jaemin. You love that your first encounter was as ridiculous as it was, and you love that his persistence in his apology is what kept you tied. He’s a guy you like to pick apart; someone that isn’t just surface-level. 

  Having feelings is not a bad thing. Having feelings for Jaemin isn’t what’s bad about this. Hell, even as you think about it, you’re not exactly sure what is bad about it and why exactly you need to take time to yourself to understand what you’re feeling and why you’re feeling it.

  You’re not desperately in love. If he doesn’t feel the same, it won’t feel too great, but it won’t crush your heart and send you spiraling–you’ll be able to get over it and stick to your friendship. You’re not afraid of ruining this friendship if he does feel the same, because if he does happen to, then you’d be open to testing the waters.

  It’s being blindsided by these feelings, because up until this point, Jaemin has been a great friend and a joy to learn about. It’s being confused by these feelings because you didn’t realize they were planted in your belly, let alone have bloomed into something romantic.

  So you realize as you lie down on the couch, after much deliberation throughout the morning that carried well into the afternoon, that your issue isn’t really an issue. It’s the simple fact that you have feelings for Jaemin, and you need to both accept them and tell him about them.

  And it’s as if he could read your mind, as the ping of your phone shoots through your raging migraine and into your fists clutching your blanket around you. Your eyes press shut.

  You attempt to will the pounding in your head to stop for a quick moment, brief enough for you to at least grab your phone and respond.

    (1:54 PM) Jaemin:  For some reason, coach is nicer on rainy days. Out of practice early

  Attached to his message is a selfie of him in his car, hood over his head, smiling warmly as he holds up a thumbs up. His hair is messy with some pieces pushed back, other pieces fallen back against his forehead. The sight alone sends butterflies fluttering uncontrollably in your belly. Handsome.

    (1:57 PM) You:  Hell yeah. My head hurts

  Attached to your message is a selfie of you, blanket around your head, laid back against the base of the couch, frowning as you hold a thumbs down.

  He doesn’t answer, and you’re sure you just missed him, as he probably started his drive home after sending that quick text. That’s one of the things you love about this new friendship with him: random, but heavily appreciated texts throughout the day. Not the random texts that one sends to try and keep a conversation going by changing the subject, but the random texts that one sends to let the other know they’re thinking of them. The random texts rooted in one's subconscious. 

  You set your phone on the coffee table and snuggle deeper into your blanket, closing your eyes once more to focus on ridding your head of this endless pounding. The sound of the rain against your roof and your window is a good distraction as you focus on the pattering, with the occasional sound of a car driving through puddles. 

  You didn’t lay on the couch bundled in a comfy blanket and close your eyes with the intention of falling asleep, but you should have known that regardless of intentions, that’s where it would lead. Before you even realize or get to have even a semblance of a dream, you’ve both fallen asleep and have been awoken.

  Three raps at your front door startle you awake, and you sit in short-lived shock as you didn’t realize you’d fallen asleep, but also that you weren’t expecting company. If it were your roommate, she obviously wouldn’t have to knock.

  You check the time on your phone: 2:24 PM. Pushing yourself off of the couch and shuffling toward the window, you peek out to see who’s there before simply opening the door for a stranger. To your relief, you don’t see the culprit, but you see his car parked right behind yours.

  Upon opening the door, you’re met with the sight of Jaemin dressed in his practice wear–his sweatshirt hood soaked and hanging heavily over his head, his shoulders darkened by the rain and crunched up. He has a plastic bag in his hand and a sheepish smile on his face; the dorkiest, most adorable smile.

  “I come bearing goodies,” he says. You’re beginning to realize he likes to mimic your phrases and has a damn good memory.

  “Oh my God? Jaem, get in here, it’s freezing!” You usher him in, and after you close the door behind him, you rush to the bathroom to grab a towel. The speed at which you move is not helping your migraine in any way, but the impulse to get him dry has momentarily overtaken your brain. Therefore, conquering the brain-pain has been moved to the backburner. “Here, take that off,” you motion to his sweatshirt as you return with a towel in your hands. He raises an eyebrow, grinning like the little devil you’ve learned he can be. You wave him off and he giggles.

  You take his sweatshirt and move to throw it over the barstool in the kitchen, and he follows. His t-shirt is pretty wet too against his shoulders, but it’d be too much to ask him to take that off as well. He’d tease and taunt to no extent. You love when he teases, but in your current messed up mental state, you don’t have the wherewithal to handle it.

  With the towel in hand, you throw it around his shoulder and grab the other end with your other hand, wrapping it around him. Your eyes watch your hands and the towel, making sure it’s covering the points that need warmth and drying, but his eyes bore into yours, studying your concentrated face as your hands pull the towel and rub over the fabric.

  When you look back at his face, that’s when you notice his gaze. It’s the same warm gaze he held back at the party when you noticed him while dancing. The soft eyes, his lips with the shadow of a smile on them. His face rested calmly as he watched with content. The same could be said now, but this time, his face is mere inches from yours. It doesn’t help that he makes no attempt at saving face by looking away. He’s owning it.

  Your breath catches in your throat as you realize. His eyes scan over you and his hand comes up to your hand caught gripping the edge of the towel over his chest. His fingers trace over your knuckles, the back of your hand, before grabbing hold and squeezing. “Your hand is so cold,” he mutters.

  The way his words send shivers through you feels almost ridiculous; the same way you felt ridiculous thinking about him during your ride home that first night. His thumb caresses your hand, and how his hand feels warm is lost as his body is freezing from the winter rain.

  Jaemin is so close, his eyes never averting, and you feel pinned. Your migraine remains on the backburner: still present, still pounding, but not debilitating. You don’t want to move. Part of you wants to stay there, inches apart, holding a towel around him while his hand holds yours. Part of you wants to cut the distance, slowly, and see how he reacts. Would he pull away? Would he meet you halfway?

  It’s something you’d like to find out, but then the reminder of your intentions comes crashing in. You told yourself earlier that you’d tell him about your feelings for him. So much for that confidence.

  You clear your throat, the mere action sending a thunderous wave through your head, and you take a hesitant step back. He sniffles, letting your hand go and running his hand through his hair. Moment lost. “I, uh–I brought soup. And medicine. I wasn’t sure if you had a cold or what, so I just grabbed a few different things.”

  If the moment you just pulled away from wasn’t enough to drive you crazy, that was. Yeah, you like him, and no, there’s nothing wrong with that. What’s driving you crazy is the sudden switch in actions. The possible underlying meaning, the questions, the curiosity in what’s going on inside his head. 

  The gesture of Jaemin bringing you something is not something to read into. You’ve done it for him, he’s done it for you, and they’re never grand gifts. Just “this made me think of you” gifts. But with your dawning feelings for him, it all becomes too much for you to process in one evening.

  “Oh, it’s just a migraine. Got anything for that?”

  “I do, actually”–he pulls out a little box, shakes it once–“for migraines.”

  You smile, reaching forward to take the box from him. “Great. Awesome.” Great, awesome. You’re acting weird. “Well, I’m gonna make the soup and probably take a nap.” 

  He rocks back to his heels, awkwardness evidently striking. “Alright. Do you want me to stick around? Make the soup for you?”

  “No,” you answer a bit too abruptly. His lips press to a line, his feet flatten to the ground. “I’m sorry. No, it’s okay. I’m just going to take a nap as soon as I finish the soup anyway.” 

  He nods. “Okay, then I’ll head out. Leave you to your soup and your nap.” So much talk of soup, when this is very much not about soup. “Text or call me if you need me, Y/N. Seriously,” he says, unwrapping the towel from his shoulders and reaching for his sweatshirt. “With as much as you help me, I’d like to help you too.”

  “I will be fine, Jaem. It’s just a migraine. Get ‘em all the time.”

  He looks at you for a brief moment after shimmying his sweatshirt on, his hood falling back in place over his head. He looks so comfy despite his sweatshirt not fully dried. So warm and so inviting like a new blanket, freshly washed and straight from the dryer. If only there wasn’t a battle taking place in your head–you against, well… yourself–you’d invite him to stay. Put a movie on. Share a blanket thrown over your legs, maybe let your head fall onto his shoulder. Maybe he’d throw his arm around your shoulders, rest his head atop yours.

  “You’re sure you don’t want me to stay?”

  And then you realize you’re giving him the same longing gaze that’s painted upon his face, and you know he doesn’t want to leave, and you know you don’t want him to leave.

  “I’m sure. It’s okay, really.”

  He sighs, lips pressed into a line. “Okay.” 

  “Alright.” 

  After a good moment of no movement being made on either of your ends, Jaemin sends a smile your way, you smile back, and he steps toward the door. As he opens the front door, the sound of the rain roars in, and it hasn’t let up. Oh, how you’d love to pull him back in from that wretched weather, let him stay with you for the night or at least until it calms.

  “Please text me when you get home,” you call to him.

  “Absolutely.” 

· · ─────── · ·

  This is the longest you’ve gone so far without talking to Jaemin, and to say it’s felt empty would be a severe understatement. You went from talking every day, seeing each other every other day, to realizing you like him as more than simply a friend, to not talking to him in too short a time period for you to get a grapple on.

  It’s been a few days, and it’s not that it’s awkward, but you don’t know how to begin or carry on a conversation without the bothersome nudge of your feelings and their desire to be known. So, therefore, you haven’t texted him out of the blue the way you would have. But then again, he hasn’t texted you either. The last text being his confirmation that he made it home safely.

  With this time apart from him, however, you’ve had plenty of time to think about your feelings for him and understand what they mean and what you have to do. You like him, that’s a fact, and there’s no changing that fact. You need to tell him out of the moral obligation of being honest with him. Part of you wants to tell him out of curiosity, though, as there are moments where he does or says things and you’re left pondering what it means for him. But the point stands that you haven’t spoken for days, and you can’t find it in you to simply start up a conversation with “hey, I like you.”

  It’s a Thursday night, and though it is a weekday and these games usually lack a fan section, the gym is packed with your school's students and rival students alike. Tonight, your school plays their biggest basketball rivals, and the hatred that runs deep is interchangeable within the players and students. To put it simply, you hate this rival school, and they very much hate you guys.

  The rivalry goes back too deep in history for current students to really grasp what it was that made you rivals, in the first place. Over time, the rivalry over the game turned into blind hatred, and in turn, birthed violent play tactics and penalties all around.

  This game is the most attended regular-season game every year, so despite whatever awkwardness has been left untouched between you and Jaemin, there was no way you were sitting this one out. Fortunately, as always, you have your best friend by your side.

  The first three quarters of the game went by fairly leveled with the lead juggled between the two. That's usually how this game goes. Yes, they’re rivals through history, but they’re also rivals through talent. It’s a huge ego boost for whichever team that comes out of this game on top, and a detrimental downer for whoever comes up short.

  Tensions are high, players are shoved, getting in each other's faces any moment they see fit, requiring the refs to step in and ease the hostility before ejections are thrown.

  It’s near the end of the third quarter, and even with the lead going back and forth, your team is playing great both offensively and defensively. It’s clear their heads are in the game and they know what they need to do. Jaemin and Renjun are especially playing great, as they currently lead the team in points, Jaemin in rebounds.

  The bulls are currently on defense, the opposing players tossing the ball between one another, working to create an open shot. But there’s a moment between a pass where Jaemin can slip his hand between the two, and he takes possession of the ball and books it down the court. His skill is impressive, and in all honesty, gets you hot. Focus, Y/N.

  Jaemin isn’t going for a simple layup, that’d be too easy. And in all honesty, he’d be stupid not to dunk on his rival's team in front of their fans. Embarrass them a little. It’s not typical of him to go to the net for a shot being the designated outside shooter, but in cases as such, he can switch it up. There’s no one in his way as he runs to the net, only one defender following him. To anyone watching, sports fan or not, this is pure beauty. Pure basketball.

  He jumps, ball in both hands, and sinks it in. His hands grip the rim and he hangs for a fleeting second, basking in the crowd’s cheer. They go so crazy for him that by the sounds of it, you’d think he was already in the league. But what he doesn’t see, the rest of you quickly do. A play that began as clean, beautiful basketball is quickly turned into a dirty play as the defender jumps under Jaemin, arms tucked to his sides and he throws his body shoulder-first into him as he hangs from the rim, knocking him sideways on his fall from the rim. Before his hands even leave the rim, before his body hits the court, the crowd knows it will be bad. Hands shoot to the sides of peoples heads simultaneously in shock and gasps take the place of cheers.

  As Jaemin’s hands slip from the rim, unable to grip tight enough to keep himself from falling. His body turns mid-air in an attempt to catch himself, but it all happens too fast for him to avoid damage and lands on his left knee.

  The crowd could see what was coming before Jaemin could prepare himself, but the sound of his knee hitting the hardwood is a sound that sends everyone, rival or fan, cringing in horror. It’s a sound so loud that without a second to think or look, you know it’s bad.

  The sound replays in your head over and over again as you watch him curl his body in agony and clutch his leg, pain stitched into his features. Renjun rushes to his side while the rest of his teammates confront the defender and his teammates, and Renjun is too focused on Jaemin to stop anything from ensuing. It’s pure chaos on the court, none of which is helping Jaemin, and all you want to do is run from the stands and help Renjun get him out of here.

  Luckily his coach runs onto the court and the bench players tend to the arguments and work to diffuse the situation, while Renjun and their coach help Jaemin to the locker room with the medical trainers right behind them.

  With Jaemin safely removed from the disorder in the gym, the refs and bench players sort out the fighting players as derogatory remarks are thrown back and forth without mercy. The volume lightens, the ref blows his whistle, and as you’d hoped and everyone expected, a flagrant 2 foul is called against the defender, resulting in his rightful ejection from the game. Their coach can’t even argue the ref on his decision, as he himself yells relentlessly at his player for such a nasty move. The defender acted in malice with intentions to harm. He knows his player is in the wrong.

  After the court is cleared of players and tensions have seemingly calmed, the game resumes after Renjun and their coach run back out to continue, but Jaemin isn’t with them. You don’t expect him to return, nor do you want him to even if his knee is physically alright. Any risk to further cause damage would send your stress through the roof, and you don’t want a season-ending injury on Jaemin’s plate if it can be avoided.

  You find yourself debating whether you want to stay for the rest of the game. It isn’t that you come to these games just to see Jaemin. You’ve been coming to these games long before he was even a starter. But now you know Jaemin. You’re friends with him. With the addition of your friendship, his presence brings an extra element of enjoyment. But without Jaemin, with the unknowing of whether he’s okay or not, you can’t watch the game unfolding in front of you, even if it is the rival game.

  Not even a minute goes by at the beginning of the fourth quarter before you decide you don’t want to be there anymore.

  You place your hand on your friend's thigh. “I’m gonna head out.”

  “What?! It’s the fourth quarter of the rival game!”

  “I know, but honestly, I’m not really interested anymore.”

  She looks at you all-knowingly, understands that it’s not only that you’re not interested in the game, but that you’re worried sick over Jaemin and you can’t think of anything but him. “Okay. I’ll let you know how it ends.”

  You smile and hug her before getting up and exiting the gym, pausing in the lobby. You pull out your phone. 

    (8:52 PM) You:  I know you probably don’t want to talk right now, but I just want to know that you’re okay.

  Part of you doesn’t want to read a response yet if he provides one. You don’t expect one, though. That part of you is scared for him; scared that he’s just had his dream yanked from him by a careless fool. Getting a serious injury during your senior year is probably at the top of the list of things no college basketball player wants.

  You make it all the way home without getting a response, and the worry over the outcome of his injury is soon replaced by the worry of how bad it is with every minute he doesn’t answer you. You know that if it’s as bad as it sounded, he wouldn’t want to talk to anyone. That would be a big change for him–a significantly damaging one. You can’t blame him for needing some space.

  Your friend texts you that fortunately, they’ve won the game yet the fighting isn’t over. That’s to be expected, as there are always words spoken after the game from the bitter side. Still, no text from Jaemin, and your heart is racing with concern and fret.

  A bit later in the kitchen, heavy pacing occurs for longer than you’d like to admit as you try to decide what to do to distract yourself from the potential significance of his injury and the horrifying sound until three knocks at your front door pull your attention. You know it’s him.

  You open the door to find him dressed as he was that first night: black hoodie thrown on, uniform shorts, unchanged from the game. “Hey,” he mumbles, smiling shyly.

  At the sight of no crutches, no visible aid helping him stand–just a simple knee brace, tears pool at the bottom of your lids. For whatever reason, Jaemin standing in your doorway after the night that just took place sends your emotions into a frenzy, and you feel the first tear fall.

  “Y/N, hey, it’s okay,” he assures, limping forward with his arms outstretched. He wraps you up in a tight hug, only eliciting deeper emotions to spill. You move to grip the bits of sweatshirt hanging at his waist, allowing your relief to unfurl in the moment. You’re not even sure what the injury has amounted to, but it’s clearly nothing requiring surgery or any crutch of sorts. Just a brace, and that’s good enough for you.

  As you cry into his chest, you learn just how invested you’ve become in not only his game and his dream, but him and his safety; his health. After the toll his potential injury took on you and your ability to focus, you realize just how deep you’re in this; just how much you like him.

  “I was really worried, Jaem. That scared me.”

  “I know, Y/N. It scared me too, but look–I’m okay.” He brings his hands to your shoulders and pulls away to show you the soft smile tugging his full lips, his eyes sparkling with consolation, his brows resting calmly. He’s breathing. He’s standing on his own. That’s enough to put your worried mind at ease.

  You frown at the sight in front of you: the guy who plays his heart out, whose strength carries him and pushes him through uphill battles. The guy who you’ve grown to know and like, the guy you want by your side for as long as time will allow, and under twisted circumstances, is the one comforting you. You frown not because you’re sad or because he has upset you, but because you’ve become so fond of him.

  And with your frown and unspoken urges, you propel your body forth and plant your lips on his, kissing away your own worry. You don’t give yourself a moment to tell him how you’ve been feeling first–you simply succumb to the moment's overhang of emotions, the care you want to shower him with, and the reassurance he wants to provide you. You allow yourself the feeling, the vulnerability on either end.

  After the transient shock of your sudden action, he kisses you back. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t expecting it. Not that you knew for a fact he felt the same, but a tiny part of your brain caught on to his behavioral nuances that indicated he felt at least something. 

  Your lips remain still in a chaste kiss until his hands on your shoulders slide up to your neck and he kisses you again. This time a bit deeper, and your grip on his sweatshirt tightens in tandem with the movement of his lips. You’re pulling the fabric and his body along with it to press into you, the feeling of him so greatly desired.

  You’re both still in the doorway, and the cold winter wind blows against your faces, sending shivers through you, urging you inside. You step back, pulling him with you and he follows compliantly; eagerly. However, too much eagerness in his steps brings to light his very evident limp, and you pull away. He may be physically okay, but his injury is still fresh.

  In contradiction to your initial plan of being upfront with him, you find yourself searching for something to redirect yourself from the overwhelm his lips have caused. “How about we watch a movie?” you offer coolly, mentally working hard to calm down. You need a moment before talking about what had just transpired. “You can rest your leg on my lap.”

  “I’d like that, but I’ll rest my leg on the coffee table instead. I want to cuddle.” Melts. Jaemin throws his arm around your shoulders, and the weight he puts on you makes your heart ache at the idea of him needing to use you as a crutch to simply get to the couch.

  “Jaem, you’re not playing for a while, right?”

  “I’ll probably sit out next game, but physically I’m healthy, so I should be good to go by the game after next.” You pause, looking up at him with fear tinting your eyes. You can even feel now, as you’re standing in the middle of the living room, that his weight is primarily on his right leg and he’s leaning significantly against you. “Y/N, seriously. It was just a faulty landing. The x-rays came back fine and there’s no muscle damage. I’m okay. You don’t have to worry.”

  That’s the thing. You are worrying, and it’s more than simply worrying about your friend. It’s worrying because you want so badly for Jaemin to achieve his goal and live out his dreams, worrying that the boy who means so much to you almost had that stripped and it could very well happen again. You decide against bringing that up, however, as you want to take both of your minds off of the incident. “Okay. Just please be careful.”

  His arm pulls you in and he plants a comforting kiss on your head. “Of course.” At that moment, in that kiss, you understand just how scared he was. Just how much it wasn’t anything to take lightly, and your heart longs to comfort him, but you refrain.

  Approaching the couch, you place your hand on Jaemin’s back and his stomach to help him sit, and as expected, he rolls his eyes in a silent swear that he doesn’t need help. Too bad.

  You grab a pillow from the end of the couch and place it under his foot. “How does that feel?”

  “Good. Now get over here,” he says as his hand reaches for yours and pulls you down onto the couch beside him. He wraps his arm around you and pulls you snug into his side before you can even reach for the remote. For a moment, it’s just you and Jaemin wrapped up on the couch, sitting in silence. His cheek rubs against your head and you allow yourself the pleasure of snuggling closer into him. 

· · ─────── · ·

  “I told myself I wouldn’t date until I made it into the league,” Jaemin states suddenly. You look away from the tv screen and peer up at him in question, prompting him to continue. “I had a girlfriend during sophomore year. We were in the same circle, saw each other all the time. We got along but you know, when it comes to relationships, simply getting along isn’t going to cut it. I’m not even sure why or how we dated–we just did, and it was terrible for both of us. A pointless waste of time, honestly.”

  You’re unsure where this is coming from, but in the way he speaks, you know there’s meaning beneath his words, so you want him to say whatever it is he needs to say to get to his point. “Why?”

