#okay time for a little backstory here

[arklay]

Your anger and sadness are so fucking justified. Stealing someone's oc is ridiculous. There's NO need to do that! You don't even need that much creativity to make your own, and if you're really stuck (like I get sometimes) just look towards canon characters or blogs dedicated to help building ocs. What's worse is tumblr's blocking system because, unless you block them on anon, it simply blocks their blog. They can log out and still view your blog! God I'm so sorry that this happened.

thank you 😭😭 i'm like so just horrifically angry right now that idk if i'm overreacting or if i was seeing things that weren't there, but no, the more i look and the more i match up the timeline of posts, it becomes extremely apparent to me that their oc is a copy of diana, and that really really hurts. and yes, i've cried a lot about it, because i talk about her so often and how much she means to me and how much just creative energy she gave me this year and the fact that i even write consistently now, so it hurts. i put a lot into her, so it's just really unfair, and like you said, blocking people on here is like hardly even effective

#asks. #anonymous #thank you for like validating my anger because i often feel a lot of guilt with my reactions and um idk like i feel like i am not allowed #to get angry in the first place because of like imposter syndrome and all that nonsense. but i just kept seeing things from that oc's story #and not just backstory but little facts or what were throw away comments and it just... everything. i could connect to diana. and the #colour scheme is similar too and the heights and the timeline and the little things about like ex-husband. working at nest. close to the #birkins. saw al as an annoyance at the start lmao like there's so much i could connect. and now seeing that their oc also injected themself #with a virus on a whim which i've talked about many times with diana doing and that he got very overprotective and worried afterwards with #it. like. all these things in isolation. fine. whatever. but when they all add up... it's ridiculous. like i'm just so hurt because i #constantly talk about how special diana is to me and how special they both are to me and i don't know what to do because i don't feel the #need to reach out and like accuse directly but it's like. they get away with that. and my ideas. and my character who has been around since #feb. i made her on valentine's day. i'm not even joking. so. i didn't post about her until early march. well i did but that's the earliest #in her tags because i delete posts a lot. went and looked at my oc blog and no there are still things from feb. but on here the earliest is #march. i'm just not doing great with it all i suppose. especially because i had something happen last week that made me really upset and i #was just getting back into like okay i'll post on here more often. and then i notice this and idk i'm rambling but i just feel really sick #like the realisation sunk in and i felt sick to my stomach so it hurts #but um thank you for saying all of this like it does mean a lot to me to know that my reaction is justified so thank you

[flysafepapi]

siren song 4/?

masterlist

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Warnings: Mentions of death, fire.

Summary: He remembers the scent of her perfume, something that smelled strongly of rose, as she carefully closed the small window in the bedroom and crossed herself, whispering words under her breath that were too soft and quick for him to hear. His mother had turned and smiled at him, and even at that age he could see that she was trying to hide something behind it. Her voice had been shaky, whether with fear or anger he still doesn’t know, when she told him that he was going to be safe. The thought of asking what he was safe from hadn’t occurred to him at the time but he thinks he knows, now.

Tagging: @the-makingsofgreatness​ @zablife​ @lyarr24​ (just let me know if you want to be added on or taken off)

(A flashback of sorts happens after the first ~~~)

The last thing he expects to see when he steps out of the office is Tobias standing outside, just out of reach from the steady drizzle of rain, waiting with an umbrella in one hand and a bottle in the other. For a second, Tommy debates just going back inside and closing the door, especially when Ada leaves the house at the same moment that Tobias steps towards him. A blind man would’ve been able to see the amused and borderline smug look she sends his way. By the slight curve of Tobias’ smile, he’s seen Ada as well.

“Evening, Mr Shelby. I wasn’t sure if I caught you before you went home for the night.”

“Shouldn’t you be at the Garrison by now?”

“Normally I would, but I thought we could talk more about this job you have for me.”

“Does this mean you’re going to take the offer?”

“Perhaps. That depends on you.”

There’s a long, tense moment where the two of them just stare at each other. Thankfully, there’s enough distance between them so that he doesn’t need to look up, unlike the last time. Tommy looks down at the bottle in the other man’s hand, studying the label, then back up at his face. The wine he’s holding is expensive, in the hundreds if the date stamped into the paper label is true, not something cheap he’s picked up on the way. 

“What do you want?”

There are a million things Tobias could say to that question. He wants a lot of things: to see his father and brothers again just one last time, whole and alive and unharmed, to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin without the risk of death, to be able to relive the pleasure of eating his mother’s cooking again. He doesn’t give a voice to any of them. 

“A drink with you would be a good start.”

The offices are dark, and he’s walked through the space a thousand times before, but it feels different with Tobias behind him, as if the shadows have grown darker than they were five minutes ago when Tommy left. It leaves him feeling slightly unsettled, even after he turns on enough lights to completely illuminate the entire room. The lightbulbs seem duller than they usually would be, and the light they give off is dim, but it’s more than enough to see by. 

“Glasses?”

“In my office.”

“Lead the way.”

In the silence, he can practically hear the way Tommy’s heart speeds up slightly, but he’s not sure if it’s from the fact that the two of them are alone or from the fear that he can’t quite explain lingering on the edges of his mind. Maybe both. The sound makes him remember the night in the tunnels, after the supports had given in. Taking any blood hadn’t been in the plan, the entire reason he was there had been because they were. It hadn’t been an accident, that Tobias was the one that the older Arthur Shelby had owed money to. Feeding had been an impulsive decision, and one that could’ve backfired on him spectacularly, but fortunately it hadn’t. He can practically taste it with every pump of the man’s heart. 

“-talk about?”

“Sorry?”

“What did you want to talk about?”

There’s a moment, just a second, where Tommy can see the way Tobias’ hands tighten around the bottle of obscenely expensive wine, and the movement draws his attention to the minute difference in texture there that he hadn’t noticed before. It wouldn’t have been noticeable if it wasn’t for the way the skin seemed to shine slightly in the light thrown by the lamps. Tobias follows his line of sight and grimaces for a second when he sees what Tommy’s looking at.

“I’ve tried everything I can to get rid of them. Nothing ever works.”

“What are they?”

“Reminders of the past. Some scars never fade, do they?”

Tommy turns away, changing the conversation away from the memories of the war into something that feels less like he’s walking precariously across a minefield, and Tobias doesn’t call him out on it even though he could. He pours them both a drink instead and raises his own glass in a toast.

“To all the people we lost.”

~~~

Almost as soon as he closes his eyes, securely in the space he’d created beneath the bed for himself though it’s not particularly comfortable, the memories come rushing back like they tended to do around this time of year. He doesn’t dream so much as he relives all the old memories, and though he could list a dozen downsides to eternal life, remembering everything with near perfect clarity has to be at the top of the list. It feels like he’s back there. 

The room was small, far too small to comfortably fit them all, and the only noise in the dark were the soft sounds of crying from his brothers and the soothing noises coming from their father, trying to calm them down. At twenty, he’d been the oldest of six, all boys. Before her passing, she often joked that the lord had done her the favour of sparing her from the ordeal of making her daughter’s wedding dress. She hadn’t made it more than a few days past the birth of the twins and while he’d been sitting in the small room, Tobias had been thankful for it. His mother would never have to be subjected to this horror.

His youngest two brothers, the twins, had just celebrated their seventh birthdays. Though the payments he received for doing small jobs around the village had been few and hadn’t amounted to much, he’d been saving since their birthday the year before to get them that horse they’d been wanting for years. Just the week before, he’d given the money to the farmer on the farm next to theirs and arranged to have the animal delivered the morning of their birthday. 

“How long are they going to keep us here, father?”

“I’m scared.”

“Shh. Let's not speak of it. Dry your eyes, Ferenc, Tamás, neither I nor your brother will let anything happen to you.”

He had no idea how he was supposed to do that when he wasn’t even sure where the men had taken Miklós, György, or Emeric. They’d been separated not long after the men had dragged them from their home, accused of all manner of foul things he knew none of them would ever have done. 

The memory shifts, then, to the part he dreads the most. Even without these nights where it seemed like he was projected right back to the worst time of his considerably long life, he would remember what that night had been like. The smell of the freshly cut pine mixed with something thick and pungent that his frazzled mind hadn’t realised was the smell of tar. 

“Please. We haven’t done anything wrong,” he pulled against the ropes binding his wrists behind his back, futilely, they’d been tied far too tight for the movement to make any difference. Even when the rough weave had rubbed his wrists raw and soaked through with blood, he had pleaded for their captors to stop this and let them go. “They’re just boys, they’re innocents!”

“None of you are innocents. Don’t lie to me.”

Later, killing the man that spits down at his feet now will be the first human life Tobias takes, but in the memories the cruel man just laughs at him and walks along the row, down towards his father. 

“We deserve to know what our charges are. If this is what you call a trial, then it’s a poor one.”

His father had looked at him, warning him to keep quiet, but he had ignored it. He made eye contact with Emeric and saw the same bruises on his own face reflected back at him, proof that his headstrong brother hadn’t given their captors whatever it was that they wanted. Foolishly, he’d felt proud of that. 

By the time the so-called charges had been read out, utterly ridiculous things that they either hadn’t done or things that had been taken out of context, a sizable crowd had grown. People Tobias had known all his life, people that he’d trusted. The joke he’d pulled on the preacher’s son had been harmless, just a few frogs tipped in through the boy’s open window, it was only supposed to startle him for a few moments. Alright he could’ve been nicer to the boy, that much is true, but he doesn’t see how any of that led to this.

“No! Please, I did it, I’ll do whatever you want! Let them go!”

“Don’t listen to him, the devil comes in all forms, if you let him tempt you for a second then he will own you for life. Do it.”

The pitch caught like a spark on dry grass, he remembers that the clearest, and the rope had held through his renewed struggles to get away, digging further into the soft skin of his wrists. The pain from the friction had been sharp and cutting, but hearing the screams of his brothers had been far worse. Some sort of flammable material had been tied around their legs, most likely to speed up the burning, and it did its job effectively. By the time Louise had arrived, he’d already listened as, one by one, his father and his brothers took their last breaths, each of them making sounds of pain until the last. 

It’s at that time that Tobias always wakes, gasping in the small space, the thick smell of smoke and burning flesh almost enough to choke him. Every year, it played out the same way, forcing him to remember that it was his foolish actions that had gotten his family killed. Taking his revenge in blood from the ones that had done the accusing, and the ones that had lit the fires, had been satisfying at the time but it was never going to bring them back to him.

“I’m sorry. Please, forgive me.”

~~~

“Tommy!”

“What?”

Already there’s a headache starting in his temples, and Ada shouting up the stairs to him doesn’t do a thing to alleviate the throbbing pain. He’d slept a little more last night but not much more than usual, and he’s already exhausted and done by the day.

“Delivery for you!” Ada sounds amused, which is never a good sign. “You should probably get down here!”

With a sigh, Tommy closes the drawer beside the bed and stands up, already dressed though he hadn’t left his bedroom yet. A glance at his watch tells him it’s just past 8 in the morning. 

The last thing he’s expecting to see when he gets down to the kitchen is a bouquet of flowers sitting on the table. Dark red roses and orchids, all held together by a ribbon of green and sitting in a clear crystal vase.

“I thought you said this was a delivery for me.”

“It is.”

“If this is a joke-”

“They were addressed to you, just like I told you. As if anyone could send me flowers without the three of you finding them and putting the fear into them. Plus, no one I know could afford anything like this. Look, there’s even a card for you.”

Ada rolls her eyes, something she's been doing more and more of lately, and waves a small card around in the air in front of his face. For a second she tightens her grip on it like she’s reluctant to let it go without reading what’s on it herself, but then the moment passes and she drops her hand with a sigh. The seal on the card breaks easily under his thumbnail and he backs up a step and opens it carefully.

“Well? What does it say? Who are they from?”

“Shouldn’t you be helping Polly?”

He leaves the room before she can answer and walks back up the stairs, leaving the flowers sitting where they were on the table, determined to ignore them completely. In his hand, the hard edges of the card dig into his fingers, and he glances back down at the surprisingly clear loops and swirls of the handwriting in black ink.

‘To the ones we found along the way.’

#peaky blinders #siren song #you can just follow that tag if you don't want to bother with my masterlist #okay so #this chapter was originally going to have bonnie in it but i wanted to spend some time establishing some things #the first part was pure indulgence on my part and i'm not apologising #how long do you think it'll take tommy to realise that that was 100% a date #because the man is pretty oblivious lmao he hasn't been picking up on any of the little hints that tobias has been throwing around #ada has though #ada knows exactly what's going on here #tobias' backstory is fleshed out a bit more #and boy if you think this part was sad just you wait #ive got plans for what happened to him both before and after his turning #it's gonna be so fun for me and not so much fun for you guys #i'm not apologising for that either #anyway yeah this is my humble offering #flirting through flowers #feat: tobias flirting through extravagant gifts #tommy shelby #ada shelby #tobias (oc)

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

Heyyyy so remember how I said the COSMIC pronoun copies would stay the same??? Hehe...

#okay BEAR with me here #yes the backstory and the dialogue and the ultimate plot points YES absolutely #buuuut we literally saw will physically shut down and close himself off when a girl came onto him ON TOP of the #'its not my fault you dont like girls' comment and basically everything else and yeah #so remember how i said i have kind of a half formed olan #*plan #well #guess who knows a shit ton about comphet babeyyy #like just imagine will and y/n being so excited to see each other again but being back after so much time apart they dont realize why #they are suddenly kinda stressed #like the butterflies are getting harder to distinguish from anxiety #bc of all that time apart neither of them really realized how freeing it was to not have to hold hands or kiss or 'meet an expectation' of #a relationship even though they do truly love and care for each other #and for some reason all that hugging and giggling and contact is suddenly so easy with their other best friend who #thanks to the absence- has had a whole *different* kind of effect #finally will gets to see and hug mike and finally y/n gets to see and hug el and VICE VERSA #meanwhile the other copies (he/him for sure) just stay the will byers course maybe with a little byler angst sprinkled in #idk idk we'll see we'll see 😏 vol 2 will tell #cosmic #f!cosmic #you'll float queue #stranger things spoilers #stranger things 4 #edit: just fyi this isnt set in stone but its something ive been heavily considering for a while now and i wanted to warn yall #things would be adjusted as far as titles if i did go that route like it would say 'eventual el x reader and eventual byler' & add #a thing about comphet and even update the descriptions but we can cross that bridge if we get to it #point is i honestly think it would be a great thing to have cause when i was younger reading stories like this i never saw wlw or mlm #content in reader inserts and of i even a bit of exposure again i think it would have been so healthy for me

[swiftispunk]

snowflakes, a fireplace, and you | joel miller x f!reader

joel masterlist | main masterlist | kofi | follow @swiftispunkupdates for fic notifs

pairing: bed and breakfast owner!joel miller x f!reader rating: 18+ word count: 13.9k

summary: you get more than you bargained for when you end up snowed in at miller's inn on christmas eve. warnings etc: [NO OUTBREAK] fluff, the softest joel you'll ever meet in your life, some mentions of grief, brief smut, reader celebrates christmas, food, alcohol is consumed but no one gets drunk, reader has some family angst (specifically some mother issues), reader's father is dead and the fic will touch on how he died, reader can fit into joel's sweater, found family trope, sexual tension, sweet joel kisses, unprotected p in v sex, brief oral (m + f receiving), joel gets both his daughters, this takes place in upstate new york because i said so. no use of y/n. *note: this reader is basically an ofc. she has a backstory, a family, and several details about her life are relevant to the plot. i wanted to tell a full story with this one. i hope you will still find it immersive and enjoyable.

a/n: thank you to everyone who willed this fic into existence! i had the very best time with it. she's tropey as hell, but ya'll knew what you were signing up for. love yas and merry christmas (one day late) to all those who celebrate! divider by the lovely @saradika-graphics

dec. 23 - the arrival

Just beyond the quaint village borders of Cooperstown, New York, lies the cozy, family-owned Miller's Inn. Housed beneath a cover of pines in the lush surrounding forests, this historic cottage has been lovingly refurbished and meticulously kept-up in order to maintain its original charm and architecture. With just four fully furnished rooms, every guest at Miller's Inn can expect to be treated with unparalleled care and service during their stay.

Whether you're here for one night or one week - at Miller's Inn, you're home.

It's all warm and fuzzy - and you're sure it's true to a certain extent - but the sweet little blurb on the simply designed website fails to mention the inn's most appealing feature:

It's not your fucking mother's house.

Christmas spirit be damned, that had been the deal. You'll make the trip home from Austin (half a day's travel complete with flight and drive), you'll even come for Christmas dinner and play along with the whole happy family charade. But only on your own terms, and only with an appropriate level of space. If that means spending your nights somewhere several miles away from the house you grew up in for the few short days you're back in town, so be it.

An uncomfortable sense of familiarity passes over you as you drive through your hometown. Main Street looks much the same as it had when you'd left all those years ago, blanketed now by a thin layer of snow, every storefront decked with garland and fairy lights. Fog rolls off the distant mountain, barely visible through the grey, overcast sky.

You think you catch someone waving at you from the sidewalk; maybe an old neighbour, maybe a family friend, maybe a stranger - if one could really call anyone in Coopertown a stranger.

You don't stop.

No, you keep your eyes straight and drive clear out of town, following the directions on your GPS until the village dissipates into dense, green forest.

It's even further out than it had looked on the map, a solid twenty minutes of driving before you see billowing smoke rising above the treetops, another five before you come upon a clearing and the sign that lines the road beside it: Miller's Inn.

"Turn right and you've arrived at your destination," the robotic, pleasant woman in your phone tells you.

"Yeah, yeah, okay," you grumble, turning off the app and chucking the phone into the passenger seat beside you.

There are three vehicles already parked out front, two with out-of-state license plates and one a rusted old pick-up truck. You pull in beside the sedan from Ohio.

Despite the short walk from the car to the front door, you bundle up in your mittens and coat, steeling yourself before ducking out into the cold winter's day with your duffle bag slung over your shoulder. The flecks of sun peeking through the clouds sting your eyes, reflecting uncomfortably off the layer of snow on the ground, thicker here than in town.

Standing before the front steps of the cottage, you assess it for the first time. A wraparound porch surrounds the small, two-storey cottage, which appears to be built mostly of stone. Christmas lights don the railings of the deck, and a lush, pine wreath hangs on the red-painted door. In the centre of the wreath, there's a neatly decorated wooden placard, painted over with the words, Happy holidays, welcome home - The Millers.

It makes you cringe.

A bell rings above you as you open the front door and cross through the threshold. Inside, you're greeted by an air of warmth, the faint sound of Christmas music, and the smells of burning wood, fragrant pine, and sugar. A front desk, littered with garland trim and popcorn strings stands unattended before you, and you frown, peering around you towards the cozy common area to your right, complete with burning fireplace, mismatched couches, a large, haphazardly decorated Christmas tree, and altogether no people.

"Hello?" you call out to no one in particular.

"Crap - " a voice says to your left. You whirl to face the source of sound, and take in the other half of the main floor of the inn. A long wooden table takes up most of the space there, accented with candles and nutcrackers and a festively patterned runner. Roughly ten chairs surround it, the entire scene bathed in daylight from the wide window on the far side of the room, revealing snow-covered forest just beyond its frosted glass.

Amidst it all, a young girl, tall and curly-haired, barely older than fourteen, clamouring out of a room you can't see beyond the dining set-up, clapping what appears to be flour off of her hands. She all but sprints to take her place behind the front desk, muttering, sorry sorry sorry under her breath the whole way there.

"Hi!" she says, nearly out of breath when she finally meets your gaze with a put-on, beatific smile. "Welcome."

"Um, hi, I'm just checking in," you tell her, hearing the way your voice tilts up a bit at the end like you're asking a question.

"Great!" she exclaims, but then she frowns as she peers down at a mess of papers on the desktop, and you get the feeling she doesn't normally handle this part.

"Um...okay...so...name?" she asks, her curls bouncing as she looks up at you, then down at what appears to a sign-in sheet, then up at you again.

Uncertainly, you tell her and she nods with feigned confidence, glancing back down at the list of names and furrowing her brow.

Who the fuck is in charge here?

"Uh...shit," she murmurs and now you frown, suddenly terrified there's been some sort of mistake.

"Is there a problem?"

The girl chews her lip before hastily shaking her head and softening the worry on her face, for your benefit, you assume. "No, no! I just can't read his stupid writing. Hey, Dad?"

She calls that last bit over her shoulder, towards an open door behind the desk. No one responds.

The girl rolls her eyes. "One sec," she tells you.

"Okay..."

She flits behind the door and you tap your foot impatiently, starting to get uncomfortably warm under all your layers.

You hear another voice now, deep and gravelly, but you can't quite make out the words. Then, a moment later, the girl returns with someone new in tow.

A man, at least forty-five, a smile painting his weathered face adorned with greying scruff under a mop of messy brown curls. He's broad, framed by thick arms and wide shoulders, deliciously accentuated by the green flannel he's wearing, the sleeves of which are rolled up the elbows, revealing tan skin and a black-banded watch on one wrist.

Unconsciously, you stiffen, stand a little straighter in his presence - what's that about?

"Alright, what's the issue?" he's asking the girl, both of them rifling through the stack of papers. His accent gives you pause; it's one you're used to hearing back home, but not here.

"The issue is your chicken scratch," she gripes, pointing at the list of names accusingly.

The man just chuckles, clearly unbothered by the gentle ribbing.

"It ain't that bad," he grumbles. Finally, he looks up at you, his eyes all soft and brown, the right side of face dimpling as he smirks at you crookedly. "Welcome, miss. Sorry 'bout all the confusion. Name?"

You repeat it, your voice coming out a little breathier this time as your body responds to his low drawl and his unwavering eye contact.

Something flashes across his face when he hears your name, something like recognition, something like sympathy, something that makes your insides twist as you drop your gaze and he quickly collects himself.

"Alright..." he hums to himself, the girl peeking up over his shoulder as he trails the tip of a pen down the list.

When he finds your name, he rolls his eyes dramatically.

"Come on, kiddo, it's right there," he says to the girl, glancing up at you like he's trying to loop you in on the joke. You smile tightly.

She leans in close to see the name he's pointing at and scoffs.

"Is her name Scribble McScribbleton?" she jokes and her Dad laughs like it's the funniest fucking thing he's ever heard.

"Shut up," he chuckles, noting something beside your name before checking you off his list and playfully hip-checking the girl away.

She's laughing, the sound all trilling and soft as she pops out from behind the desk and starts to make her way back to the kitchen.

"Hey!" her Dad calls after her. She turns back to face him without hesitation. "Go find your sister, please."

She salutes him and then darts off in the other direction, calling for an, "Ellie" as she goes.

"My daughter, Sarah," the man tells you once you're alone, cocking his chin towards where the girl - Sarah - had just disappeared.

"Hm," you nod, fully sweating under your winter coat now, distinctly uncomfortable at all the family comradery. You've never understood how it seems to come so naturally to other people.

"I'm Joel. Joel Miller," he goes on, reaching across the desk to extend a hand out to you. You fumble with your duffle bag as you take his hand in yours and shake, his massive palm engulfing yours, even wrapped in your fluffy mittens.

"Oh, hold on there," he says, hurriedly rounding the desk to take your bag off your hands and hook it over his shoulder.

"Uh, thanks," you mutter, finally slipping your woolly mittens off and unzipping your coat. Your hands are clammy and your mouth feels dry, but with the way Joel's eyes are glimmering in the warm light of the inn, you get the feeling it's not just because of the fire.

"Quick tour," he announces, already turning to lead the way into the room to the left, the one with the long table and the wide window.

"Dining room, obviously," he grins. "Breakfast is from 7-10 every day. Coffee, eggs, cereal, all that kinda thing. Even got oat milk now, if that's your thing."

"Just cow is fine," you tell him. He chuckles.

Properly in the room now, you take it in in all its understated glory. It's clear the space had been an extension from the original structure, the walls here lined with wood panels rather than the stone you could just make out in the living room. There's a small radio on the windowsill, which you now recognize as the source of the Christmas music, the sound slightly scratchy and hollow now that you're hearing it up close.

It strikes you how it all feels less like some stodgy hotel and more like the dining room of a loving family. You swallow hard against the emotion that stirs in you.

"Kitchen's just back there," Joel says, pointing towards the door Sarah had come from earlier, where the smell of cinnamon and ginger is steadily wafting in your direction. "You ever need anythin'; food, water, coffee…just holler for me or one of the girls."

"Great, thank you," you mutter. Then your curiosity gets the better of you. "Are you from the South?"

He smiles as he guides you out of the dining room and back through the front hall.

"S'it that obvious?" he asks, casually placing a hand between your shoulder blades to herd you towards the living room. You're not prepared for the way it makes your stomach flutter.

"I just - I live in Austin. I mean, I grew up here, but I live there now."

That flash of recognition crosses his features again when you tell him you'd grown up here but again, he swiftly reins it in, something more like curious disbelief taking its place.

"Get out," he laughs. "S'where I'm from."

"Oh," you nod, glancing around the quaint little common area, the bright red stockings marked Joel, Sarah, and Ellie that hang above the stone fireplace, the smattering of ornaments dangling from the real pine tree, the various rugs that cover the hardwood. Family photos and vintage photographs of Cooperstown line the stone walls, and towards the back of the cottage, you can just make out the end of a staircase, along with a door leading out to a mudroom marked Staff Only.

"So how the hell'd you end up here?" you find yourself asking, regretting it the minute it slips out. 

When he doesn't answer right away, you backtrack.

"Sorry - I didn't mean - " you stammer. "The inn is beautiful, that's not what I - "

But Joel just laughs, clearly not offended by you putting in your stupid foot in your mouth.

"I just can't imagine choosing to live in Cooperstown when you could live well...literally anywhere else in the world," you confess.

Joel's laughter dies down and then he's looking at you in that way again, all quiet sympathy and understanding. You stare down at your boots.

Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it.

"Came up here with my brother a while back," he explains. You breathe a sigh of relief. "We loved it so much we brought the girls with us the next summer. We all kinda fell in love after that. Then this place went on the market and we just couldn't say no. Mind you, it was in shambles when we got our hands on it. But Tommy and I fixed it up." He pauses, deep in thought as he remembers. Then he turns to look at you with an affectionate smile, answering your silent question. "S'my brother, Tommy. He's moved on - got a wife and kid out in Wyoming. Just me and the girls now."

You nod, working to keep the conversation away from the past. "They help out around here?"

His smile widens. "Yeah, they're good kids."

You nod, wishing the fondness in his voice didn't make your chest pang with a deep-seated ache.

It twists open into a gaping hole when he speaks his next words.

"Hey, I don't mean to pry or nothin' but when you said your name, I - "

He's blissfully cut off by the door to the mudroom cracking open, bringing with it a gust of cool air and Sarah, accompanied by another girl now, the one you can only assume is Ellie. She's shorter than her sister, though they appear roughly the same age. Her pale cheeks are painted pink with cold and she shakes snow out onto the doormat when she removes her hat to reveal knotted brown locks, dampened with sweat against her forehead.

You note that the two girls don't particularly look alike.

"Found her!" Sarah announces, while they both remove their coats and boots and leave them strewn messily in the mudroom. With the door cracked, you can see a large pile of wood stored there, and what you think must be a chest freezer.

Ellie seals the door shut behind her, locking out the cold and following Sarah to their Dad's side.

"Didn't I tell ya we got check-ins today?" he admonishes Ellie lightly.

"I was just goin' for a walk; don't have a cow, old man," she teases, already helpfully taking your duffle bag from him and slinging it easily over her tiny shoulder. Sarah erupts into a fit of giggles and you're stunned to see Joel take it all in stride, shaking his head with a fond little smirk.

"Well how 'bout you make yourself useful and walk our guest to her room?" he teases right back, mussing up her hair even more with a big hand on the crown of her head which Ellie slinks away from smoothly.

"Okay, okay," she laughs, attempting to smooth out the stray hairs to little effect.

"Room Four," Joel tells her, pulling a key from his pocket and tossing it her way. She catches it with practiced ease.

"Yes, sir," she says with mock obedience.

You all turn towards the kitchen then as a loud beeping noise echoes through the cottage and Sarah throws her hands in the air excitedly.

"My cookies!" she squeals, and in the blink of an eye, she's gone.

"Cookies?" Ellie asks, looking at Joel expectantly.

He hums. "Think she's got gingerbread goin' or something."

"Fuck yeah," Ellie says, the casual curse falling from her lips in a way that feels both completely natural and totally jarring. You can't help but laugh. Joel, on the other hand, gives her a stern look.

"Let's mind our manners, please," he warns her, in a voice that makes it sound like it's not the first time he's had to remind her of that. 

"Yeah, yeah," she mutters absently, waving a hand at him dismissively with a playful smirk. "This way, miss," she says to you, already making her way towards the staircase.

"Thanks again," you murmur awkwardly to Joel as you make your way after Ellie. He nods in response, his smile a little tighter than before, that knowing look back in his eyes.

"'Course," he says, burying his hands in his pockets. "You need anything at all - "

"I'll holler," you finish for him, repeating his words from earlier with a friendly smile.

-

The old, wooden floor creaks below your feet and Ellie hasn't stopped talking for a second.

"Room Four is the best," she's telling you as she leads you down the narrow hallway, past all the other rooms and a few more doors marked Staff Only. "You get the best view, if you like looking at the brush, I guess. Sometimes there's an owl that hangs out on one of the trees but I haven't seen him yet this winter. You'll definitely see a deer though. Do they have deer in Texas? I can't remember. Joel would know."

Joel, you note. She calls him Joel.

"I'm pretty sure they have deer in Texas," you grin.

She shrugs, reaching the last door on the left, the one adorned with a large, white 4.

"Ah, well," she says as she unlocks it and leads the way inside, still chattering away. "There's also the turkeys, they're kinda funny. And Sarah says she saw a bear once but that's bullshit."

She plants your duffle bag down onto the hardwood and spreads her arms wide.

"Here you go," she grins. 

It's cozy, a corner room so there are actually two windows, one that faces the forest beside the cabin and another that looks out onto the back lawn. The snow-covered grass is bordered by even thicker woods, nearly impossible to see through, especially as the already grey sky above begins to darken, evening rapidly closing in.

The room itself consists of a queen sized bed, made up with quilts and a superfluous amount of pillows beneath an intricately-whittled wooden headboard. Warm light bathes the space from the lamp on the nightstand, bringing into view the embroidered wall art and the large multi-coloured accent rug under the foot of the bed.

"Thank you," you tell her.

"Shared bathroom's just across the hall, breakfast's at seven, and uh....I think that's it," she concludes, though she quickly corrects herself when she remembers another detail. "Unless - sorry, shit - do you have any other questions?"

"I'm good."

"Cool," she nods, handing you the key and making her way back towards the door. You inch further into the room, twiddling the key marked 4 in your fingers.

"Oh, one other thing," Ellie calls from behind you. You twist around to find her halfway out the door. "Um, cell service is kinda shitty here, so if you need to make a call or something, just come to the front desk."

Great.

"Thanks."

She gives you one last little nod and a smile, and finally ducks out of the room.

-

It's freezing.

Not at all wanting to trek down to the front desk to call your mother, you'd opted for a text instead, just a note to let her know you'd made it to town and were safe at the inn. It had taken forever but eventually it had sent, and with little else to do, you'd changed into your sweats and curled up into bed, exhaustion quickly catching up with you after your long day of travel.

You'd slept barely an hour before you'd been awoken by the sound of your own teeth chattering, your toes numb even beneath the two quilts you'd burrowed yourself under. 

A glance at your phone tells you it's just after 8 p.m. and that the absence of daylight has apparently caused the temperature outside to drop; it’s now well below freezing. Blinking the sleep out of your eyes, you now see that it's snowing, the flakes all fat and fluffy where they stick to your window and coat the pines outside.

There's no fucking way you're going to be able to sleep like this.

You pad out of bed, on a mission to find more blankets if it kills you. One of those doors marked Staff Only had to have been a linen closet, surely.

Only when you creep out into the dimly lit hallway, you immediately come face to face with Joel. More accurately, you walk right into him, colliding with his solid chest and stumbling back until two of his hands on your shoulders steady you.

"Whoa, careful now," he hums.

He's still clad in his green flannel, only now paired with a pair of dark grey sweatpants and a thick pair of wool socks.

"Shit, sorry," you mumble, shaking your head as you try to wake up. Joel drops his hands.

"S'alright. You need somethin'?"

"Um." You point a thumb back over your shoulder towards your room, your bravado fading in an instant. You suddenly feel distinctly guilty for having to voice your discomfort. You've never exactly been good at asking for help. "It's just kinda cold in my room. I was looking for blankets if you have any but, I'm sure I'll be fine, it's not - "

"I got blankets," he cuts you off with a smile and if you didn't know any better you'd think he looks a little endeared.

"Oh - great."

"C'mon," he says, beckoning for you to follow him down the hall. Sure enough, he leads you to one of the Staff Only rooms, flinging it open to reveal shelves of sheets and towels and indeed, several blankets.

"How many you need?" he asks, already fishing out two and stacking them in his arms.

"Two is probably fine."

He grabs a third anyway. You hold your hands out for them but he keeps them in his grasp as he walks you back down the hall to your room.

"Sorry 'bout the cold," he adds. "Heat's actin' up. I'm gonna take a look at it tomorrow. What with this storm comin' and all..."

"Storm?"

"Some big winter storm comin' through tomorrow. I think they're oversellin' it," he smirks.

"I hope so." As if things weren't already shitty enough. 

"Don't you go worryin' your pretty little head, darlin'. You're in good hands here."

Your heartbeat inexplicably stutters at that, the way his drawl curls around the pet name and the casual use of the word pretty. You freeze up as the two of you reach your door, Joel at last handing out the pile of blankets in his arms.

"By the way," he murmurs, his voice dropping like he's telling you a secret. He leans a little closer and your breath hitches in response. "You don't gotta go sneakin' around. F'you need somethin' - don't matter the time - you just knock on my door. I'm right down the hall. Okay?"

You nod back at him somewhat dazedly. "Okay."

He pulls away, flashing you that disarming smile again and crossing the hall towards the bathroom.

"See ya at breakfast," he says.

"See you at breakfast," you reply but he's already closing the bathroom door behind him, leaving you alone in the hallway.

You fumble your way back into your room, fan the blankets out onto your mattress one at a time before curling back into bed with just one thought on your mind:

The bed and breakfast owner is really kind of handsome.

dec. 24 - the storm

You unceremoniously jolt awake at the sound of whistling wind kissing at your windows.

Under layers of woolly insulation, your body is warm and sticky with sweat. But the second you free your arms from your mountain of blankets, you're hit by a stinging kind of cold, pricking at your skin and making you shiver violently.

The forest outside your windows is almost completely invisible, cloaked by a thick fog of blowing snow. You wrap your blankets tightly around yourself, all the way up to your neck, and roll over to check your phone. You must have beaten your alarm.

You tap the screen once, twice, a third time, finally frowning confusedly when it doesn't immediately come to life. Then you realize - it's off. But you'd had it charging all night. What the fuck?

You press down on the power button but are granted only the low battery symbol in return. You check the cord and it's definitely plugged in. Unless...

You reach one arm free from your cocoon of warmth to flip the switch on the lamp on the nightstand and -

Nothing. No power.

Goddamnit.

With a heavy sigh, you steel yourself and throw the blankets off, finally rising up out of bed. Even the rug on your bare feet is cold. The hardwood is worse. Your entire body shakes as you layer up in three pairs of socks and hurriedly slip into the one sweater you'd packed. It's still not good enough. As silly as it feels, you decide to add your winter coat for good measure before ducking out into the hallway.

In the bathroom, you brush your teeth and attempt to warm your hands under the faucet but it's no use; the water stays cold no matter how long you run it.

It occurs to you then that you don't even know what time it is. What if you've missed breakfast?

"Shit," you curse under your breath, stuffing your freezing hands into the pockets of your coat and rushing downstairs.

It gets warmer and warmer the closer you get to the living room, the smell of burning wood tipping you off to the fire there. Unconsciously, you drift closer, allowing the warmth to seep into your bones and bring your frozen fingers back to life.

There are no guests on any of the couches, you note, no teenage girls or handsome bed and breakfast owners.

And as much as you'd like to stay right here in the glow of the fire, your empty stomach is screaming at you to find some food, and fast.

The sound of laughter has you whirling towards the dining room and you breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe you haven't missed breakfast after all.

Only when you reach the threshold to the dining room, you find there are no guests here either. Just Joel and Ellie, sitting beside each other at the table with playing cards in their hands, and Sarah, jotting idly in a notebook across from them. They're all dressed in sweaters and woolen hats.

"Read 'em and weep, old man," Ellie grins, slapping her cards down onto the table with triumphant relish. "Full house."

Joel raises his eyebrows and nods, his expression unreadable as he carefully assesses her hand, and then his own.

"Hey, Sarah," he says to the other girl.

"What's up?"

She looks up from her notebook and Joel cocks his chin, beckoning her to come around the table and join him. She smirks, flitting to his side to peer over his shoulder and peek at the cards he's displaying for her.

"What do you think?" he asks her.

Sarah considers his hand for a moment, eventually pursing her lips and shaking her head sympathetically at Ellie.

"Aw, what?" Ellie groans. "No fuckin' way!"

"Sorry, kiddo," Joel shrugs, fanning out his cards beside hers. "Four-of-a-kind."

Ellie throws her head back in frustration while Sarah laughs hysterically, turning to retake her place on the other side of the table when at last she notices you, wrapped in your winter coat, curiously watching the entire ordeal from your place in the kitchen doorway.

"Oh! Morning!" Sarah greets you, her brows furrowing when she notes your getup. "Uh...Dad?"

He twists in his chair to face you, his eyes widening at you wrapped up in your coat before his expression softens into a smile.

"Mornin' sleepyhead," he chuckles, rising to meet you in the entryway and walk you into the dining room with an arm around your shoulders.

He pulls out a chair for you and you uncertainly take a seat.

"Sorry - my alarm didn't go off. Is the power out?"

"'Fraid so," Joel says, rummaging in a cabinet behind him and setting a plate and utensils out on the table before you. "We got the gas goin' at least, so I can get some breakfast goin' for ya."

"Oh, I didn't miss it?" you ask up at him. He smirks.

"Oh, no, you missed it," he admits. At that, Sarah and Ellie snigger but Joel easily silences them with a look. "S'just after 11:30."

"Oh my god, are you serious?" Embarrassment washes over you - how had you overslept so much? "You don't have to make me anything, it's my own fault - "

"S'okay, darlin'," Joel assures you, placing a comforting hand on your upper back. "We're all holed up here till this storm passes anyway. You want some coffee?"

"Um, sure, okay." 

He nods Ellie and she rises from the table without question, darting to the kitchen in the blink of an eye.

"Sarah, can you see if we still got some fruit?"

"Mhm," she replies easily, closing her notebook and following Ellie into the kitchen.

It strikes you how happy and willing the girls are to help him out, and not in a way that makes it seem like they're afraid of him. It's like they genuinely want to do right by him. You can't begin to understand how he's managed to cultivate that kind of relationship with them; it's completely foreign to you.

"How do you like your eggs?" Joel asks you, backing away towards the kitchen after the girls. "I gotta use 'em up before they go bad."

"Um, scrambled is fine but - Joel, what do you mean we're holed up here till the storm passes?"

He stops in his tracks, staring back at you in confusion like the answer should be painfully obvious. "I mean it's a mess out there, darlin'. Got about three feet of snow last night."

Oh, god.

You turn towards the window for a better look and now you see it - thick layers of snow blanketing the earth and the road and the hood of your car. Ice and snow pellet the window ceaselessly, and the force of the wind outside vibrates violently against the exterior of the cottage.

You also note that your car is now the only one parked out front, alongside the rusted old pick-up you can deduce must belong to Joel.

"Did the other guests leave?" you ask, frowning.

Joel strides back towards the table, and when you turn to face him, you think he looks a bit bashful.

"There was a lull in the storm this mornin' and they got outta here when they had the chance. Most of 'em were here to see family in town for the holidays so..."

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Joel must see the worry that's begun to creep across your features because then he sighs and shakes his head, and his bashfulness shifts to look a lot more like guilt.

"I'm sorry, I shoulda woke ya," he says, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Just - let me get you some breakfast and maybe this'll clear up."

He doesn't sound particularly hopeful. But he seems so eager to please that you can't help but give in and accept. You give him a tight-lipped nod and he smiles, excusing himself and disappearing beyond the kitchen door.

The second you're alone, you let your head fall into your hands with a groan. This can't be happening. Your first Christmas back home in years, your first genuine attempt to bridge the gap between you and your mother, to show everyone that you are the bigger person, willing to forgive and make amends and now - what? You're just the daughter who didn't show up, who couldn't even be bothered to call with an explanation. You can practically hear her voice the second she finds out the truth, when she discovers you're stuck just outside of town, in the bed and breakfast you'd willingly chose to stay in -

This never would have happened if you'd just stayed with me instead.

"Um, miss," a small voice calls and you look up at once to find Ellie poking her head out of the kitchen door. "How do you take your coffee?"

"Oh, um," you clear your throat to dislodge the lump there. "Two milk."

"Cool." She shoots you a thumbs up and slips back into the kitchen.

You take a deep breath and try to steady yourself. There's still a chance the storm will clear. You can still make it for Christmas dinner tonight. Maybe the power will come back and you can at least charge your phone.

Another moment passes and then Sarah and Ellie emerge from the kitchen at the same time, Ellie clutching a steaming mug and Sarah with both her hands behind her back.

Ellie carefully places the mug on the placemat before you while Sarah stands across the table with a mischievous smile.

"Pick a hand," she grins.

You sniff a laugh out through your nose and Sarah's smile widens.

"Um, left?" you say warily, playing along.

"Aha, good choice."

She frees her left hand from behind her back to reveal an orange. 

"What if I hate oranges?" you ask, but you're already reaching out to take it from her outstretched hand.

"That is unfortunate but we have a strict no take-backs rule around here."

You nod with put-on solemnity. "Of course. I wouldn't want to go breaking any rules."

It elicits a chorus of laughter from both Sarah and Ellie and something warms in you at the sound. You can't help but smile in response.

"Do you need anything else?" Ellie asks from beside you, and her tone lets you know she's hoping the answer is no. You tell her just that, that you're fine for now, and as you'd suspected, she collects the deck of cards off the table and darts into the other room with Sarah in tow.

You set your orange aside for now, much more drawn to the warm mug of coffee that feels like heaven when you take it in your hands. You sip it slowly and let the heat trickle down your throat, let it warm you from the inside out.

A few quiet minutes pass, Ellie and Sarah chatting away in the living room and the wind outside whipping wildly against the glass. It's almost peaceful, watching the storm from inside- if you let yourself forget you're stuck here on Christmas Eve.

"Alright," Joel's voice is suddenly saying, pulling you from your reverie as he comes through the kitchen door with his big hands full. Leaning over you, he sets down a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, followed by a small bowl full of various spread packets. With his body so close, you're bombarded by the scent of firewood and pine rolling off him, transfixed by the exposed skin of his arms where he's folded up the sleeves of his cable-knit sweater.

"Scrambled eggs," he says, still leaning in close and pointing with one thick finger at each of the offerings before you. "Bit of local sourdough. And then we got butter, peanut butter, jam, uh...marmalade, I guess."

His delivery wavers on the last one and it makes you both laugh. Marmalade must not be too popular. 

"Thanks," you tell him earnestly, reaching for a butter packet. You expect him to leave you then - go join his girls in the living room - but instead, he pulls up a chair at the head of the table. He grunts as he settles in and stretches his arms up over his head. His sweater rides up his belly a bit, and your eyes widen at the hint of skin that pokes out, soft and faintly hairy.

You shift your focus to toast before he notices.

"Sorry about all this," he says, shaking his head as he drops his arms to place his elbow on the tabletop. "S'bad luck."

"I should've checked the weather," you shrug around a bite of your toast. "It's been so long since I've been up this way. I forgot how bad the winters can get."

"Nah, this is somethin' else, though," Joel posits, glancing out the window and the raging storm. "Been a while since I've seen a storm this bad."

"Figures," you grumble, unable to keep the bitterness out of your tone. Joel seems to notice, his brow furrowing as he searches your face. You burn under that stare, keeping your own eyes fixed on the plate of food in front of you.

You quickly change the subject.

"They're nice girls," you say, nodding in the direction of the living room, where you can still hear Sarah and Ellie giggling away.

Joel's brows even out and he smiles at that, fondness setting in like it always seems to do when you mention them.

"Yeah, they're alright," he agrees.

You tuck into your eggs, falling into comfortable silence. You see Joel open his mouth like he's about to ask a question - the one you're sure he's been dying to ask since he'd heard your name - but you cut in before he gets the chance.

"I don't mean to be presumptuous or anything but Ellie, she's..."

Your voice trails off, not really sure how to finish the sentence.

"Adopted," Joel fills in for you, clearly unoffended. You nod; you'd thought as much. Not that it matters, of course, but something in you wants to understand their family dynamic. Maybe because of how much it differs from yours. 