  He drops his head to look at you briefly, then back at the tv screen. “Well, at the time, I wasn’t a starter, but the coaching staff was starting to watch me, and they liked what they saw. Upon learning that, I began to devote more and more of my time to hone in on my skill and building on it. Obviously, that took away from my time for a relationship. I knew at that point in my life and my basketball career that I couldn’t juggle both basketball and a relationship, especially with someone I wasn’t all for. I really felt bad because she was a nice girl. She deserved someone who had time for her, and I was never going to be that, so we mutually called it quits.”

  It’s not a jaw-dropping story, but it is shocking. Not that you knew much of anything about Jaemin’s love-life prior to your lives intersecting, but you had assumed he was a relationship guy, whether casual or serious. He’s the heartthrob. Of course he would get attention, and you had just assumed he would entertain at least a pinch of that attention. Learning that he never actually did, though, comes as a shock. But as much as it’s shocking, a bit of it hurts, and the painful bit, you’re about to pry into. “And then what?”

  He exhales a chuckle. “Then I sort of unofficially swore off dating. Just took myself out of that game and inserted myself fully into the real game, and here I am.”

  Your eyes are glued to the tv, movie playing on but none of it registering. You wonder why he waited until now to tell you this, but it’s not like you ever conversed about past relationships. You had a couple of your own, but you didn’t swear off dating because they didn’t work out.

  At his confession, you don’t know what to say. Is he telling you this because of your kiss earlier? Did he kiss you back out of pity? Is this whole night out of pity? His version of letting you down easy? The deeper down the rabbit hole your mind falls, the colder his hold feels around you. “And here you are. Now what?” you ask, traces of ice in your tone. You’ve already set yourself up for a letdown.

  “Now I don’t know what to do, because I find myself a bit crazy about you.”

  If this moment were part of a movie, the camera would cut to your face in your sharp glance up at him and a record scratch would sound. Crazy about you. Out of all possibilities your mind concocted, that was not one of them, and you mentally smack yourself in the head at how quickly your thoughts turned doubtful. Scratch that, not even turned doubtful, but began that way. “What?” is all you can manage to say.

  “My biggest worry that arose from that relationship was the fact that as soon as we started dating, my game took a hit. My mind wasn’t there, I was stressing over how bad it was turning out to be, and overall my coaches began to doubt their initial interest in me. That scared the shit out of me; that I’d already lost my shot at proving my talent,” he begins. “Since then, I never entertained the idea of dating again until after a game a couple of weeks back. You might not remember it, it was a weekday game and the school wasn’t much competition. You were there, though, with your friend Kim.”

  There’s a shadow of a smile hinting at his lips, and out of unforeseen confidence, you reach for his hand and intertwine your fingers. “That game was one of my best performances, and at first, I chalked the reason up to poor opponents. That is until Jeno came up to me after the game. He looked up at you in the stands and said ‘you better keep your girl around if she’s doing this to you.’ I remember it word-for-word because on one hand I was caught off guard by him calling you my girl. On the other, I was caught off guard at him claiming my performance was thanks to you. Then I left the locker room to find you waiting for me in the gym, and after that, I didn’t need more than five seconds to think about it–I knew he was right, and I knew my dating plan was screwed.”

  In an unexpected turn of events, the confession of feelings has transferred from your responsibility to Jaemin’s sudden emotional spill. His hand squeezed yours as he spoke, indicating his nerves while telling you all of this, but for some reason, you were just as nervous. You would have been nervous either way, you presumed, but now you’re on the receiving end when you had anticipated being on the giving end, which brings you back to your question, though you have an idea–a positive one this time–what is he getting at?

  “Jaem?” you call softly, and he glances down at you. He smiles, his eyebrows stitched nervously.

  “I’m rambling, I know.”

  “I don’t mind. I like hearing you talk–and I like what you’re saying.”

  He exhales a deep sigh, releasing all of his tensions as if he’d been holding his breath since the first word of this conversation. “I really like you, and though this time it feels different from my last relationship, it still scares me.” He speaks vulnerably, but his body feels easier against you; feels warmer. “I’m in a different place than I was in my last relationship. I got the starting spot, it’s secure, and I’m no longer fighting to prove that I’m good enough: they all know. What scares me is that I won’t be able to give you all that you deserve. But I’m speaking out of turn, I haven’t even given you a second to talk.”

  You’re sure you look like an idiot at how wide your smile is–maybe even the Joker. He is so oblivious to how far you’ve already fallen, so exposed in this light that’s different from how he usually is. “Do you want to know why I was so scared tonight?” you ask, and his brows knit together, eyes darting back and forth between your own. “I was so scared because the moment your knee hit the court and sounded through the gym, I thought your dream had just been taken from you. I thought that was the end of your season, and my heart broke at the idea of you not getting to skate your way into the championship game and land yourself a spot in the league.”

  His lips turn into a faint frown, similar to the one you wore earlier. “I had already known about my feelings for you. I already knew I liked you, but until tonight, I didn’t realize how invested I was in you and in your game–in your success. A relationship goes both ways, and as much as I deserve proper investment, you also deserve understanding. You deserve just as much, Jaemin, and I want to be the one to help you realize that.”

  Though his features are those of sadness, you know they come from a place of shock and fondness. His eyes fall to your lips, he pulls you in by his arm wrapped around your shoulders, and kisses you–a deep, tender kiss, relaying all of his admiration and appreciation for all that you are and everything you’re saying.

  His kiss is passionate, his hand releasing yours and moving up to your face, fingers sliding back into your hair, and there is no aspect of this kiss that’s lazy. He kisses you with devotion, you kiss him with reassurance.

  You hadn’t realized how much this would mean to him nor how deep it goes for him if the feelings were reciprocal. Now that they are, now that he has to face this concept he once dismissed, he has the optimal partner to do so with, and he knows that. He’s grateful for that.

  Grabbing hold of his sweatshirt, you fall back a bit, his body following suit, lips never leaving your own. Before you can lay your back against the cushion, Jaemin pulls away, sucks in through his teeth out of pain. “Shit, I’m sorry,” you say.

  “It’s okay. Worth it.”

  You grin, but you don’t want to further make him uncomfortable or hurt his knee, so you place a quick kiss before pushing you both back upright. “That can wait until you’re fully mobile.”

  “Bummer,” he sighs, to which you nudge his chest.

  You settle back into your spot on the couch, snuggled together closer than ever. He’s so warm, so whole, you wonder how or why the stars aligned for your paths to cross that night. If he never ran off the court to save the ball, he’d have never crashed into you, and your days since wouldn’t have been full of him.

  “Y/N?”

  “Hm?”

  “Can I sleep over?”

  “Yeah, sure. Something up?”

  He nestles his head atop yours. “Just don’t want to leave you yet. I’m really loving this night, even more than the first one.”

  As are you, and the fact that you took no part in initiating a confession still is not registering. You came into these new feelings more or less prepared to face them and tell him, regardless of how he felt in return. To not only have him feel the same way about you as you do him, but come clean first, is definitely a turn of events, but the fact that it’s out there on both of your ends is a major weight lifted.

· · ─────── · ·

  February is nearing its end, and after tonight’s win, the Bulls have secured their spot in the tournament with a near-perfect season so far consisting of only two losses. The second loss happened two games after their first loss, but the boys weren’t too distraught by it, as they knew you’d treat them to ice cream again. There are two more games left in the regular season, and even though the schools don’t rank, there still is no room to think of them as an easy opponent, because when your brain begins to harbor that mindset, that’s when they’ll pull the rug out from under you.

  Jaemin finds you leaning against the end of the stands when he exits the locker room. The gym emptied about ten minutes ago with a handful of players and parents hanging around. When his eyes find you he perks, and despite knowing you’d be there as you always are, it’s under different circumstances this time. Though, regardless of your relationship status, you never fail to excite him.

  “You look good in my sweatshirt,” he comments. His hands reach for your waist, pulling you flush into his front. It’s almost alarming how naturally your bodies meld together. How comfortable it is.

  “You look good in that uniform”–you throw your arms over his shoulders, securing your proximity–“but I bet you look better out of it.”

  His eyes go wide, eyebrows raised, and you giggle. “Oh yeah?” he taunts. “Your place or mine?”

  “My place. Roommate isn’t home.” You let your arms fall from his shoulders, hands falling into place entwined with his. “You did amazing tonight, Jaem.”

  His eyes fall shut, a smile creeps onto his lips and his head falls forward, appearing bashful at your praise. Jaemin receives compliments on his game all the time from coaches, students, friends, and the like. He’s used to it at this point, and though he hates being glamorized, he knows he’s good. 

  He has never doubted his skillset and his talents. He’s known he was good since he first picked up a basketball and made his first layup, and since has worked his ass off to prove that. In the end, it led him here: starting on a number one seed team with a secure spot in the playoff tournament.

  It’s when you compliment him, signaling that you’re watching him that close to even be able to point out his performance–and it isn’t a blind compliment–that makes him suddenly shy.

  He’s had people all throughout his college career that he wanted to please. Coaches, scouts, teammates. There are people he’s desired approval from and has worked hard to get it, feeling success in reception. But with your praise, he feels vulnerable, because it isn’t a figure of authority telling him he has crystallized his skill to the highest degree of perfection. It’s someone he genuinely cares about. It’s you, who passes the critique of his skill and heads straight for his passion and his drive, complimenting the fire in his heart and understanding that he isn’t just madly good at this game: he loves this game, and when you of all people recognize that, that is the confirmation he never knew he needed. That’s when he feels as if he’s finally made it.

  Jaemin follows you back to your place in his own car, lugs his bag as he gets out, and meets you at the door. “Can I take a quick shower?”

  You set your keys on the side table upon entering your place. “Please do, you smell,” you tease. He does a little bit, but it’s understandable.

  He drops his gym bag at the side table, sending you a curious look. “Oh, I do?” After a second of silence passes and your anticipation settles, Jaemin charges at you, engulfing you in a bear hug, crushing your face into his chest. “I smell, huh?”

  “Jaemin!” you yell into his chest, and he only holds you tighter.

  Jaemin lets out the heartiest laugh, one void of any stress or exhaustion, and it sends your heart beating at a million beats per minute. He gets your heart racing just by doing the simplest things.

  “Alright, I’m gonna hit the shower,” he pulls away in laughter, and you find yourself missing his smelly self, but you reluctantly wave him off as you head to your bedroom to change.

  Fifteen-some minutes pass before he’s finished with his shower and you’re changed into sweatpants, but you leave his sweatshirt on, loving both its comfort and the fact that it’s Jaemin’s. You linger in your bedroom, scrolling through your phone and responding to Kim, who’s currently on a late night date with a boy from her history class.

  Jaemin comes into your room in an old pair of black basketball shorts and a black t-shirt, his wet hair a mess on his head, unbrushed. How he isn’t cold, you’re not sure, but he looks damn good in such basic, minimal clothing that you won't verbally disapprove. “What, like what you see?”

  Once again, he has caught you staring. This time, you don’t cover it with a lie. “Yeah, I do.”

  He laughs before approaching you, and with his proximity closing in, you set your phone aside, devoting your attention all to him. As he stands in front of you, he leans down, not wasting another moment before placing his lips on yours, kissing you the way he’s wanted to all night. 

  As your relationship is still new, you’re still playing around and testing things out. You’ve only gotten a brief taste of his playful side in situations suggesting more, but for the most part, it’s meaningful. His lips relay words of adoration, sensations of fondness, promises of genuine intentions.

  And that isn’t different now, as he crawls over your body inching back further onto your bed. Once he’s settled and stable with his body and arms caging you in, he dips his tongue into your mouth, cautious but full of intent–melting into the taste of you.

  There is meaning traced in every movement he makes. With every kiss, his subconscious speaks affirmations. One kiss, “I’m scared, but I’m happy it’s you.” Another kiss, “I’m in this completely.”

  His hand pressed into the mattress comes to the hem of your–his–sweatshirt, tracing up your side until his hand’s atop your ribs, fingers splayed over the skin. His grip is delicate and warm in its place. Jaemin pulls away for a moment, eyes boring into yours. His breathing is heavy but he looks content. “I want this to be special.”

  He takes you by mild surprise with his comment, and you’re leaning for him to continue, to which he does. “I want you to understand that I’m taking this seriously. Taking you seriously.”

  You smile at his honest words, and within them and this moment–if you didn’t know before–you know now just how much this means to him. But his interjection still has you a bit puzzled. “I know you are, Jaem. But it’s not my first time.”

  His face screws up for an instant before he cracks, a grin shining through. “And it’s not mine, but that’s not what I mean. What I mean is that it’s different; this.” His eyes fall to your lips, his grin turns nervous, his lips pressed together. “You’re really fuckin’ special to me, Y/N.”

  You bring your hand up to his face, thumb caressing his cheek before pushing your fingers back into his hair. “And you’re special to me–this is special to me. Don’t ever think you’re in this alone, Jaemin. I’m right here with you.”

  And you are. Body and mind, you’re side-by-side, navigating the newness of this together. You know his preconceptions of relationships have changed drastically in a fairly short period of time, and you know it’s going to take time for him to get used to that. You’ve been out of the dating game for a while as well, so this is fresh in all aspects for both of you.

  With not another word spoken, he dips his head, brings his lips to yours, and the fire is revived. He grinds his pelvis into you in a shallow thrust, just enough to feel his growing erection through his shorts. 

  You reach to grab the hem of his t-shirt, lazily lifting in a poor attempt to rid his body of it. He quickly comes to the rescue, yanking the shirt off. As a give-and-take situation, his fingers move to trace over the hem of your sweatpants, hesitant to hook over the fabric as he traces his fingers over the band. You nod a quick nod, letting him know this is okay, and he begins to pull slowly, taking his time in removing the item before throwing it to where his shirt went. He attempts to return to your lips, but your hand to his chest halts him from proceeding. Your hand drags to his shoulder and you push him down onto the bed, replacing his spot on top.

  Jaemin’s hands come to rest at your panties adorning your hips as you straddle him, working yourself out of his big sweatshirt and the tank top underneath, tossing both onto your pile. He revels in this new side of you: naked, exposed for him. This may be deeper and more emotional for him than he could’ve ever anticipated, but he’s still equally sexually driven. He still craves the feeling of your body and is eager to learn all of the things that make you feel good. You turned him on even with your clothes still on, so your almost-completely-naked self is doing a number on him.

  “You’re beautiful,” he hums. “I never told you that, but I’ve always thought so.”

  There’s something about the dynamic between you and Jaemin. It’s full of vulnerability, and where it comes from, you’re unsure. But compliments are never taken lightly and never given loosely. Just as your attention to Jaemin’s game makes him shy, his compliments on your appearance make you shy.

  It’s different from if you and Kim were getting ready to go out, and she passes a comment that you look pretty. When Kim compliments you, you take it with a wink and move on. When Jaemin compliments you, it’s as if he’s looking deeper than your appearance, telling you your soul–your heart is beautiful. Telling you that you, in all of your glory–in every way, shape, and form–are beautiful. It strikes deeper than any compliment from anyone else ever could.

  As if he senses the effect his words have on you, he runs his hands up your sides, fingers ghosting at your ribs, and pulls himself to sit upright, meeting you face-to-face. “Really, truly beautiful,” he whispers. His gaze is comforting, reassuring, and he plants a single lasting kiss before pushing you back onto the bed and returning to your initial position.

  “How is your knee feeling?” you ask out of the blue.

  Jaemin halts his movements, shock gracing his features. He searches your face to figure out if you’re serious or if that was out of nerves, and upon realizing you’re serious, he drops his head into your neck and laughs. His breath tickles the skin and elicits a giggle from you, but you really want to know if his knee is still bothering him or if it’s actually getting better–and yes, you want to know right now.

  “It’s fine. What are you, my personal trainer?” he jokes, still knocked sideways by the sudden question.

  You hit his arm. “No, I’m your girlfriend, and I care.”

  He stops himself from further teasing and peers into your eyes. “My girlfriend,” he repeats, voice thick with sentiment. If someone were to tell him at the beginning of the season that he’d find his person in the middle of his most important year, or that someone would change his mind about dating before he’d even made it to the playoffs, he’d laugh in their face.

  But here you are, laid beneath him, peering up at him in anticipation. He doesn’t deem you a body to conquer, but a soul to worship. He’s eager to regard your body with reverence, keen on learning your every hill and valley. 

  Jaemin pulls a condom out of his shorts before sliding them off. You slip your panties off, and for a moment, it’s as if you’re back to being friends. You both pause, momentarily unbelieving of how you’re here; how you’ve landed on such intimacy with such an unsuspecting partner. You giggle, he grins, and it’s then you realize this is real. It’s really happening, and it’s happening with your friend, Jaemin. Your boyfriend.

  You wrap your arms around his neck, hands splayed loosely over the expanse of his upper back, and he rolls the condom on before resting at your core. He takes a second for you both to get your bearings before pushing himself into you. You gasp, eyes falling shut.

  He pushes himself to the hilt and stops there, his hand coming to brush your hair. “You okay?”

  “Yes.” And you are. His size is nice, and isn't overwhelming. It’s comfortable. Pleasurable. Perfect for you.

  Jaemin leans to kiss your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, before he pulls out and pushes back in slowly. His beginning thrusts are slow and purposeful. It’s nothing extravagant, but it’s intimate. It’s everything, because it’s him, and because it’s you.

  He leans on his elbow beside you, and your hands once hung lazily over his upper back are now scratching, clawing, gripping at nothing out of pure bliss. Jaemin works in and out of you in his quest to take you both to euphoria, quickening his pace more and more as your mingled breaths become labored.

  Your hand drags over his shoulder and finds purchase at his pec, your other arm tight around his upper body, keeping him close to you. You pull him so close to you that his gold necklace–that same one you noticed from the party, the one that sexily peaked out of his hoodie collar, drew your attention to his neck–drags against your neck, your chest. It’s cool against your skin, sending chills through you in conjunction with the chills his body sends pulsing through you. His eyebrows are knit together in concentration and in such a strained moment, you find peace in his presence. As your moans fuse and disperse into your bedroom, you find yourself content in the security of his company and his heart. Neither of you saw it at the start, but this is your life now–this is your relationship, and it is damn exciting.

  When Jaemin’s hand at your waist tightens, pushes your frame into the bed, you know he’s close. Your hand tight around his body moves up the nape of his neck, combs into his hair, and you grip, bringing his face closer to yours.

  You kiss him tenderly, lazily. Intentions of uniformity that are lost to blind passion. You drag your lips to his cheek, then to his ear, nipping at his lobe, and he hisses.

  Your relationship is full of playful give-and-take. As you’re learning tonight, that doesn’t come up short in intimate situations. In response to your frisky attention to his earlobe, his hand releases your side and reaches down, ghosting over your stomach, landing at your clit.

  The first sensation of his fingers' attention to the sensitive spot sends your mouth agape, your head pressing back into your pillow, and he exhales a devilish chuckle. The union of his thrusts and his fingers working at your clit has you nearly screaming from the pleasure. 

  As he grunts your name and you moan his, you fall victim to the overwhelm of sensations and crumble under his embrace, body euphoric and mind blown at how sex can feel so good without any aiding factors or foreplay of any sort.

  After a handful of hasty thrusts, Jaemin follows and falls to your side. His arms pull you in without a moment misspent, his sweaty body that somehow still smells of body wash pressed snug into you.

  It’s quiet in your room, the only sound emanating being your heavy breathing until his words cut through the thick atmosphere. “I know it’s early days, but I know I could love you. I know I will.”

  The tone in which he speaks, the volume, makes you think he was possibly talking to himself or talking aimlessly. But in those words, Jaemin’s confidence pours out like a faucet. His assuredness in you and your relationship is cemented in spoken words, whether he meant for you to hear or not, and your heart races in elation.

  You lean over him, pushing his body back into the ruffled sheets and place your hand on his chest, a kiss to his cheek, and trace your finger over his skin. “Thirsty?” 

  “Ridiculously parched.” 

  “Come on,” you lean up, throw your legs off the bed, and move to grab your–Jaemin’s–sweatshirt, throwing the garment on followed by your panties.

  Jaemin slips his shorts on and disregards his shirt as he catches up to you at the door. Before you can slip out of the room, however, he reaches for your hand, pulls you back and presses you into the edge of the doorway. The feeling reminds you of that first night on the court. Jaemin’s sweaty body pressing into you, only this time, he’s not sweaty because of the work he put in on the court. He’s sweaty because of the work he put in on you. 

  He dips his head and kisses the cliff of your shoulder, works his way up until he gets to your earlobe, and nips at it. “I liked that, by the way,” he hums, carrying roughly into your ear. “Sexy.”

· · ─────── · ·

  Jaemin rests his body against the island opposite from where you sit on top of the counter. He takes a sip from his glass, and in his unsuspecting demeanor, you study his post-sex self. Ruffled hair, messier than it is after he gets out of practice. His beautiful hands that in moments prior worked eagerly–sinfully–to aid in your orgasm. You stop yourself from thinking any further, or else round two will ensue right here in this kitchen before you’ve rehydrated. After rehydration, though, that’s a different story.

  “I was serious earlier, Jaem,” you say, hands gripping the counter cutting into the backs of your knees. “How is your knee?”

  He grins, a giggle bubbling in his throat before he understands your concern. “It’s okay. Really. Sore sometimes, but physically it’s okay.”