You're not really sure what to say to that and you don't want to pry, so you just keep eating and wait for him to tell you more if he wants to.

And he clearly wants to.

"Her parents were old friends of mine," he explains. "We lost 'em when she was real young. She didn't have no one else. It was either I take her in or she ends up in the foster system. And I wasn't gonna let that happen to her."

"Wow," you whisper, genuinely moved and frustratingly envious. Ellie isn't even Joel's daughter by blood and the two of them seem to share a stronger bond than you and your parents ever did.

"Wasn't always easy, raisin' two girl on my own but...if I could do it all again, I would," he smiles, staring off distantly in the direction of the living room with his big arms crossed over his chest.

Christ.

He's too good, you think. Too kind. Too...annoyingly handsome.

You're staring. Until something outside catches your attention.

For the first time since you'd awoken, the films of white outside have cleared, a break in the constant precipitation finally appearing. 

"Oh, shit," you murmur, scarfing down the last of your eggs and hurriedly rising from the table. "I gotta go."

Joel frowns, watching you with concern in his eyes as you quickly shuffle past him.

"Darlin', I don't know if you - "

"It's fine, look, it's clearing up," you insist, gesturing towards the window and the slowly clearing sky.

"For now," he argues. "And the roads - "

"It's Christmas Eve, Joel," you interrupt, your voice oozing finality. "I have to at least try."

He still looks unsure - and maybe a little disappointed - but he doesn't argue it further. Not wanting to waste any time, you race out of the room, flying up the stairs to your bedroom to grab your bag and your boots. You'd been planning to sleep here tonight too but with the weather as bad as it is, you have no idea if your plan to go between your mother's and the inn will even be feasible. You'll just have to cut your time at Miller's Inn shorter than expected. 

You leave your key on the front desk and hurry out of the cabin to your car, ignoring the looks of concern that Sarah and Ellie shoot you as you pass them in the living room.

The wind is still blowing hard, the air bitingly cold against your cheeks. You trudge through the dense, wet snow to your rental car, your hope fading fast when you see the windows coated with ice and the roof buried in snow.

Determined, you wipe at the snow with your arms, desperately attempting to clear it off your windshield. You try not to think about the dense snowbank blocking back tires, how there is absolutely no fucking way you're going to be able to back out of here like this.

You have to at least try.

God, and it's always you who has to try, isn't it? Frustration boils over into wet tears that freeze the minute they spill from your eyes, as you fight with the icy handle of your car door, frozen stuck no matter how hard you pull it. God forbid your mother ever put the effort in - when was the last time she came to visit you? When was the last time she called to talk for more than ten minutes? About something other than herself?

Why is it that everyone else got to shut down when dad died and you had to be the one who kept trying?

You stumble backwards when your fruitless tugging suddenly pries the door open and you fall on your ass, right into a snowpile.

"Fuck!" you curse exasperatedly.

Two hands are on your shoulders then, a gentle voice murmuring, "Hey, hey, you're okay, I got you," before you can even start to hoist yourself back up to standing.

"You okay?" Joel's asking, unwitting tears still pouring from your eyes. "You hurt?"

You wipe away the wetness from your cheeks, putting on a brave face while Joel hooks his arms under your armpits and pulls you upright with impressive strength.

"I'm fine," you insist, pulling yourself free from his grasp. He's still got his arms outstretched like he wants to help you further, his cheeks all pink against the bitter air. He's only in his sweater, his jeans haphazardly tucked into his untied boots.

"Darlin' - "

You ignore him, stubbornly getting into your car and slamming the door shut behind you. You can see him in your periphery, watching you worriedly as you jam the key into the ignition and turn.

All it gets you is a metallic, grinding noise.

"Fuck, come on," you whisper to no one, turning the key again and saying a silent prayer under your breath.

That hollow, clanging sound echoes out for the second time, your car still refusing to start. 

A quiet sob catches in your throat and your head falls forward into the steering wheel. Defeated, you sigh, long and ragged.

A tap on the glass has your head snapping up. It's Joel, of course, peering at you through the ice-coated window.

"Why don't you come back inside, sweetheart?" he suggests, cocking his chin towards the cabin.

He looks so earnest, his brown eyes all soft and full of concern. He really is so handsome. You sigh again and accept your fate, pulling your key from the ignition and letting Joel guide you back into the inn.

-

It's quiet at Miller's Inn. Maybe the quietest it's been since you got here.

Your miserable musing is soundtracked only by the crackling fire and the faint sound of Sarah humming away while she decorates cookies at the kitchen table. You, meanwhile, are curled up on the couch in the living room, basking in the warmth of the fireplace while you try not to stare out the window.

You're not doing a very good job of it, you realize, slung over the back of the couch to get a better view of the scene taking place beyond the frosted window.

Just at the edge of the woods, Joel is chopping wood with Ellie. More accurately, Joel is showing Ellie how to chop. Sure and confident when he wields the axe, Joel demonstrates the swinging motion with practiced ease and breathtaking strength. You watch with wonder as he repeats it, over and over, imagining the soft grunting sounds he's making with each downswing, resisting the urge to bite your lip when his face screws up a bit with the effort.

Perhaps even more affecting is the way he watches Ellie when it's her turn, his gaze intent and protective each time she takes the axe in her little hands. There's something so endearing about the competent manner in which he corrects her grip and adjusts her stance, the approving nod he offers her every time she makes a clean split.

You quickly avert your eyes to the fire when you see them start to make their way back towards the cabin, cradling stacks of chopped wood in their arms.

"How's that fire doin'?" Joel calls to you as he steps inside through the back door and kicks off his snowy boots.

"Uh..." You squint into the fireplace just as a big log in the centre collapses into embers and stifles the burning flame.

"Could use some help," you admit.

Joel grins and gives you a nod, crossing the room with an armful of firewood. He sets it down by the hearth and you try not to stare as he shucks off his brown leather coat and tosses it onto the other couch beside him.

Once again, though, you find it's impossible to look away. Not when he crouches and rolls up the sleeves of his sweater, not when he prods at the dying flame with an iron rod, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he does. Certainly not when he expertly places a few fresh logs onto the embers and purses his plush lips to blow into the coals, the dwindling sparks catching new life as a bright, thriving fire begins to spread.

"You see how I did that, kiddo?" he asks over his shoulder, bringing you right back down to Earth as you finally register Ellie standing behind him, watching him work with rapt attention.

"Add some wood, poke it, blow on it - boom, fire," she shrugs. "Looks easy enough."

Joel rolls his eyes as he hoists himself back up to standing with a hand on his knee, grunting a little in the process.

"You say that now," he grumbles. "But if you ain't careful, you'll singe your damn eyebrows off."

"That would look cool," she argues.

You giggle at that and Joel rounds on you. "Don't you go encouragin' her now," he says.

"What? I think she could pull it off."

"She could!" Sarah yells from the kitchen.

Joel raises his eyebrows in mock disbelief, betrayal written all over his face.

"Here I am tryin' to teach my girls fire safety - "

"Which you've taught us a million-billion times," Ellie interjects.

" - and all I'm gettin' is ganged up on."

You laugh at that, a proper throaty laugh, maybe your first real laugh since you'd arrived. Joel glances over at you at the sound, smiling warmly, his sweet eyes crinkled at the edges like he's genuinely pleased to see you enjoying yourself.

You get momentarily lost in that gaze, the way it lingers a little too long, the corners of his lips dissolving into something more pensive. It makes your cheeks warm, the intensity of his stare hitting you in a rush of fluttering butterflies. Suddenly shy, you pointedly avert your eyes.

Joel clears his throat.

"How 'bout we get some dinner goin'?" he suggests, tearing his gaze away from you at last. You exhale for what feels like the first time in minutes.

"Hell, yes!" Ellie agrees, already taking off towards the kitchen.

You take it as your cue.

"I'll just leave you to it then," you say to Joel, rising up off the couch. He frowns.

"What're you talkin' about?"

"Well, I - I don't want to intrude on your Christmas dinner. I'll just go hang out in my room."

His confusion only seems to grow the more you go on.

"But it's freezin' up there," he protests.

"I mean, yeah, but - it's Christmas Eve. I can just...let you be with your family."

"Darlin'."

He places two big, warm hands on your shoulders, his gentle touch somehow placating and exhilarating all at once. His eyes all doleful and inviting, he minutely shakes his head, effectively silencing any further arguments.

"You're part of this family tonight. M'not gonna let you spend Christmas Eve all by yourself. Understood?"

It's all you can do just to nod in response.

"You just stay here by the fire," he goes on, rendering you breathless when he moves one hand to loosely cup the side of your face and trace his thumb across your cheekbone. "And keep warm, alright?"

He does it so casually, letting you go so quickly you almost can't believe what's actually just happened.

"Alright," you agree as though you could possibly say anything else at the moment.

He smiles. "Good. I'll take care of ya, alright? No one's gettin' frostbite or goin' hungry under my roof."

"Thank you," you tell him, and there's an unexpected reverence that coats your words, one you hadn't intended.

You realize you can't remember the last time someone took care of you.

-

As afternoon fades into evening, the storm returns full swing.

Fresh snow begins to fall, squalls of white licking at the window as darkness overtakes the sky outside. You gaze out into the cold and try not to think about your mother's disappointment, all the snide remarks she'll make to the rest of your family when you don't show up tonight, bailing on Christmas dinner with no explanation.

The smell of salt and herbs saturates the cabin and you let the promise of a home-cooked meal distract you. Sarah brings you cookies and lights candles all around you, muttering to you how, "The tree looks kind of sad without all the lights."

But the tinsel there glistens in the glow of the fire, sparkling against all the mismatched ornaments you can only assume were crafted by much younger Sarahs and Ellies. The sight of them makes your heart swell in an unfamiliar way and you think, actually, it might be the most beautiful tree you've ever seen in your whole, entire life.

You eat dinner around a candlelit dining room table, situated between Joel and Sarah, almost like you belong there. Wrapped in the sweater Joel'd loaned you, feasting on the meal he'd cooked up with his daughters, you'd be forgiven for starting to believe it. Outside, the storm rages on, but in here, it is warm - safe.

Joel makes a toast to family and his girls roll their eyes but clink their glasses with his all the same. You do too, internally correcting the sentiment as a toast to this family, this family that seems so happy and comfortable and fond of one another, this family that had so generously let you in on their evening when they could have just as easily turned you away. To Joel, who keeps peeking over at you from the corner of his eye, who smiles softly at you and encourages you to eat seconds, who - every so often - places his massive hand on your upper back soothingly and rubs, a gesture that feels so naturally comforting you're not even sure he's doing it consciously.

Of course, you don't miss the way Sarah and Ellie exchange mischievous little glances across the table each time he touches you. Your skin burns every time you catch them.

Clean-up consists of depositing your dirty dishes into the kitchen sink to become tomorrow's problem, the four of you eventually finding your way back into the living room to cozy up around the fire.

The girls are quick to take the bigger couch, eyeing you and Joel expectantly as you shyly sit side by side on the loveseat, your knees just barely brushing.

Something sparks there, at the place your bodies touch, torrid as the crackling fire.

"I have an idea," Ellie says, sitting up excitedly.

Joel leans back into the couch, fanning his palm out over his full belly and spreading his knees a little wider so his thigh bumps up against yours in the process. "What's'at?" he asks.

"Why don't you play us all a song?" she grins, but she's looking at you.

At that, Joel...blushes? He huffs out a laugh that almost sounds nervous, maybe a little embarrassed.

"Seriously?"

"Come on, it's not like we have anything better to do," Sarah adds.

"Oh, well, now I really want to," he retorts sardonically.

"You know what I mean."

"Please, pops?" Ellie softly pleads. "I'll sing with you."

Joel looks between the two of them doubtfully, but ultimately caves, sighing with a shake of his head as he rises up off the couch to the room behind the front desk.

"Christ..." he's muttering to himself as he disappears from your view.

The girls are sniggering again, watching your confused expression turn to realization as Joel returns with an acoustic guitar in hand.

Oh.

"Can't believe I'm doin' this..." he grumbles as he retakes his place beside you. Your eyes nearly bug out of your skull as you watch him carefully tune the strings by ear before strumming out a simple chord and nodding to himself.

"What do you wanna hear?" he asks the girls.

"The one with the drunk tank!" Sarah suggests.

Joel laughs and shakes his head. "'Fairytale of New York'?"

"Yeah, that one."

Joel sighs resignedly, sitting up a little straighter in his seat and dancing his fingers along the neck of the guitar. You hold your breath as you wait to hear him begin, but before he does, he looks up at Ellie with raised eyebrows.

"You'll sing with me?" he asks her.

She mirrors him, straightening her spine and giving him an encouraging nod.

There's a beat, as Joel once again appears to steady himself, his eyes quickly darting over to you, watching him with curious wonder and then - he starts to play.

It begins with a stirring introduction as his thick fingers press expertly into the strings, already gorgeous enough to make your heart pang. Then he opens his mouth.

It was Christmas Eve, babe...

You practically feel your jaw hit the floor as the dulcet tone of his singing voice rings out through the cabin. Rich and low with just a hint of rasp, he carries the melancholic opening verse beautifully, with all the comfort and familiarity of someone who's sung these words hundreds of times before.

It's like he disappears inside himself as he sings, his eyes slipping shut almost of their own volition. You're instantly transfixed, your gaze flitting between his lips and his fingers, the shadows cast onto his cheeks by his eyelashes, the relaxed set of his features even as his voice effortlessly moulds around the winding melody.

It's so earnest and raw, you're shocked to feel a stream of salt trickle down your cheek when he sings,

I've got a feeling

This year's for me and you

It's only when his eyes snap open and he nods over at Ellie, counting her in as he concludes his verse, that you tear your eyes away from him and yank yourself free from your trance.

The atmosphere shifts then as the tempo increases. Joel taps his foot and Sarah claps along as Ellie's lilting voice melds seamlessly with her father's. It's all smiles and laughter then, for them and for you, as you allow yourself to join in on their fun - even if it still feels sort of wrong. You clap your hands in time with the song and for the first time, you feel less like an audience to their joy and more like a part of it. That feeling only lingers when his duet with Ellie ends and Joel artfully shifts into a chorus of "Jingle Bells" that has the four of you singing along in varying shades of pitch.

Your voice blends in with theirs more fittingly than you would have expected, and even you have to admit that right now, it sure feels a lot like you're part of the family.

-

Eventually it comes time for the girls to go to bed, their reluctance evident as they bid you both goodnight - hugs for you and Joel - and trudge upstairs to their room. You pretend you don't see it when they flash a pointed look at their father, then you, a look he returns with a bemused frown and a shake of his head.

The moment they're gone, Joel cocks his eyebrows at you and ducks away to the office behind the front desk, returning with a cloth bag full of wrapped gifts.

"Ho, ho, ho," he chuckles and you smile too, thoroughly endeared as he sets them out beneath the tree; a few for Ellie, a few for Sarah, a grocery bag full of stocking stuffers which he splits evenly among all three hanging socks.

"You're a good dad," you find yourself saying as he finishes up.

Joel grins, appearing genuinely affected before he quickly deflects. "That's Santa to you."

"Okay, Santa," you laugh and Joel shoots you a playful wink before disappearing again to chuck his empty Christmas sack back into his office.

"I'll just wait for this fire to die out," Joel says as he retakes his place beside you. "You're welcome to stay." A brief pause. "I'd like you to stay."

"I'd like that too," you reply truthfully.

Joel grins and the fire dances in his sweet, brown eyes.

"You want a drink?" he asks then.

You smile - alcohol and the holidays; now that sounds more like the Christmas you know.

"What are we having?"

"Well - " Joel rises up off the couch with a soft groan, and you ogle at his back as he goes to rummage in a cupboard under the stairs you hadn't noticed before. "Got this nice bourbon a guest left for me or - "

"That."

He twists to smirk at you over his shoulder. "Good choice."

You can't help but return his smirk as he hurries out of the room to the kitchen and returns a moment later with two crystal glasses. He pours you each a generous, neat drink, candlelight glowing in the amber liquid. He leans into the couch beside you and clinks his glass with yours and once you've both taken a long, warming pull, he sighs and stretches an arm out behind you, opening his broad body to yours.

Maybe it's the drink - or maybe it's the way your skin has been prickling from your proximity to Joel all night - but now you're finally alone, you decide to test the waters.

"Why do I feel like you're putting the moves on me?" you tease him, keeping your tone light even though you'd really, really like for him to be putting the moves on you.

"Shit," he laughs, but he doesn't move his arm. "Would you hate if I was?"

"Not at all," you assure him, sipping at more liquid courage while your heart rate increases tenfold. "Please, continue with any and all moves."

He laughs at that. "Let me work up to the next one."

"Aright," you grin, holding up your glass for another cheers. "I will patiently await your next move."

Then you both laugh, eventually falling into comfortable silence backdropped by the raging storm outside and the dwindling fire before you.

"Thank you, by the way," you say after a moment. "For all of this. You've been more generous than I deserve."

Joel tuts. "Don't mention it, darlin'. It's Christmas. Season of givin'."

While he speaks, the arm he has behind you moves and his hand comes down on your thigh, his thumb tracing absent circles over your knee. Tingles shoot up your spine, both at his touch and the double entendre, but you work to stay level.

"Is that your next move?" you ask, glancing down at his fingers spreading wide over your leg.

He chuckles. "How's it workin'?"

"Little cheesy," you admit but your pulse is pounding in your ears as warmth from his palm saturates straight through your leggings and seeps into your skin.

He nods, not bothering to argue it. "That's fair. Can I keep this here?"

He twiddles his fingers around your thigh to punctuate his request and you nod.

Another few moments of quiet sipping pass, charged by his hand taking up your thigh. You lie your head back into the couch and let the warmth of the bourbon drip through your veins, oddly at ease in spite of your circumstances.

"My mom's gonna be so pissed at me," you confess.

Joel frowns. "Pissed?"

You sigh and take another long pull of your drink, more out of necessity now that you're apparently opening up to this man.

"I haven't been home for Christmas in years," you begin. "Honestly, me and my mom barely even talk. But she decided that this year - this year was gonna be the one we spent Christmas together like a family."

You shake your head and down what's left of your drink. Joel doesn't speak, just tops up your glass and waits for you to go on.

"Of course, all that means is that I had to make the trek up here, to this place that makes me...miserable - which she knows. Paid for all of it by myself, by the way. Just so she can look like the big hero who saved Christmas when I come through the door."

You stare into the fire as the admission pours from you but you can feel Joel's eyes boring into your face. His fingers tighten around your thigh and you take a deep breath.

"And then I didn't show," you shrug, the words escaping you in the form of a humourless laugh. "Came all the way up here just to - "

You cut yourself off, not really sure what you'd been about to say next. Just to...what? Spend the night with a loving family? Get cozy on the couch with a handsome bed and breakfast owner? Smile and laugh and sing and feel cared for, for once in your life?

It feels shameful to admit it, but you think part of you might be grateful for the storm after all.

"Anyway," you conclude around another sip of bourbon, the alcohol starting to tickle sweetly at the edges of your brain. "Guess I ruined Christmas."

You tilt your glass towards his with a self-deprecating smirk and Joel clinks it almost reluctantly.

"Well if that's what she thinks, then..." Joel shakes his head like he's searching for the right words. "I'm glad you ended up here with us instead."

Emotion licks at your insides and you smile in spite of yourself. "Me too."

He shifts a bit in his seat to face you full-on. He's smiling too, soft and sweet, as he reaches between your bodies to pick a small piece of fluff off the chest of the sweater you're wearing - his sweater.

The proximity is overwhelming and for a moment it feels like time stops altogether. You watch his eyes as he traces a line down your arm to take your hand in his. You let him turn your palm over in his grasp, feeling the way his calloused thumb catches on your skin when he drags it over the lines in your open hand.

"This alright?" he asks.

"Mhm," you assure him, breathless as his delicate touch lulls you into a state of peace, underscored by a sudden, burning twist of desire.

"Hey, uh..." His brows knit together, his smile fading a bit even as he maintains the steady patterns he's drawing over your palm. "Somethin' I've been wantin' to ask you..."

That look from yesterday is back in his eyes, the sympathetic knowing. But it doesn't scare you now. You've already opened your heart to him more than you've opened it to anyone in years.

You wrap your fingers around his, stifling his motions to grip his hand like a lifeline. 

"Yes, I'm who you think I am," you tell him.

His eyes remain fixed on the place your bodies are connected.

"I remember you," he whispers. It doesn't surprise you. There are no strangers in Cooperstown. "What happened to your old man...Jesus, what you went through."

He shakes his head and takes a long, ragged breath and you're certain he's thinking about the two girls upstairs, safe and warm in their beds. Doing the math in his head like he's realizing they're about the age you were when you watched your own father die in a boating accident.

"It's okay," you say quietly, squeezing his fingers a little tighter. "It was a long time ago."

"I just can't imagine..." he sighs. "And after all that, for your mama to still treat you like that..."

You shrug dismissively, bringing the rim of your glass up to your lips. "Yeah, well, we all process that shit differently, I guess."

It comes out sounding more bitter than you mean it to and you sip your drink to dull the pang of deep-seated anger in your guts.

Joel just shakes his head again, stealing your breath when he lifts your conjoined hands up to his mouth and lightly kisses the back of your knuckles. There's something so reassuring about the gesture, something so genuine in the way he whispers, "I'm sorry," into your skin.

But something else is clawing its way up your neck, something screaming at you to steer this conversation away from dead parents so you can keep feeling his lips on your skin.

"Is that your next move?" you ask him, your voice shaking just the tiniest bit as his mouth hovers hotly over your hand.

He grins against you. "Why? S'it workin'?"

You take a deep breath, and then you take a chance.

"You could...kiss me somewhere else," you suggest.

His eyes flash up to meet yours from beneath his long, dark lashes, the same thing burning bright in your core reflected back at you in his gaze. You watch with bated breath as he slowly lets your hand fall, collecting your glass and placing it on the coffee table along with his own.

He moves at a careful pace as he turns back to face you, his eyes trained on your already parted lips. His tan skin glows in the orange firelight and you want to taste him.

Unconsciously, you lean in closer as he takes your face in both his hands, stroking his thumbs over your cheekbones as his gaze darts from your lips to your eyes, searching.

"Yeah?" he checks in, like he's asking permission.

"Yeah," you nod, eagerness bordering on desperation as he finally closes the space between you to press his lips over yours.

You can't remember the last time someone kissed you like Joel does. Soft and patient, his chapped lips fit perfectly against yours like puzzle pieces. You let him take the lead, let his tongue pour into your mouth and sigh when it does. Bourbon lingers on his tongue, but there's something else there too - a scent and taste that's distinctly Joel, woodsy and warm and male.

Neither of you in any rush, your lips move in a tender dance as your hands loop around his neck and your fingers find purchase in the curls at the back of his neck. A low sound rumbles in his chest in response and ignites a pang of arousal in your core.

And yet...you almost think you'd be content to just keep kissing him forever. One of his massive hands moves to cradle the back of your neck and tilt your head back so he can kiss you deeper and you press your body impossibly closer to his, until you're sure he can feel your heart beating in your chest.

He kisses you until you're breathless and dizzy, finally pulling away to meet your faraway gaze with a sweet little smile.

"How was that?" he asks.

You try to think of a smart response but all your brain can conjure up is, "Good."

"Fire's out," Joel breathes, nodding behind you.

Still entwined in his embrace, you twist to see what he's seeing; the remaining logs burnt away to black, the flue now shrouded in darkness. You shiver, but you don't feel cold.

"I guess that means it's time for bed," you say, refocusing on him, his face only inches from yours.

"C'mon," he hums, unraveling your bodies to help you to your feet. Together, you blow out the candles, sheathing the cabin in near-total darkness. You wait at the foot of the stairs while Joel checks the locks on the front door and closes all the curtains, shielding you from the storm outside for the last time tonight.

He finds you there, and in the black of the night, he guides you up the stairs, sure of his footing in spite of the darkness. He leads you down the hallway, past his room to yours, unlocking it for you with his master key.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," he whispers and your heart falls a bit - you don't want to leave him yet.

"Oh. Goodnight, Joel," you respond reluctantly, reaching out blindly to cradle his face in your hands. Scruff scratches at your palms and you can't help yourself; you crane your neck to kiss him again, quick and chaste. "Merry Christmas."

He hums lowly and presses his lips to your forehead.

"You need somethin', you just knock on my door, okay?"

He pulls back just in time for you to tell him, okay, and then he's turning away, his form lost to the darkness the moment he's out of arm's reach.

Longing overcomes you the moment you close the door behind you.

In spite of everything, Joel had somehow managed to give you the happiest Christmas of your life. Just by opening his home to you, offering you a seat at his family's table, making you feel something close to loved; you're not sure he'll ever know how much it had meant to you.

Warmth emanates from the top of your head to the tip of your toes, curling incessantly in your tummy. It keeps you standing firmly in place, refusing to accept that the night is truly over.

As your eyes adjust to the blackness, something comes into view, something left on your dresser by Sarah or Ellie or Joel - and it shatters what's left of your resolve.

You snatch up the flashlight in a giddy haze and hurry out of your room before you change your mind.

Your feet carry you down the hall to the door marked Owner and then Joel is throwing his door open before you've even had the chance to knock. His eyes rake over you, hungry and curious.

"I need something, Joel," you tell him.

Without a word, he smiles, holding a hand out to you to pull you into his chest.

He's less patient here, in the dimly lit safety of his room, the flashlight falling to the floor as he snakes his arms around your back and crushes his mouth against yours. The moment the door closes behind you, he's crowding you towards his bed as his lips traverse your neck and his hands peel at layers of clothing.

It's all hushed and heady as you let him strip you bare and lay you out beneath him, melting at the way he gazes down at you in wonder, his palms trailing over your skin and leaving traces of heat in their wake, warm enough to combat the whipping winds of cold licking at his windows.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, shaking his head like he can hardly believe it.

"Joel," you softly plead, your fingers clawing at the edges of his sweater. "Let me see you."

He nods, a low growl echoing in his chest as he quickly obeys and lifts away his top layers.

"Oh," you sigh at the sight of him, unconsciously sitting up to run your hands over his belly, dotted with a light smattering of hair leading downward, invitingly soft beneath your touch.

Joel chuckles at your reverence, watching you as you glide your palms up and over his chest while he undoes his jeans and lets them fall away with his boxers.

And his cock might be only the thing perfect enough to draw your gaze away from his belly, thick and hard and right at your eye line. You don't wait - can't wait - just take him in your hand and stroke, peering up at him when he gently cups the side of your face. Something about his soft, lustful stare makes you smile.

His own parted lips twitch up at the corners, and it spurs you on; you lightly pull back his foreskin and sink the tip of his cock between your lips, swirling your tongue around his slit and tasting salt. Joel curses above you and you take him deeper, his musky scent all-encompassing, intoxicating. His hand moves to cradle the back of your head and tangles in your hair just as you begin to bob on him, your eyelids fluttering closed as you sigh around him.

But Joel has other plans. He pulls you off his length with gentle but insistent force, dropping to his knees and pressing you down into the mattress with his hands splayed across your stomach.

"Can I kiss you here?" he murmurs gruffly, spreading your thighs apart to make a home between them, his scruff already dragging across your skin as he nears your wet centre.

"Oh, god, yeah - yes," you nod fervently, breathless just at the offer. Merry fucking Christmas to you.

Joel groans, licking his lips before diving forward to close his mouth around your heat and lap hotly at your core.

He's fucking greedy with it, devouring you like you're his favourite meal in the world, as meticulous and patient as he'd been when he'd kissed your lips by the fire. It doesn't take him long to bring you to the edge, not with the way his tongue easily finds your clit and massages it with such caring intent you swear you feel a tear well in your eye when you come, when firelight burns behind your eyes and Joel holds you flush against his mouth with two arms hooked under your thighs.

It's all a blur after that, Joel repositioning you so he's hovering over you on the bed, hooking one of your legs up over his hip, some exchanged words about protection and not needing it and Joel's grateful groan in response. His skin is soft beneath your fingernails as he sinks inside you, your body making space for him with ease, slotting into the warmth of your cunt like he was made to be there.

He fucks you slow and urgent all at once, his whispered ramblings about how perfect and beautiful and good you are lost to the wind outside. Below the cover of his body, his strong arms braced on either side of your head, you feel perfectly protected, shielded from the storm in every way - shielded from anything bad at all - and as he crashes onto his elbows to connect his mouth with yours, you think that maybe this was always where you were supposed to end up this Christmas Eve, that maybe all the stars had aligned to bring you this; Joel grunting softly against your lips, your bodies and breaths becoming one until he's hastily pulling out to come steaks of white across your stomach.

"You okay, sweet girl?" he asks when it ends, when he's finished wiping you clean with an old t-shirt and pulled you into the solid warmth of his embrace.

"Mhm," you smile into his chest, kissing the skin there and committing the taste of him to memory. "Can I stay here with you?"

Joel strokes your hair, tugging his blankets up over your naked bodies before kissing the top of your head.

"'Course, baby," he whispers. "'Course you can."

dec. 25 - the goodbye

You're awoken by the bright light of day and the sound of knocking at Joel's door.

"Wake up!" a voice is yelling from the hallway. "Joel, wake up! It's present time!"

You blink against the daylight and exchange a sleepy smile with Joel, his soft eyes all bleary with sleep and only half-open when he calls back, "Alright, meet ya down there!"

You laugh as your head falls forward into his chest, feeling his lips press into your hair. You linger in the cover of his body and his blankets for perhaps a little too long before you finally roll out of bed.

-

It doesn't feel strange to be here anymore, sipping coffee around the Millers' fireplace, slotting into their Christmas morning as if it were yours too. You rejoice right along with the girls when they open their presents, soften when the two of them surprise Joel with a gift of their own - a songbook full of Hank Williams songs and a framed photo of Joel and his brother from when they were kids.

The power returns and Ellie calls it a Christmas miracle, the lights on the tree coming to life as the electric heaters whir all around. The storm has passed, and reality is quickly settling in, that as much as you'd like to stay, you have a flight to catch tonight and a family of your own you should make one last attempt to see before you leave New York.

Joel's hand on your knee beneath the dining room table as you share your last breakfast together only makes it harder to imagine leaving. 

But leave, you must.

The sky outside has cleared to blue, the snow having finally stopped falling some time in the night. Sarah and Ellie shovel away heaps of snow and with some careful coaxing from Joel, you're finally able to start your car.

You never could have imagined when you'd pulled into this place two days ago what a lasting impact it would have on your heart. You'd been dreading coming here, and now you can hardly stand to go.

"Thank you," you say to the Millers, your temporary family, who'd given you so much in so little time and asked for little in return. "For everything."

"Come back soon," Sarah pleads, throwing her arms around you in a tight hug. Ellie joins it, pressing herself into your side and muttering a simple, "Merry Christmas."

Joel watches on till the girls untangle themselves from you to glance between you and their dad.

"We'll just, uh, leave you guys alone for a sec," Sarah says, making Ellie giggle as the two of them hurriedly make their way back into the cabin.

Alone in the driveway, Joel saunters closer to you with a small half-smile.

"Little matchmakers, huh?" you joke.

Joel shakes his head, but his smile widens. "Yeah, they like to think so."

"With them on your side plus those moves of yours..." You whistle softly. "Good luck to the next helpless young woman who gets snowed in here."

He laughs. "I don't exactly make a habit of this kinda thing, sweetheart."

"So what, I'm just that special?"

You mean it like a joke but Joel's smile fades, his tone deadly serious when he says,

"You are."

You swallow hard against the sudden lump in your throat, overcome with emotion as you throw your arms around his middle to bury your face into his chest. You breathe in the scent of his leather jacket while his own arms encircle you and squeeze.

"What'll you do now?" he asks when he pulls back to hold you by the shoulders.

You take a deep breath, a sigh that turns to vapour between your bodies.

"I'm gonna go spend what's left of this Christmas with my mom," you decide. "And I'm gonna tell her I'm sorry. Then I'm gonna get on a plane, and I'm gonna go home."

Joel smiles, something like pride in his eyes as he leans forward to press his lips to your forehead.

"You're always welcome here," he says.

"Thank you," you sigh. "Thank you, Joel."

He finally lets you go, his hand trailing down your arm as you turn away. You look over your shoulder with one hand on your car door, the two of you exchanging one last fleeting smile.

"Merry Christmas, sweetheart," he says.

"Merry Christmas, Joel."

-

Guided by muscle memory and sheer will, you drive towards your mother's house, your nerves mounting with each passing mile. Your dread reaches a fever pitch when you pull into the driveway and your mother comes bursting through the front door, her face all screwed up with some emotion you can't place.

You take a deep breath and prepare to face the music, bracing yourself for the wrath as you reluctantly climb out of your car and meet your mom halfway through the driveway.

"Mom, I'm sorry - " you begin but you're cut off when she throws her arms around you in a suffocating hug and it's only then you realize she's crying, wet sobs catching on your jacket as she all but squeezes the life out of you.

"Oh, sweetie," she cries and she doesn't sound angry at all. Not snide or cruel or cutting. Over her shoulder, you can see the rest of your family gathering on the front porch, varying shades of relief on their faces.

"Mom - " you mutter confusedly, too stunned to even hug her back. "It's okay, mom, I'm okay."

She releases you at last, patting at your arms and your shoulders and your head like she's checking you to be sure. You frown at her tear-streaked face, not finding any trace of malice there.

"Oh, honey, I'm so glad you're here," she says hoarsely and your heart swells at how much it sounds like she means it. "We were so worried."

"You were?"

Fresh tears well in her eyes, another ragged sob getting stuck in her throat.

"The storm was all over the news - I thought - " She shakes her head stubbornly trying to dispel whatever horrible scenario she'd imagined you in. "I'm just so relieved you're safe."

"Oh," you mutter. "I thought...I thought you'd be mad."

The suggestion seems to genuinely pain her, more hot tears pouring over her cheeks as she cups your face between her hands.

"I'm so sorry," she croaks.

You're not sure either of you know what for exactly, but you let the words wash over you all the same.

"It's okay, mom," you assure her, and least for now, you choose to let it be true.

"Can you stay? For a little while?"

"Yeah, mom. I can stay."

And you do, spending your final few hours in Cooperstown in your childhood home, allowing yourself to feel at peace there. Surrounded by your blood family, you carry with you the memory of the Millers in your heart, all their unconditional love for each other and the unwavering kindness they'd shown you when you'd needed it most.

You think, probably, you'll carry them with you forever.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fluff #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction

[peachesofteal]

Light on -single mom/neighbors fic Simon Riley/female reader Prompt(s): fire alarm, reader backstory, reader cooks for Simon, requested by multiple.

The chair at your kitchen table is small. 

It’s so small, he’s half afraid he might break it, the rickety wood creaking under his weight, and he shifts, leaning back to test its ability, hoping it won’t give way on him. The wood makes a louder groaning sound, and your voice carries from the hall, half of a jest in your tone. 

“Are you trying to break my furniture?” Shit. 

“No.” He shoots to his feet, patting the little wooden chair like he’s trying to comfort it, embarrassed that he’d been caught. “Jus’ trying to test it, make sure it’s not gonna collapse on me.” 

You have an eyebrow raised, returning from your bedroom with a pajama clad Emmaline, little red onesie dotted with deer, your hand patting her back firmly and bouncing her in your arms at the same time, her little brow furrowed like she’s irritated with you. 

“It’s fine. I’m just kidding.” You look down at her and sigh. “Are you going to let me put you down so I can finish dinner?” 

“I can take her.” He offers, and you flash him a relieved smile. 

“Hear that?” You hum in her ear, planting a kiss on the top of her head. “Your favorite person wants to hang out with you.” His stomach clenches. 

“Come here baby girl. Let’s let mum have a break, yeah?” He reaches, and you bend down to place her in his arms, the smell of your skin, your hair, the scent of your laundry detergent flooding his senses. Emmaline is so small in his hands, but he’s growing more comfortable holding her, and when she settles against him easily, he can’t help the warmth that flares in his heart, overflowing through his body with pride, and… something else. Something strong. Something he thinks he knows the name of, but is too afraid to voice. Something that has him dreaming about giving you his last name, giving it to Emmaline too, tacking Riley onto the end of both you, as a stamp, a seal, a promise.

“She still needs to burp.” You tell him softly, pulling the cloth from your shoulder and arranging it onto his, fingers lingering when you smooth it out. “Do you know-“ 

“Yeah.” He assures, swiftly, and you smile again, hand brushing against his when you give her on last little pat on her back. 

“Okay. I’ll work on dinner then.” 

“You ah- don’t have to keep feeding me.” He tells you, even though the full plate of pot roast with stewed carrots, potatoes, and gravy makes his mouth water, massive portion settled in front of him like you’re trying to make sure he’s never hungry again. 

What a good girl, he muses indulgently. Good little mum. Good little wife. Emmaline coos in his arms, still awake, settled on his knee with her back to his stomach, one hand firm around her tummy. He bounces her, one hand with a fork stabbing into a carrot, the other holding her steady. Safely. 

“I can take her, if you want to-“ 

“No. You sit.” He inclines his head, and you blink, before automatically folding into the chair diagonal from him with your own plate. The room is quiet, fork chiming against china, until you speak again. 

“I don’t mind it.” You swallow, taking a long sip of water. “Cooking. For you.” You whisper it to your plate, like it’s a secret, like you’re ashamed, and he tamps down the urge to reach for you. “You do so much for us, you’ve- I don’t know how to repay you.” You’re mine now, sweetheart. You don’t have to repay me. It’s my job to take care of you. Take care of you both. It almost all comes out of his mouth, but instead he changes hands on the baby, putting his fork down and extending the one closest to you, palm open on the table, a gentle entreaty. 

“I don’t mind, helping. Someone’s gotta take care of you girls.” Your eyes go wide, lips parting, before you’re collecting yourself, looking down into your lap with a stunned little smile. “Sweetheart, I-“ 

The words are robbed from him, stolen by a screeching, blaring noise in the hallway, a high-pitched alarm that has him out of the chair, shoving the table with one hand and positioning himself between the door and you, curled over Emmaline who’s now crying, startled. 

“Fire alarm.” You wince, but when he doesn’t relax, your expression goes waxy, soothing, and your hand finds the inside of his elbow. “It’s just a fire alarm, Simon. People fuck with the pull station now and then. Probably nothing.” It takes a second, a second too long for his brain to catch up, and when it does, he blanches, looking you over for fear, repulsion, of him. Distaste of the secondhand reaction that he just cannot control. 

He doesn’t find it. Only blithe acceptance. Understanding. He clears his throat. “Let’s get outside then.” 

It’s cold outside. Winter is in full swing, and he’s happy he forced you into your winter jacket when did, amid your distraction, too pre-occupied with wrestling a screaming Emmaline into her coat and hat, swaddling her up in a fluffy blanket before you even stopped to think about yourself. 

“It won’t be long.” You tell him, alternating between trying to soothe the baby’s frantic tears, and looking around anxiously. “Station seventy-four is just a few blocks north.” Station seventy-four? “Look, see?” You point, cooing at Emma, red emergency lights flashing down the street. You stray closer to him, pressing into his side, and he puts his arm around you, squeezing your shoulder. You’re… nervous, and he’s not sure why. The fire alarm didn’t seem to rattle you too much but now, you’re chewing on your lip, eyes scanning across the people milling about outside. 

“You alright?” He murmurs, and you nod. 

“Just cold.” You reply through clenched teeth. 

It doesn’t take long for the fire service to get the building sorted, and once they give the all clear, you break from his side, beelining towards the front of the building. He’s about to jog after you, surprised at the pace that you've managed to make, when he hears someone calling your name. Practically yelling it, and he pulls up short.

It's a firefighter. He approaches you with an open palm, like he's trying to corner a wounded animal, and your face pinches at the corners, hand cradling the back of Emmaline's head. Simon inches closer, getting within ear shot, using the dark and the people still scattered about to sink into shadow, becoming Ghost, silent, unnoticed, and lethal. Nearly unseen.

"-are you?" The firefighter asks, staring at the baby in your arms with wide eyes.

"I'm fine. We're fine." You reply stiffly, looking away with a grim, haunted expression.

"You never come down to the station... we'd- we'd love to see you both. Or if you ever needed anything, we're here for you. We-"

"Thanks." you cut him off, trying to turn away, but he steps after you, protesting.

"I know it doesn't-"

"Officer." An older man interrupts, sharply, and the younger firefighter straightens.

"Captain."

"You're needed for system reset." He instructs, and the officer takes one last look at you, something conflicted in his face, before nodding and stepping away. "He's not wrong." The Captain tells you gently, and you shake your head.

"We don't need anything from you."

"You need community. Support. The station is a family, we look after our own."

"I'm not your own." You snap. "He was! He was your own. And how well did you look after him, Captain?" The words are vicious, pointed like arrows, seeking to maim, to hurt, and the look on your face is so anguished, so tormented, that Simon can't stand to see it for one more second.

"Everything alright?" He steps between you and the Captain, positioning his body so that you're half hidden, and your shoulders immediately slump, tension draining from you when you look up into his face.

"Yeah, let's go inside. It's too cold out." You tell him, and he nods, casting a glance over his shoulder at the frowning man, letting his hand slide over your shoulder and down your spine, directing you inside and keeping you close.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He asks again once you're in the hallway outside your door, and you turn into him, close enough that he can lean his nose down to skim through your hair.

"I'm okay." You whisper, fingers finding his at his hip. "We're okay."

#peaches writes #light on #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley

[15minlatewithbatbucks]

One of the bats has to go undercover as a patient of a particularly suspect new and upcoming therapist. Bruce already has a backstory fleshed out and a cover identity, but that's no fun now is it.

Dick: Okay, the bat council is now in session. First things first-

Steph: I'm the realest.

Jason: Shut the fuck up.

Dick: No, no arguing. We're here on a MISSION.

Tim: That's right, a very important mission.

Dick: One of us has to go undercover as Dr. Hoffman's patient. But why? Why are we seeking therapy?

Tim: Wrong answers only. If any of you get too real, Dick can and will find you a real therapist.

Dick: And Tim, no superhero related answers. Bernard's PowerPoint nights give you too much of an advantage.

Tim: You're just jealous I know that Batman is actually a tulpa.

Jason: You shut the fuck up too.

---

Dick: Okay, I'll go first to get the obvious answer out of the way. I'm going because I'm secretly Batman, BUT I'm not here about that. I just have incredibly selective amnesia and can't remember the code to the Batmobile.

Jason: Oh that one's good. Let me think.

Steph: Hoffman is a man, right?

Dick: Right.

Steph: Easy, I'll claim womanly problems. Maybe get prescribed a vibrator.

Tim: *wheezes*

Dick: Ok Gotham's in the dark ages of psychology but not THAT much.

Steph: Spoilsport. Fine, I'm Batman's long lost twin sister.

Duke: Come on, we can't all go to therapy because of Batman.

Jason: I don't know, I feel like all of us should go to therapy because of Batman.

Cass: I'll go because I'm Batman.

Jason: I'd vote for you.

Duke: I think I would go because Metropolis isn't real.

Tim: Like, the whole city is-

Duke: It's a conspiracy. The government wants us to think there's this wonderful city where nothing bad ever happens and an actual alien from space saves the day. Tries to make us buy into some utopian bullshit.

Tim: Hoffman's just going to drive you there.

Duke: Ha! He's not getting ME to a secondary location. He might be in on it.

Steph: Compelling, definitely compelling. I nominate Duke's for first place.

Jason: Don't jump the gun.

Tim: Yeah, you haven't heard ours.

Steph: Well? Let's hear it then.

Tim: I'm an alien spy, sent here to study humans. Only I'm not doing well because I was taken in by rich people and they act weirder than me. I want to know what it means to be human, but whenever I look around all I see is how to make a good margarita. It makes me... sad.

Steph: That's no good. We said wrong answers only.

Jason: Solid four out of ten.

Tim: Fuck off.

Jason: I think I would go because I was convinced I was the second coming of Jesus which is all fine and good, but my whole family is Jewish so it's making things a little awkward at the dinner table.

Steph: You did come back from the dead.

Jason: I did and I'll tell him that. Took a little longer than three days this time, though.

Tim: Okay, I'll be honest. Jason and Duke's are the best.

Dick: Hold on- Damian, do you have an answer?

Damian: Of course. And not one so foolish.

Duke: Well?

Damian: Well, my whole family is comprised of vigilantes and I'm under a lot of stress to be one as well and continue the family tradition. I will of course swear him to secrecy and avoid naming any vigilantes by name.

Dick: ...

Jason: This is what I'm talking about. This is exactly what I'm-

Dick: Yes, okay. Game's over. All of you are getting psych referrals in your inbox by the morning.

Steph: What about-

Dick: Duke won.