  You eye the purple and yellow, visible with the length of his gym shorts. It looks a lot better than it did the morning after–that sight made you worry. The pain was so bad that you had to help him out of bed. Thankfully he isn't so stubborn as to swat your assistance away and actually embraces it and is thankful for it. That morning you were sure that maybe the trainers and doctors missed something, or maybe they dismissed it a bit too quickly, just so that he could be cleared to play. Even the sight of it now sends shivers through you. You’re sure it still hurts a great deal, more than he’s letting on, but you know him and you know he won’t baby it. “Okay. But if it continues to hurt, please don’t keep quiet about it.”

  He laughs. “You should’ve studied to be a medical trainer instead of journalism. Interned with our trainers,” he jokes, pushing himself off of the counter and starts in the direction toward you, landing between your thighs.

  “Oh yeah? Then you’d be unstoppable. I can picture the headlines now: National League star Jaemin Na’s girlfriend doubles as his medical trainer,” you say, animated hands stretching wide in front of you. “You’d never have a poorly managed injury because I’d be on your ass about it.” His eyes go wide, eyebrows raised as he nods, and you continue. “But no, no medical profession for me.”

  “That’s right. Instead of being my trainer, you’ll be reporting on my games–showing off your smarts and deeper knowledge of the game,” his hands placed on either side of you at the counter come up to your hips, running up and down your thighs. “That’s hot.”

  It’s a fun thought. Jaemin in the league, you doing your dream job, and the two coexisting in one arena. Fun, definitely–but unlike Jaemin, you’re still unsure if that’s the route you want to take upon graduation, and being that your time in college is coming to an end in a few months, anxiety fills your nerves at the thought of being thrown into the world before you’ve even landed on the career that has you written all over it. Jaemin is right–you do have what it takes to report on games. Maybe even being a writer behind the scenes, but that’s where your anxiety forms: in the various fields under your journalism major.

  However, as Jaemin’s comforting hands tickle the skin of your thighs, you dip your toe into this fantastical world of yours. “And when you win your games, I’d be right there in the gym, waiting to congratulate you and ask you post-game questions.”

  “What would you ask me?”

  “I’d start off by complimenting your game. Then, I’d ask: Jaemin, what was going through your mind in the middle of the fourth quarter when you’d lost the lead?”

  “Starting with the hard-hitting questions, nice. What else?” He peers into your eyes with curiosity, always keen on getting into your head, learning more.

  “I’d ask you: how do you feel out your opponent’s next move so successfully?”

  “Getting into the technical part of the game and complimenting my skill. Love it. And?”

  “Finally, I’d ask: do you wanna get out of here?”

  Jaemin throws his head back in a sudden, wholesome laugh. “And I’d respond with hell yeah.”

  The thought makes you giggle. It’s fun to dream and paint a pretty picture of what your future could be. It’s romantic, even, to share this daydream. But it still gets you nervous. It’s nerve-wracking, the idea of pursuing a career only to learn too late in the game that it’s not making you as happy as you once thought it would. 

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see what happens with that,” you utter, dismissing the pretend scenario you both concocted.

  “Well, that’s something I know you can do, Y/N. You’d shine doing that job. If it’s a matter of doubting yourself, then I’m here to tell you that there’s no reason for you to,” he brings a hand up to your cheek, caresses your cheek in tender swipes. “And I’ll tell you that everyday until we’re standing on that court together after a game, me in a uniform and you with a microphone.”

  Up until this point, you’d been working your butt off toward finishing the semester and at the end, obtaining your degree. It felt as if you never had time to sit down and figure out what you really wanted. When you chose journalism as your major, that was the only factor you were certain of. From there, the focus was on passing your classes and getting your degree. Not once did you take a moment to plan life after college. You’d toyed with a few ideas and a few fields, the sports industry one of the more attractive areas, but never did you give yourself the time to select a single field and dive into it.

  It wasn’t that you doubted yourself succeeding in whatever field you did choose. You know how to report on matters. You know the key points to hit, the questions to ask, and the answers people are looking for. You’d be able to conform to any field and subject you decide to enter. It’s a matter of achieving happiness as well as stability. 

  So sitting here with Jaemin, who’s telling you you’re fully capable of accomplishing a successful career in the sports side of the world of journalism, telling you that you’d shine, is a nice push into doing research regarding the steps you’d have to take. It isn’t the driving force, as you’d had this on your mind since entering college. You have loved sports since you could remember. But having his support is a reassurance you didn’t realize you craved.

  “All of this coming from the guy who’s about to play in the college championship tournament. Who here needs the pep talk?” you taunt, easing back out of the deep, contemplative turn your thoughts have taken.

  Jaemin’s aura washes over in confidence. “You support me, I support you. We’re in this together.”

  “Together,” you hum in agreement, pulling him in for a long, sweet kiss.

  Together is a nice word. Together is a nice concept. Together is what you guys are, and the word rolls off your tongue with ease and confidence.

  As his hands squeeze the sides of your thighs, his lips move against yours with words of love relayed, you pull away to look in his eyes, relay your exact emotions in this moment. Your eyes that teeter between his tell him I will love you too. Because if you don’t already, you know you will soon. You’re certain of it–you’re certain of him.

· · ─────── · ·

Taglist:  @yixing-jaehyun @jakeshuneybby @koalakookie @nctsworld @milkyway-vxm @rynshyuckies @rbf-aceu @ahgastayzen @greentealatte97 @jkjkseo @dreyiesstuff (couldn't tag) @stealercore @dojun00

#nct-writers #nct #nct dream #jaemin #nct fluff #nct smut #nct scenarios #nct imagines #jaemin fluff #jaemin smut #nct 00 line #jaemin x reader #nct fanfic #jaemin fanfic #na jaemin

[bokuroskitten]

Just some Kuroo thrists cause he takes up every spot in my brain literally 24/7

These are both sfw + nsfw

𝔰𝔣𝔴

Kuroo hears you talking about that new anime your really into and will binge it all in one night

Even though his sleep is so important to him, he wants to be able to talk to you about your current favourite thing

If he finds merch for it he’ll get it for you, even if it’s not your fav character

“Hey kitty, saw this my hero academia T-shirt in the window of hot topic, do you like it? Try it on for me bubs!”

If there are kids playing volleyball at the park he’ll play with them.

Especially if the volleyball rolls over to the blanket where the two of you are having a picnic.

Kuroo will be like 👀👀 and of course you tell him to go

And the moment he gets one spike in the kids are LIVING

“Show me how to do that mister?!” “You’re so tall how did you get this big?!” “I wanna hit the ball hard too!”

And he teaches them, just like the good captain he is. And you watch with a big, goofy grin.

THE TYPE TO KEEP HIS HAND ON YOUR LOWER BACK OR HOLD ONE OF YOUR FINGERS IN A CROWD SO YOU DONT GET LOOOSSTTT 😫

also if you pull your debit card out around him to pay for literally anything he will not hesitate to literally throw it away.

“Oh no babe your cards over there you should go get it—“

Always packs you a water bottle because he knows you can be bad at staying hydrated.

IF YOU HAVE YOUR NAILS PAINTED HE WILL PAINT HIS MIDDLE AND RING FINGER TO MATCHHHHH😫😫

𝔫𝔰𝔣𝔴

Okay the nail painting carries over here BECAUSE

Of course he uses those two fingers to sink into you when your feeling very needy

And when he pulls them all the way out, seeing his fingers covered in your slick he smirks.

“Yea kitten, this colour does look really good on you.”

If your wearing his jersey it’s came over.

Especially when the two of you are older and he’s exhausted from work, tugging at his tie. But when he sees you, thighs smooth and his old jersey the only thing hiding your naked form he cannot hold back.

MAKES YOU WEAR THE MF COLLAR IN PUBLIC, YOU HEARD ME

You have a couple, of course (what I can say he likes to spoil the hell outta you) But he likes when you wear the thin leather black on out in public

It had a sliver plaque on the side, his initials engraved on it.

The best is when you come bring him coffee at work and your wearing it.

He will lift you onto his desk and strip you down until nothing but the collar is left.

“My pretty little kitty, gotta make sure everyone knows your mine, isn’t that right?”

He will keep your panties after that in his pocket for the rest of the day

And he does sniff them from time to time, sure it’s pervy but your scent is just too addicting.

Despite popular belief he LOVES when you send him naughty pictures while he’s at work.

He’ll pull his phone from his slacks and have to hold back laughter when he sees your skirt pulled off, showing off your slick folds. Or a nice mirror shot of your pretty tits.

It only makes him that much more excited to wreck you when he gets home <3

This man doesn’t give a FUCK and will come to work with the hickies on his neck showing

Because “my baby left these, aren’t they pretty😌”

#kuroo tetsuro #haikyuu #haikyuu!! #haikyuu smut #haikyuu headcanons #hq headcanons #hq kuroo #kuroo fluff #kuroo smut #kuroo x you #kuroo x reader #kuroo supremacy #kuroo over everything tbh

[sirensmojo]

"An Art Signed By Shelby" Hubby! Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warnings: Big Fluff.

{gif credits to @cillianparadise from this post}

Summary: Tommy being so obsessed with you he keeps staring at you while you work.

A/N: I wasn't truly present on Tumblr as I am moving out and all... But I'm still working on my next multi-chapter fic about the arrange marriage tho!

*Masterlist*

*Arrow House*

Tommy was never the type to trust people, whether it was professionally or personally, he was restless. He wanted to have a hand on everything and everyone, but not because he was power thirsty, no. It was because he thought he was the only one who could bring everything to the people he cared for, his family.

Deep down, you always knew this part of himself was just that, a part of him and that somewhere else there was a Tommy that wanted someone to take care of him the way he took care of everything and everyone.

It may look like he was distant and absent-minded, always lost in thoughts and that he only cared deeply for his own comfort over anything else, but it didn’t take you long to see clear in his shenanigans.

“I can take it from here, you have a meeting with Arthur and the women tomorrow, you need to sleep.” You let out, already focus on the tones of papers surrounding the desk.

You would never let him do all the paperwork alone. Of course he didn’t want you to go on the field, he didn’t want you to be in any sort of danger, he just couldn’t lose you, and you understood that, but paperwork was safe, and his mind was so clouded at times that he could barely sleep if he was up too late at night.

That’s why you would take over when it was only papers, you could manage some papers for your dear husband. He didn’t need other wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, and you wanted to preserve him as much as you could.

You were sitting behind the huge desk of his office, while Tommy was seated right in front of you, in one of the two armchairs facing the desk with a cigarette hanging at the edge of his fingers.

His eyes staring at each of your movements, from the way you grabbed the pen to the way you were writing and signing documents. He wouldn’t miss that scene for anything in the world.

Tom will never admit it, but having you entering his space was maybe the best idea ever. You were brilliant, with numbers and with strategies. You could even see through people’s bullshit which helped him from time to time from getting fucked up.

There was a time when he wouldn’t even let you go to the betting shop by yourself, afraid you might be approached by some men wanting to hurt him through you, but with time, Tommy learned to trust you.

As hard as it was for him to accept it, you could manage a lot of harsh and desperate situations with a disconcerting serenity. And he somehow knew he might be overthinking even more than usual when it was about you.

He at first thought you were too naive to see and sense danger, but it turned out you were just capable. You could handle enemies and he just had to get used to this.

You never ceased to pressure him to let you inside business, he couldn’t understand it then, but he ultimately got that you needed it to feel like a part of the Shelbys.

Add to that your determination to “ease the burden a bit” as you would say when he grabbed your waist, putting his head on your stomach as he was holding you close. In those moments you would simply run your fingers into his mane and fondling his neck tenderly while humming a lullaby.

His eyes met with the golden plaque with his name on it and he patted it, “Going to put your name there one day, eh?” His eyes lift to yours a quick instant, before he got distracted with the smile drawing on your lips.

You shook your head faintly before putting a strand of hair back behind your ear, to Tommy’s greatest pleasure, “Y/N & Tommy Shelby.” You paused quite satisfied, “We’re quite a team.” You giggled, and his facial expression changed, as well as wrinkles appeared at the corner of his eyes, he was smiling.

He hated when you said that you were easing the burden, because he knew you were doing more than that, he knew you were more than that, more than just an associate, more than just a wife, you were his Y/N, his Shelby and the value he gave you couldn’t be counted.

But each time you would say that to him, he felt as if you were standing in the shadow of his heart screaming that you weren’t afraid of his darkness, and that simple idea that you were accepting him despite all, was enough.

Not only were you taking charge of business when he was occupied with something else, but you were also perfectly taking care of the house and its matters.

Everything was in order under your management, and he knew he didn’t need to worry about a thing when you were in charge.

The door opened on a maid, “Your children are at table waiting for you Mrs and Mr Shelby.”

“Thank you, Brie. We will join ‘em in a minute.” You answered, not even lifting your gaze from the paperworks.

Numbers were filling your eyes, clouding your mind and making your ears steam, but that was worth it because it was for your Tommy.

The maid gave a look to your husband before looking back at you, “If I may, Mrs, working at night will wear out your eyes.” That’s only when your head got up, and that you offered her a warm smile.

“We will drink tea in the living room after dinner, I will rest there.”

Your maid nodded to you, genuinely satisfied you will not work as late as usual.

It was a habit with you, to always provoke people around you to care for your well-being.

When she got out of the office, your eyes dropped into Tommy’s, and you knew he wanted to say something, “Go on, honey.” You muttered before returning to your papers.

From that smile you gave to the way you looked at your maid, it seemed like you were determined to finish all your paperworks before dinner.

It’s true you would always take into consideration the advice of your staff, but when you had something to do, you wouldn’t stop until you were finished, so you would always find a compromise. Most of the time you would finish your work before supper so after it you would satisfy them by resting in the living room, relaxing afterwards.

It was your technique, this way your staff felt heard, and you wouldn’t have to torment them for them to listen to you. It was a win-win scheme.

Tommy always was admirative about your way of dealing with things and keeping everyone satisfied, and that was the reason for his coughing, desperately wanting to dismiss the wave of feelings rooted inside of him.

Your husband got up, exhaling deeply and you glimpse him walking to the counter before returning and putting a cup of whiskey right under your nose.

His fingers went fondling your cheek softly before he cupped and lifted it so you would be looking at him, “Get it done before 9, else I can’t assure your children will wait after that.” He muttered, his lips only inches away from yours. His icy blue eyes were staring at your slightly parted mouth, an urge to feel your lips against his building inside of him.

You closed the space in between your lips in a hurry, and were met by Tommy’s hands, grabbing your head as his thumbs were stroking your skin.

Seconds later, gasping for air, you pulled away, both of your foreheads still connected, “The children have more of you than me, Tom.” You stole a kiss from him, the call for him being too loud, “Their impatience is your legacy.” You smiled against his mouth.

Tommy scoffed and straightened back up without responding to your teasing. He turned on his heels and walked away, a hand in his pocket, and you would swear to God that at this moment, another smile was on his lips.

It always made him laugh how devoted you were to the business, even though he didn’t want you to know a single bit of it in the beginning of your marriage. Now, he would often sit in front of you without saying a word while you were working. Just staring.

It wasn’t everyday that you would see him looking at something with that much of a sweet face expression.

He, who was always so tense and cold, was sitting in front of you, intently looking at you with nothing in his icy blue eyes other than tenderness.

When you and Tommy started to be “a thing”, never would you ever thought of it to be serious, you knew his ways with women, or should you say you heard of it. Who didn’t hear it in Birmingham?

Each time you would bump into one another in the streets or in pubs, you would realize how intensely he was eyeing you, he was simply devouring your entire being with his eyes.

You thought of it at first as lust, but the more you got to see each other, the more you noticed he never wanted to get too close to you, to touch you or to talk to you more than needed.

He just wanted to stare, as if you were some kind of piece of art from which he tried to uncover its most deep and unknown truths.

You would pay anyone in the world to know what was in his mind during those hours he would spend watching you do paperwork, but you could only imagine, and you let yourself believe he was simply proud of you, for taking his burden when you judged he was working too much.

If only you’d be in his mind, you would understand that Tom was no more than bewitched by you, each of your moves ignited something in him he could never recall, because each time he would see you, you would bring him something different, you would make him feel different in the most pleasing ways.

He felt accepted, welcomed and loved around you, he felt like he belonged. And that was huge for a man like him to be able to feel that.

He wasn’t even the type to feel things, but here he was, his skin burning like hot coals whenever your sharp eyes would cut him like razors would. The only difference being that the scars you would leave on him would instantly get healed by the warm embrace your simple presence would bring him.

You were indeed a piece of art to Tommy, and even if he would never be able to put words on how your beauty and grace burnt down the earth beneath his feet, he was still able to make you feel some tenderness through his glassy eyes, it was his way of telling you he loved you, and that he was grateful for having someone that cared about his health.

You were his most precious thing, an art signed by Shelby that he will keep close for as long as you will want him still.

HUBBY! TOMMY SHELBY TAG: @theamuz ;

TOMMY SHELBY TAG: @captivatedbycillianmurphy ; @theamuz ;

PEAKY BLINDERS TAG: @retromafia ;

(ask me if you want to be in one of the tag lists)

#Hubby! Tommy Shelby x Reader #husband Tommy Shelby #Tommy Shelby x Reader #Thomas Shelby x Reader #Peaky Blinders

[purelyfiction]

Blind Introductions

James Bond x (Gender Neutral) Reader

Word Count: 1,524 words

Summary: The reader - blowing off steam before the biggest week of their life, spends a night with a man named James. He’s kind, he’s charming, he’s incredibly attractive and they have no regrets. Until they see a wall of honorees at their office and oh fuck it’s James. Did they already sleep with one of their coworkers? How is this going to go? 

Content Warning: Oh hey hey - alluding to 18+ stuff brief mention of sex. If you want the (f) reader 18+ one find that here once it’s up - language ofc

Should have the little voice in the back of your mind told you to be wary of James comma Bond? Absolutely. Why didn’t it?

Good question.

Instead, it said nothing as your eyes locked on deep blue ones in the back of some random pub your friends had picked. A pub that had invited sparks, conversations over types of whiskey - how long a wine should sit before the cork’s taken out.

The backseat of his Audi invited other things.

He’d be a blip in time - a weekend of pleasantries and good sex. Eventually.

For now, you’re far more focused on getting your shit together. You’re moving into this luxurious apartment on behalf of your new job, finally feeling somewhat grounded and like you were finally making progress in your life.

Making a name for yourself, dedicating your life to Queen and country. There’s a flush of pride roaming through you as your quartermaster guides you through the halls.

Until you see those eyes again. On a wall of esteemed agents in MI6’s headquarters. Your new employer’s headquarters. Frozen to your spot, staring at the shiny gold plaque under the frame.

James Bond, 007.

Oh fuck.

“Everything alright?” The quartermaster looks at you and you return the gaze.

“Oh, of course. Are these your retired agents?” You question, a pointed finger to the wall.

“No, these are our agents that have excelled, done above what they were asked. There’s a few of them, many of them retired, yes, but there are three or four agents that are still active. Including 007. I see he’s caught your attention.” He offers, starting to the main floor, assuming you’ll follow. Which you do, reluctantly, eyes darting back to the photo on the wall.

“He catches everyone’s attention.” He continues as he nearly scoffs before opening a door leading to an open office space. Desks upon desks sit in neat little rows, people behind them doing research or fiddling with some form of technology. Subtly, you find yourself looking for him. As though he’s going to pop out at any second. 

That’s how you spend your first week of training. Petrified that he’s going to show up in the blink of an eye. Looking everywhere for the man with blonde hair and blue eyes that tore through you like a knife. You can remember the smell of the leather seats of his car. The way you could see the stars and the streetlights above you through the moonroof. His breath hot on your neck as you scrambled about like teenagers doing their best not to get caught in the movie theater parking lot. 

You have to physically shake yourself from your thoughts when you hear your name. Eve stands in front of you, a hand waving in front of your face. “Are you here, 006?”

“Yes, yes sorry. Nerves.” You’re sat in her apartment, carefully studying for the written portion of your upcoming exam. Everything else had been normal training, conditioning, rifle training and the likes. 

“Don’t be nervous. You’re going to be completely fine.” 

“I know, I know. Especially if you conduct the exam.” You hum with a smile and Eve giggles.

“I thought Q would’ve told you. You don’t meet the proctor of your exams until test day.” She shrugs and you mimic her actions. 

“So long as I don’t get M, I think I’ll ace this.” A confident grin on your features, you crack your knuckles and get back to studying.

Exam day comes and you’re up bright and early. Firearms and physical out of the way, you’re showered and settling in to get ready for the written exam. You would have 2 hours to complete it. The door opens and you grin at the coworker. He’s leading you to the testing room and going over the rules. “I thought I’m not supposed to know my proctor for this?” You ask as you settle into the desk chair as a pen and a bottle of water are set in front of you.

“I’m not your proctor.” He laughs, a shake of his head as he looks to his watch. “He should be here in less than five.” A nod of your head and suddenly you’re alone in the testing room. You’re mentally going over your questions, languages, math problems, protocols. You continue through your mental flashcards as the door opens. 

Your mind goes blank when you look up. 

Those damn blue eyes are cutting through you. 

And through your chances of passing this exam. 

Bond clears his throat, raising his eyebrows at you. You stand and introduce yourself, holding out your hand. 

This isn’t happening. 

“Bond. James Bond.”

Yeah, I knew that already. 

He’s relaying information about the test, reminding you of the rules and the sections and everything you swore you knew. All the information that you’d been storing was swept under a doormat, and replaced with a continuous loop of the dark leather seats of an Audi.

“If you’re ready...” You look at him again. You’re supposed to sit and test for 2 hours with him staring you down?

“I-I thought I wasn’t supposed to know my proctor.” It’s mumbled, and James looks at you. 