#tim drake #dick grayson #jason todd #damian wayne #stephanie brown #cassandra cain #duke thomas #my writing tag #this is obviously a joke and not a real 1:1 representation of reasons to seek therapy #let's see how long before someone wildly misinterprets it #batfamily

[drabblesbyjubs]

Just Need Time

Astarion x gn! Tav Reader, Astarion is pent up but also wants to please the reader, he makes himself want to have sex with reader but reader stops him and helps him figure out what he really wants. Fluff, smut, a little bit of angst. Minors DNI

Tws// mentions of sexual trauma, Astarion’s backstory stuff, mild disassociation for a few minutes, trauma, mild spoilers for non ascended Astarion’s ending, sexual content and smut

.

I want everyone to know that I got stuck working an 8 hour shift as a cashier on my last day of work so I wrote this between customers, enjoy and here’s to my new job

Time with Astarion is sacred.

After nearly losing him multiple times throughout your journey to rid yourselves of the mind flayer parasite, you’d come to appreciate every second you spent with him. Every moment during the day, snuggling and spending time with one another, and spending the nights running through Faerûn and enjoying the adrenaline of exploration, it was all beyond precious to you both.

But especially to Astarion. For the first time in two centuries, he belonged to himself; he could go where he wanted, do what he wanted, be what he wanted. He was free.

That didn’t mean he was alright, though.

Being with you had helped. You’d shown him freedom, devotion, and everything he’d ever wished he could have had in a partner. But part of his mind was still stuck in that dark, dank crypt, the smell of mildew festering in his lungs, the fear at the sound of every footstep lurking in his heart. The nights he was let out, but not to be free, only to use his body to gain some innocent soul’s trust and bring them back for him to take out his most wretched fantasies on.

Astarion was usually the victim of these fantasies, but if Cazador truly did what he wished with Astarion, well, there would be no more Astarion to take out those fantasies on.

Those memories plagued his mind nearly every night. He often woke from the nightmares feeling utterly emotionless, numb to the world. Fear aches low in his heart, and he would roll over and scoot up to you. You took him in to your arms with no question; you already knew.

Sometimes he would jolt out of bed, too enveloped by the memories to realize it was you next to him. He would become defensive, either scared of you or insisting you leave before he came back. When he snapped back to reality, he was utterly humiliated, but you never shamed him, always made him feel like everything would be okay, and he would forget about the terrors of the night before by the time you two set out for adventure after sunset.

He wanted more than anything to be like a normal person; completely comfortable in his relationship, never a fear that things would go awry, blindly trusting and accepting of everything you did. You understood why he couldn’t be like that, and did your best to make him feel as close to normal as he ever could. And gods, did he love you for that. You were utterly hypnotizing, he would tear out his heart with a stake if you asked him; hell, he would carve the stake himself. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for you.

And even if you assured him he owed you nothing at all, not even a passing glance, he wanted to give you something to make you happy.

He often gave you wildflowers, knowing you always liked the bright colors and soft petals, or smooth, shiny rocks he found down by the creek, or little rings and necklaces he bought with his dwindling gold supply when the two of you went in to town. But he still often felt like the only thing he could do right enough to truly make others happy was sex.

It was practiced, it was routine. Use his body to make someone feel good, make a few pretty faces, and it was done. There was something safe in the familiarity of it, though the sheer gut wrenching disgust that followed after never sit right with him.

You hadn’t hesitated to agree when Astarion had asked if you two could stop having sex for a while. Your sexual activity had dwindled anyways; you’d often told him you were just tired, or wanted to make sure you had plenty of energy for the coming day. Part of him knew you could tell he didn’t really want it, but he chose to believe you just wanted a break, and it was relieving to not have to perform. It was a weight off of his shoulders.

But more recently, he’d been pent up. He found himself craving release; of course he thought of coming to you for help, but the thought of having to perform, to make you feel good and owe you that pleasure after he takes his own, it sent a writhing sensation under his skin. As much as he liked the thought of seeing your eyes filled with arousal, he didn’t want that feeling of perform. Continue. No choice. Earn your life, bring him someone.

But he wanted to make you happy. He had done this so many times before; why not once more, just to see you satisfied? You must be pent up as well after so long of dealing with his unwillingness to give you something so simple. It was the least he could do. He would achieve the release he’d began to crave, you would be happy, and he would know you would stay with him and know he cared for you.

..

Astarion rolled above you, that mischievous smirk on his face as he looked down at you. You laughed softly, rolling your eyes. “Someone’s in a playful mood tonight,” you teased, to which Astarion hummed.

“Whoever could that be?” He muttered, leaning down and capturing you in a kiss. You felt his tongue swipe across your lower lip, but before you could grant him entrance, he pulled away, before moving to mouth softly at your neck. You hummed, your chest fluttering as you inhaled. You could feel his lips move against you, his tongue swiping over the scars of old bites, his canines brush dangerously over the delicate skin of your neck.

You put your hands on his chest and muttered, “Mmh, Astarion, what’s going on?”

“Hmm?” He hummed in a questioning tone.

“You don’t normally act like this,” you breathed. “Is everything okay?”

“So sweet for asking,” he murmured. “Just pent up. I want you, if you’ll have me.”

You scanned over his face; nothing seemed off. He seemed genuine. You weren’t sure why he was offering though; this wasn’t like him. Maybe he was actually just pent up?

“You promise you’ll tell me to stop if it’s too much?”

“Of course, love,” he breathed against your neck, softly nipping at the skin there, threatening to break skin.

You nod, hands running up his sides. “Okay. As long as you promise.”

Astarion gave a pleased sound, his hands snaking under your shirt. Calloused fingertips brushed against your skin, before pulling your shirt up above your head and leaning down to kiss at your shoulders, mouth at your collarbones, and nip at your chest.

You gave a shaky sigh, your hand running over his back, savoring the way he arched against the touch. He was good at this, no doubt, but it always hurt you to think of *why.*

Astarion leaned back, staring down at you almost hungrily. He pulled his own shirt over his head, and you leaned up to run your hands over his chest and his stomach, before leaning in to kiss at the little dimple between his collarbones. He was always finicky about kissing his neck, especially on the side Cazador bit him on, and you didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable, so you stuck to his shoulders and chest for now.

His hands found your waist, and as you pulled away from him, you saw the slightest flicker of hesitation in his eyes before he pushed you down to the bedroll and pulled your hips up against his, softly grinding against the curve of your ass.

You weren’t worried about that, though; you saw the way his eyes had slowly grown foggy and distant, the loss of expression, and the way his touches became almost rhythmic, nearly robotic; practiced and routine.

“Stop,” you said.

Astarion snapped out of it in an instant, present here and now once more. “Are you alright? Did I do something wrong?”

“Hun,” you leaned up, scooting your hips apart from his and gently cupping his cheek. “You don’t want this. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I do!” Astarion insisted, “Gods, I want this, please, I’m sorry, just let me-“ he hurriedly began grabbing at your hips, trying to pull you closer,

“Darling, stop.” You said, more assertively this time. His shoulders slumped and the look in his eyes broke your heart; he looked desperate, but not for sex. He looked so disappointed in himself.

“Come here,” you whispered, pulling him in for a hug. “Do you remember when I told you you don’t owe me anything?” He didn’t hug you back, but his forehead rested against your shoulder, and he gave a brisk little nod.

“But I do want it,” he said. “I just… I don’t want to have to give back, or be touched, or just… I don’t know, but I want something, and I-“

You hushed him, sensing his growing stress, running your fingers through his hair. You turned to kiss his temple, and he gave a happy little sound.

“I think I get it. You want to keep your control of your body, but don’t want to have to feel like you owe me pleasure either?” You questioned. He gave a brisk little nod.

“That’s alright. Astarion, we don’t have to do anything like this, I never want your to feel pressured, and-“

“But I do want… something like this.” He rebutted. “I just… want a little. I don’t know. I really am pent up. I’ve tried handling it myself, time and time again… I’ll sneak off into the woods and… and try and rid myself of these desires. But it… just… never works. I cant… I just cant. Not alone.”

You furrowed your brow, feeling just how embarrassed he was with the way he shuffled and squirmed against you, clutching at your sides.

“You mean… you can’t touch yourself, or..?”

“I can’t finish,” he corrected, his words rushed and jumbled.

“Oh,” you said. You kept running your fingers through his hair, taking a moment to think. You could tell how much this embarrassed him, just by how he was acting. “That’s alright, Astarion. What do you want me to do to help?”

“I… don’t know,” he breathed. “I just… I’m frustrated, i need something..”

“Would it be too much for me to touch you like that right now?” You asked him.

He nodded his head, and you pulled back, looking at him as you gently cupped his cheek in your hand. “Use your words, baby boy.”

Red eyes looked up to meet your own, and you couldn’t help but smile at him, if only to comfort him. “Yes, i think that would be too much right now. Maybe… maybe I could… i could touch myself and you can just… be here?”

You flushed a little with his words, but you nodded and kissed the tip of his nose, savoring the way he smiled.

“That sounds wonderful,” you said. “Here,” you began shifting him and yourself.

You moved so he was laying on his side, you laying behind him. Your chest was pressed to his, and you felt the full body shudder that went through him. “This okay?” You asked, and he nodded. You cuddled up to his back, and hummed to him, “Then go ahead, my love. Do what you want.”

Astarion shuddered and you could feel him moving to slip a hand under the hem of his pants. You gently rested a hand on his hip, not sensing anything saying he disliked the touch. His breathing slowly started to pick up, and you could feel him palming himself softly before slipping his cock from his trousers. You hummed your approval, whispering to him, “That’s a good boy.” He whined low in his throat, and you felt his arm start to move as he began stroking himself. You couldn’t see at this angle, but you felt the way his body would slowly start tensing, his chest rising, could see the way he tried to bury his face in the pillow, knowing you were right behind him as he touched himself.

You muttered soft coos of approval to him as he chased his pleasure, each of your words making his breath hitch just a little more.

You hummed, “So good for me, my love, making yourself feel good. Love watching you like this.”

You could so easily ignore your own arousal if it meant you got to witness his. He was beautiful.

Astarion gasped, “D-darling, gods… the way you talk to me, hah, makes me… fuck, I need it…” he trembled and began stroking himself faster, throwing his head back against your shoulder. You smiled against his neck and kissed the pale skin softly, feeling the way it made his entire body shudder. His breathing slowly turned in to whines, desperate and strained.

Your hand ran up to his chest, brushing over the soft skin, savoring the little twitch he gave when your hand ran over his nipples, moving to feel over his rib cage as you whispered how beautiful he was, making himself feel good like this.

You kissed his temple, the saltiness of his sweat clinging to your lips. You caught a glimpse of that beautiful face when he tilted it back to arch himself; brow furrowed, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. “Gods,” you breathed, his red eyes fluttering open. You leaned up to kiss him, not even attempting to look down and see him desperately chasing his release, knowing that catching a glimpse may be too much for him.

You buried your face back in his neck, and he gave a high pitched whine, gasping, “C-can’t… fuck, love, ah, please, I can’t do it, please, help me,” the last words came out as a mere whisper, and you could feel how frantically he was moving in attempting to chase his release. Worried he would hurt himself, you whispered to him, your hand slowly trailing down his hips to rest on his upper thigh.

“May I touch you?” You asked.

“Please,” he nearly sobbed, letting himself go and grabbing your wrist to guide you to his cock. You wrapped your hand around him, heavy and hot in your palm. He was so hard, gods it must have hurt.

You stroked him softly, your thumb swiping over his tip and smearing his precum over himself. He whimpered, still holding your wrist, and you could feel the way his entire body trembled. “Please,” he whispered.

You kissed the back of his neck, mouthing at the flesh there softly as you set your pace, stroking him and smearing his pre over the head, making your hand much slicker to give him a feeling that, if his whimpers and trembles said anything, must be quite lovely.

He jolted and whined, his cock twitching in your hand. You could tell he was close, losing himself to the pleasure, one hand having a death grip on your wrist and the other tangled in the furs of the bedroll. You’d never seen him so lost to himself.

He gasped, “I’m gonna-!” Not even able to get out his warning before your felt his release coating your hand. You stroked him through his orgasm, savoring his gasps, catching the slightest glimpse of a furrowed brow and open mouth, eyes squeezed shut, tears threatening to spill from the corners.

“That’s it, hun,” you breathed to him. “That’s a good boy. Let go for me.”

You kept stroking him until he gave a particularly harsh jolt, with which you withdrew your hand and wiped it on some miscellaneous clothing tossed near your bedroll. You kissed the back of his neck, savoring the silence for a moment.

Astarion was the first to speak. “Thank you,” he said.

“I hope it was to your liking. It wasn’t too much?”

“No, it was wonderful. I… needed that. Do… you want me to take care of you?” He rolled over to face you, glancing down to your trousers. You could see the unease stirring in his eyes at the thought alone

You shook your head. “Tonight was about you. I’m just happy I got to see that pretty face when you came,” you teased, fighting a laugh at Astarion’s shocked and embarrassed expression.

“Gods, you’re truly insufferable sometimes.”

“Same to you, my love,” you teased, kissing the tip of his nose and pulling him in close. You pulled a blanket up over his waist to give him some cover, to which he hummed his appreciation and nuzzled in to your chest, sleep catching the both of you and luring you into its embrace.

#astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion headcanons #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 #bg3 headcanons #astarion smut #astarion fluff #x reader

[janaispunk]

come morning light

chapter 2 • series masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: An injured Joel and Ellie stumble into your home in the middle of the night. Against your better judgement, you decide to help them.

word count: ~2.5k

tags/warnings: post outbreak, slow burn, found family, age gap (sorry not sorry), able-bodied reader, angst, reader has a sad sad backstory and ptsd, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual smut, vague description of an injury

a/n: i'm finally finished with chapter 2, and once again nervous af about it haha. there's not terribly much happening in this one, but i promise we'll get there, it just needs the buildup :)

thank you @catchallfangirl for beta reading <3

follow @janaispunknotifs for fic updates and find my full masterlist here :)

dividers as always by the lovely @saradika-graphics 🤍

You don’t feel like you’ve slept at all, but after hours of tossing and turning in the darkness of your bedroom, you think it’s probably time to get up. 

You’re halfway convinced that last night’s events were a product of your imagination, that your mind has felt so lonely that it conjured up the whole scenario. But when you step out of your bedroom and find the door of your parents’ bedroom only halfway closed, the way you have never left it before saying good night to Ellie earlier, you have to come to terms with the fact that this might actually be your reality. 

Ellie seems to be sound asleep, a lump under the covers, softly breathing, but when you head to the living area and switch on one of the smaller lamps, you’re met with the piercing glare of Joel. He’s still lying on the couch, much like you left him, still pale, still dark shadows under his eyes, but he’s much more awake now, his gaze following your every move. 

“Hey,” you say softly, sinking down on the same armchair that you sat in when you watched him last night while Ellie took a shower. You suppress a shudder at the way he regards you, his eyes flicking up and down your body, taking in your size, you presume, searching for weapons. Your gun is tucked into the waistband at the back of your pants, which you’re sure he’s already aware of. You don’t like the way he makes you feel, like somehow you’re intruding on him. You should have the upper hand, this is your home and he’s injured, you helped him for crying out loud, and here you are, nervously watching his every move. You did the right thing. It’s gonna be fine. 

“Where’s Ellie?” he asks, ignoring your greeting, his voice gruff. 

“Sleeping,” you reply, nodding your head to the bedroom door. “She’s okay, I promise.” 

Some of the tension seems to release from his body and he slumps back down a little, but the distrust in his expression when he looks at you doesn’t waver. Then again, you’re probably not much different. 

“Look,” you sigh, “I’m not playing some kind of game here. You came into my house, I saw that you needed help, so I helped.” You try to infuse your voice with as much confidence as you can. “Don’t make me regret that, okay?” 

He shrugs, a noncommittal grunt the only verbal answer. It could potentially be interpreted as a thanks, you guess. In a less tense situation, you’d probably grow annoyed by now. Shrugging yourself, you get to your feet and head to the kitchen. Anything to escape the way he’s watching your every movement.

“Hey, do you want coffee?” You don’t really want to offer him any, but you’d feel weird drinking it yourself without asking. 

He pipes up at the question, head turning in your direction, his face the most open that you’ve seen it yet. “You have coffee?” 

“Yeah.” That’s why I’m fucking asking. 

“I– yes.” A breath, a second of him not meeting your eyes. “Thanks.” 

You smile, small, fleetingly, busying yourself with the ground beans and the boiling water, reveling in the smell that slowly spreads throughout the room. It reminds you of happier times, when the world was still normal. 

He has pushed himself into a sitting position, breathing heavily, when you walk over to hand him the steaming cup, still careful to keep your distance. 

After you sit back down, the both of you stay silent for a few minutes. You enjoy the bitter taste on your tongue, the way you slowly feel your energy rising. 

“Does it hurt much?” you ask eventually, gesturing towards his stomach. 

Another grunt, the hint of a head shake. 

“So it does.” He opens his mouth, the protest most likely already on his tongue, and you raise an eyebrow. “I have painkillers, are you sure that you–”

“No.” It comes fast, his voice raised, no room for arguments.

You instinctively flinch back at the unexpected louder sound, the cup shaking in your grip. You set it down on the table in front of you. Have your hands free, just in case.

There’s a hint of regret in his eyes, his free hand slightly raised, palm open. He’s trying to calm you down, you realize. 

“Okay,” you breathe, working hard to keep your voice steady, “no painkillers, got it.” 

“Sorry,” he mutters, his face half hidden, words almost lost behind the cup. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“It’s alright,” you tell him as much as yourself. 

You’ve gotten jumpy, not used to loud sounds anymore, raised voices, not used to humans in general, you suppose. You hadn’t fully realized it until now, until there’s other humans around you again.

“Thank you,” he continues unexpectedly, “not just for the coffee, but– you know.” He’s struggling, the words not coming easily, but you think that he’s being earnest. “Patching me up.”

“Of course.” You nod hastily, your heart still beating a little too fast. 

Another moment passes in silence, both of you slowly sipping the coffee. He’s looking around, taking in his surroundings, eyes lingering on the closed wooden doors and the stairs leading up. You try not to get nervous about it. It’s normal that he would want to know more about where he is, after all. 

“This is the basement, right? Is it safe?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “No way to get in from outside.” As long as you stay inside, you’re safe.

He hums, appreciatively, you think.

“How long have you been living here?” 

“Always. It’s my parents’ house. I mean–” you laugh, but it comes out hollow, “we lived upstairs, obviously. But my dad was… kinda crazy. Or– not that crazy, I guess, all things considered.” Your lips curl into a wry smile. 

Your mind flashes back to long lectures about survival techniques, learning how to shoot, your father going on and on about first aid, hunting, all the things that you couldn’t have cared less about as a teenage girl, but were ingrained in your brain nonetheless. You’re grateful, now, but it’s laced with guilt about how often you snapped at your father, how often you told him he was paranoid, seeing dangers that weren’t there, that he was wasting your time. You couldn’t have known, the rational part of you argues. But you can never take it back now, the guilt whispers. 

When you look up, Joel’s eyes are on you, eyebrows raised in question. You shake your head, trying to clear it. Stay in the present.

“Sorry, what did you–?” 

Worry is painting his expression. “Are you okay?” 

Don’t show weakness. “Yeah, of course. Just spaced out for a second.” 

You force a smile onto your face and stand up rather abruptly, gathering both cups and putting them into the sink. Joel hasn’t moved, but you feel his eyes on you as you move. 

“Do you, um, do you want to shower, maybe? Or just wash up, I don’t know, how–” You gesture towards the dried bloodstain on his flannel, forcefully keeping your tone light. “I have clean clothes, too, if you want.” 

A shiver runs through you at the thought of going through your dad’s things, of someone else wearing them. He doesn’t need them anymore. He’s not coming back. 

You know that you’ve gone silent for too long again even before you see Joel’s expression. He doesn’t ask this time, but there’s something in his eyes that you can’t place, something that almost looks like understanding. 

“Yeah, I guess cleaning up a bit would be nice. I– thank you. Again” 

His voice is gruff and he avoids your eyes. You think that he doesn’t like it, having to thank you. Owing you. 

Giving him a nod, you head to the bedroom, hoping not to disturb Ellie, but she’s awake already, her eyes glinting in the light that’s falling into the dark room from the living area. You clench your jaw, heading for one of the drawers, trying hard not to think about what you’re doing. It’s not like he ever wore this stuff, it was just sitting down here. It’s fine, you’re fine. 

“Don’t worry, it’s not about you,” Ellie says quietly from beside you, breaking through your racing thoughts. 

You turn towards her, confusion on your face. “What is?”

“Joel,” she shrugs, still keeping her voice low. “He’s like that with everyone. He’s a bit of an asshole, really.” She sounds fond, saying it, like it’s an endearing character trait. 

A surprised laugh escapes you. “I– okay, thanks, I guess.” 

She waves it away, swinging her feet out of the bed. “No, thank you for not murdering me in my sleep.” 

“Yeah, likewise.” You shake your head, still laughing to yourself. It’s so easy to like the girl, to feel like you already know her. 

You hand Joel a pile of clothes, purposefully avoiding to look at them too closely, explain where the towels are and he grumbles his approval before the bathroom door closes behind him. 

You release a breath and close your eyes for a second. You are undeniably warming up to Ellie, finding it almost impossible not to, but her companion is a different story. 

“Hey, do you drink coffee?” you ask in the direction of the bedroom. 

“Ew, no!” comes her reply as she steps out of the door, collecting the wild mess of hair on the top of her head and securing it in a ponytail.

Her offense at the mere suggestion makes you chuckle under your breath as you busy yourself with preparing breakfast in the form of porridge instead. She’s leaning against the doorframe, watching you, her eyes wide as she takes in the cupboards full of supplies. 

You’re glad that you don’t need anything from the storeroom, keeping that door in the corner firmly closed. You want to trust her, want to trust them, but a feeling of unease still lingers at the thought of letting them know just how much you have.

Instead, you voice another question, a thought that fills you with unease as well. 

“Hey,” you begin, keeping your eyes trained on the stove, “I’m sorry, but you and Joel, there– there isn’t anything weird going on, is there?” 

“Like what?” She sounds slightly defensive, but when you steal a glance at her, she’s eyeing you with curiosity. 

“I don’t know, like…” You shrug, stirring the mixture of water and oats, “you want to be here, he’s not forcing you to come with him or anything, right?” 

“No, don’t worry about that,” comes her reply, almost amused. It was a bit of a stupid question, when you think about it, considering how worried she was about him last night, how protective. 

“Okay,” you smile at her. You’re curious nonetheless, how they ended up together and where they’re headed, but it’s probably not really your place to ask. 

You divide the porridge into three bowls and hand her one, while you carry yours and one for Joel back to the living area and set them down on the wooden table. 

Ellie starts shoveling the food down immediately and you’re left wondering once more what happened to them and when they last ate something. 