“You don’t know me. I know absolutely nothing about you.”

Sure, you don’t know him. 

You don’t know that his Audi is Monsoon grey. Or that the back seats recline into a nearly flat position. Or that he smells like bergamot and citrus with the smallest hint of sandalwood. That his navy Tom Ford sportcoat just barely covered your ass enough to get you from his car to his hotel room. Or that he is incredibly strong, and can lift you up for more than twenty minutes. That he takes his coffee with three sugars and two creams. That he pays for the dry cleaning of the people he sleeps with. That he’ll only drink his martinis if they have Linett. 

You don’t know a damn thing about the man in front of you. 

“You may begin.” 

2 hours have never gone so slow. 

Each question, you would read over and over to ensure your understanding, answer the question only to move to the next one. When James would make a noise from the desk in front of you, it would make you question your answer. Even if he wasn’t even looking at the paper in front of you. 

When you needed a break from water - he’d unmistakably meet his eyes with yours. It would jolt your nerves again, and you’d overcompensate by trying to show off your confidence. 

With the exam over, you nearly bolted out of the room before he could say another word. 

You’d cleaned out your locker before leaving headquarters. You swung by the store and picked up a bottle or two of wine and headed back to your flat and began packing. 

There was no way in hell you’d passed that exam. Not a single cell of your body was saying positive things about your performance. You’re almost finished with your first bottle, having not gotten far in your packing when the door rings. You set packing tape from your hand to the counter and open the door to find - James.

He doesn’t say a word, simply pushes past you into the flat, looking around, hands in his pockets. “Going somewhere?” The blond looks similar to when you’d met him the first time. Though instead of a tux, he’s got a leather jacket, jeans and a pair of boots on. A gray undershirt stretches across his chest. 

“I don’t know if you could tell, but I did not pass that bloody exam.” You scoff, moving back to the kitchen to refill your wine glass. He’s slowly approaching as you raise it to your lips, only for his hand to take your wrist. The glass is pried from your fingers, and you look at him a little in awe.

“You think you’re being trailed, and have been keeping an eye on your company for the past three minutes. What do you do?” 

Instinctually you’re answering. 

“Step into the nearest store and act interested in the sales pitch. If there’s no stores, stop someone for directions. See if they keep walking or also find themselves suddenly busy.” 

“You don’t have a weapon available to you as an assailant approaches. What is the best way to distract them?” 

“Flashlight, obviously.” 

You’ve found that he’s wrapped around the counter, set your glass down on the counter, and is directly in front of you now. 

“Are you willing to travel?” 

“Yes.” 

“You find your closest confidant is a risk to the nation’s safety. What do you do?”

“Report them to my supervisor and move on.”

By now, he’s dangerously close, hands nearly hovering over your waist. 

“When was the Secret Service Bureau established?”

“1904. Headquartered in Vauxhall Cross along the Thames river.”

The conversation sits just above a whisper now.

“Do you work well with others?”

“Not particularly.” 

“I agree to disagree.” 

It’s then that a hand captures your cheek, the other pulling your waist to his as he drags you in for a kiss.

#James Bond x Reader #James Bond/Reader #James Bond Fanfiction #Bond Fanfic #James Bond Fanfic #Bond Fanfiction #Bond x Reader #Reader x James Bond #Bond/Reader

[captainmarkone]

come back.

Characters: Suprise CE Character x Reader. Warning(s): Angst, heartbreak hotel. A/N: I got hit by inspo. Enjoy this drabble of nonsense. But imma guess it's not a huge secret as to who the character is... but enjoy!

June 23, 2021 —

Storming down the stairs, I felt nothing but anger. Hurt. My heart absolutely breaking at the sight I saw mere seconds ago. Footsteps falling behind me, their breathing deep as if I was the bad guy; his own anger radiating off their body.

“I didn’t know you were coming home early!” my husband yelled, staring at me with a smirk on his lips. His robe tied around his body to conceal the naked skin underneath. He stood there, watching me as if I owed him some sort of apology.

“I hate you… I cannot believe… I ha-hate you,” I said, words fumbling out. A quiet plea to whatever god that was out there to smite me where i stood. For the pain, the betrayal. It was all too much.

“Who is she?” I asked, his eyes not showing an ounce of concern. He didn’t care that I hated him.

“Someone I met,” he simply answered. His wedding band glowing in the dim light. Something that was now a joke. A sham on what we were.

“My lawyer will be in touch with yours, you spoiled piece of shit. A little boy that married someone to feel like he was a man. You take all the goddamn money because I want nothing, absolutely fucking nothing to do with you, you manipulative little shit. I hope you eat shit and fucking live so all your life someone can remind you that you ate what you become!” I sneered, my voice laced with venom.

He staggered back a bit. Not sure what to say. No snide comment. His hands came up, as if he realized what he had done.

“Angel…” he whispered, as if he spoke louder would make his voice crack. A simple gleam shone in his eyes. Liar, I thought.

“Oh Ransom,” the voice upstairs sang his name. And that’s what hit me. Like a fucking freight train. He saw it then. The gleam in my own eyes. The pain that shown in them.

“Angel, please. She means fucking nothing. Please,” he began to beg, his voice now becoming something different. Sincere? Apologetic? Whatever it was, I wasn’t buying it. He said my name, a soft whisper that left his lips.

“Go to hell,” I said, grabbing my keys and walking out of the house we bought together. He had someone in our bed. Ours. He promised the world to me. Only to take it all back because he wanted his dick wet.

I needed time. To think. To cool off. Before going back there again to gather my things and rip him a new one. Hugh Ransom Drysdale was the love of my life. And that was something I never should’ve admitted to him; to anyone.

At the traffic light, I saw the soft gleam of the diamond perched on my left hand. His token of faithfulness. Sliding it off, I placed it in the cup holder and drove once the light turned green. I didn’t notice the car next to me had stopped just in time before the large truck rammed into my side of the car. Letting my world go black.

————————————————————————————————

RD -

Ransom paced in the bedroom he shared with you. His own heart sinking to the bottom of his stomach. Sick of himself. His actions. The way he let you, the only person who has truly loved him, go. When he sat on the edge of your side of the bed, he couldn’t think anymore. All he could was replay the year and half you spent together.

He had called you multiple times. But of course you didn’t answer. He didn’t expect you to but he had a small sliver of hope that you’d answer. Hear him out. Take him back. But straight to voicemail. He had kicked the blonde out the moment you drove away. Wanting nothing more than to drive after you. But he didn’t. He should’ve.

His phone rang then, before he could check who it was, he decided to just answer.

“Angel?! I’m so sorr-“ he started but was quickly silent when it wasn’t your voice talking.

“Hello. I’m Nurse Bellow from Boston Medical Center. I’m trying to contact the next of kin. Is this Hugh Drysdale?” She asked, following to check if he was your husband. “Hi sir. Your wife is here and in critical condition. We will be expecting you.” She hung up, and Ransom was up in a flash.

Dressing appropriately and making it to the hospital in seconds. Harlan already there with his coat hanging over his arms. They had moved you to a private suite. There you lay. Wires connected and the beat of the machine that checked your heartbeat on. He was devastated at the sight. His world crashing in one night.

“Ransom,” his grandfather said softly. Coming up behind him. Ransom fell on to the chair, taking your hand in his. “Baby… baby please,” he said softly. His turn to plea with the gods.

“I’m so sorry Ransom…” Harlan continued but it was all cut when the machines started going off.

“SHE’S CRASHING!” A nurse yelled, ushering Ransom out with his grandfather. The two sat in silence. No thought in Ransom’s head but you. Your smile. Your laugh. The way you said I love you unconditionally. These were the conditions in which you didn’t love him.

After hours of surgery, the doctor came out and he didn’t seem to have the best news. He sighed heavily and held his hands out and then put them back together.

“Mr. Drysdale… I am so sorry, but your wife didn’t make it. What we thought was just a simple internal bleeding, turned out to be much worse. Your wife… she was about two months pregnant. And well… it made surgery a little longer and little tougher but… she bled out and both didn’t survive. I am so sorry,” the doctor said, making it perfectly clear.

But Ransom stopped listening after he said sorry. Tears streamed down his face, his own heart shattering at it all. Harlan’s hand rested on his grandsons shoulder. Ransom turned to his grandfather and held the old man tight. Weeping in the chair, his world gone.

————————————————————————————————

Five months later —

He stood at your grave. The grass fully grown over your slot. Harlan had paid for the funeral, and even the plot that yielded DRYSDALE on the plaque. He never deserved you.

He had placed the flowers on your grave, standing there in silence. Tears slowly sliding down his face as he watched the flower petals blow with the wind.

“Ransom,” Harlan’s voice lifted Ransoms head. Turning and helping his grandfather down the small hill. “Ah. Thankfully they’ve been keeping this area clean,” he continued. His own bouquet of flowers being placed next to Ransom’s.

“She loved you Ransom. Saw that spark, that good in you,” Harlan said, fetching out a box in his pocket. The small velvet box was placed in the young males hand. “What’s this?” Ransom asked, eyebrows furrowing.

Harlan nodded to your grave and said, “She asked me to get it fixed for you. Said it was dull and needed something. A surprise.”

Opening the box, he saw his lost pinky ring. You must’ve taken it in June. Etched on the flat surface were the first letter of your name, his H, and small b.d.

Tears stung his eyes as he slid it on.

“B.D.?” He asked, Harlan raising a brow.

“I believe it was for ‘baby Drysdale’. Probably going to tell you on your anniversary,” Harlan said. Only making Ransom’s heart sink deeper. “Let’s go eat breaks on, Ran. She’s gonna be okay.”

As Harlan walked back to the car, Ransom stood there with his thumb playing with the band of the ring.

“I love you. I love you both,” he declared, turning before glancing back one last time. He got into the car with his grandfather, feeling a weight being lifted. As if… you had forgiven him.

#chris evans fanfiction #rd x reader #reader #trying not to do spoilers here #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale #ransom thrombey x reader #ransom x you

[tothemeadow]

Can I get a hotdog with hot sauce and mustard with a side of onion rings to share with uzui 🏃🏾‍♀️💨

Here you go babe ;)

Summer Feelings Event

'krusty towers' / Uzui T. x Reader

warnings: NSFW, oral sex, vaginal fingering, fisting (might as well take a crack at it 👉👈)

words: 1,323

-

We shall never deny a guest even the most ridiculous request.

It was a mere plaque, nothing more. Hell, with a slogan like that, you thought it would taken as a joke. The thing is, though, is that the employees don’t treat it as a joke. In fact, you wouldn’t have heard of it in the first place if it weren’t for the receptionist at the check in desk. With an upscale resort and hotel like this, of course they take all their clients seriously, even down to the tiniest detail.

And there was something riveting about the receptionist, something that pulled your eyes to him and refused to let them go. Tall, broad shouldered, pearly grin paired with petal lips, and a set of rubies for eyes, this man was absolutely gorgeous. If anything, he looked like he worked for a modeling agency rather than a hotel.

“Ma’am,” he had told you, honeyed voice smoother than silk, “if there is anything – and I mean anything – that we can do for you, please let me know.”

You remembered staring at the breast pocket of his suit jacket, at the shiny tag that read Uzui Tengen. He slipped you a number for the front desk on a small slip of paper, that dazzling smile of his playing on his handsome features. Even then, your heart raced wildly in your chest; because, if you were to be completely honest here, that man was literal sex on legs and you wanted all of it.

It didn’t take much for you to give in; although the first few days were only filled with idle conversations and shameless flirting, you refused to call that special number in the late hours of the night. That is, until you found yourself sprawled out on your hotel bed, completely naked from your earlier shower and legs spread apart, fingers pumping in and out of your sopping pussy. With the aid of alcohol in your system, you’re practically on cloud nine, your other hand switching between playing with your breasts and your clit.

It wasn’t enough. No, what you needed was someone to fuck you raw, to completely stuff that sinful little hole of yours until you were screaming. It’s that very thought that led you to shuffling across the bed to your nightstand, fingers snatching up that slip of paper. About ten minutes later, Tengen is standing outside your door, looking as handsome as ever in a three-piece suit. You, on the other hand, are covered by the thin robe graciously provided by the hotel.

“You rang?” Tengen singsongs, a mischievous smirk on his face.

Instead of outright answering, you grab him by the tie and yank him into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. “You take any request, right?” you rush, hands already making quick work of unbuttoning his top layers and loosening his tie.

“Your wish is my command,” Tengen replies, voice lowering to a panty-dropping rasp. “Anything you want, I’ll happily provide.”

“Good,” you mutter, pushing the garments down his arms and exposing the entirety of his defined torso. Broad shoulders, tiny waist – perfect. “Because I want you to fuck me.”

“So straightforward – I like it,” he purrs. “But may I offer something else first?”

Your eyes flicker up to meet his. “What?”

And, much like your earlier move, he remains silent, opting to push you backwards until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed. He gently urges you to lie down, large hands undoing the loose knot to your robe. He mutters his appreciation once your naked body is exposed, his hands drifting over the plain of your stomach and the swells of your breasts. He gracefully kneels between your legs, wasting not a single moment and kissing your thighs while he kneads your breasts.

“Mmm,” he hums as he drifts closer to where you need him most, “looks like you were already having some fun. Who were you thinking of, baby?”

“Like you need to know,” you breathe. Tengen chuckles at your response, but the sound soon turns into a pleasured gasp as you grip onto the silvery strands of his hair, completely ruining the slicked back style. “Just – fuck – just do something.”

“Magic word, baby. What is it?”

“Goddammit Tengen, I gave you a fucking order-“

You abruptly cut yourself off with a moan when Tengen swoops in, plump lips latching around your puffy clit and suckling on it. His fingers quickly follow suit, skimming up the crevice of your thigh and brushing along the wetness gathered at your slit. A simple tug on his hair has him groaning into your pussy, tongue and fingers both plunging themselves inside of you. And fuck, he’s so fucking good, his mouth switching back and forth between playing with your clit and fucking you with his tongue.

Truly, you wished you noticed it before, but this smug bastard has a fucking tongue piercing.

The cold bead compared to the hot wetness of his tongue has you arching your back, fingers digging into his scalp. You wonder how anybody could be this amazing at giving head, but here you are, getting tongue fucked like your lives depended on it.

“Holy shit, Tengen,” you breathe, hips bucking into his face. And oh, he lets you do as you please, stuffing your pussy with four of his fingers while you rock into him. He eats like a man starved, the lewd slurping coming from between your legs making your face heat up in embarrassment.

“You taste so fucking good, baby,” Tengen husks. He smirks when he crooks his fingers, making you cry out in pleasure. “Look at you, taking in so many of my fingers like that – shit, I bet you could take my fucking fist, couldn’t you? God, I wanna try.”

“That’d be too much,” you babble, but holy fuck do your insides squeeze at the idea. “Your hand is too… too big-“

“So’s my cock, baby,” Tengen says. Placing a hand on your hip, he halts your movements and holds you still. “What’s gonna happen when I fuck you open, huh? If you can take that, you can take my fist.”

“No, no, Tengen, wait-“

“Relax, baby,” he coos, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. “You’ll take it.”

Slowly, he retracts all four fingers only for his thumb to join. Your eyes roll towards the back of your skull as you shake, your velvety walls clamping possessively around him as he – holy shit – pushes his entire hand into you. Letting out a low, drawn out whistle, Tengen admires the sight of your pussy clamping around his wrist. His cock twitches inside his slacks, already hard as a rock and leaking precum.

“My, my, my, looks like my baby is a bigger slut than I originally thought,” he says. “I’m impressed.”

You merely whimper in return.

“Keep taking deep breaths, alright? ‘Cause I’m gonna curl my hand – hey now, relax.”

It feels like forever for your body to loosen up, but you can feel Tengen’s hand slowly curl into a fist, his knuckles pressing right against your g-spot. “Oh my god,” you pant, “your hand – it’s-“

“Shh,” Tengen hushes you, pressing another kiss to your knee. “You’re doing so well, baby. Let me make you feel real good before I fuck you with my fat cock.”

You still can’t completely wrap your mind around the situation. Here you are, having some man you barely know slowly fuck you with his fist – even more, you like it. The stretch is nothing like anything you’ve experienced before, and the amount of slick leaking from your cunny and slipping down your asscheeks is astronomical. You openly keen when Tengen’s mouth finds its place back on your clit. Clearly, he’s set on having you cum your fucking brains out – not that you mind, of course.

Ridiculous requests, huh – bet whoever wrote that wasn’t expecting this.

#kny #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #kny x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #demon slayer x reader #uzui tengen x reader #tengen uzui x reader #uzui tengen #tengen uzui #summer feelings event

[no-droids]

Rushed

Part Seven of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 6.9K haha NICE

Warnings: SMUT, mildly jealous Mando, penetrative sex, slight degradation, slight edging, cumplay whoopsies

A/N:  Listen I was planning for there to be a soft moment at the end of this where they talk about some personal shit but then the smut went too fuckin hard and I couldn’t make it fit so it’ll happen next time no worries

***

The first thing you see when you blink your eyes open is… green.  Green, and sideways.  Three little fingers, grabby as usual, clutched onto a strand of your hair and tugging.

Gigantic, pitch black eyes blink slowly at you as you focus your vision, lifting your head just slightly from where it’s resting on a balled-up, makeshift pillow.  The baby coos at you, a musical and happy sound, tugging your hair once more as you take in your surroundings.

The cot you’re laying on is pulled out of the hull just partially, just enough to bathe your legs and the lower half of your torso in light while the upper half is still in the confined within the tight space inside the wall, but that still doesn’t explain how the kid got in here with you.  How did he climb—?

Something—a hand—comes down to thump over your ankle, not too hard but not really overly concerned about it either.  “We’re here,” grunts a modulated voice, interrupting your adorable little alarm clock.

Ah.  That’s how.

You immediately reach out and scoop the baby up into your arms just because you can, turning him around and holding his back to your chest as you cuddle him on the bed.  “Okay,” you sigh dreamily, kissing his wrinkly, hairy yet somehow also completely bald little head and gently smushing your cheek into it.

You settle back down with the kid for another few hours of rest, only a hand thumps down on your ankle again.  “Come on,” Mando’s voice drawls through multiple layers of metal.  “Let’s go.  Karga is waiting on us.”

Your eyebrows pull together, just as your little, little spoon starts to wiggle in your arms.  “What?  Who’s us?”

“Us,” he repeats shortly, pulling the bed the rest of the way out of the wall by your ankle but slowing it to a gentle halt right before it can reach the end of the tracks.  “Now hurry it up.  And stop smothering him.”

You groan and sit up in the brightly lit hull, blinking around at the… remarkably tidy ship.  

It wasn’t like this before.  Where’s all the clutter?  The first aid kits strewn about?  The excess pieces of gauze and tape on the floor?  The… the blood on the walls?

Your eyes fall to the corner near the hatch almost immediately, the sight of… The Incident.  Only you find it completely spotless, not a single thing out of place.  Come to think of it, you don’t think you’ve actually ever seen the hull cleaner than it is now, even when you’ve spent literal days working at it.

There should be blood there.  There was a pool of blood there.  Wasn’t there?  There was a pool of blood right there, right in that little space between the—

“Hey.”  Your jaw is caught in a gentle grip and pulled left just a little, and you suddenly come face to face with a metallic visor.  His helmet is nothing but sharp angles and your own warped reflection staring blankly back at you, but his hold is steady and his voice is soft through the modulator.  “Us.  You, me, and the kid.  Right?”

You blink at him, suddenly reminded of the child held in your arms.  And then you nod slowly at him, hearing the baby gurgle softly near your chest as he looks up at Mando.

“I’m not leaving you today,” he tells you, moving his hand up to cradle the side of your face.  “But I also have to meet up with Karga.  It won’t take long.”  He jerks his helmet to gesture over at the open hatch, before looking back at you and brushing a thumb across your cheekbone.  “So let’s go.  Okay?”

You nod once more.  “Okay.”  But then you remember the blood all over your hands and clothing.  “No, wait, Mando—I have to change clothes—”

“No, you don’t,” he interrupts.  “Come on.”

“Yes, I do,” you protest, gathering the child in one arm and bringing the other up to show him.  “Look, I still have blood all ov—”

A black, long sleeve tunic.  Baggy, clean, and worn.  Not what you passed out in.  Not actually your shirt, you don’t think.  There’s not even gauze covering your arm anymore.  The blood’s been wiped away and the wound marring the inside of your forearm completely healed overnight.

“Hey, look at me,” he says once more, bringing his other hand up to hold your face completely still in front of him.  The baby makes grabby hands up towards him, but Mando just stretches your neck and makes you lift your chin to keep your attention focused on him.  “I let you sleep for as long as I could.  But we have to get moving now.”

You nod, trying to figure out how you feel.  Grateful, you suppose?  That he did as much as he could to erase what happened yesterday?  If he asked, you probably wouldn’t want to talk about it, so… so what’s the problem?

Nothing.  Nothing is a problem.

***

Alright, so maybe you… get it.

You get it now, why E-Bacta is just as sought after as spice.  You can still feel traces of the partial dose lingering in your bloodstream even now, even while trailing behind Mando and his equally reflective spherical shield as you three make your way into the crowded cantina.

You feel… physically, you feel spectacular.  Glowing.  Radiant and awake.  Not so much high anymore, but almost like the Maker hit a reset button on your entire body.  You’re incredibly well-rested, no aches or pains, absolutely nothing to suggest something major happened last night.  You know you should at least have some trouble walking, but you don’t.  Fuck, even your skin feels clearer and healthier than ever before.