“So…” Ellie begins, her mouth still half full, “you’re just down here with all this food? Because your dad stored it here, before… things went to shit?” 

You can’t blame her for her curiosity, you’re aware that you’ve probably found yourself in a better living situation than most people. Your thoughts go to the storeroom again, basically stuffed with enough supplies to last you multiple lifetimes, especially now that it’s just… No.

You hum in affirmation, not trusting your voice and you’re thankful that she’s too distracted by her breakfast to notice anything weird about your reaction. 

“So you don’t go out hunting or anything?” comes her next question. You freeze. 

You did go hunting, back when you cared about variance in the meals you prepared, about using fresh ingredients when you could. Until there was no need for that any more. 

You realize that Ellie is saying your name, not for the first time, judging from the look on her face. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, your hands tightening around the bowl. “No, I- I don’t go hunting.”

If she finds the situation weird, she shrugs it off impressively fast. 

She nods to herself, eating quietly for a minute, before she speaks up again. “So what do you… do? Down here all day?” 

“Uh…” What is it that you do all day? Time has been blurring together, days without anything happening repeating on a constant loop. You realize that you don’t remember, can’t talk of any activities that are part of your day. How long has it been like this?

You’re relieved from having to answer by Joel emerging from the bathroom, his face pale and his breaths going heavy. He has put on the sweatpants you gave him, but his torso is bare, the skin around the injury still an angry red. 

He sinks back down into the cushions with a heavy sigh and you quickly get to work, cleaning the wound once more and giving him more antibiotics before you redo the bandages and hope for the best. Your hands don’t shake as badly as they did last night. 

Ellie gets him some water and pushes his bowl of porridge into his hands, urging him to eat, before she turns to you. She’s trying to be strong, to hide her worry, but the pleading look in her eyes when she asks you if he’s gonna be okay tells a different story. 

“Of course,” you say, giving her what you hope to be a reassuring smile. 

Joel does look better after he’s eaten something, but his eyelids are drooping and after a few more minutes, his eyes close and his breath evens out. You do the dishes and check the cameras, calming down a bit more when you’re sure that everything seems to be quiet upstairs. 

When you return to the living area, Ellie is rummaging through her pack, muttering to herself, until she pulls a book out of, proudly turning the cover for you to read it. No pun intended - Volume Too.

She starts reading them to you while you settle back down with a second cup of coffee and you share her laughs, enjoying the way it makes her look lighter, allows her to be a kid who can laugh at stupid jokes. You ignore the sting it causes in your chest because you once knew someone who would have loved this book just as much as Ellie does.

thank you for reading 🤍 if you liked this, please consider reblogging, leaving a comment or sending an ask, it truly makes my day every single time!

#fic: safe and sound #janas fics #joel miller #ellie williams #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedrostories

[writingwithfolklore]

Writing Character Arcs

                Here’s an easy secret about character arcs—they fit the same structure as plots (that’s because your main character’s arc is the main plot, but I’ve already talked about that here).

                That means, your character arc will somewhat follow this structure:

Normal world

Inciting Incident

Big thing happens 1

Fun and Games

Midpoint

Things get worse

Big thing happens #2

Crisis

Climax

Resolution

It begins with your character in their ‘normal state’—who they are from their backstory. They have some sort of problem that they aren’t addressing, because why would they? Change is hard.

Then, inciting incident. Something happens that sends them into a “change spiral”. They’re forced to face something they’ve been ignoring or avoiding. This incident can be just about anything that turns their world upside down—a new person comes into their life, an old person they left behind reappears, a close one dies, or a friend moves on. Etc. Etc.

Big thing #1 is the first action they take to “right” what happened in the inciting incident. An old flame reappears in their life, maybe they decide to meet up with them. A close friend dies—maybe they decide to take a trip away for a little while. It is an action taken by your character because of what happened in the inciting incident.

Fun and Games is the part where things seem to be going okay for them. Or things can be going terribly for them—it’s up to you. Either way, it accumulates to…

The midpoint. Something happens and it’s terrible and probably their fault. The old flame reinforces why they stopped going out by breaking your character’s heart again. The funeral for the friend is happening and MC missed it. Etc.

Things get worse is just hammering home this point. From their actions, things are going downhill.

Big thing happens #2 is the second action they take to right things again. This time they’re changing strategies from the first thing they tried. Maybe if they tried avoiding their problem first, they’re going to confront it (for better or for worse).

The crisis is the recognition of their initial problem or flaw. Leading to:

The climax, in which the character either chooses to change or to stay the same. Grow and do the right thing knowing what we now know, or stay stagnant and do the thing they would have done in the beginning. What you choose here depends on if your story is a tragedy or a comedy—tragic characters don’t recognize their flaw and grow from them.

Resolution is the consequences of their actions. For tragic characters, things are probably bad and remain that way—we need to show the readers their choice was the one wrong. For characters who do grow, we see them begin to thrive for the first time in the story. They’ve achieved what they wanted, though maybe not in the way they thought they wanted it.

(Pair this post with Character is Plot to flesh out your characters.)

#writing #creative writing #writers #screenwriting #writing community #writing inspiration #books #film #filmmaking #writing advice #character arcs #writing character arcs #character development #character building #character journey

[steddielations]

Steve walks into utter chaos.

He was stopping by just to see Max, but all the increasingly concerning noise coming from the Munson’s trailer drew him over there instead. Worried that all the cursing and clattering would drown out any chance of a knock being heard, Steve lets himself in. 

Eddie doesn’t even notice him come inside, too busy scrambling around the complete wreck of a kitchen.

“Dude, are you cooking or just banging pots and pans together? I thought you were dying in here.”

Eddie squawks and jumps about a foot in the air. His hair is even more disheveled than usual, barely tied down with a bandana. He’s got flour splotches on his face and all over the frilly grandma apron he’s wearing (which Steve is definitely getting a photo of and showing Dustin later) along with a suspiciously sticky goo on his fingers.

“Stop laughing at me,” Eddie groans. 

“I’m not laughing,” Steve laughs, going to join him in the kitchen, “What are you doing, man?” 

“Well, I’m trying to bake Wayne a cake, but at this point, I might as well give him a frosting covered rock for his birthday,” Eddie sighs, frustrated hands scrubbing the flour off his apron, “I don’t know, man, usually I just get him another mug and a pack of smokes, and he’s never asked me for anything, but I’ve put him through hell this year I just wanted— I don’t know like, to do something special but I can’t even—”

“Alright, take it off.”

Steve folds his arms and waits while Eddie just gawks at him for a moment, cheeks reddening under the patches of flour.

“What?”

“You heard me. Take. It. Off.”

Eddie scoffs, starts muttering like he does when he’s nervous and Steve cracks a smile when he realizes why.

“The apron, Eddie,” he gestures, “Hand it over.” 

Another moment of confused staring and Eddie slowly gives it to him.

Steve wastes no time shaking out the flour and tying it around himself. He moves past Eddie, gets right to work clearing the mess and salvaging what ingredients he can.

“You…” Eddie peeks over Steve’s shoulder, “You know how to bake?”

“I can make a cake,” Steve shrugs, “Robin obsesses over shit sometimes, calls them her “little brain worms” or whatever. She couldn’t stop thinking about this cake she swore she had for her 5th birthday but couldn’t remember the flavor. So we made every cake recipe in her mom’s cookbook until we found the right one.”

“So Harrington’s got a secret Betty Crocker power-up, impressive.”

“Nah, just small stuff. I help Claudia with Dustin’s birthday cakes. Little shit is very particular about his red velvet.” 

Eddie snorts and Steve waves him over to start washing the dishes. He does so with a small salute that smears more flour on his forehead. The word cute comes to Steve’s mind but he just rolls his eyes. 

“So you dusted off your oven mitts for little old me, hm? I’m flattered.”

“Only because I like Wayne and I’d prefer if you didn’t give him food poisoning,” Steve teases, dumping out Eddie’s abomination of batter into the trash. Though he softens when he sees the way Eddie winces at it. “And I think it’s nice, you know, you doing this for him. I wanna help.”

Eddie clearly holds back a smile, looking down at the bubbles in the sink, and the cute word comes back to Steve’s mind.

“Okay well, take it easy on me. Not everyone has a bunch of mom friends teaching them to bake.” 

“Oh yeah, then where’d you get this grandma apron? You just had this little number in the closet with your leather and chains?”

“No, it’s Mrs. Bennet’s and she’s not my friend,” Eddie bristles and Steve senses a hell of a backstory there, “I stole it off her clothesline.” 

Steve laughs and makes Eddie tell him the whole story, all the inner workings of Forest Hills feuds. It’s nice, Steve’s been spending more time here since everything, listening to Eddie’s stories and sharing his own. It’s easy to be around Eddie, even though that pesky word won’t get out of Steve’s head.

Once the batter is finished, Steve dips a finger in to test.

“How does it taste?” Eddie asks, “Better than mine I hope.”

Steve hums around his finger, “So good, here taste,” he meant to slide Eddie the bowl, but the wires must’ve gotten crossed somewhere, because now he’s holding out a dollop of cake batter on the tip of his finger to Eddie’s mouth. 

They both look down at it, then at each other again. Steve knows he should apologize, drop his hand and say it was a mistake but there’s something about the way Eddie’s looking at him, the way he subtly licks his lips is almost like— He wants this. 

So Steve lets him have it.

Eddie leans in, keeps his hands at his sides and slowly guides himself down on Steve’s finger. His eyes fall shut as his mouth closes around it, like it’s too much, watching Steve watching him. It’s a lot for Steve too, the wet warmth of Eddie’s mouth, one swirl of his tongue almost makes Steve’s knees buckle. 

Something comes over him, he presses his finger down just slightly, feeling Eddie’s tongue curl around the tip. It elicits a soft noise from Eddie that sends heat thrumming all through Steve. Eddie’s eyes flutter open, brows turned upwards and mouth in a plush little O around Steve’s finger, looking up at him through dark lashes, a dot of flour on his nose. The sight makes Steve’s breath catch in his throat. It’s fucking cute and hot.

Steve has to swallow his own noise when Eddie pulls off. 

“Yeah,” he breathes out, a slight grin on his lips, “Really good.” 

Steve’s about to do something crazy, put his finger back in Eddie’s mouth, maybe more than one this time, or just his lips on Eddie's, maybe even slip his tongue inside instead of his fingers, lick all that sweetness away until he just tastes Eddie, something— but a sudden loud knock on the door has him dropping his hand like it’s made of cement.

It’s Max, wanting to know why Steve ditched her for Eddie. She comes inside to ‘help’ which means she leans against the counter, talks about her day, complains, teases Steve and makes fun of Eddie for being demoted to dish duty. 

Steve puts the cake in the oven and focuses on cleaning and composing himself. He can feel Eddie trying to meet his gaze, trying to see if Steve's going to freak out on him after that. Once Steve can look at him without feeling like he’s going to burst into flames, he gives Eddie a small reassuring smile, even throws him a wink when Max isn’t looking. Eddie gives him a smile back.

And later, after Wayne comes home and they sing happy birthday and eat the cake that Steve insists Eddie helped him with— Just the tasting part, Steve says and revels in how Eddie covers a blush with his hair— and after they walk Max home, Steve pulls Eddie behind the trailer and kisses him until he doesn’t taste like cake anymore.

for the prompts "You heard me. Take. It. Off." and "Stop laughing at me" for @highkingpenny and anon, thank you and I hope you enjoy this!!

#behave boys taste testing is a Very Important job #steddie #steddie ficlet #rueswriting #steddie fic #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie fluff

[gentrychild]

BNHA 407 : AFO is a lying liar who lies

Today is a very sad day because I am about to do something I genuinely dislike: I am about to defend All for One. In order to cope, I shall make fun of him the whole time.

AFO and Yoichi's backstory is finally out, with AFO narrating it, and there are two possibilities: he is either completely lying about it (boring) or he is lying a little about it (very in-character for him) because he is also lying to himself.

Lie number 1: AFO was born evil.

The narrator (AFO, seriously, it's AFO) says things such as "The baby drained the lifeforce of both his mom and his brother.", "It was born an arrogant baby." and such but it really reads at AFO villifying himself to add to his own legend.

That's what babies do. Children, before they're born, kinda have to take their strength from their mother. That's why pregnant people aren't supposed to do anything taxing.

AFO and Yoichi's mother didn't die because baby AFO drained her like a vampire. She died because she was a homeless woman who had access to nothing and had to go in labor alone.

Same thing here: during twin birth, a twin is often bigger than the other (well, probably not to extent of Yoichi and AFO, but you get my point).

Lie number 2: AFO, as a demon baby, is shown killing for no reason, just because he can.

(First slaughter by Baby AFO shown in that chapter.)

There are two things that are strange in this scene (apart from... you know.... a baby murdering people...)

AFO had no reason to go after them because they don't have any quirks to steal.

It makes no sense for someone to attack a group of people with nothing to gain. I doubt that's the kind of behavior you have when you're in survival mode as you're barely surviving in the street.

However, a previous panel points at some context we might be missing.

The same panel that indicates that those guys don't have a quirk to steal also shows that they are wiling to do some "preventive attack" on a bunch of quirked people who might or might not be those who assaulted a protest group (reminder that in this context, that protest group are protesting the rights for quirked people to exist).

I could be wrong but odds are that they did something to be qualified as a threat to All for One and we are missing the additional context.

(Second slaughter by Baby AFO shown in that chapter.)

Now, the poor souls who just got absolutely wrecked by a toddler wearing what I suspect to be a garbage bag have quirks, which makes more sense than the previous scene.

However (and thank you for @aimportantdragoncollector for pointing that out to me), we also have this panel.)

Yoichi is shown with bruises on his face and might be broken teeth.

Probably because those same people AFO is shown killing attacked him.

Lie number 3: AFO never loved Yoichi because he can't love, he just considered that he was his. That's all. Nothing more.

(Just... Just ignore the rats.)

AFO didn't care about Yoichi so much that the very conscious first act of his life might have been to swim a river upstream while dragging his brother above the surface with what must have been the deathgrip of all deathgrip.

AFO didn't care about his brother so much that Yoichi was fed and clothed by an AFO who was malnourished enough for his ribs to show and who wore what's basically an improvised toga.

But he just keeps sacrificing what little he has for someone he doesn't care about one bit, that's just his first possession. Nothing more.

Okay, I am going to be clear: anyone who sees that panel and thinks that it's the proof AFO didn't like his brother... You just outed yourself as an only child.

Siblings punt each other for no reason. (There is a reason why the first recorded murderer was an older sibling.) In this case, the reason was Yoichi throwing a can at him.

AFO: "You're not inviting me to a fun activity? You're leaving me out, in the cold, unable to partake in brother bonding activity? Oh, vault for Little Brother! Vault for Little Brother for one thousand years!"

AFO: "Nevermind, we're reading together. All is well, I guess."

Lie number 3: AFO killed the glowing baby for power, because he could, or because the Glowing Baby didn't deserve it

Still laughing about AFO's flawless reasoning... "Comic books heroes' life suck. Better to be a villain. I already did the whole struggle thing, I want an easy life."

AFO killed the glowing baby because he was jealous. It's as simple as that. The glowing baby was considered the first official quirked individual (even though it's not true), was protected by his family (if I remember correctly, the mother of quirks was his mom) while AFO and Yoichi had no one but each other (EDIT: I was wrong, the Mother of Quirks was Destro's mother. thanks to the people in the tags), and had a ton of people following him (while, for some strange reason, people start running away screaming when AFO shows his quirk... What a mystery...).

The last panel was basically AFO saying "I want to be loved' but not having the frame of reference to even know what love is.

In conclusion...

While AFO is definitely a bad guy and a monster, he didn't begin his existence as one. He just wants people to believe that. Because his pride and his ego can't allow him to admit that he lived a childhood full of horrible trauma where he was a victim abandoned by society (to an even greater extent than the LOV) or he would probably combust out of rage and mortification.

Ergo facto, AFO is a lying liar who lies, especially to himself.

#bnha 407 #bnha meta #bnha manga spoilers

[ofjunemoment]

let me teach you how to smash | park jisung

In the list of sports, ranked from most to least sexy, badminton would be found at the very bottom if not ranked last. But why is it that when Jisung plays the with a feathered shuttle your heart flutters? 

 OR: Jisung helps you improve your badminton skills. 

 pairing — badminton player!jisung x fem!reader 

 genre — sports!au, university!au, (one sided) enemies to friends to lovers, slight slow burn 

 wc — 22k (😀 huh)

content — university/sports class setting, humour, fluff, the tiniest bit of angst,  idols mentioned, very heavy on the dialogue/backstory at one point sorry babies <3, smut (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT)

smut tags — making out, fingering, switch!jisung and reader (there's no strong dynamic tbh), protected sex, pet names (jisung gets called a good boy), lmk if I missed anything!

 a/n — YAYYY i can finally share this with u guys!! i have been cooking this for some time and im actually so excited to release it!! I'm a badminton enthusiast so I went a bit ham on the descriptions and back story sorry (not rlly),, I hope this is a good readdd I read through it so much to fix it up and now Im a bit sick of it oops BUT its a story I've been wanting to write so here you go <3 enjoy!

sfw version here!

You enjoy sports. 

You liked dancing sometimes — which is certainly a type of sport  — and you dabbled with different sports at one point in school, but you don’t actively go out of your way to do any intense exercise. It can be sweaty and painful and maybe it’s a little like hitting the gym, but in most sports you need sportsmanship, and why would you be kind to the person who not only won but is rubbing it in your face? 

You once yelled at Taeyong for kicking the ball in the wrong goal when your group of friends went out of their way to play makeshift soccer to bring back memories. You yelled, at precious Taeyong, who flinches at the sight of a fly

Okay, so you tolerate sports.

But in an effort to have your resume look pretty after finishing your degree, your friend Juda had shed light on this one program that has you do a bunch of extracurricular activities and in turn, you’ll gain extra credit. Seamless and effortless, you didn’t need to pay anything towards the program as most of the work was volunteering; like reading to kids or helping clean up lecture rooms now and then. What Juda failed to mention was the other extracurricular required of you, which was to go to a sporting class set up by the university.

Sporting classes; two hours a week minimum.

They were kind enough to provide you with options, but it still wasn't easy to choose whether you wanted two whole hours of HIIT fitness or football, which caused you to almost give up on the whole thing. Until you saw the word ‘badminton’ printed in the faintest ink, almost as if it was a mistake.

So here you are, in the campus’ sports equipment shop with Chenle, looking through what seems like badminton rackets.

“Do you think this is good?” You pick up a racket that has a mix of matte white and mint around the frame, with the string sporting the shade black, testing the weight in your hand. 

“That’s a tennis racket stupid.” He goes to ruffle your hair but instead gets his hand slapped away and a frown etched on his face as you scoff at him. “I knew that,”  You scowl.

“Well then don’t be an asshole about it, asshole.”

“I wasn’t being—” Both of you jump at a sudden sound that pitched in between your shoulders, as your hand flies to your chest in shock while Chenle’s eyebrow hitch up.

“Sorry?” It was Chenle who said that to the person who snuck up behind you two, his arms crossing defensively and landing on his left chest, as he positions himself subtly a little closer to you, almost as if he’s instinctively shielding him.

“Ah, sorry for surprising you; I just came to ask if you guys needed help with anything?” It was when the employee raised her ID card that was hanging on a white lanyard around her neck that Chenle’s defence began to soften as you brought your hand down, replacing the confused look on your faces with one of realisation.

“Ahh, uhm, I was wondering if you could recommend a badminton racket, nothing too fancy, maybe something to last a good two years.”

“Two years?” Chenle was the one that turned to you with a look of disbelief. The employee merely smiled and gestured her hands towards the very other side of the store and quickly turned to guide you.

“Hold on, you’re doing this stupid thing for two years? Half of your courses years? You’re just gonna voluntarily stress yourself with even more work?”

“ . . . Yes? I don’t know what to tell you, that’s my main intention. That’s why I joined this program. You’ve asked me multiple times like I’m going to miraculously change my mind and thank you for it like you’re a rich person, giving me, a homeless person, a piece of bread and then barely look at me as you record the whole thing for your livestream.” You huff while going to lie down on your back on the floor around your newly bought badminton equipment; a set of badminton rackets and some cylinder packets full of shuttlecocks, the feather ones because the plastic ones suck ass, the employee had smiled at you.

You sit up just as quickly as a dull pain shoots up your back. The motherfucking shuttlecocks.

“That’s one way to make up an analogy,” Chenle’s eyes land on the shuttlecock you had freshly crushed, now looking all squashed and disoriented. Poor thing didn’t even last a minute.

“What’s she moping about this time?” Juda’s voice echoed from the door as she places the tote bag she had brought down next to the shoe shelf.

“I’m not moping; I never mope. What do I even look like when I mope?”

“She’s just crying about the fact that she has to do this thing program for another two years.” His words elicit a shout and the gradual flinging of a nearby couch pillow from you. Chenle’s neck cracked as the pillow hit his head downwards.

“Did I kill him yet,” You voiced your disinterest, sitting up on your elbows briefly to analyse Chenle’s face before giving up and laying back down. Chenle stayed in that position for a while before getting up in a fury, ready to avenge you. Juda stopped him with a kick to his leg. 

“Such disrespectful words, is it hard to show some courtesy around here?” You huff and go to lie down once more, not before feeling around the surface for any stray shuttlecock.

“When it comes to you, yes,” Juda throws Chenle a Yakult, and she flings you one straight at your stomach. You attempt not to flinch.

“Here’s to either two more years of moping about this stupid badminton class every week, or two months of hardcore whining from both of you until you break and drop out.” Juda raises her Yakult bottle and clinks it with yours — that’s still on your stomach — and against Chenle’s who was drinking out of it the moment she did so, spilling what little there was of it on his face. Chenle recovers and yells out offensively, causing Juda to squeal as she stands up and goes behind the couch, using it as her shield. 

You inhale and try to tune them out.

Chenle smiles as you giggle at him, the loud music of EDM mixed with Kidz bop playing in the background as the sound of metal basketball hoop clanging echoes just enough for it to have a rhythm. He looks determined to beat the high score of this stupid basketball game, as Juda and you take turns watching him play the game and criticising his moves, even when none of you know much about basketball as he does. It’s been a few weeks since the start of the semester and hence, the beginning of your program. The kids you read to are either sleepy or disinterested as you start early in the morning, and the cleaning of lecture rooms is bearable at most times. 

So things are going great at this point.