If you hadn’t killed someone yesterday, you might even have a spring in your step.

You’re… you just have to stop thinking about it, you tell yourself.  You’re being stupid and childish.  You killed one fucking person in self-defense.  Mando disintegrates people.  He’s taken out more people with fucking doors than that, of course he’s not going to openly acknowledge it unless you bring it up yourself.

You’re so lost in your thoughts, you almost don’t respond when a booming voice calls your name over the chatter and music.  It’s… it’s almost a bit startling to be recognized first when you’re standing next to someone like the Mandalorian, and you immediately whip around as a warm, equally as loud, “Mando!” soon follows it.

A hand is clapped down on top of your shoulder, Greef Karga beaming at you both as he mirrors his other hand on Mando’s pauldron.  “And baby!”  He adds brightly, catching sight of the little green monster hovering next to you.  “Hey, baby!”

“We don’t have much time,” your companion immediately informs him.

“Oh, of course not!”  He turns his head to look down at you with a wide, almost secret smile.  “Always down to business, isn’t he.  Never one to dally with small talk.  Come, join me!”

You casually trail a few steps behind everyone, feeling just slightly out of place in the dusty cantina even with the forward acknowledgement from Mando’s guild contact.  You’ve met him once or twice, never for very long.  It’s... unexpected, the sudden attention.

Mando unclips his rifle and leans it against the table before taking a seat, and then you slip into the booth next to him, huddling your arms inwards a bit and trying to take up as little space as possible.  Greef gestures for a round of drinks from one of the rusty droids prattling around the bar as the bounty hunter beside you eventually presents three pucks to him.

“I seem to remember you leaving with four of those, last time you were here,” he remarks, visibly surprised.  You don’t know why, but you immediately stiffen, even though Mando doesn’t move a muscle in response.

“The last one wasn’t worth the effort,” he eventually grunts.  You keep your head tilted down just slightly and Greef’s attention is subsequently captured by the droid as it approaches the head of the table, taking three shots of glowing blue liquid from its circular tray and then waving it away.  He places one of the glasses down in front of you.

“I like the days Mando decides to collect,” he says to you, holding up the other two shots of alcohol in both hands.  “The droids are stupid, they always bring over an extra drink.”  He winks at you, tipping one of them in your direction.  “My gain.”

He downs the drink, and you blink down at the one meant for you.  It would be impolite to refuse it, right?  But you don’t really... really feel like drinking right now, especially considering you woke up probably not an hour ago.

“Come on!”  Greef eventually gestures, before downing the other shot of glowing liquor.  “Don’t tell me you’re as much of a stick in the mud as this one is.”

Your hand comes out for the shot glass without thinking.  Mando is completely silent next to you as you tip your head back and drink the entire thing in one gulp, the liquid burning as it slides down your throat.  The man sitting across from you smiles, before digging his hands around in his pockets for payment.

A palm quietly settles on your knee under the table.

“As promised,” Greef exchanges a sizable portion of credits for the pucks.  “Someone is already collecting the carbonite plaques from your vessel as we speak.”

Mando nods his understanding, but doesn’t say anything in return.  Neither do you.

“So.”  Greef slowly settles back in the booth, looking between the two of you.  “This is new.”

“The next job, Karga,” the bounty hunter next to you reminds him shortly.

“Is he this pushy all the time?”  Greef turns and asks you, pointedly ignoring Mando.  “This rushed?  Or is it just because he doesn’t like me?”

“No,” you answer on instinct, and when neither one of them say anything, you eventually flush a brilliant shade of red and realize they’re waiting for you to elaborate.  “He’s not… al-always rushed.”

Greef blinks at you a few times, and then he quite suddenly barks out a laugh, loud and abrupt enough to make you jump.  While chuckling, he pushes four new tracking fobs across the table.

“I was only going to give you three of these, since that’s all you came back with,” Karga says, gesturing for another round of drinks with a lazy twirl of his finger.  “But I like her.  More than you, Mando.  So I’ll forgive you this once, but try not to make it a habit.”

“And you’ll get two extra drinks this time as a token of appreciation.”  Mando slides his hand down to cup your knee and give it a gentle squeeze.  “We’re leaving.”

“Of course you are,” Greef huffs, watching you both scoot out of the booth and gather your things.  “It’s already been five whole minutes since you first sat down.  Far too much socializing for one day.”

“Thank you for the drink,” you tell him politely.  “It was very nice seeing you again.”

“Likewise!”  He projects, widening his arms and beaming up at you.  “If you ever get tired of him, you are always more than welcome here on Nevarro.  You’re far nicer to look at than anyone else in this sector.”

Mando’s palm rests low on your back, his voice quiet through the modulator and partially lost in the chatter of the crowd.  “Let’s go, sweet girl.”

Greef waves three fingers at the kid in his metal sphere.  “Bye, baby!”

Mando doesn’t let go of you.  Not when you turn around and start walking away, not when you leave the cantina, not when you’re making your way through the busy Nevarro marketplace afterwards.

“That was rude,” you eventually turn your head and tell him under your breath, not at all used to him walking side by side with you like this.  You usually always trail slightly behind the both of them, but his arm on your lower back keeps your strides aligned with his.

“I know,” he agrees lowly, guiding you through the crowded public square, the kid hovering in his shield next to you and blinking up at all the excitement going on around him.  “He was being too bold.”

“I mean us, Mando,” you correct.  “We were rude.  He was being friendly.”

“Karga doesn’t have friends,” he responds lowly.  “He has business associates that tolerate him because of his connections and position in the guild.  You were already nicer to him than most of his contacts ever are.”

You don’t say anything back to him.  How long ago was it that you were likewise nothing more than a business associate Mando tolerated?  Less than a few weeks, maybe?

And yet, it’s only when you reach the ship that he finally lets go of you.

***

You love the kid.  Honestly.  You’d die for him.

But sometimes.  Sometimes you just want to… step on him.

Okay, no—you shouldn’t say that.  He might choke you in your sleep with his insane fucking demon powers if he hears that.  No, it’s just… it’s like he feeds off the energy around him sometimes.  Which is great, especially when you’re exhausted and his naps tend to align with yours.  Canto Bight was a different situation considering you were in such an incredibly crowded area, but in hyperspace?  The kid only has you and Mando around to take his cues from.

Which means, if you’re buzzing with energy and just waiting for him to fall asleep, guess what?  Guess who suddenly gets a second, or third, or fourth wind?

It’s never ending.  The moment you think he’s about to pass out, he bounces back with even more energy than before.  Sure, he’s cute and all, but that shit only lasts so long.  It’s a facade meant to deceive everyone and it’s all just a clever, systematic fucking ploy.  After all, if you needed someone else to feed you and protect you and take care of you for the first fifty plus years of your life, evolution would make you adorable as fuck, too.

Hours.  Maybe even a full day or so before the little shithead finally decides to close his eyes for longer than a few seconds.  Mando so graciously left you alone to babysit him while he shut himself away in the cockpit and navigated to the nearest quarry destination, and the baby was such a handful from the second you stepped back on the ship, you didn’t even catch where you’re headed to.

Not to mention all the cleaning Mando did earlier today leaves you with little to nothing else to do to occupy your time besides supervise the little terror.  And of course, the entire time, all you can think about is Mando’s hand on your thigh under the table.  The way his voice sounded calling you an endearment in public.  

How he felt railing into you last night.  How you wish you could still feel it now.

You close the kid’s shield and stow him safely in the pitiful little cot you slept on almost the exact second he falls asleep.  You don’t waste any time.  You’re immediately climbing up into the cockpit to seek out your armored companion.

Mando is sitting with his back to you in the pilot’s seat when you open the door and quickly shut it behind you.  You lower yourself into the copilot’s chair on his flank, completely silent.

He doesn’t move.  Neither do you.

Time passes differently in hyperspace.  It’s almost like everything somehow drags and blurs simultaneously.  Over the handful of months you’ve been partnered together, you’ve probably spent a little less than half that time in hyperspace with Mando, and excluding these past few weeks dedicated to locating this last set of quarry, it’s hard to recall any one singular instance from the hundreds of hours you must’ve spent with him in this exact setting.  Hyperspace, silence, and this damn cockpit.

Except—except this time, everything is different.  This time, you’re hyper aware of every second that passes as you sit behind him, not moving a muscle.  Your eyes are glued to the headrest behind his helmet, your jaw clenched and your nerves buzzing at the proximity between the two of you.  Though the ship is deafeningly silent, the energy burning inside you almost makes it feel like it’s too loud in here.

Mando can feel the tension.  You can tell, because it’s steadily continuing to rise.  If you were just left to simmer by yourself, you probably would’ve just plateaued at some point.  As it is, he almost acts like an amplifier, reflecting the anticipation in the air as much as he is the starlight overhead.

You’re feeding off each other like always.  But unlike all the times before, this time, you’re the initiator.  

This time, you want to fuck.  

His chair slowly turns around to face you.

And then you both just look at each other for awhile in perfect silence, like Mando absolutely fucking knows it.  Like he knows exactly how much you fucking want him again, and he’s dragging it out.  Savoring the way you’re perched on the edge of the seat, staring at him and waiting for him to make the first move.

“If there’s something you want from me,” he eventually tells you, shattering the quiet with his modulated voice.  “All you have to do is say so.”

Fuck, he has no idea.  You want more than something, you want everything from him.  Anything he’s willing to give.

Instead of answering him, though, you quietly stand up and take a few steps closer to him.  Mando doesn’t move a single muscle as you slowly hook your thumbs around the waistband of your pants and begin pushing them down your thighs.  He just watches you silently as he sits back in the pilot’s chair, likely taking note of the way you consider taking your shirt off for a second as well but then ultimately decide against it.

You probably would’ve taken it off if it was actually your shirt, but something tells you he likes you in his clothes.  After all, he could’ve dressed you in your own clothes last night, but he didn’t.  He knows where you keep your go-bag, he knows how easy it would’ve been to dig through it for a clean shirt.  But he didn’t.

So, with nothing but your undies and his dark tunic draped over you, you carefully brace a hand on his pauldron and lift your leg to settle yourself down on his lap, situating yourself between him and the flight console and straddling the hard beskar on his thighs.

“There is something,” you eventually admit, dragging your palms along the unarmored curves of his sides.  “Something I want from you.”

“It’s yours,” he says immediately, both of his hands coming down to settle on your thighs.  “Tell me.”

Fuck, the unhesitating conviction almost throws you for a second.  The way he’s looking at you through the helmet, so fucking sincere.  You bite your lip and consider him for a moment, his body physically barricaded from you as much as he always is but never looking or sounding so open before.

“Will you take this off?”  You eventually whisper, pressing a gentle kiss to the beskar shielding his face.  “I want to kiss you.”

“It’s—it’s too bright in here,” he tells you, sounding a little out of breath underneath it.  “You’ll be able to s—”

“I won’t open my eyes,” you promise, kissing the front of his visor once more.  “You can put it back on right after if you want, I just—I need to kiss you.  Please.”

His fingers tighten on your thighs, and your own reflection is the last thing you see before you’re slowly and purposefully squeezing your eyes shut in front of him.  You carefully let your fingers drift up on his chest plate, over the rigid lines of his collar bones, before finally bumping into the hard metal at the base of his helmet.

His hands immediately lift to cradle yours, quick enough to imply it’s entirely instinctual.  While his hold isn’t painful, it’s strong enough to keep you still.

So, you wait.  Patiently, with your eyes closed, hoping he trusts you enough to give this to you.  When he doesn’t pull your hands down, you press a soft kiss the beskar again, and then slowly begin pulling the helmet up.

“Wait,” he murmurs.  Wait.  Not a stop, not a get away from me, not a don’t even think about it.  Just a… wait.

You pause and don’t move.  With the way you’re wrapped around him like this, the tips of your toes barely rest on the ground, but you can still feel the floor of the cockpit start to circle underneath you.  Mando’s thighs shift underneath you as he slowly rotates the pilot seat all the way backwards, keeping his hands anchored to yours as you continue to hold onto the bottom of his helmet.

It takes you a second to realize what he’s doing.  Most of the light source in here comes from the stars streaking across the observation transparisteel, but it’s concentrated at the front of the ship where all the glowing buttons also happen to be.  He’s silhouetting his face as much as he can by facing the ladder to the dark hull.

It’s pointless, you immediately recognize, so you readily let him have it.  You know well and good that if you slip and open your eyes for even a split-second once he lets you take his helmet off, the cockpit is too bright to keep Mando hidden regardless of what direction he faces.

These are high stakes.  But the prize is far too appealing to pass up.

So you kiss the cold beskar again and slowly begin pulling the helmet up once more.  And this time, he lets you.  This time, he holds the backs of your hands and lets you keep kissing the metal as you gradually lift it up, your crotch still pressed tightly to his even though there’s now much more open space behind you to utilize now.  Your lips touch the hard edge of the helmet and you dip your chin to follow it downwards, and then suddenly you’re touching something soft and giving, something that instantly parts and licks into your mouth before you’ve even removed its shield halfway.

Heat burns through you and you moan in relief at finally getting what you wanted.  You completely forget your task as soon as his tongue is in your mouth, but Mando’s hands around yours help you guide the helmet off completely, before carelessly tossing it to the side as he kisses you.  He’s grabbing hold of your jaw and fitting his mouth perfectly to yours before you even hear the beskar clang against the metal floor.

You keep your eyes shut tight as you immediately relax into his body, making a soft noise and melting into him.

Fuck, this is worth it.  This.  This, right fucking here, this is worth everything.  Sitting on this forsaken ship and waiting on him for days or even weeks to come back, never seeing his face, always having this damn beskar separating him from you—it’s all fucking worth it when he kisses you like this.  When he makes a low sound in his throat and moves his mouth against yours like he was just fucking made for it, wraps one of his arms around your lower back and presses you tight against him while the other holds your jaw open.

You can feel yourself get wetter the longer he drags it out, every second he spends slowly biting your bottom lip and tasting you is another dark spark of arousal between your legs.  It’s lazy and hot and so, so good, you nearly whimper into his mouth and push your hips down on top of him.

The navcomp beeps a few times, the autopilot function signaling an upcoming drop from hyperspace.  Apparently your destination was much closer than you expected.

“Shit,” he huffs, breaking away from you.  “Shit—we were supposed to get bacta on Nevarro, I—shit.  I forgot.  You… y-you distracted me.”

“Tell you what,” you bury your face into his neck and reach your hand down between you two, wiggling it into his pants.  “We’ll just promise each other real hard not to get stabbed until we can get more.”

“That’s not—” his breathing stutters when you grab onto his cock and downright purr into the crook of his neck when you find him rock hard and throbbing, “that’s—n-not funny.  You’re lucky I even had that shot to give you.  Wouldn’t—wouldn’t have woken up nearly as happy as you did this morning if I didn’t.”

“How much of that would’ve been from the vibroblade though?”  You pull him out of his pants and moan hot air into the fabric covering his throat.  “Bacta on my arm wouldn’t have helped me walk any straighter, would it?”

Mando gets a single syllable out in response before you’re hooking your panties to the side and moving your hips forward, engulfing the hard underside of him between your slick, swollen lips.

His entire body jerks at the blazing heat of you, and he grits a curse when you gradually begin to move back and forth along the thick length of him.

“I don’t want you to do that next time,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.  Your hips drag against his as you slide his cock through your drenched slit, pressing a gentle kiss to his neck.  “Don’t do that.”

“You’re—you’re right, I’m—” Mando gasps, tilting his head to give you more room and hands coming down to clamp tight over your hips, “fuck, I’m—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been so rough w-with y—”

“No,” you breathe into the crook of his neck, grinding your pussy against his throbbing cock.  “The shot.  Don’t do that.  Bacta kits only,” you gasp, tightening your hold around him as your clit drags over his thick erection.  “From now on, that’s all I get.”

“Fuck, come on,” he contests, slowly tipping his head back.  “It wasn’t that bad.  You barely felt it.”

“I know,” you whine, rolling your hips along his body.  “That was the worst part.”

“You—” Mando cuts himself off abruptly with a growl, his grip turning to steel on your hips.  “You… you wanted…?”

“I wanted to hurt today,” you moan, trying not to bite down on his neck with how fucking good it feels to rub your cunt along his cock like this.  “I wanted to feel you when I walked.  When I sat down in that cantina booth next to you.”

His fingers dig into your hips so hard, you’re forced to immediately stop gliding your slick pussy over him.  The navcomp beeps once more, this time rapidly.  Ten seconds until hyperspace drop.

One of your hands moves to clamp down over his shoulder while the other threads through the thick locks at the back of his head.  You pull your hips up and tilt them just a bit, just enough to position the tip of his cock at your entrance.  And then you bite his neck and slowly start to sink down on him.

Mando grits out your name, just as the navcomp beeps reach a crescendo.

The Razorcrest is thrown out of hyperspace with a giant lurch in g-force that practically shoves your cunt the rest of the way down his thick cock and then further, pressing him up so far up inside you with such a chaotic shift in gravity that Mando actually chokes next to your ear.  You’re surprised you can hear him at all, considering the blast of white noise at the rapid intrusion and the way you sob through your teeth as they dig into the thick muscles wrapped around his neck.

Fuck, he hits so fucking different from this angle.  He stretches you and fills you spectacularly, forces you to yield to him while you breathe heavy through your nose, wondering how dark of a bruise he’ll have on his neck from your bite.

Mando fucking likes it, though.  You can tell.  From the way his hand immediately comes up to tangle in your hair and hold your face in the crook of his neck while you gradually begin to pull your hips up, clamp down around him as hard as you can and slowly drag his thick cock out of your pussy, you can tell he fucking likes this.  He likes feeling your teeth in his neck while you start to fuck yourself onto him, riding his cock so steady and unhurried in the pilot’s seat of his ship.

“Fuck,” he nearly spits, his hand squeezes your thigh hard enough to leave a mark.  “Is this—is this what you n-needed, sweet girl?  Hm?  Just a little—little attention?”

You whimper, wondering how it feels so fucking amazing like this.  How the head of his cock is pushed up tight against your g-spot, spreading wildfire in your lower belly and seeping through your pelvis and into your upper thighs.  Fuck, you grind the head of his cock slow and hard against it and try not to dig your nails into his arms where your fingers are clutching tight to the dark fabric.

“Needed—Needed you to touch me in that cantina,” you whisper, already half out of your mind with the aching bliss, saying whatever the fuck comes into your head first and not thinking anything past it.  “Needed you to… to put your hand down my pants while you talked to Karga—”

“Shit,” he snarls, his hips jerking up into yours almost unintentionally with the sentiment.  “Shit—I—”

“I would’ve let you,” you moan, starting to move as best you can with his thrusts.  The positioning doesn’t allow for him to do much besides roll his hips in short, stunted movements, but it’s just enough to let you slowly build your pleasure until it’s simmering and burning through you.  “Do you think he would’ve still flirted with me if he knew you had two of your fingers inside me under that table?”

“Shut up,” he snaps, but it’s way too breathless and worked up to be anything close to threatening.  “Maker, you have to—have to sh-shut up or I won’t last—”

You can hear how fucking wet you are.  Your pussy is nearly drowning him now, slick and hot and drenched as you roll your hips up and down on top of him.  “Does that turn you on?”  You murmur, breathing hot air onto his neck and riding his cock slow and steady.

“Fuck—you’re—” Mando growls, tugging a fistful of your hair and fucking up into you as best he can in this position.  “You’re asking if it… if it t-turns me on to hear you s-say—say you wanna cum all over my fucking hand while I talk b-business with someone?  You f-fucking kidding… kidding me?”

Your cunt starts to tighten around him.  Fuck, the power trip you’re experiencing from being on top of him is starting to go to your head.  You feel brash.  Reckless and bold.  It translates to a quicker, harder pace, your hips starting to shove down onto him at the apex of his thrust upwards and hitting a spot inside you that flashes lightning down your spine.

“Fuck, I used to—used to th-think about it,” you gasp, your eyes squeezed shut and just trying to breathe through it.  “Some—sometimes.  Used to get off thinking about it.  Used to think about you and touch myself and make myself cum on the floor of your fucking ship, Din.”

Fuck, the sound he makes is one you’ve only heard once.  The time he had a jagged knife wound on his back.  An agonizingly tight, ragged gasp of a sound, the one he only makes when he’s in incredible pain and trying to hide it.  The blast of heat from it nearly sears through you and suddenly everything is pulling up hot and tight, settling low and locking your hips in position as you start to grind down hard on him—

Fuck, you’re almost there—you’re almost there, you’re almost there, you’re almost—

But then suddenly you’re being lifted up, and you nearly sob into his neck and desperately claw at him when his cock falls out of you with the jostle.  But then you’re being carried backwards and your back is slamming down into the floor, and he’s shoving his arms under your legs and positioning your hips up over his thighs.  For a split second, your eyes nearly come open with the chaotic shift in position.  But as if he knew exactly what would happen, Mando claps his hand over your eyes and braces himself on the floor by your head with the other hand, and then—

And then he starts fucking you.

Actually, no, because that word isn’t nearly good enough right now.  One of the very few occasions where a word as universal as “fuck” just doesn’t quite seem to cover it.  It would be better to say he shoves back into you and starts shattering your entire galaxy to pieces on the floor of the cockpit, making you scream his name—his real name—as he starts jackhammering his hips against yours, hand held tight over your eyes and legs braced over his broad shoulders.

It’s fucking debilitating.  It’s absolute madness, snatching your body up and wringing it dry of any last traces of your sanity.  The adjustment to his angle and speed is like a nuclear detonation inside you, and it launches you higher than you thought you could go.  You just dig your nails into his arms and sob brokenly for him at the ceiling, letting his hips collide roughly with yours as he fucks you down hard into the floor.