That was until Chenle called out to you: “How’s badminton going?” and, you’re not gonna lie, that did dampen your mood just by a bit, but you give your best attempt at masking it and smiling through; you didn’t want them to pick up on the fact that it’s been one lesson and you’re already sick and tired of it (or, at least sick and tired of one certain person). But Juda’s just too smart and catches on too easily with anything that you and Chenle try to brush under the rug. She raises one eyebrow at you before retorting: “What, are you whinging about it already?”

“Am not!”

“Then what is it?” Juda says at the same time that Chenle swears, a little too loud for a kids arcade, but it’s around 8 PM and the only kids that are here probably do some sort of drug or something if they have parents who allow them to be out this late.

“Nothing, okay? The coach is great and the other people who are there are fine too, and I actually learnt a lot —”

“But?” Juda’s lips are pink as she wraps them around a straw poking out from her slushie cup. You lean back in retaliation, back pressed against the basketball machine as you try to find a leeway.

“. . . But.”

You’re late. And you can’t even use the excuse that you woke up late because it’s seven p.m. and you’ve scoffed down your early dinner two hours ago. You simply decided to just procrastinate to the next level in an attempt to gauge if you truly want to continue with this program or not. But now here you are, on a bus that’s severely delayed due to the evening traffic and running frantically to make it to class on time.

Minkyung is a 50-year-old dad who coaches this class; he was also at the office where you had submitted your form for the program, and was over the moon that you had decided to try out his class, hence asking you questions about your knowledge of badminton, and went on this spiel when you had made the mistake of being truthful. 

He now looks at you with a kind and wrinkly smile as your shoes squeak against the floor, one hand to your rib in an attempt to not show how much out of breath you were. “Don’t worry,” his voice was quiet enough for you to register only. “You arrived on time, I just finished the information briefing that you heard from me some time ago.” His smile was tight-lipped but genuine. Trying to even out your breathing, you set down your equipment and quickly join the rest in a circle. A clap echoes throughout the quiet hall as the coach drops his hands and clears his throat while letting out a puff of air, his eyes grazing by everyone’s heads in what you assume to be his way of counting the participants of the class.

“Glad to have everyone here today, I hope with this class you guys would not only learn about badminton but also be able to learn about its sportsmanship and benefits,” His eyes dart around the rather small circle. You expected the hall to be filled with as many students as that one Zumba class you were forced to attend in high school, but it was a rather tame class. 

The coach hums, thinking about something deeply as the other students shuffle around, shifting their weight from side to side in the silence engulfing the court. He looked up and clapped again softer this time. “I’ve decided to treat you like my children’s class.” He concluded, “I want you guys to introduce yourself to each other. Now don’t be shy; everyone's new in this class. Maybe you can find a friend in this class to learn better and more quicker. Okay, let’s start with you.” He pointed towards a guy that was to his left, who looked back at him with wide eyes. He looked around and smiled sheepishly yet brightly. “My name’s Haechan, and uh, I’m 22?” He finished it off with bound lips as he refers to the person after him to begin. 

And as you all finish introducing yourselves to each other, with a girl named Minji being last, the introductory circle ends, meaning the coach can now start the stretching and warm-up exercises. But he hasn’t. 

“Uh, coach, are we gonna—?” Minji stopped halfway as the coach whips his head to look at the gigantic clock on the wall next to the hall’s equally huge entrance. You crane your head curiously towards the direction of his vision, straining both your ears and vision to see what he was looking for, as everyone around you catches on and seems to do the same. It isn’t long after till the squeaking of shoes against the rubber ground echoes throughout; soon enough, the coach screams ‘fourteen minutes!’ as another person steps into the hall, wide eyes darting around everyone as he swallows in an attempt to simmer down his erratic breathing. As the guy's breathing evens out enough for him to probably mutter an apology, your breathing picks up.

“First day and you’ve already fallen for someone? Very on brand for you,”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” You scramble to hit Chenle with his golden pokemon card folder he brought to the arcade. Juda calmly stops you using her right hand, as her left hand picks up her drink to take another sip from. 

“She didn’t even finish her story, Chenle. Go on,” Juda set her slushy down as her grip loosens from around your wrist, signalling to continue the story.

“Thank you, Juda, for you’re my favourite of them all—”

“Are you gonna finish your story?” Her grip tightened.

“A-as I was saying,”

You like to analyse people to some extent, thinking about how body language is cool and how it can depict everyone's different life, contrasting drastically from one another yet sometimes being so similar even with all of our different circumstances. This is why you tried analysing everyone in your class of busy people attempting to hit the shuttlecock in a streak longer than ten, as your eye flitting around the court and landing on your next target, the new guy, simply because that’s in your nature.

(“In your nature? Or was it just the mysterious guy that came into the class so suddenly, panting and out of bre—“

“Shut up? Anyway,” )

“Ah Jisung, this is the latest you’ve been,” The coach nodded innocently towards the guy, as if he hadn’t scared the piss out of all of you when he shouted.

He’s a bit stiff with his walk, and his shoulders seem to harden like a board when his eyes scan around the class and its participants. With wide eyes, he looks like a lost puppy with the way he looks back at the coach in some sort of silent confirmation of something. It’s probably his first time having a general class with coach Minkyung, you realise as you see Jisung bow sheepishly to his teacher.

“Sorry,” his voice was hushed, rumbling as he talked. His eyes scanned briefly once again across the now sparked class doing forehand and backhand practices that the teacher has instructed them to do. You locked eye contact with him from afar and quickly looked away, ears feeling a little bit hotter than it was a second before.

Soojin leans in towards you and Ryujin a bit and whispers, “Do you think he’s new? Like . . . All of us?”

You and Ryujin glance at each other for a quick second, before you smile profusely as Ryujin places her hands on the pole that holds the badminton net, her racket clenched fist supporting her chin as she ponders. “Not at all.” She says rather flatly, a cheeky smile following up after. Solely looking at him doesn’t give you any insights on his level of badminton playing, which is weird, because till now he could pick up on some people's skills; you’ve so far guessed correctly with a few of the participants (including yourself, you think you’re an average player in this class) so you feel a bit stumped. 

He stands stiff as he talks to the coach, keeping his gaze stern on his coach. He seems to be wearing normal trackies and only has a very slim back for his racket. 

“He’s obviously a beginner, his bag is so thin compared to Coach and even Haechan, he also doesn’t look like a long-time player” Jaemin pipes in.

“Who are you to say? You said you’ve been playing for how long and you’re still this bad?” Soojin smiles as she dodges Jaemin’s hand by a fraction. But Ryujin isn’t having any of it as she breathes in with her teeth clenched, hissing out a sound of suspicion.

“Coach seems to know him, which makes me think he’s either been here before, or he’s just the coach's nepotism offspring.”

“Okay!” The coach claps his hand, forcing everyone to act like they were practising. “Gather around; we’re gonna do a basic skills test for this lesson, then I’m gonna split you up into groups and we’ll get to work with the people with the same skills. Cool?” He throws two thumbs up as everyone stays silent, with one of the two people nodding. You watch as he sees the coach's enthusiasm die down a little.

“Cool?” The coach had yelled now, startling everyone else in the second round of heart attacks; everyone else yell back this time, the word ‘cool’ echoing around the grand sports court. You notice that everyone’s responded to the coach's request except for Jisung.

“Oh girl . . .” Juda now has her manicured hand placed on your sulked shoulder of realisation.

“I know, I’m so sorry, Juda.” You look into the distance of the arcade, feigning sorrow; or maybe it’s not much of a feign.

“The fuck,” Chenle turns to see both of you huddled in what looks like a cry fest. “Did someone fucking die?”

“Watch your tongue,” An old woman wearing a neon orange vest belonging to the arcade staff points at Chenle, who bows down as he murmurs ‘sorry’, with you two trying your best not to laugh, following and bowing your heads down too when the seething woman’s eyes meet your figures.

“How dare you anger the poor lady, her blood pressure is probably already high enough,” Juda picks at Chenle, who is now quietly trying to slip in the token to play another round.

“I wouldn’t have if you guys didn’t just suddenly go emo for no reason. What the f—” Chenle’s eyes waver back and see the woman’s eyes (Are they naturally red? Or is it the arcade lighting?) glaring back at him once more. “Frick. What the frick happened.”

“Oh Chenle, we must mourn for her. She’s fallen for another mysterious guy who barely has any personality.” 

“Oh my god,”

“Oh my fucking god, what—”

“Fuck,” Jisung sighed when he missed the shuttlecock by just a hair's width. Everyone was standing in a line-like formation, at the tip of their toes against the line that made the distinction between the playing court and outside. Jisung and the coach were having a match, the first test that the coach had implemented to determine who goes into what group according to their skills, and when no one volunteered, Jisung silently centred himself on the court as the coach's face broke out into a glow. 

Although his face was adorned with wrinkles even when still, and his skin did seem to look just a smidge pruney all the time — the I’m growing old look he had on his face was impossible to miss — the coach’s never looked sharper and younger than he does now, zipping through his side of the court like a bees race. Jisung on the other hand, seems to have a calm demeanour, quietly and tranquilly stepping forward and back, delivering lobs and clears, limbs outstretched to effortlessly hit the shuttlecock back even if it seems that his position doesn’t allow such moves. 

In the cold of Autumn, the stiffness of everyone's bodies was just the tiniest bit evident after a round of stretching, but two right in front of you look as if they’re playing in the heat of the summer, arms and legs effortlessly moving around the court. You try not to look too intently into the thin glisten of sweat forming on Jisung's neck.

Soojin raises her hand without taking her eyes off of the two people playing intensively in front of her, as Jaemin reaches in his pockets to place ten thousand won into her open palm, not letting his gaze wander away from the game either. “Thank you for your service.”

“I can’t believe he’s that good, I should’ve known from his cocky demeanour.” Haechan sighs, his fist resting against his cheek, hoisted up by his other hand. Everyone looks in his direction.

“You would think that it takes one to know one,” Minji almost barely whispers as she looks away from him by her side, looking back at the game with everyone else following. 

“Ah, fine. You won.” Coach drops his racket down from its first stage position, going towards the net with an open palm. Jisung barely takes a step forward before he’s lifting his hand too, shaking hands over the net as everyone claps behind them.

“Okay then, who’s next?”

You spend half the lesson just like that, with everyone playing against the coach followed by him then instructing everyone to get into the key badminton positions. You suspect that this is the core of learning badminton as the coach guides you from the way you hold your racket to the way your feet are positioned, but all you’re really thinking about right now is how badly you just want to go home.

“Okay!” The coach claps, as people gather around him in a semi-breathless state, just from being told to carry out a few sets of actions that badminton has. You don’t know why badminton necessarily needs ladder crossovers, but you barely get to give out a sigh before your eyes catch on Jisung’s seemingly calm composure. He’s done so much and maybe even a round extra, but he’s barely breaking a sweat.

Why does he look so good? Show off.

“Believe it or not, we’re done already! I now have an understanding of what level each one of you is in and will put you into groups.” You keep trying to wipe at your face to keep the sweat away, but an even coat of sweat is now settled on your hand after wiping it many times, so it only feels like you’re spreading it evenly. 

All while mysterious Jisung barely lifts his shoulder to have the cloth of his shirt wipe away the bead at his temple. 

How utterly gross of him. You wonder if he’s single.

“So I will see you all next week and give your level, thanks for joining!” And everyone disperses, spreading around the hall to get to their bags and start packing. You are standing above your bag, packing it and taking your bottle out to take a sip when you see Minji and Soojin whisper shouting, which defeats the whole point of whispering in the first place.

“How much do you wanna guess that he eats and sleeps here?” Soojin is practically bouncing in her place, taking multiple obvious glances at Jisung’s figure, who’s seemingly roaming around in his bag instead of packing it like everyone else, his racket placed neatly on top of his bag instead of inside.

“Nothing, because at this point it almost seems like a fact.” And with that, you shoulder your bag and head for the door, too tired to function.

“And you have no muscle aches? Impressive.” Juda pipes, her eyes glued to the road as she drives them back home.

“Oh no, I do. I just plastered a few KT tapes.” You say from your position in the passenger seat, elbow resting against the rolled-down window with your hand against your forehead, getting a nice breather from the wind outside. Chenle who’s sitting in the middle reaches his hand forward and pulls your sleeve up from behind to reveal your arm and shoulder lined up with tapes of blue and green. 

“A few huh,” Juda smiles and Chenle retorts, as you tch at them both. 

“I didn’t want to risk it, okay?” You say, yanking the cloth back down and slapping at Chenle’s hand, facing forward once again with your hands crossed defensively and gaze set outside again. The car lights up in the yellow of the street lights, as Juda drives through the night. 

“So when’s your next class?”

“And group A has . . . Jisung. Just Jisung”

“No, bad dog. Stop taking your anger out on Chenle’s biceps,” Juda attempted half-assedly to swat at your hands while her eyes were still glued to her phone, as you retell what happens with your next class.

“It hurts, Juda. Make her stop!”

You were furious. Group C? You knew you were better than that, having played almost every other sport growing up, even if occasionally, you’d gotta be good at badminton. Why is Jisung the only one in group A? Yes, fine, maybe he plays well, but it also means that you’ve been ranked down a group just because he was too perfect. Why does he attend the class if he’s already so good?

Subconsciously, you try to convince yourself to not take this whole grouping thing quite literally, as the coach had said that they’re not ranked or anything; but how can you not take it personally when the people you thought you were on par with were in group B. It takes all of your willpower for your scowl to not be displayed, but you soon find that you don’t have to try too hard as the coach assigns you all to your positions.

“Lighter on the feet,” Coach ordered, the squeak of shoe soles rubbing against the floor echoing throughout the sports hall. You, Soojin, Jaemin and Minji go through what the coach calls fundamental steps; right foot northeast with a forehand flick, right foot northwest with a backhand flick. It helps with the basics of the game, which everyone forgets, but you don’t think half an hour of the same steps helps with remembering either.

While group B, which consists of Haechan and Ryujin, go through the same phases with some extra steps added to strengthen their posture while playing. It’s not that you think your play better than the people in your group or group B, but mainly your irrational annoyance stems from the fact that you’re position in the class is gonna be recorded into your progress report, and you know for a fact that if Jisung wouldn’t be participating this dead class, you would be in group B. Yes, it’s still the last group out of two, but you can say that you’re merely ranked second. Instead, you’re last out of three.

As the steps turn repetitive, you let your eyes wander around mindlessly, your feet carrying you throughout as your hands attempt to do the actions in a somewhat muscle memory process. Your gaze eventually settles on Jisung, whose back is facing you as he smacks the shuttlecock against the wall, which bounces back only for him to smack at it again, repeating this one-man game he seems to have made up for himself. You glare lasers into his back, thinking about how maybe you’re not into this whole mysterious demeanour as you thought you were, seeing him just making up his own moves as the coach merely bounces back between the two of your groups, only checking in on Jisung after a few rounds of lecturing your moves and correcting your mistakes. 

Three consecutive claps echo around the tall indoor court, as everyone drops their rackets at their bags and gather around the coach in a circle, somewhat holding some sort of formation with Ryujin to his right and Jisung to his left, and with you positioned almost opposite of him. “Good job everyone, now it’s time to cool down, exactly how we warmed up,” Clueless, most of you follow the coach’s steps while he urges each person to take turns counting, counting up to eight in a clockwise direction. Your eyes can’t stop fleeting to Jisung, the star of every badminton night, as your petty envy prevents you from minding your own business. Throughout the whole night, you’ve seen him take only warming up and cooling down somewhat seriously, as he crosses his arms and holds up a good posture, compared to the rest of the class who simply just slump over, wanting the session to end and finally catch a break. 

One final clap and you’re all free to go. And you don’t waste a second, grabbing all your essentials and bag and quickly darting for the door, ready to go home and wash up and just not support your whole body weight on your feet. As you bid everyone goodbye and bow your head lightly to the coach, you watch as Jisung strides up to the coach in a meek manner, as his eyes fall on your retreating figure just slightly before softly calling out the coach's name. 

It’s nine p.m. on the dot when you step out of the court and breathe in the cold air.

Juda’s on the couch when you step into the apartment, toeing off your sports shoes as you rest your badminton bag against the shoe shelf, at hand for your next trip to your class. 

With a mouth full of chips, Juda barely takes her eyes off the screen before asking “How was class?”

“Same old,” You shrug.

“Same old? You’ve only been twice. How in tune are you with the coach for it to—” Your groan stops her teasing, as she smirks at your tired form squatting against the floor, hands clutching at the door and your hair in frustration.

“Could you have at least let me get home first before frying my brain?” Your hand falls to your face, and that’s when you feel the residue of your sweat from earlier, having turned into oil. The urge to shower now tenfold, you attempt to raise yourself and pass out in the shower.

“I’m gonna wash up now, and probably go to sleep,” You mutter just loud enough for Juda to hear, to which she hums while you retrieve a towel.

“Oh wait, before you go,” She calls just as you inch towards your room, “Do you know where my umbrella went? I’m going to campus tomorrow and I think it’s gonna rain again. I tried calling you but I don’t think it went through,” 

“Oh yeah, It’s by the door.” You recall taking the umbrella to class today, as the forecast has been filled with rain symbols with the Autumn weather. Digging in your bag, you push past your essentials in order to find your phone which Juda’s called. “That’s weird, my phone is not here.”

“Did you take it with you today?” Juda mumbles as she munches on a few more chips, rubbing her fingers against her pants after every serving. 

“I’m sure I did,” You ponder out loud, as you remove your hands from your bag in favour of patting at your pants and jacket resting on the clothing hanger, in case you somehow shoved it in your pockets without knowing.

“Did you forget it?” As soon as the words leave your roommate's mouth, you are met with a vivid picture of your phone, abandoned on the bench in the badminton court you left in a hurry. You sigh, placing your towel on the bathroom counter briefly before grabbing your house keys while putting your shoes on.

“I’ll be back Juda,”

“Good luck,” She waves.

You’re beyond tired, and a little frustrated at yourself for being impatient and forgetting your phone. You can’t risk losing such a thing, hence you’re glad that the lights were still on when you arrived at the building, giving a wave to the receptionist. 

Stepping onto the court, you immediately zero in on your phone which is perched on the bench, the black shade of the screen a contrast against the silver metal bar. But a squeak of a sole against the floor earns a squeal out of your mid-march, as you clutch your shirt next to your heart and turn towards the perpetrator.

“Oh my god,” Jisung’s gaze is what you’re met with as you let out a sigh of relief, the man in question only turning around as you mutter under your breath. 

“Sorry,” That’s the first time you’ve heard his voice all day, and there’s something about the tone of his voice that calms your heart down just a bit.

“What are you still doing here?” Your curiosity gets the best of you, your forgotten phone laying there, continuing to be overlooked as you question the presence of your classmate.

His eyes squint ever so slightly at your question, as his eyes ghost over you, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. “I’m practising,”

Practising? After two hours of badminton class, he didn’t seem like he did much then, but he’s still staying back to practice. You hum in slight adulation, rocking back and forth on your feet as he turns back around and runs through steps you’re unfamiliar with. As you inch towards your phone, you think more about his prominent presence in the court; is he too shy in class? Or maybe he gets private classes from the coach?

But as you scan your eyes around the court, you’re met with a near-empty court, as the only thing in sight is his bottle and slim bag. You’re not sure exactly what you’re waiting for as you hold onto your phone, fidgeting on your spot as your eyes follow Jisung’s swift movements. He seems more tired now than he ever was in the two classes you’ve shared with him, as his shoulders ride up more with an attempt of regaining stability with his breaths.

You’re not sure how long you’ve loitered around, but it must be a long amount of time for Jisung to look at you with disdain and shock.

“. . . Why are you still here?” He seems more reserved — something you didn’t know could happen — as he asks you this question, holding his racket subconsciously closer to his body. Your eyes widen at the prospect of being caught, as you shake your hands vehemently, stumbling back a bit. 

“Sorry, I wasn’t—” You didn’t know how you were going to explain yourself, but one glance at the door of the court is all you need.

Bowing your head as quickly as you can in a lieu of a goodbye, Jisung could barely apprehend what you did before you’re bolting out of the badminton court.

A week later, you’re not sure how you’re supposed to face Jisung with your awkward encounter, and it is evident that the incident has been plaguing your mind as you stand at the door of the sports centre, both hands gripping the strap do your bag. 

“What if he thinks I’m a weirdo for just standing there and stalking him?” Your wandering mind does nothing to help ease the situation, as more arbitrary scenarios flow after one another. Maybe he told the coach how much of a creep you are and now when you step in, you’ll be banned from class.

“Oh dear god,” You let your head fall forwards, trying to tip over the thought out of your head. Closing your eyes, you try to think of the things you can do once the class is over when a tap on your shoulder brings you out of your reverie. You turn to look behind your shoulder, fearing that it's someone robbing you or worse— Jisung; only to see coach Son, smiling at you with a hint of worry laced on his forehead. 

Your shoulders sag with relief. “Hi coach,” you wince internally at your response, voice coming out high-pitched as you clench your grip on your bag. 

“Let's go in and start some warm-ups, yeah?” And as you follow the coach to the class, you make sure to subtly hide behind him in case you catch s glimpse of Jisung anywhere, not wanting to run into him. As you quietly peek your head over his right shoulder once and his left shoulder next, you feel like a secret agent sneaking up on your target. A clearing of someone's throat snaps you out of your act, as your shoulders bunch up and in shock and you quickly turn, only to be met with the feared man of the night.

It seems like he’s been trying to go up to the coach and maybe say hi, but your lurking figure both stopped and perplexed him, not knowing why you were just peeking your head around like a mole rat.

“Sorry,” You mumble slightly, eyes wide as you back away towards the closest wall, wanting to blend into it and live with the bricks. Maybe you’ll face less embarrassment that way but knowing you, anything is possible.

“It’s okay,” His voice is as unassuming as always, eyes looking anywhere but you now that he’s caught your attention. You think his shyness is quite cute, but not for long as you think back to being scared of him from last week to being jealous of him, also from last week. That’s a lot of emotion for you to process. 

He pulls up his hands, now shaped into a fist and looks past you, but you know he’s talking to you when he mutters, “Fighting,” before fully facing away and walking past you as if the mortification of his action has caught up to him. You barely contain your shocked expression behind your hand.

“Good job today guys, now we all have a basic grasp of the initial steps and our skills when it comes to badminton.” You brace your hands on your knees, just having done a set of wall squats as a way to build stamina, or so you’ve been told. You thought that maybe a month into these classes and you would’ve had some sort of energy stashed away in you when attending class, but it’s week five and you’re fighting for your life three seconds into a plank.

“Now I don’t wanna treat this class academically, but for those of you who truly care, there will be an assessment in the midst of this course to reevaluate your standing and see if you can advance from your group! But other than that, remember that this class can be solely for fun reasons too . . .” The rest of coach's words were white noise to your ears. Reevaluation? Does that mean that you can advance? That you’ll have a shot? 