His mouth is at your neck as he grits the words darkly against your throat.  “Fuck, you need to learn how to be quiet when I fucking tell you to, understand?”

“I’m—” you gasp, eyes screwed up so tight behind his fingers that you don’t even notice the tear slipping out.  “I’m s-sorry—”

“Fuck—shut up,” he growls once more.  Stars, he’s hard and throbbing and he’s shredding up against raw heaven inside you, and you can barely hear him over the sound of your crying, so fucking close to the edge and begging for him.  “Maker,” he snarls, bringing his elbow down next to your head and shifting his weight so he can reach down in between your legs, “if you want it that fucking bad, I’ll f-fucking do it.  I’ll rub your pr-pretty little clit in the middle of that fucking cantina next time just like this.  Make you cum right in front of him, show him that you’re fucking mine—”

You feel like you can’t even breathe anymore.  “He—he didn’t w-want to fuck me—”

“Everyone in that d-dirty piece of shit bar wanted to fuck you, you s-sweet little thing,” he grits, rubbing tight circles over your clit and pounding directly into your g-spot with such precision and force, your eyes roll back under his hand and your spine suddenly goes rigid.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, Din,” you whisper, your voice frantic and rushed and breathless as you claw aimlessly down his chest plate.  Everything pulls up sharp and burning and you’re already starting to bear down on him, starting to slowly squeeze his cock and tighten down hard in preparation for it.  “I’m gonna fucking cum—”

“Fuck, yes—” he gasps, “—fuck, let me f-feel you cum—let me feel this fucking cunt g-get wet, little girl, let m—”

He keeps talking, but you don’t hear him.  Everything is suddenly drowned out by the roaring of blood rushing through your ears, your body locking down so fucking tight around him that you wouldn’t be able to see anymore, even if his hand wasn’t clamped down hard over your eyes.

Din keeps fucking you as your orgasm slams through you with such force that your voice cracks, the blaze of white hot bliss ripping you apart.  He rubs your clit and holds you down and makes you take his cock the entire time, forcing you even higher through the explosive pleasure and muttering filth about how fucking gorgeous you are when you cum on him, how he wants to make you cum again but he can’t hold it back—

You’re saying something.  Repeating it, over and over again breathlessly in time with his ruthless thrusts, pleading and gasping it through shuddering tears.

Din—Din—Din—Din—Din—

“Shit, I’m gonna cum,” he groans, stuttering to a halt inside you.  You can feel him swollen and throbbing hard inside you now that he’s still.  “Can I—can I c-cum—o-on your—”

“Yes,” you gasp, not needing anything else.  “Please.”  He can cum wherever the fuck he wants to and you’ll beg for it all the same.

So he abruptly pulls out of you and drops your legs down from his shoulders, letting them sprawl out on the floor and shake as he clambers over your body.  His breathing is ragged and you can hear him jerking himself off already as he continues to climb over you.

“Fuck,” he nearly wheezes, “fuck, don’t open your eyes, sweet girl, don’t open your pretty f-fucking eyes, I’m gonna—” and then his hand is coming off your face and tangling in your hair to hold you still, “—fuck, you’re—you’re so f-fucking p-pretty, baby, m’gonna c-cum all over your pretty fucking f-f-face, I—”  His breath catches, and the only sound that can be heard besides his hand jerking himself off over you is a hoarse, tight, “open your m-mouth—o-open your fuck—ing—”

His body jolts with pleasure above you and a moan tears from his throat as you immediately do as you’re told.  And then he’s cumming, spurting thick ropes of his warmth all over your face and parted lips and gasping out curses and his satisfaction with you.  Fuck, you feel him paint your cheeks and mouth with it, feel him shudder and hear him growl your name as he lets go.

When Din’s body finally stops shaking and he slows down his hand around his cock to squeeze the last bit of it out of him, you wait a few seconds before asking.

“Do you want me to eat it or do you want me to keep it on my face like this?”  You whisper, eyes still obediently shut.

“Fuck,” he pants from above you, trying to catch his breath.  Metal clangs next to your head as he braces himself against the floor.  “F-Fuck—eat it.”

You immediately bring your hand up to gather the sticky warmth from your cheeks on your fingers and dip them in your mouth.  He watches you the entire time, even though you can’t see him.  He watches you eat his cum off your own face, your eyes closed and content to just lay here and clean yourself off as he catches his breath.

Suddenly his tongue is hot and wet as it slides under your jaw, gathering a bit that you missed and then attaching his lips to yours and pushing it into your mouth.  You hum under him and tangle your fingers into his hair, feeling him move back a bit to stretch his legs and settle himself down on top of you.

You break away from him and turn your face just in time to feel all the oxygen rush out of your lungs the second he plops down on you.

“Maker, you are so fucking heavy,” you say, trying to conserve as much air as possible while speaking because he’s making it so fucking hard to breathe like this.

“Tell me about it,” he sighs, nibbling at your collarbone and sounding completely undisturbed by your predicament.  “It wasn’t so bad when I was younger, but now my back is always just fucking killing me.”

“Fuck, get off,” you grab his pauldrons and try and shove him off you, your eyes clenching tight with the effort.  He eventually rolls off you, but it’s very obviously because he eventually decides to take pity on you and do it himself.  “I don’t even know what fucking sector we’re in but I’m pretty sure we’re gonna be dropping into an atmosphere real quick now.”

“Fuck,” Mando grunts, just as the navcomp starts beeping rapidly.  “Fuck, I can’t—can’t get up.”

“You can’t get up?”  You bite out, draping an elbow over your eyes so you won’t have to worry about accidentally opening them.  “Put your fucking helmet on and fly the ship before it crashes.”

He grumbles under his breath and eventually drags himself off of the floor, and the only thing you’re able to catch as he stumbles into the pilot seat and swivels around to face the console is “Karga” and “I was pushy.”

“Can I open my eyes now?”  You ask after a moment, feeling the thrusters kick in and hearing the beeping abruptly cut off.  The sound of metal scrapes across the floor before he answers you.

“No,” he eventually says, but the voice is modulated and run through a familiar filter.  “Keep laying there with your legs open like that.”

You would’ve snarked back at him if the last part of his response was nearly as sarcastic as the first part.  He almost sounds… vaguely serious.  “What are y—”

“Don’t move,” he tells you, and you still can’t fucking gauge the tone of his voice, especially now that it’s coming through fucking beskar.  “It’s the first quarry and the kid is still passed out.  I’ll land somewhere and… we can keep going.  Just for… just for a little bit before I leave.”

He… is he serious?  He wants to… keep going?  What does that even fucking mean?  He just made himself cum all over your face, what the fuck does he mean by “keep going”??

All you can do is lay there on the floor, waiting to find out.  After all, you stand by what you said earlier.

Mando isn’t always rushed.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #reader insert #no-droids #rough day #SMUT #Pedro Pascal

[lavenderbexlatte]

play you on repeat

stray kids  11.8k words female reader insert FemDom!Reader x Sub!3RACHA EXPLICIT/NSFW

🖤 warnings: unprotected sex, degradation 🖤

Series Masterlist (Parts 1-7)

connect with me! / masterlist

The three of them follow you all the way to the front door in a line like little ducklings, eager-eyed and silent as you part the crowds of students and friends on your way outside.

You only see those eager eyes when you turn around on the front porch of the random house that's throwing this party. Changbin stands just behind you, Jisung after him and Chan bringing up the rear.

They really want more, then. Their instant agreement kind of surprises you; it's one thing to flirt or make out with someone at a party, but it's another thing entirely to invite random classmates home for an orgy. But you're not crazy or stupid enough to let the chance pass you by. You're all in.

"Okay, boys," you say, "Where are we doing this?"

"Me and 'Bin live together," says Chan quickly.

You regard him coolly. "Just you two?"

"Just us," he nods.

That's promising. You live independently but you have roommates, and while you're sure you could sneak one hookup into your room, three of them might turn some heads. Your roommates are patient, but not that patient.

So you smile at them. "Okay. I trust you three aren’t gonna try any dirty tricks on me?"

"Dirty tricks?" Changbin repeats.

You shrug. "Stealing my wallet. Selling me into indentured servitude. Harvesting my organs. The usual nightmare date stuff."

"Why would we do that?" Jisung asks, looking amused but also concerned.

Is he worried that you don't trust them? That's kind of cute.

You just smile wider. "We don't know each other very well, I’m a woman and you’re three men. You guys might be dangerous."

It’s obvious that you’re teasing them. You can't help but laugh a little, saying it, since you’ve actually been alone with the three of them before, for your school project some weeks ago. Besides, the most unpredictable and potentially dangerous person here is you. That's already been proven. The three of them seem just as amused as you, though, so you've succeeded in breaking any tension that was gathering.

"Did you guys drive here?" you ask.

"No," says Jisung.

"Neither did I," you say, “I was planning on getting drunk.”

"No worries. Called a cab already," says Chan.

His cocky attitude is back as he waves his phone in your direction, the screen showing a little animated car tracing its way to your location. When did he order a ride? More importantly, at what point did he assume you were gonna wanna go back to his place? He's right, of course, and you do want to, but come on.

"Presumptuous," you tease.

He shrugs. "Well, 'Sung has roommates, and I figured you wouldn't want three near strangers at your place."

The flash of his eyes lets you know that he’s feeling quite high and mighty for having made up your mind for you. Oh, you're going to have to break this attitude ASAP.

You set about thinking of exactly how to do that as you meander toward the road to wait for the car, trusting that someone will tell you when it arrives. You stand on the sidewalk in the dim circle of light cast by a streetlamp. Chan wants more, right?

So do you. Three boys...three boys who are all partners, it seems. There's gonna be some finagling tonight, some organization needed. You ponder exactly what you want from them. The options are endless, truly. This is going to be very, very good.

When the car pulls up, Changbin comes over and slings his arm around your waist, like he's the one taking you home and not the other way around (figuratively, at least). You look at him, amused, relishing how you can almost meet his eye with the small difference between his height and yours.

"What's this?" you ask, gesturing at his arm around you.

"I'm being gentlemanly," he pouts, bottom lip pushed out exaggeratedly, "Don't kill the vibe."

He's being silly, you realize. That firm confidence from before is gone, replaced by what seems to be an eager desire for you to like him. He's in luck, then. You already like him.

You climb into the back seat of the small black sedan, scooting all the way over to the far window seat. Chan follows right behind you, settling in the middle with Jisung after him. Changbin is up front with the driver. You can tell that the boys would rather have you in the middle seat by the way that Chan and Jisung are playfully glaring at each other, but you much prefer to have your own space by the window. Nobody likes the middle seat.

The boys busy themselves with their phones on the ride, but you just watch the boys instead. You can tell that they know you're watching. Jisung meets your eye once and looks away quickly, grinning, and Changbin is just barely resisting turning all the way around to look at you head-on. You think you know what you want to do with those two, since they're pretty communicative and easy to read, so you study the real predicament.

Chan.

He's got pretty hands, you notice, as he taps away at his phone. He also has one of those dorky leather phone cases with wallet pockets. You just can't get into those; young people use them a lot, now, but you always associate them with dads and teachers and stuff. Old people. Chan's is full of cards, his student ID and a credit card and others. You peer closer at his driver's license with its tiny picture of him. His curly hair is blonde in the photo, which is cute.

You notice something else, too - his birthdate. Chan is in your year in school, but you never knew...

"Are you...are you younger than me?" you ask him, delighted.

He blinks at you. "How old are you?"

You tell him - a year or so older than him. It's not much, but definitely something in a society that puts so much emphasis on age. It also puts you at the oldest in this group by a bit of a margin, considering Changbin is a couple years younger than Chan and Jisung is younger still.

"That makes me the noona tonight," you tease.

Chan gives you an alarmed side-eye, his pale cheeks blushing furiously and his pupils blown big. He's into the noona thing, too? You wonder exactly how many little one-ups you're going to have on him tonight.

So you're the oldest. Hm. You grin to yourself. So they thought they were bagging a shy, quiet submissive, and instead they got you.

The ride to their place is short, and you're surprised when the cab pulls up in front of a small one-story house instead of an apartment building. Not many students around here have homes, since housing prices in the city are predictably sky-high and out of the average student budget. The boys get out of the car right away, thanking the driver, but you take your time. You study the house, the cars in the driveway (two of them, one silver sedan, one black mid-size SUV) and the neat front garden.

"A house," you say mildly.

Changbin looks embarrassed for the first time that night, as he stutters, "My family - I'm - we have-"

"Fucking PILES of money," Chan finishes for him, grinning, "I pay him rent, can you believe it?"

"I didn't want him to pay anything but he insisted," Changbin says.

"I'm not a freeloader," Chan insists.

"You think I'm gonna make my own boyfriend pay rent when I could buy him his own house?" Changbin grumbles, heading up the front walk.

Jisung has already let himself into the house uninterested in the conversation. He doesn't live there, you remember, but obviously he's no stranger. You follow Changbin inside, vaguely aware of Chan coming after you. It's a cute house, you admit to yourself, as you step in the door and kick off your shoes.

It does look like a house where a bunch of boys live, though. An artists' den. There's music equipment strewn all over the small living room; Bluetooth speakers, a midi board, a full-size electric keyboard, a drum pad. Propped on a small table in the corner is a silver slab that you realize is a YouTube subscriber award plaque, and there’s a Soundcloud affiliate certificate next to it.

"The rumors about you guys are true, then," you say, mostly to yourself, not even thinking.

Changbin looks at you, confused. So does Jisung. Chan just smiles lopsidedly.

"What rumors?" Jisung asks.

"Oh." You can feel your face heating up. "Just that you guys are...musicians."

You were actually thinking about their minor celebrity status, their Soundcloud rapper status, but you don't know if that will come across as...like...offensive? Is it rude to call people Soundcloud rappers, since that’s kind of become an insult? They're obviously even more well-known than you thought, if the 100k subs plaque is anything to go off. Not just campus royalty, but actually somewhat famous. It’s bizarre.

"Musicians," Chan repeats, amused.

You kind of hate the expression on his face. He's still holding onto that weird confident charm from the party, the face that you assume he puts on in these situations to pretend he's not one good hair-pull away from whining and begging.

"You can't pretend that you don't know," you say, more aggressively than you mean to, "On campus, with everyone from school…you guys are super...popular."

It sounds so stupid to say, like you're the ugly duckling in a bad teen movie. 'You can’t like meeeee, you're soooo cool and popular!'

"Are we?" Jisung asks, looking genuinely surprised.

Oh my God. You want to facepalm. You want to grab one of them and shake them.

"You literally tried to seduce me in there," you point out, "Would that have worked if you weren't popular? That's something popular people do. Use their, like, social standing to get people to sleep with them."

"That would make us pretty shitty people," Chan says delicately. "Imbalance of power and all that."

Oh. You didn't mean to accuse them of anything. You open your mouth to apologize, feeling incredibly out of place, but Jisung interrupts you, completely unbothered.

"It's only worked once before, anyway," he says.

"...Picking someone up?" you ask.

Changbin nods, "And that only worked because Felix already had a crush on me and Chan. We just had to sell him on Jisung."

"Hey!" Jisung pouts.

Chan pets his hair placatingly, and Jisung shrugs him off in favor of heading for the kitchen, mumbling about being a fucking catch. But you’re focusing on a different bit of what Changbin told you.

"You guys fucked Felix Lee?" you ask, incredulous.

“Maybe a month ago, yeah,” Changbin says.

The cute, freckled face of dance team captain Felix Lee swims in your mind for a moment, followed by the memory of his chiseled abs from a performance earlier in the year. He’s a rising sophomore, but solidly half of campus has a crush on him. Damn, THOSE are their standards, and they wanna fuck YOU? You gotta start giving yourself more credit.

"So, we're popular," Chan muses.

"You had to have known that," you shake your head, "Literally everyone knows you. First years are so thirsty for you. That's why I was so-"

You cut yourself off. They don't need to know that you were flustered when they approached you, back there. They don't need the ego trip.

So you just affix your best innocent smile to you face, looking the three of them over. Chan, leaning against the back of the couch. Changbin, lining up all four pairs of shoes (theirs and yours) by the front door. And Jisung, returned from the kitchen with a bottle of water that he's chugging like a dying man.

"You didn't invite me over to talk about your social status," you say instead.

"We sure didn't," Chan agrees.

"First things first, then," you say, "Boundaries. You guys have any hard limits? Safewords? Musts and don'ts?"

"Nope," says Jisung, taking another sip of the water to punctuate it.

"No musts or no don'ts?" you ask.

"Yes," he quips.

You can't help the way your smile grows. "Alright. Anyone else?"

"No serious degrading," Changbin says, very very quietly.

“Praise motivated, huh?” you coo, “Cute.”

Changbin looks slightly embarrassed, but his eyes are sharp and engaged as he adds, “And no digs at my size.”

You grin. "Size or size?"

"Either!" he pouts.

"Sounds fair to me," you say.

You fix your eyes on the last one: Chan, still looking only mildly interested and very calm. But you can see the very tips of his ears going red, and then it spreads down his cheeks, and then down his neck as you watch him.

And finally, he says, "I'm not good with praise."

Jisung laughs, loud and ridiculous. "That's an understatement."

You smile warmly at Chan, not wanting him to back down if this is a legit thing for him, "So does that mean no praise?"

"No," he says immediately, "Just that...if you - I get all-"

"Flustered," you finish for him. "Good to know."

You pause for a second, wondering what kind of hard limits you'll need to bring up to them tonight. They don't seem like the kind of partners to push you into anything, if they way they're already tiptoeing around is any indication.

"I don't like hitting in the face," you say, after a moment. "Or blood."

Changbin gives you a look. "Is that the kind of stuff you do on your first night with someone?"

You laugh, "No, not usually. But some people have really specific fetishes, and I live to please. Gotta lay everything out before we start."

Chan nods sincerely, like he knows exactly what you're saying, and Jisung follows suit. You're satisfied that you've covered your bases now. And besides, you really want to get started. You have three beautiful men here to play with.

So you say, "Okay. Who's first?"

You're still smiling, but you let some of your pent-up excitement leak into it, wondering if any of them will take the bait. You wonder if they're starting to think that you're some kind of super strict domme. Very serious, or very demanding, or something. You've had that problem before, with people crumbling before you even get started since you're so blunt about boundaries. Some people take that to mean that you like rigid roles and rules and set scenes.

But that's not really true. After the communication is solidified and you trust your partner, you like to just...let go.

Much to your amusement, the first one to crack is Jisung.

He practically bounces up to you, his face so perfectly cute that you wonder if he practices the look in the mirror. It's equal parts funny and ironic, since he's the youngest and also, from what you've seen at school, the one who wants to be taken most seriously.

"I'm first," he informs you.

You smile. You can't help it. His expression is so open and happy, even though his eyes are a little nervous. It's just so much. You gently nudge Chan away from the couch, and pat the back of it gently, invitingly. Jisung seems to understand you immediately and hops right up, balancing himself on the frame and the tops of the cushions, his legs dangling down the back of the couch. You settle yourself between his legs, standing purposefully, spreading your hands across his back to support him gently.

He leans back a little as if to test you, and you hold him up easily. It's not so much that you're strong, but that Jisung's so lean and slim. And even if he did fall, it would just be the short drop onto the seat of the couch. His eyes go wider as he realizes what kind of game you're playing with him. It's a signal, and you figured he'd be smart enough to pick up on it.

"I've got you," you say, very softly, into his ear.

Even if you look unassuming, even if they're taller and louder and bolder than you. Even if you're a gentle dom who puts up with some antics.

You're in control.

When you pull back and look at him, you swear you can see the little cartoon stars blooming in his eyes. He definitely got the message loud and clear.

He nods, almost imperceptibly, and says, "I know."

And you kiss him. He deserves it. A proper kiss, not like the teasing you'd done to him at the party. You let him lick into your mouth, scrape your teeth gently over his soft bottom lip. He's a good boy, you decide. Certified good boy.

Jisung leans back a bit more as he pulls away from you, and he lurches, loses his balance. He doesn’t go anywhere, since you're still holding him up securely, but he looks spooked. It fascinates you, how quickly he's fallen into the game of it. There's no risk if he falls, and yet...

"Can I-" he asks, " - can I touch-"

"Yeah," you say, cutting him off.

And then he's gently holding your face with one hand, the other arm draped over your shoulder, fingers playing with your hair. His body is much more relaxed as he kisses you, and you relish in it.

Oh, he's a sweetheart, you realize. Not a pushover or anything; he's still cupping your face and smiling into the kiss, confident and comfortable. But a good boy.

"You're so pretty," you say.

Jisung honest to God whines against your lips at the praise.

"It's true," you say, amused.

"He likes that a lot," comes Chan's voice.

You jump, having nearly forgotten your audience again. The other two are standing just beside you, watching intently as you work over their boyfriend.

"Being called pretty?" you ask him, as if Jisung isn't even there.

Chan nods.

"Well, he is," you affirm, leaning in to kiss Jisung's nose, trying to get your groove back.

Honestly, it’s a struggle to keep up with the fact that you’re trying to dom three people at once. You know you’ll do fine. It’s group sex, not a goddamn triathlon. But it’s useful here that you prefer domming psychologically, rather than with lots of physical force. You don’t know exactly what these three are used to, what they’re comfortable doing. A first-time with three people at once probably isn't the best time to fly in with a strap-on and demand people obey you.

So doing this the old-fashioned way, with simple baiting, praising, awarding, withholding…that’s gonna be the way forward.

“Who’s got the best bed for a foursome?” you ask, still holding up Jisung but looking expectantly back at Chan and Changbin.

Changbin nudges Chan with his elbow, "D'you think you could handle moving your pillow fort? For sexy purposes."

"Pillow fort?" you repeat.

"I have a lot of pillows, it's fine," Chan defends. "No big deal."

"He makes a nest with them," pipes up Jisung, "Like a crib."

Chan glares at him, "I'm sorry, I didn't know it was Put Chan On Blast Night."

"Okay, whose bed is biggest?" you ask instead, deigning not to comment on the pillow thing any further.

"Changbin's," says Jisung.

"Then we can go there."

"Yes, ma'am," Changbin says easily, and he turns on his heel to head for the bedroom door on the right side of the house.

It's a small house, so he's quickly out of sight. Chan follows after him. You unwind your arms from around Jisung's little waist, and he lets himself drop dramatically backwards onto the couch cushions. You follow Chan, and Jisung chases after you.

Changbin's room is painted an off-white, the bedding rich dark blue against neutral wood furniture. It's extremely well-done for a college boy's room. You're impressed. It might even be more cohesive than your room. Now, at night, with just the soft light coming in from outside in the gap of his slightly-open blackout curtains, it looks impossibly atmospheric.

"Hold on," Changbin mutters, as you take in the space.

There's a soft click, and a set of fairy lights come on, strung around the perimeter of the room. They're an interesting color array, purple and blue and cool white. It's bright enough to see what you're doing, to see each other, but dark enough to set the tone. Yeah. They have a lot of sex in here. You're kind of excited to be part of it.

"Is there anyone-" you start, before your mind can filter the thought, and you stop.

But all three of them are just looking at you, standing there in a little line. You walk deeper into the room. You can do this. And so you swallow that last trace of lingering shame and ask them outright.

"Is there anyone who doesn't wanna fuck me?"

Jisung and Changbin break out in raucous laughter, and Chan just regards you.

"Why would we not want to?" Chan asks.

"I mean," you huff feeling petulant despite yourself, "Some people have no interest in the P in V stuff and would prefer something else, shut up!"

"You ask a lot of questions," Chan shoots back.

"I'm being considerate," you reply.

"No, I think we're all on board," interrupts Changbin, as if to head off a real argument.

You have no intention of fighting, though. You wonder what kind of people these three have hooked up with in the past. They obviously have no communication difficulties with each other, and yet they're (well...Chan is) being so difficult with you.

"Perfect," you say, "'Bin, c'mere."

Changbin shuffles nearer to you, leaving the others behind, and you look him over carefully. He's broad and strong, much bigger than Jisung. Your approach to him has to be a little different, you think. You make a quick decision: he's gonna be your ally tonight.

You lean into his ear and whisper the plan you've been making up on the fly. He listens. And when you've finished, Changbin grins conniving and bright.

"Does that sound good?" you ask him.

He nods. "I think they'll like it."

"Like what?" Jisung asks eagerly.

"Don't worry about it," you reply.

"I'm gonna worry about it," says Chan.

That dude. So neurotic. You really need to figure out what his buttons are, so you can know which ones to press and which to avoid. It's gonna take more than a little hair-pulling to figure out, you wager.

"'Bin, give me a hand?" you say, gesturing at your top.

Changbin gives you a winning smile and looks gloatingly back at Jisung, then at Chan, and then he reaches down to leisurely unbutton your shirt. You never wear button-downs, but you're glad you did tonight. They make undressing so much more...cinematic.

You shrug off the shirt when Changbin's done, the final button falling open, and you move next to strip off his t-shirt, too. He wears those things tight. He always has; you can't even count how many days in class you've spent staring at the muscular span of his shoulders. This one is the same, clinging to his form ridiculously, like he's trying out to be Captain America's body double.

When the t-shirt is gone, you're greeted with a thick, toned upper body that dips into solid, narrower hips. Not quite cut, no chocolate abs or anything, but he's got some impressive working muscle under his deep-toned skin. Beef. He's beefy.

"Wow," you say appreciatively, running your hand from his collarbone all the way down to his belt.

"What about us?" Jisung asks.

"Patience," you murmur, "Don't you want Changbinnie to feel good?"

Jisung pouts, but says, "Yes..."

"Then you can wait your turn," you say plaintively.

"Can I kiss you, noona?" Changbin asks.

You look at him, amused. "So you heard that conversation."

Changbin shakes his head. "I knew before. Chan-hyung always calls you-"

Chan squeaks, mortified, cutting him off, but you've heard plenty.

"Oh, he always calls me noona," you purr, "Before he knew how old I was?"

"Yes," Changbin says.

That's interesting, to say the least. It means that their approach to you from the start was to defer familiar respect and treat you like an elder, rather than a peer. Hm.

You get a little closer, bringing your face up to his. "Do you talk about me a lot?"

"No," Changbin breathes, "But when we do-"

"Dude!" Chan hisses.

"Don't listen to him," you soothe Changbin, giving Chan a little wink over your shoulder, "Thank you for telling me."

You kiss Changbin, since he did ask so nicely and gave you a wonderful tidbit about Chan. He's a good kisser. Needy; he's pressing you backwards with his enthusiasm. You reach to put your arms around his neck, but then you reconsider. Instead, you fold yourself against his chest, palms flat on his pecs. It gives the illusion that you're much smaller than him, even though admittedly he's not a very tall person.

The change in his body language is instantaneous. Your hunch was right - he likes feeling big. He did say not to make digs about his size. Well, you certainly won't about his height. But his size...

You move down and begin unbuckling his belt.

"How come only he gets to get naked?" Jisung complains.

You glance at him, hands busy unbuttoning and zipping down Changbin.

"I'm not stopping you," you reply, "You could undress without permission. But you'll miss out on all the fun if you just go off on your own."

Jisung blinks doe eyes at you, and Chan huffs out a laugh.

"Some dom you are, yeah?" Chan scoffs.

You shrug. "I can't make you do anything. I'm not gonna force you."

"No?" Chan says.

"That's the fun of this stuff, isn't it?" you say.

You ruffle Changbin's hair playfully, and motion for him to continue undressing himself. Willing all the grace you know you possess, you walk over to Chan, keeping your motions fluid and careless. You want him to see exactly what kind of dom you are.

"The fact that you don't have to listen to me. That's the fun," you say, "You don't have to. But you will. You wanna be good."

Chan swallows hard. "I..."

"I'm sure you like being good," you continue, cupping Chan's face in both of your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're gonna be good for me, aren't you, peach?"

"Yeah," he says, so quietly that you think you've imagined it, his cheeks burning red.

"I'm sorry," you hum, "I didn't hear that. Yes...?"

"Yes, noona," Chan says.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, noona, I'll be good for you."

"I thought you would be," you say, satisfied. "Go sit on the bed. Against the headboard."

He looks like he wants to complain about that, but you shrug again, punctuating that you're truly not here to force anyone. Domming is about control, not force. If Chan wants to turn over control to you, he will.

And he does.

He scrambles up the bed and sits with his back against the headboard. You can feel his eyes on you, and Jisung's wide, wide eyes, as you return to Changbin.

Changbin is down to his boxer-briefs, and God, he's good-looking. Solid and masculine. You kind of just want to have your way with him and be done with it. But that's not the plan.

“Jisung,” you say.

He jumps, not expecting to be addressed. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay bottoming tonight?”

“’Course,” he affirms, “Always. For who?”

You glance at Changbin, who nods, and Jisung smiles his biggest, most genuine smile, crooked front tooth and all.

“I like this plan,” he says.

That assent is all you need to hear.

“Is there lube?” you ask Changbin.

He turns away, presumably to grab it, and you snag Jisung by the wrist and tug him toward you. Jisung's wide smile is distracting, as you have him lie down on the bed. Changbin's bed is a king, you think, a really really big mattress with plenty of room to use. But when Jisung sprawls out easily, the top of his head is close to Chan.

"You have one rule, up there," you say to Chan, "No touching."

"No touching...him?" Chan asked, pointing at Jisung.

You smile. "No touching. Him, me, 'Bin, yourself. No touching."

Chan looks wide-eyed, almost hurt at your words. You can't tell exactly how he's feeling, so you move around the bed until you're right in front of him, and take one of his hands in yours.

"Is that okay?" you ask, "Are you okay with that?"

"I'm okay," he says.

You look at Changbin, waiting by Jisung's knees at the edge of the bed, and at Jisung himself, watching you upside-down.

"Can I implement the traffic light system?" you ask them, "It's the easiest safeword system for me, I think, with so many of you."

"You mean the color thing," Changbin clarifies.

"Yeah," you nod.

"We've used that one before," says Jisung agreeably, "We don't usually use any safewords but we can do that.

You turn back to Chan. "Does that work for you?"

He smiles, and it warms up his face all the way to his eyes, so you relax.

"Yeah, that works well," he says.

"Good," you say, "So. Color?"

"Green," says Chan.

"Great."

You lean in and kiss him for his trouble, realizing with a thrill that you've really only kissed him one other time. He's damn good at it, too, eager but gentle with just enough pressure. You pull back right as he starts to really melt against you, and drop his hand back onto his lap, in favor of returning to Jisung where you've left him.

Jisung, for his part, is lounging back on his elbows, just watching you, and you nudge his knees farther apart as you settle in between them. You can feel Changbin's warmth behind you again as he hovers, not quite touching you.

"Noona," he whines.

You glance back at him, his chin at your shoulder.

"I know," you tut, "You're already doing a good job for me, gorgeous."

He beams at the praise, and repeats, "Noonaaaa."

You smile to yourself at the lilt in his voice. "You can touch, baby."

There are suddenly lips against the side of your throat, Changbin trailing kisses across your skin, and hands on your waist pulling you back gingerly, as if he's afraid you'll tell him off for being too greedy (which is a good and valid worry). You lean away, down toward Jisung, and coax him upright to peel the baggy t-shirt off him. As you get the garment over his head, you're surprised to see firm abs and pecs. Jisung is small and thin, but apparently very, very muscular. Huh.

"You've been holding out on me," you chide him.

"Don't think about it that way, noona," Jisung says, "Think of it as a nice surprise."

You huff out a laugh. He's being kind of mouthy, but it's cute, so you're gonna let it slide. Mostly.

"Are you in any position to be telling me what to do?" you tease.

Jisung shrugs, lips pursed. You tickle your fingers down the hard line of his abs, grinning when he jumps and squeaks under your touch.

"'Bin?" you ask.

"Yes?"

"Who here is overdressed?"

Changbin hums against your skin, mouthing at the soft juncture of your neck and your shoulder, and says, "Jisungie, noona. And you."

"Not Chan?" you ask lightly.

Changbin grins. You can feel the flats of his teeth against your skin.

"Not unless you say so, noona," Changbin says.

"Good call, gorgeous," you say, leaning back into his touch.

He's hard against your ass, you note. Perfect. You go for Jisung's skintight jeans next, unbuttoning and peeling the black denim down his slim thighs. He's so dainty, all thin graceful limbs, his frame small but masculine and defined. You can see his cock twitch with interest as you get the jeans all the way off, his boxers beginning to tent.

"Excited?" you ask, letting your hand trail over him, gently feeling the outline of him through the thin fabric.

"Yeah," he says, shameless.

"Who should get undressed first?" you ask Jisung,

Jisung must register something in your tone, as his big eyes look from you, to Changbin, back to you.

And then he says, "Me, noona."

"Oh," you purr, "Good boy."

You free him from his boxers, and it's not a surprise when you're met with a pretty, proportional cock, flushed and lovely. You're hit with the urge to feel the weight of him in your mouth. And fuck, this is YOUR game, isn't it? So you lean down and do just that, taking his head between your lips.

Jisung gasps, high and pretty, and you can see Chan's face above you darken. He looks...jealous?

"Peach, you okay?" you say, coming off Jisung to speak.

Chan looks at you, puppy-eyed.

"I want..." he trails plaintively.

"I know you do," you agree. “Don’t be greedy.”

He's still sitting obediently, hands balled into fists atop his thighs and not touching anything. He's the only one fully dressed, and you can tell that it's driving him crazy. He can wait. You know he can.

So you nuzzle against Jisung's stomach indulgently and ask him, "Who next?"

Jisung pauses, comprehending what you've asked, and then he says, "Changbin-hyung."

You place your hand over Changbin's where it still rests in its spot on your waist.

"You heard him, Binnie," you say, "Go 'head."

His warmth vanishes from behind you for only a few seconds before he's back, his now unencumbered cock brushing against your shorts. You grip Jisung's length again, pumping him for a moment, looking down at him with a glint in your eye.

"Here's what's going to happen," you say, standing up properly, "I'm going to prep you for Changbin, baby. And Changbin is gonna have some fun of his own while I do it."

Jisung nods his understanding at your words, his expression delighted, and Chan is all but panting as he sits pretty for you. There's a lovely flush creeping from his ears toward the neckline of his button-down shirt.

You shuck off your own shorts, left now in just your bra and panties. As you look down at yourself, you realize that while they are not a matching set, your underwear ARE about the same color, which you count as a personal victory. It's the little things.

"Hand me a pillow, peach?" you ask Chan.

He nearly topples over in his eagerness to give you a pillow from the head of the bed. You have Jisung raise his hips, and settle the pillow under him, angling him up for better access. He doesn't seem the slightest bit self-conscious, on display to you like that. You almost hate how attractive that is.

"Everyone, color?" you ask.

"Green," chirps Jisung, almost before you're done speaking.

"Green," Chan agrees.

"So green," Changbin groans from behind you, where he's still grinding against your ass.

"Wonderful," you murmur.

You turn your attention fully to the boy beneath you. Jisung is impeccably groomed, maybe even better than you, you think. There's a neat thatch of hair around the base, and he's all but hairless everywhere else. It's impressive.

You trail your hand over his balls, his perineum, to his hole, and he chokes out a moan as you just graze the thin skin there.

"Are you sure you're ready to go, Jisungie?" you ask, and he nods eagerly.

"I wanted to bottom tonight anyway," he informs you cheekily.

Chan laughs, which melts any of your lingering worries that you've overwhelming or neglecting him.

"That's true," Chan says softly. "He told us before the party."

"You guys are so much fun," you say.

The lube is laying on the comforter next to you, so you pick it up, pop the top, and coat two of your fingers in the stuff. You lean down over Jisung again, knowing how obscene you must look together, him all spread out for you and you draped over his lithe little body. You're sure both Chan, in front, and Changbin, behind, are getting an eyeful of the two of you.

"I'm gonna start," you warn Jisung.

"Finally," Jisung teases, "I was beginning to think - shit-"

He's cut off as you ease your index finger past that ring of muscle. The slide is much easier than you expected, but he still whines out in a pitch higher than you would have thought.

"You do this a lot?" you ask him, only half-teasing, slowly pumping your finger and relishing in the easy way he takes you, "You're so open."

"I do, yeah," Jisung agrees, breathless.

"And here I thought you were the bottom of the group," you say to Chan, letting a little bit of bite into your voice, wondering if they're at all into that.

Chan's flush picks back up, and he stammers, "I - mean-"

"He can be a great little hole, too," Jisung says, casually, "I wrecked him a couple days ago, didn't I, hyung?"

Still blushing furiously, Chan nods.

"Interesting," you say simply, turning your attention back to Jisung, "Hey, what happened to those pretty sounds?"

You curl your finger slightly, and Jisung lets out another gasp.

"That's more like it," you praise.

You almost wish you had a strap here, so you could do the next part yourself, too. But your actual plan is gonna be just as much fun, so you can easily be content with this.

"Noona," comes Changbin's voice.

"Yes?" you answer.

"Can I...I mean..." Changbin trails off, seeming embarrassed.

"Can you?" you prompt, amused at his sudden shyness.

"Can I make you feel good, too?" he asks.

"Oh, baby," you simper, "Of course. So good, asking for permission."

Changbin laughs breathlessly, and so does Jisung.

"Isn't he good?" you ask Jisung.

"Good," Jisung agrees, though he nearly chokes on the word.

He seems to be ready for another finger, so you draw out and press back in with two, this time. At the same time, you lean down to take his length back into your mouth. Jisung whimpers again, starting to press his hips down against your hand.

As you're bent over at the waist, pleasuring Jisung, you feel tentative fingers pulling your panties to the side. You wonder if you're going to get the warm press of a cockhead, or-

"Oh," you breathe, pulling off Jisung's cock again to collect yourself as the unmistakable trace of a tongue wanders up your core.

Changbin pulls away just as quickly as he began, and you all but groan in frustration.

"Come on, gorgeous, don't be shy," you urge.

And the tongue returns, more eager this time, as Changbin settles himself fully between your legs. You steel yourself to enjoy while also focusing on the task at hand, prepping Jisung, and keeping your wits about you. Changbin definitely doesn't seem like he's only a sub, and neither do the other two, honestly. They seem like switches, if you had to hazard a guess. It would be in poor taste to let any of them turn the tables on you, now, wouldn't it?

Your mind wanders a little as you scissor and work your two fingers, Jisung trembling and whimpering praise under you, Changbin's plush lips against your clit. How the fuck did you get here?

You're kind of floored to think that maybe an hour ago, you were at that party, bored, barely buzzed, and anonymous, or so you thought. Plain old you. And now you're here, sandwiched between two of the hot, popular guys from Physics class with the third one watching you and white-knuckling the sheets.

A surge of power sweeps through you at the thought. You're here. You have this. You deserve this. And you're gonna have a good fucking time.

"I'm ready!" Jisung is sputtering, "I'm - I'm-"

"Ready," you finish for him, bringing your focus back to the moment.

There's arousal building low in your stomach. Changbin is good with his mouth. You kind of wish you could see him while he's doing this.

"Ready for what?" you ask Jisung.

"More!" he whines, “More, Jesus, two fingers is basic!”

You pull your fingers out, which just makes him whine louder, to reapply lube. This time, you push in with three, and Jisung keens long and low.

"You know, Changbinnie," you say, making sure to keep your voice measured and casual, "You're gonna need to get wet to fit inside Jisungie's pretty hole."

Changbin pulls himself up at your words, leaving your core wet and exposed and distinctly throbbing, and he leans forward to take the lube from you. You stop him before he can take the bottle.

"That's not what I meant," you say sweetly.

There's a fraction of a second while he catches up, and then Changbin groans openly against your shoulder blade, as you continue to work your fingers steadily in and out of Jisung.

"Noona, we have condoms in Chan-hyung's room," Changbin says, "I can go-"

"No," you say, "No need."

And that's all the permission Changbin seems to need, before he's lining himself up.

"Can I?" he asks.

You coo. He hasn't missed a single beat, sweet and obedient and so ready to be good for you.

"You're so good, gorgeous," you say, "Yes, please."

He sinks into you quickly, no preamble, and you can't blame him for being eager because you're secretly just as ready for it. He's thicker than you expected, but you should have expected it, considering the rest of his body. You find yourself panting against Jisung’s hipbone, your fingers pausing inside Jisung as you enjoy the delicious stretch.

“Can I move, noona?” Changbin asks, sounding punched-out already.

“Take it slow,” you instruct him, “This is just a warmup for you, you know.”

Changbin whines under his breath but obeys you, pulling out agonizingly slowly. As you try to keep your head clear, you notice Chan shifting on the bed ahead of you, and you have an idea.

“Okay, peach,” you say, keeping your voice level, “Why don’t you come over here and have a good look?”

“A look?” Chan repeats, “At…”

You smile to yourself. “At whatever you want. Jisung is a pretty picture, I’m sure you know that.”

“And you, noona,” Changbin cuts in.

“And me?” you say, amused.

“Pretty,” says Changbin, by way of explanation, as he keeps up his slow, slow pace.

“Thanks,” you say, arching back against him, figuring he deserves a little reward.

You nod at Chan, encouraging, and he crawls off the bed and comes around behind you. You’re sure he can see everything from where he is - your fingers disappearing into Jisung’s heat, Changbin’s cock disappearing into you. The combined power of Changbin’s steady pace and Chan watching it all is a little overwhelming. You need to narrow your focus or else someone is gonna come before you intend it to happen, and that someone might just be you.

You gently pull your fingers out of Jisung’s hole, leaving him complaining behind you.

“It was just starting to get good, come on!” Jisung whines

“Patience, baby,” you say, giving Jisung a playing smack on the meat of his thigh.

You turn your head fully to look at Chan. He’s staring, transfixed, down on the place where Changbin’s cock is slowly working in and out of you. And now that your brain isn’t focusing on being careful with Jisung, the arousal is really catching up with you. You’re getting close.

Really, you reason, what’s the harm in having a little more fun for yourself?

“Jisungie,” you say, “You wanna give me a hand here?”

He looks rightfully confused, until you reach up and snap your own bra strap against your skin. Then Jisung winks at you, and reaches around to push-pull-snap open the hooks in the back in one fluid movement.

“How’d you get so good at that?” you ask him, amused. “None of your partners wear bras.”

Jisung looks offended. “Who says I don’t wear ‘em?”

“Good point.”

You shrug off the garment, now only in your panties, which aren’t doing much of anything anymore since Changbin’s fucking you around them. Jisung’s eyes are following your breasts as you readjust yourself, sitting up more and shifting your weight onto your knees. Man, your core is gonna be killing you tomorrow…

“Lock it up, baby, shit,” you tease Jisung, “How long has it been since you’ve seen tiddies?”

“That weren’t on a man? I don’t even know.”

“Hm.”

You reach down and start drawing lazy circles on your clit, and you can feel yourself clench down on Changbin at the stimulation. He gasps, and you tut at him.

“I know you can wait for me, gorgeous,” you say.

He whines, “But-”

“Changbinnie. You’re gonna let me feel good, aren’t you?” you ask him. “Don’t I deserve to cum first?”

“Yes,” he grinds out.

“Noona, can I do it?” Jisung asks suddenly.

You’re still hovering over him, all but laying on top of him, and you look down at his face. His eyes are fixed on your fingers, rubbing yourself through your underwear.

“Do what?” you ask, just to be difficult.

“Make you cum,” Jisung answers.

You take your hand off your clit and reach out to thread your fingers through Jisung’s, leading him back to the front of your panties.

“You and Binnie need to work together for this, huh?” you say, “One of you isn’t good enough? It has to be two?”

“I’m good enough,” Changbin argues.

“Shush,” you admonish, “Then prove it.”

You let your hand fall away again, as Jisung takes up the task. He slips his fingers down your waistband, circling hard and tight over your clit. Changbin, obedient to the end, is still somehow keeping up those slow, deep strokes that you demanded. And you have to admit: they’re determined to prove it.

“Jesus, noona,” Changbin whines.

“You’re not gonna cum yet,” you instruct.

“I know.”

Jisung meets Changbin’s eye over your shoulder; you can tell that’s what he’s doing from the smirk on Jisung’s face and the muttered shut up that Changbin stifles into your neck. He gets up on his knees, and you find yourself pressed between them, your forehead against Jisung’s breastbone as his fingers work under you. You glance up, intending to tell Jisung off for making his next move on his own, but the vision you see knocks that idea right out of your head.

They’re making out over you.

It’s so beautifully desperate, Changbin biting and panting into Jisung’s mouth and whining under it all as he fucks into you, Jisung with one hand fisted in Changbin’s hair and the other still dutifully circling your clit, wet and dirty. As you feel your peak coming on, you remember the last member of your party, poor Chan, still relegated to his spectator’s spot behind you all, still under orders not to touch. You look up at him, and God, you wish you had looked sooner.

Chan is standing there, hands cemented at his sides. He’s flushed from the tips of his ears all the way down his neck, to his chest, creeping under his shirt, and his eyes are hungry. But he’s being good, no matter how much he wants to move.

He’s still being good, and that’s what sends you over the edge. You drop your head back down against Jisung’s chest, and gasp and shake your way through your own orgasm. Changbin lets out a moan that borders on a shout, as you surprise him with your clenching walls, and he slows down even more, just grinding into you. There’s something so bone-deep satisfying about it, all three of the boys with their eyes on you and unable to do anything without your permission. They just have to watch and hold back.

You wait until you can speak properly before you say anything to them.

“You didn’t cum, did you, gorgeous?” you ask, swiveling your oversensitive pussy back on Changbin, spots swimming in your vision from how hard you came.

“No, noona,” Changbin says, and his voice is thin with strain but confident.

You know he didn’t, but it’s satisfying to make him say it. He’s holding still now, just standing there stuffing you full. That orgasm cleared your head a bit; you feel more centered than ever. And you feel a little bit bad for Chan, honestly. He’s gotten the least attention from you so far.

“I think Channie really wishes he was you two right now. What d’you think, peach?” you ask, directing the last part at Chan.

Chan doesn’t answer right away, which is just as well, because you can see his erection straining against his dark jeans. His eyes are fixed between your legs, where you can feel your own wetness inching obscenely out around Changbin’s cock.

“I asked you a question,” you say, louder, and Chan looks at your face instead of your pussy.

“I think I’ve been good, noona,” Chan says quietly.

“Let’s get a second opinion, hm?” you say.

You peel Changbin’s hands off your waist and scoot away from him, pulling yourself off his dick, and push Jisung away to give yourself some room. You settle beside Jisung, who sits back down against the mattress and leans on his elbows to look at the rest of you.

“But noonaaaa,” Changbin whines.

“You got some already,” you admonish. “Don’t be greedy.”

Changbin pouts at you, and you reach out and squish his cheeks in your hand. He just lets you do it, and you lean in and kiss his lips. He deserves it, and more.

“So. Consensus,” you say, “Has Channie been good?”

“Not as good as me,” Changbin mutters.

You laugh, and turn to Jisung expectantly for his answer.

“I think so,” Jisung says, “He listens to you much better than he listens to me.”

“How honest,” you say.

You turn and swing one leg over Jisung’s torso, only hesitating for a second as you factor in your body weight on top of his dainty little body and then deciding it doesn’t matter. You sit up straight, facing Jisung so that you can see his expression, trapping his bare cock between your folds, still kind of covered in your stretched and soaked panties, and his stomach.

“Oh, Jesus,” Jisung wheezes, throwing his head back.

“They’re really roasting you,” you say to Chan conversationally, as if you’re not torturing Jisung in the same moment.

“I’m used to it,” he replies, giving you a sheepish smile that shows his deep dimples.

His casual admission is strangely charming, and it makes you smile back. You grind down on Jisung just for a second, just to hear the noise that he makes. He doesn't disappoint, a whine coming up from his chest as his hands scrabble at the sheets. He doesn't touch you, even though you haven't said that he can't. The faultless obedience is thrilling.

"Are you ready for a little more?" you ask Jisung, nodding toward Changbin.

"A little?" Changbin protests.

You send him a wink, realizing the stupid joke. "Oh, come on, that wasn't a dig."

"Thin ice, noona," he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow at that. "Excuse me?"

"Biting the hand that feeds you, hyung," Jisung sing-songs, tilting his head up.

"Jisungie, you talk too much," you tease.

You shift over Jisung so that the head of his cock prods at your entrance. You're still wet and messy from all of their handiwork, and Jisung keens.

"We don't need him, do we?" you nod over your shoulder at Changbin.

"I mean, I was looking forward to the dicking, but - oh shit" Jisung moans, as you reach down and pull your panties aside properly, and let the very tip of him slip inside you.

"This isn't the plan," Changbin complains.

You smile at him sweetly. "I just don't want anyone to forget who's in charge here."

You climb off Jisung, leaving him whining in your wake, and move up to the spot at the head of the bed where you'd sat Chan earlier. The three boys watch as you settle cross-legged, casual as anything.

"I think," you say, resting your chin in your hand and your elbow on your knee, "I think that I just want to watch for a while."

All three of them, Changbin and Chan standing side by side and Jisung sitting half-upright, look at you with matching wide eyes. You tut, looking right back at them and silently making up your mind.

"Come here, peach," you say, making grabby hands at Chan.

He complies easily, coming back up the bed toward you, and you uncross your legs to make some room, patting the mattress in front of you. Chan pauses, kneeling between your open legs, and you turn him around gently by the shoulders. You sit him down with his back pressed to your chest. He's still fully dressed, even after everything that’s gone on, and his silky black shirt is cool and soft against your bare skin. His broad shoulders cover you entirely, but he melts against you, sliding down a little so that his head rests at the crook of your neck, curly black hair against your cheek.

"Jisungie, Binnie?" you say, "I want you to put on a good show for me while I give this poor baby boy some attention."

You let your hands wander to the top button on Chan's shirt. It's not the top button, really, because he's got the first three undone already to show a span of pale toned chest. So you unbutton the next one, and crawl your fingers down to the next, too.

"So I can," Changbin starts, "I can-"

"Yes," you nod, "But neither of you can cum until I say so. Okay?"

"Okay," says Jisung eagerly.

"You have to earn it," you warn, "A good show."

Jisung and Changbin look at each other, significantly, like they're silently concocting their own plan. You decide you can get a hand on that ball, too.

"Channie, wouldn't they be pretty if they kissed for us?" you ask, murmuring right into Chan's ear.

He nods eagerly, and you pop another shirt button. You glance down at Chan's torso, completely bare to you now, all pale smooth skin and chiseled abs. So you ease the silky shirt off his shoulders, down his arms, and discard it off the side of the bed.

By the time you look back up, Jisung has Changbin pinned to the bed, straddling his waist and kissing him right into the mattress.

"Oh," you say mildly, "Promising start, hm?"

You stroke up and down Chan's abs with your fingertips, and he laughs gently.

"They're always like this," he says.

"Thirsty?"

"Out of control," he corrects.

Jisung breaks away from Changbin's mouth, frowning at Chan. "You love it, you asshole. You're just as bad."

Chan nestles back into you more and doesn't say anything, but you can see an answering half-smile creeping over his face. Changbin takes advantage of the distraction to flip Jisung over onto his back, finally flexing the strength you know he has, and bends Jisung nearly in half. His knees are up by his shoulders, and his face is more than a little alarmed.

"Hey, I'm not that bendy!" Jisung protests.

"Yeah, you are," Changbin shushes, "Do you wanna cum or not?"

You grin. "Come on, then."

With a big upside-down sigh, Jisung looks at you, while Changbin digs around in the sheets for the lube.

"You see what I have to deal with?" Jisung asks you, "They're so good and nice for you, and for me? This disrespect. I don't even know - OH-"

Jisung cuts off, and it's obvious what's happening from the way Changbin's hands fly down to Jisung's hips and Jisung's back arches up to meet him. You hum your satisfaction, taking in the blissful expression on Changbin's face, and the sweat already beading at Jisung's hairline.

But you quickly realize that you can't see nearly well enough. They're laying up the bed properly, feet at the foot and Jisung's head against the mattress near yours and Chan's intertwined legs. But if they were perpendicular to you...

"Okay, gorgeous," you coo, and Changbin's head snaps up at the sound of the pet name, "Turn around on the bed so that I can see exactly how nice Jisungie fits around you."

It takes a second, but Changbin processes your words with a slow blink, and grabs Jisung's hips to unceremoniously turn them ninety degrees. Now they're laying across the bed widthwise, and you have a delightful view of Changbin's thick cock sinking into Jisung smoothly. He's set a brutal pace, snapping against Jisung's narrow hips with a force that makes you clench around nothing. He’s obviously making up for the painfully slow pace you made him take on you. It's quiet enough that all you can hear is the perverse squelch of lube and the tiny breathy sighs Jisung makes every time Changbin bottoms out.

"Jesus," Chan breathes, and you nearly jump out of your skin; despite the weight of him on you, you've all but forgotten about him while you're taking in the view in front of you.

"How do they look?" you ask him, reaching up to card your fingers through his hair.

"So good," Chan answers, "So - ah-"

You tug his curls gently, and Chan arches his neck back so that his head rests fully on your shoulder.

"Noona," Changbin says with an edge of desperation in his voice, pulling your attention back to him, "Noona, I'm not, I can't-"

"You gotta hold on for me, gorgeous," you coax.

Changbin nods, digging his fingers into Jisung's hips and making his poor boyfriend squeak at the added pressure. He sits back on his heels, pulling Jisung with him, so that he’s almost upright, giving you a delightful view of their bodies meeting. It makes you groan to yourself, waves of arousal peeling through your gut.

You reach down to undo Chan’s belt and jeans, and it only takes a moment to rid him of those, too. He’s ridiculously hard in his black boxers, and as you palm him through the fabric, you have to admit that he’s the biggest of the three of them.

“Who’s gonna cum first?” you ask Chan.

He drags his eyes away from the sight of Jisung’s arched back, the faint bruises forming under Changbin’s hands, and looks up at you.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs.

“I think Jisung’s earned it,” you decide, “Peach, you wanna give him a hand?”

“Not him,” Jisung gasps.

Chan looks affronted. “Hey!”

“Noona please,” Jisung begs. “Please!”

“Oh, you want me?” you ask, smirking.

Jisung nods, gasping and screwing his eyes shut as Changbin keeps up that punishing pace. You can have mercy on him, can’t you?

Chan leans forward so you can wiggle out from behind him, and you sit back on your heels beside Changbin and Jisung. The view is even better up close: Changbin’s muscles bunching and expanding, Jisung rocking up the bed with every thrust. Changbin’s gorgeous face furrowed in concentration. Jisung’s rim contracting obscenely around the cock still working in and out of him.

You feel delightfully gross, wonderfully perverse and voyeuristic, and you lean down to kiss Jisung. He kisses back like he’s starving, panting into your mouth.

“Pretty boy,” you say, right against his lips, “Do you want to cum?”

Jisung nods, his eyes barely focusing on you, the attention going right to his head. “Yes, noona!”

“What do you need to cum?” you ask him.

“Your…hand, noona, or your mouth, please,” Jisung whines.

You smile at him, leaning in for one more kiss. “You can cum when you’re ready, baby.”

“Yes, noona.”

One down, one to go. You shuffle so that you’re sitting face to face with Changbin and he all but falls forward to kiss you, his hips not even stuttering as they drive forward. His singular focus is impressive. You let Changbin press messy open-mouth kisses against your lips, your cheeks, as you finally wrap a hand around Jisung’s cock.

His whole body jumps when you start jerking him quickly. It only takes two, three, four pumps before Jisung is babbling, begging for your permission even though you’ve already given it.

“Noona, I’m going to – please let me cum, I need it, I need-”

“Go ahead, pretty baby, cum for me,” you say.

That’s all it takes for Jisung to come into your hand with a shout, loud and high-pitched and cracking in the middle. His voice is a rush of power, like adrenaline in your veins, and you keep up your pace, stroking him through his orgasm. You look to Changbin next, watching him as he throws his head back and moans openly at the feeling of Jisung coming around him. His eyes are wide open, still, and he finds your gaze as he finally begins to lose his pace. This is the second person’s orgasm he’s had to ride out, poor thing. It almost makes you want to keep going, see how long he can last…

“I-” he stutters, “I want…”

“Ask nicely,” you instruct.

“I want to cum, noona,” Changbin pleads.

“That doesn’t sound like asking nicely.”

Changbin makes a tiny sound of despair, and tries again, “Please, may I cum, noona? I’ve – God – I’ve been good, haven’t I? Please?”

He’s beautiful, begging so nicely for you. You bring up your hand that’s covered in Jisung’s cum and nudge the dirty fingers against his lips. Without hesitating, Changbin sucks two fingers into his mouth, his tongue working between the digits.

“Filthy,” you coo.

Changbin just whines around your fingers.

“Who are you cumming for, Binnie?” you ask, taking your hand back.

“You.”

“Hm?” you feign ignorance.

“You!”

“Who?”

“You, noona,” he moans.

“Okay, gorgeous, you can cum.”

“Thank you.”

With a final moan that sounds an awful lot like your name, Changbin cums, making Jisung whine out in his high, cracked little voice at the feeling of it. You lean back, just watching and enjoying, as they both come down.

Two down, one to go.

Chan is still waiting for you, though you wouldn’t doubt that he’s a little less patient than he was at the beginning of the session. He’s sitting back against the headboard again when you turn around, just watching you. You notice that he’s actually sitting on top of his hands, and you smile disdainfully at him.

“Oh, peach,” you say, “Are you so fucking desperate that you have to sit on your pretty little hands, to keep from disobeying me?”

“I’ve listened to you, noona,” Chan says.

“Is it so hard for you to be good?” you chide.

“It’s not!” he insists weakly.

“Shit, I think we could go again,” Jisung comments offhandedly, breaking your train of thought.

You look at him, suppressing your smile in favor of a cool stare. “Can you not let me deal with our sweet peach for two fucking minutes?”

“I’m just sayin’,” Jisung defends, holding up his hands in surrender. “Refractory period? Great.”

You decide to ignore Jisung and his big mouth. Chan deserves some undivided attention, and you planned right from the start that you’d have him like this.

Rolling your eyes in Jisung’s direction, you crawl over and take hold of Chan’s boxers, and pull them down his pale pretty legs and off. He looks distinctly shy when he’s finally fully naked for you, so you return the favor by slipping off your ruined panties. You can feel two sets of eyes on your ass as you maneuver yourself onto Chan’s lap.

You’re delighted to find that if you sit up perfectly straight, you’re taller than him. Tall enough that he has to tilt his head back to look at you. He’s all wide brown eyes and handsome flushed skin, and you stare down at him fondly.

“What do you want, peach?” you ask.

“You…” Chan trails.

You walk your hand up his shoulder, up into his hair, and tug at the back of his head. He tilts his chin up, leaning into the action, exposing his long beautiful neck to you. You can’t help it – you lean in and indulgently bite into the skin on the side of his throat.

“What about me?” you ask against his flesh.

You can feel Chan swallow. “I want…to fuck you, noona.”

“I know you can ask nicely.”

As you trail down and add another bite under the first, leaving your mark behind on his porcelain skin, Chan shows you just how well he can ask.

“Please, noona,” he breathes, “I can make you feel good, like Changbinnie, better than Changbinnie, wanna fuck you so good and fill-”

He cuts off with an embarrassed whimper, as if he’d almost let something slip. Unluckily for him, you have a pretty good idea what he was about to say.

“Oh, peach, you’re dirty,” you purr.

“I’m sorry, I-” Chan sputters, but you cut him off.

“No, no, no, no,” you shush him, “I like it.”

You lift yourself up slightly so that you can reach down and line him up with your pussy, and without preamble, you sink down on him. You know you’re still wet and sloppy from before, and Chan groans shamelessly as you settle your hips firmly against his.

“You can have me, but you’re doing all the work,” you inform him.

Apparently, that’s no problem for Chan, because he plants his feet on the mattress for leverage and begins pistoning upwards into you. You rise onto your knees slightly to meet him, making him work harder, rise higher to chase what he wants.

His pace is brutal, his hips moving precise and intense against yours, and you’re shocked to feel a second, penetrative orgasm rising on its own. You’re still so sensitive from cumming the first time, you know you’re not going to last very long. But Chan is having a similar problem.

“I’m not…I’m not going to last, noona, I’m-” Chan moans, sounding embarrassed by it.

You coo at him. His self-consciousness, even this far into a scene, is so endearing.

“Did you get all worked up watching Jisung and Changbin have their fun?” you ask, patronizing.

Chan nods, throwing his head all the way back as he chases his high, driving into you hard. “So good, noona, it was so good…”

You glance over your shoulder at the other two, the mention of them making you wonder what they’re up to, unattended over there, and you’re met with quite the scene.

“It seems like they’re enjoying us, too,” you say.

Chan brings his head forward again with what seems like a tremendous amount of effort, and peels his eyes open. When he sees his boyfriends behind you, his breakneck pace finally stutters.

“Fuck,” he groans, “Oh, Jesus Christ-”

Jisung is standing beside the bed, bracing himself against the wall like he’ll collapse if left only to his own strength. Which is valid, because Changbin is knelt between his legs, Jisung’s cock down his throat and Jisung’s hand on the back of his head, guiding him.

“They weren’t kidding about being ready another round,” you joke, and to your utter delight, Chan laughs.

“And I wasn’t kidding about – noona, fuck,” Chan whimpers, “I’m not – can I cum, noona?”

You hum. “You wanna fill me up, peach?”

Chan’s breath hitches at your words, and if it’s even possible, he begins fucking into you harder. He’s hitting you just right inside, cockhead brushing against that delicious spot and making stars dance in your vision. You can count on one hand how many times you’ve cum just from a partner like this, and you’re salivating at the idea of it. You’re so damn close.

“Yes,” he whines, “Noona please let me, I’ll make you feel so good, I promise, fill you up with my cum and – and-”

“You’ve waited long enough for me, peach,” you say, reaching up to cup his face in both of your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Cum.”

On command, like the good boy he is, Chan cries out, high pitched and absolutely beautiful, and cums. And then, surprise of surprises, he snakes one hand down between the two of you and finds your clit, rubbing into the poor sore nerves like he might die if he doesn’t make you cum.

And you do. You can’t even choke down the squeak of “Chan, oh, fuck!” as you clamp down on him, pleasure bursting behind your eyelids like fireworks and warming you all the way down to your toes.

As your orgasm fades and the world comes back into focus around you, the first thing you see is Chan’s self-satisfied little smile. That smug bastard…

You grin back at him, pushing him away by the chest, “Shut up.”

Gingerly, you climb off his softening cock and off his lap entirely, to throw yourself down haphazardly on the bed. Chan collapses across you, landing heavy over your legs and making you protest for your poor ankles.

“I can confidently say, that was fantastic,” comes Chan’s muffled voice, facedown in the mattress as he is.

“Seconded,” says Jisung.

You tilt your head back to see Jisung and Changbin peering down at you, both looking heavy-eyed and swollen-lipped. They look as drained as you feel, and just as satisfied.

“That was a hell of a show, (Y/N)-noona,” Changbin says.

“Glad you liked it, I worked really hard,” you tease. “Does anyone need water? Food?”

“Cuddles,” mumbles Chan.

“Yeah, you have to stay the night, noona, aftercare and cuddling is non-negotiable,” Jisung agrees.

Changbin nods. “We’re even better at that than the sex.”

It shouldn’t be as touching as it is that they want you to stay. But fondness wells up in your chest, soft delight that they seem to enjoy your platonic company just as much as your sexual company. But this bed is disgusting. Changbin needs to wash his sheets, there’s no way you can sleep here in the miasma of lube and bodily fluids.

And besides, the four of you need to talk about all of this at some point. You’re still their classmate, after all, at least until the end of the semester, and an impromptu hookup like this can lead to some real awkward class meetings. Some pillow talk, some cuddles, and some Gatorade are all in order here.

So you smile, wide and honest and mischievous, and stand up on shaky legs to head for the bedroom door. The boys look confused at your seemingly sudden departure, and you cock a thumb at the other bedroom, across the hall.

“Now, Channie, where’s that pillow fort I heard so much about?”

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