“Are you okay?” Soojin leans in toward you, whispering while pointing to what you assume would be the shock on your face. You turn to her, drawing a thumbs up to reassure her. And before you know it class is done and you’re pulled to do a series of cool-down moves. You eagerly follow through, now somehow charged with motivation to stay back and go over your moves a few times. You figure that the least you can do to move up a rank is to spend an extra hour going over your moves, even when you sometimes think about the significance of them.

You tread up to the coach and ask in your kindest voice if it was possible for you to stay back. “Of course, are you gonna go through the steps again?” He questions as he shifts his bag from one hand to another. You give a nod and wave goodbye, watching as everyone litters out of the court.

Well, almost everyone.

You can feel, more than anything, Jisung’s gaze piercing your figure through the hood of his jumper, while you give your best attempt at stretching. You’re not sure really what stretches best help with reducing the ache in your muscles the day after, but you figure the endeavour of reaching your toes should do.

Even after a few minutes of trying to appear mellow, Jisung’s presence alone makes you feel on edge as if you’ve stolen his territory. But you figure that nothing will change and that all you can really do right now is, well, practice.

The squeak of your shoes echoes every now and then, followed by a whip sound of the racket you’re flinging in the air. If you do this quickly enough, surely your skills will improve, right? From what your coach Son demonstrated earlier, you realised that as he would start off the steps slowly for your group to get a hang of, he was able to transition the speed to his liking, doing each step quickly and efficiently. 

“Okay, should be easy,” You’re careful not to speak too loud in the almost quiet hall, giving yourself words of encouragement. Hand braced in the first position, then in the second, then a slight step back, and then your hand straight and quickly bend.

You finish the routine with its final step of hitting the imaginary shuttle as fast and as straight as your hand can go with such speed. With one round done, you brace yourself in the initial position to do it again. One, two, three and four.

You only get to pump out four, maybe five rounds of this pattern before a clearing of someone's throat scares the daylights out of you. With a barely contained shout, you’d forgotten — however briefly — that you weren’t alone. You’re looking at Jisung, who seems shocked at accidentally shaking you up so much, before he says something to you.

“What?” Even with the stillness of the court, the man’s words were barely comprehensible, as yours echoed slightly throughout the court. 

“You’re doing it wrong,” Oh, so the first comment he ever mutters to you are words of criticism. You furrow your brows, head tilting slightly out of habit as you encourage him to go on.

“When you’re recoiling from hitting the shuttle, your racket still faces forward instead of down,” He explains, but none of it makes sense to you and it must be evident in your face, with Jisung looking slightly frustrated that the words did not register in your head.

“If you keep your racket facing forward, the ball isn’t going to go down but head straight, which allows your opponent to retaliate better.” He continues, and you somewhat understand where he’s getting at, but he’s not really helping you at all. All he did was point out your mistake, which makes you feel that he’s just trying to show off his knowledge.

“Well, what should I do then?” You can’t help but seem a bit agitated, as you slump your shoulders and let the racket settle by your ankles, your hold on the handle tightening ever so slightly.

“Hit it face down,” He raises his arm and demonstrated the step to you, causing the head of his hoodie to fall, shining the light of the court on his face. You’re briefly stuck looking at his face instead of his step, but were reeled back in when he makes eye contact. You clear your throat as he goes through the step again, which you think were exactly the steps you were doing a second ago.

“But, how was I any different?” You say as you mimic his steps, bracing yourself in the positions without much thinking, and hitting the imaginary shuttle right as when he does.

“No- see, you did it again,” He steps a bit closer as he gestures to the racket in your hand. “You’re hitting it straight on. You’re supposed to go down.” You sigh as he says this, feeling a bit irked that a mere student is trying to tell you what to do. He is in the top rank, so maybe he has a point.

Attempting to set your implicit annoyance aside, you intently look at his hand and the way he moves his wrist at the end of the step, trying your best to imprint this into your head. He looks a bit flustered with how much your gaze is focused on him, but still goes on two more times before nodding his head at you, encouraging you to try once more. 

You look at the position of your hand this time instead of him, going through the initial steps and tweaking your wrist to face more downwards this time than your last few attempts, before your eyes quickly flit towards Jisung, looking for some sort of confirmation with your try. The subdued purse of his lips assures your suspicion, which is that you’re doing it right this time round.

“Good, did you kinda find out what you were doing wrong?” The words come out on reflex, and you don’t think twice this time about him being in the same class as you and yet trying to coach your steps, as you ponder on his question.

“I mean, I found out I was doing something wrong when you pointed it out, but I’m not quite sure what you meant when you said I was hitting it straight on.”

“Wow, you were really into him weren’t you?”

“Shut up Chenle, I was into the badminton technicality.”

Jisung steps forward a little bit and is about to say something before he hesitates. You look at him sceptically, waiting to see what he was gonna say before he shakes his head and seemingly snaps himself out of it. “Can you go back to the third position?” He asks of you, which you raise your hand and assume the position. Your racket and arm are raised pointed straight to the ceiling, while he positions his fisted hand in front of you. Your questioning look doesn’t go unnoticed, as a slight smile appears on Jisungs face before he nods at you, saying, “Okay, now gently go down like you would and stop at my hand.” 

You do as you’re told, with Jisung’s eyes settled on your concentrated face following his orders, as the face of your racket meets his fist, the white of his knuckles colouring for a bit. 

“See, you’re hitting the front of my knuckles, but that will send the shuttle forward.” He demonstrates by pulling his fist back, “That will give the other player a better opportunity of retaliating.” He then readjusts your racket by the throat, having the net hit the top of his fist. “This gives you a better chance.”

“But like, how am I giving them a better shot?” 

You’re not sure what was funny or amusing about your question, but it seems that there must be something there for Jisung to sport a cute small smile, as he picks his racket back up and moves to one of the set-up nets, and funnily enough, you find yourself following him subconsciously. He picks up a shuttlecock on his way to the net and positions himself, as you stand at his side.

“See, let’s say the shuttle is coming at you this way,” He holds the shuttle with one hand as if the opposing player had shot it at him over the net. “If I hit it the way you had— actually, why don’t you try receiving the ball.” And so you shuffle over, standing opposite of his ready stance with your arms crossed, intrigued.

“I’ll throw the shuttle back to you and try seeing if you can hit it back.” You realise that this is the most you’ve heard him speak in the past five weeks that you’ve attended the class together. You bring your hand up and stand in the ready position you remember coach telling you about when initiating a game, and Jisung takes that as a sign that you’re ready and hits the shuttle at a moderate speed. You hit the ball back with ease, as it goes over back to Jisung’s side, who catches it with his other hand. You let out a long ‘ahh’ sound of understanding, hand clutched at your side. 

“You’re right, that was hell easy,” You brood aloud, but not before asking one of your other endless questions. “But then, how would the other way be any different?”

From the looks of it, Jisung seems over the moon that you asked such a question, holding back a smile by biting on his lips lightly and quipping his head to the side. He holds up the shuttle and looks at you, gauging to see if you’re ready to receive the ball once again. As you regain your ready position, you see the ball suspended in the air briefly before Jisung hits it at the ‘better’ angle, which is seemingly from the head of it, but before you can process anything else a zip sounds past you and the ball has landed behind you.

Your gasp resonates through the hall as you look behind you to where the shuttle has landed, with a hand coming to your mouth as you look at Jisung. The latter contains his smug smile behind his own hand, as you point at the ball and look back and forth. “What did you just do?”

“Ah, that’s a technique that's called smash.” You falter slightly.

“That’s a weird fucking name I’m not gonna lie,” You glance at the ball once more with a look of disgust, before shaking yourself out of it. “Oh my god, that was so cool.”

You didn’t think that you would be getting a one-on-one lesson when you decided to stay behind today, but you’re quite surprised with how he was able to spot such a little detail so quickly. And that gives you an idea.

“Jisung,” You call his name for the first time since you met him five weeks ago, which surprises the said man, as you see his eyes startle and a few strands of his hair jerk. “Do you stay after class every week?”

He’s a bit quiet for some time, processing your question thoroughly. He nods his head briefly, but not before a bit of hesitation. 

“Is it . . . Can you help me improve?” You’re a bit shy now that you voice your question out loud, but you’re determined to move up at least one rank and land second place; or even just have a good academic score, even in badminton. 

Seeing the blank face that Jisung is now sporting, you think about the unfair offer you’ve just made to him. Why would he spend his extra time after class to teach you, his potential competitor, without getting anything out of it? You’re not sure what you can offer him, maybe some sort of payment? But before you can ponder even more, you catch a slight nod of his head from the corner of your eye.

“Is that . . .  a yes?” You lock eye contact, as he nods his head once more but with more vigour and confirmation. 

“Why?” It’s your turn to look at him with confusion.

“Are you asking me?” He points to himself, as he slightly tilts his head as if he was going to look as if you were talking to someone else. You shake your head quickly once he asks the question, raising even more questions.

“Actually, no. I take back what I said. You said yes, right? You can’t change your mind. Or, I mean you can but like I would be pretty bummed about it because you already said yes but I’d respect your choice.” You take a deep breath in once you finish, looking at him and clasping your hands together a bit too harshly.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll help you with what you need.” Relief washes over you and you can’t help but smile in thanks.

“Oh, and there’s one more thing too.” Jisung hums for you to continue, as he goes towards his bag and retrieves his bottle to take a sip.

“Can you teach me how to smash?” And maybe you should’ve waited for him to be done with that bottle first.

You think you’re quite good at being subtle and on the low, no matter how much Juda and Chenle counter that argument. You can be sneaky if you put your mind to it, and it's been proven many times in high school when you would sneak your favourite snack during the middle of the class without your strict teacher finding out.

So you’re not sure where you went wrong when you held out a snack bar in Jisungs direction, only for the whole court to look at you weirdly. You merely strutted up to him with maximum placidity and poked out the bar from your hand into his torso, looking away and hoping he would get the memo and take from you as with a mutter of something that sounds really close to the word ‘thanks’.

But it’s been a solid fifteen seconds and not only is the bar still in your hand, but everyone in the class has slowed down their activities in favour of looking at you two. Even coach’s staring as if he’s trying to solve a very complex puzzle.

“Is this . . . for me?” Jisung’s voice comes out as a rumble, not knowing if he should whisper or talk normally, sounding out something in between instead. 

Of course this is for you, idiot. Why am I holding it in your direction??

You ignore his question and shake the bar in your hand with a bit more intensity, hoping that he would finally get the memo. It isn’t until ten more seconds pass that you lose all hope and turn to him, grabbing his hand and placing your gratitude in his open palm, closing his fist around the energy snack.

You stomp your way to start your warm-ups before Jisung could say anything.

“When you aim your hand, you’re not really looking at the shuttle,” Jisung starts after a few rounds of one-on-one games you’ve started after class. “Your eyes are just hovering around it for a few seconds before you look around and put yourself in position. You’re supposed to go in position without looking, it should be intuitive.” You huff at his explanation, dropping your hands by your sides.

“How do I ‘look’ at it more, then?” You’re grateful that Jisung is helping you, but it’s just the tiniest bit unnerving for him to recognise your every move and be able to point out your mishaps. He moves back from the net, creating a decent amount of space in his playing circle. He starts throwing the shuttle up with his badminton racket, the distance from the shuttle and its net growing with each hit.

“Practising this move helps,” He says as he works through what you remember the coach demonstrating the first few classes. As the shuttlecock goes higher and higher with each impact, your eyes catch on the silver of skin poking out as Jisung lifts his hand to meet the shuttle, his shirt rising for a few seconds every time. 

“I think it would be better if you looked at the shuttle?” His words catch you off guard, as you look up and meet his gaze already settled on your, eyes gleaming as he pokes at his cheek with his tongue. 

“Shut up,” You look away, flustered that you got caught, before attempting the moves, refusing to look back at him.

The condensation of the electrolyte drink is addled with the dampness of your hand, as you make your way to class the week after. You see Ryujin talking to the coach as you enter, and Jisung at his bag, seeming to ruffle through it in order to retrieve something. You strut your way up quietly, not wanting to attract any awkward attention by giving gratitude in the form of a drink to your unofficial instructor. As you open your mouth to call Jisungs name, the tall man turns around and gives you the faintest hint of a smile, before his eyes land on your hand.

“Hi, here.” You spout, as you extend your hand straight towards him, some of the condensation dropping on the floor and finding solace in the gaps of your fingers. His hands feel dry and warm as it brushes against yours, retrieving the drink from your grasp.

“You didn’t have to. Thank you; for last time too,” Your cheeks heat up at his words as you avert your gaze away, opting to look at the playing net instead. “Don’t mention it,” Your damp hand wrings against the dry one behind your back, as you slowly let your gaze wander back to Jisung, who’s now looking at the blue bottle in his hand.

“Did you know,” He twists the drink in his hand and looks at what you think is the nutrition information. “Electrolyte doesn’t actually help when you exercise.” Your expression sullens as he continues to look at the drink you gave him. “Your body loses more water than electrolytes when you exercise, and so there is no use consuming more electrolytes. Water helps way more in comparison,” The scowl on your face makes Jisung stop in his tracks as he looks up after finishing his bite-sized lecture.

“Well, if you’re so ungrateful—” You reach your hand out to snatch the bottle from him but are stopped short as his hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you. “No!” He exclaims and a chuckle slips past as your struggle to get the drink, reaching out your other hand before he captures that too, now both of your wrists trapped in his hand. Your eyes widen, with your wrist bound and fighting up a struggle, all impaired with Jisung’s hand wrapped. Before your mind can wander to what other scenarios can result in him bounding up your hands, he continues; “I’m very grateful. You don’t have to give me these things just because I give you a few tips after class.”

You pause your struggle, letting your hands be weighed down. “Well, I don’t think I’ve been helping you at all. Sometimes I even set you back, so it’s the least I can do.” You say truthfully. You do sometimes feel like a burden when Jisung gives you a tip and you don’t adapt immediately, sometimes it takes you maybe two after-class lessons until you can successfully cast back the shuttle over the net with a short distance. The only way you could think about paying him back was through these pick-me-up snacks.

“Okay, how about this,” You miss the warmth and pressure of his hand against your wrist as soon as he lets go to put the drink down behind him and straightens back up, looking away as he slowly grows flustered with what he’s about to say next. “Treat me to ice cream maybe?”

You smile at his antics, happy to have been told how you could repay him. “Deal,” He visibly deflates with relief as you zealously agree, putting your bag down next to his as you both start to unpack. 

You shuffle to the bathroom as soon as practice is over, giving Jisung a quick point towards the direction you’re going to ease his worries about you running away. Once inside, you’re met with the cool breeze and a mirror that reflects your spent figure. Oh god, how were you gonna go out like this? Is this what you looked like this entire time? Shuffling to the sink, you shoulder your bag back as you lean over the sink and lightly dab at your face with some water, before cleaning yourself up and dabbing the paper towel against your face. 

You don’t know why you were so nervous to do this; it’s truly just some ice cream with your temporary and unofficial coach. But you truly wanted him to see your gratitude, and soon enough you’re thinking if ice cream isn’t enough, and budgeting how you can come up with enough money for an all-you-can-eat buffet at this time of the night. But before you could even add up the numbers on your fingers - it was a two in one hand and three in another, not quite sure what they meant - the sound of the door opening echoes in the bathroom, jumping you out of your reverie. 

Turning around, you just catch Minji stepping in, looking taken aback at your shocked expression, as if you weren’t expecting anyone to enter this public bathroom. “You okay?” She calls after you, and you can only hope that the smile on your face is convincing enough.

“Yup! Just . . . tired,” You cringe a bit at the overused excuse, but your shoulders slump when she just smiles back at you. 

“It’s okay, maybe your date with Jisung would cheer you up?” You feel something lodge in your throat, coughing out in surprise.

“No!” You retort, hands coming out from behind you as if to stop all ideas from forming. “We’re- It’s not like that. He’s just-” Minji looks at you with amusement, as she shifts her weight and crosses her arms, urging you to continue. The mind blank you’re sporting is not at all helping with a way to express what you truly are doing with Jisung, and so you try: “I just owe him something for smashing his racket.” And that was the best you could do.

Minji’s smile falls, as her arms drop at her sides. “You . . . smashed his racket?” 

You don’t know why her voice was laced with such concern, but you figure that you have to finish what you started. “Yeah, to pieces actually. Sometimes the adrenaline truly gets to you, right?” You chuckle a bit, trying to find a gap in the conversation where you can squeeze back out of the bathroom.

“Well, I’ll see you next week,” You clench the strap of your bag and exit the bathroom, ready to dart out of the place. As you turn a sharp right, you are immediately met with a sheet of white, which suspiciously looks like the colour of the shirt Jisung was wearing today. Hands are placed at your shoulder and you’re quickly set back half a step from the wall, or at least enough to recognise that it wasn’t a wall, but rather Jisung’s tall figure.

“Sorry,” you mutter, eyes flicking from his own to the arms stretching to your shoulders, catching a few veins adorning his forearm. A clear of his throat has you looking entirely away, as you grab at his wrist and start tugging towards the exit. 

The white lights of the LED sign of the ice cream place illuminate most of the dark street, with most businesses having closed earlier in the day save for a few convenience stores littered with tired college students like yourselves. You eye the shop and its extravagant decor, sceptical about being brought to such a high-end ice cream shop.

“You know, when you said ice cream, I thought you had wanted me to buy you some popsicles from some convenience store. Not someplace about exorbitant ice cream with fifty years of craft in making,” You nudge your elbow a bit to Jisung’s side, to which he responds by twisting his head in your direction.

He splutters, “Oh, I’m so sorry I forgot that, you know you were gonna pay,” You notice his hands move as he speaks, something you’ve picked up from when you would talk to him or notice him talking to coach; it’s as if his words are spelt with his hands first and then brought out through his lips, now adorning a pout as he tries explaining himself.

“. . . I thought we were just, going out.” Your eyebrows raise a bit in surprise at his words. Going out? As in, going out on a date? 

You wonder if your thought bubble is something he can see, as he quickly puts out his hands again, shaking them vehemently. “Not on a date! It’s just, I didn’t know what-”

“Jisung, it’s okay. I was just messing with you,” You decide to put him out of his misery, reassuring him before continuing, “I’ve never been here but I’ve been meaning to try it out, so I’m glad you suggested this place. Let me treat you to something good,” And without thinking, you link your arm through his and push through the door, the cool of the interior washing over both of you. The shop was mostly white, with white tiles placed as half-walls as well as the flooring, the only hint of colour being the green of a few plants and of course the various ice creams. The employee, who seems to be the only person in the shop, straightens up ever so slightly at the sight of the two of you entering, before slumping back down when you head towards the self-serve ice cream booths. Picking up two cups, you hand one to Jisung who’s at your right, before you pick up the scooper from a mini bucket of water, waving it around your choices.

“Tell me which flavour you want me to pick out for you,” You eye the various flavours of ice creams, seeing if you can find your favourite. You look at Jisung to see if he’s doing the same, only to see his eye zeroed in on one bucket which is contrastingly fuller than the different flavours around it.

“Mint chocolate ice cream?” Your question has JIsung nodding his head as he looks at you sheepishly. “I can’t believe you would choose the most controversial ice cream. You’re so original.” You tease, to which Jisung nudges you in retaliation.

“It’s a good flavour, if people stop comparing the mint and the chocolate and instead choose to see how much they complement each other, we would be one step closer to world peace.”

“That’s a bold claim, what’s your source?” Jisung grabs the scoop out of your hands with mock aggressiveness, opting to scoop his serving of the mint chocolate ice cream. “Your references? Where is your citation—” He cuts you off by placing his hand on your mouth after taking a scoop of his ice cream, as his chest meets your arm. 

He shushes you, “Just get your ice cream, yeah? I’ll go get my toppings,” He nods and lets go of your mouth, missing the way your cheeks heat up from his proximity and touch on your face. You bring the back of your hand to your face, prying the heat to go away as you shake your head and pick the scooper back up, reaching for your favourite flavour of ice cream.

Meeting Jisung at the counter, you place your cup of ice cream next to his on the weigh and fish through your bag as you wait for the person behind the counter to calculate your total. However, as soon as you probed your wallet out of your bag, the sound of a completed transaction peals out, making you turn your head up just to see Jisung putting his wallet back into his sweatpants.

“It was supposed to be my treat,” You insist, looking towards Jisung’s direction to generate some sort of guilt for his action. Instead, the man avoids your gaze, picks up two spoons, and places them in your cups, grabbing yours when he spots you not budging from the corner of his eye and turning to head for the door. You grab at his sleeve to force out his reasoning but are slowly pulled with him as he heads out, quickly turning around and bidding goodbye to the staff before he opens the door.

“Well, maybe you can pay next time,” At the mention of another time of you and Jisung hanging out, your initial sorrow washes over by a wave of giddiness. 

“Then give me your number,” You propose, fishing your phone out. “So I can see when you’re next free and make it up to you,” With wide eyes, Jisung’s hands hesitate as they reach out for your phone; before either of you can second-guess yourselves, he takes the phone and smiles shyly, typing in his details. Handing the phone back to you, you take a look at his contact before pocketing your phone as Jisung starts to speak.

You scoop a spoon of your ice cream into your mouth to hide your smile, but from a light chuckle that emits from your left side, you don’t think your efforts amounted to much.

You stretch your arm to reach the end of your leg, warming up your body before the mass class warmup, more so to have something to do instead of staring at Jisung who’s also here early and is also doing his own unique sets of warm-ups. 

Nothing about badminton is sexy; there’s nothing sexy about moving your wrist just in time to deliver some sort of groundbreaking delivery with the shuttlecock. Even the word shuttlecock grosses you out, as you suppress the urge to shiver at this very moment. 

So you’re not sure why the act of playing badminton with the wall is such an attractive sight to you; as Jisung grunts every now and then, seemingly surprised and unprepared by his own backhand delivery against the wall, which makes him take quick steps back and forth and side to side to meet each hit. His quick movements allow for his loose clothing today to move around freely, exposing toned skin every now and then. It takes a lot of your willpower to have you not to drool right then and there, as if you were back in high school once more.

One hit, in particular, bounced off high and far from the wall, the sound of the shuttlecock smacking against the wall echoing louder as it heads for Jisung’s left side, a direction that you’re situated in although with a safe amount of distance. The tall player retaliates by turning his body a whole hundred-and-eighty degree, facing away from the wall and essentially towards you as he tries to continue his streak of hits. Briefly, you see his eyes look at you and back at the shuttles descend, but his focus on the said thing falters when he looks at you again, realising that you’ve been watching him play. 

The shame of being caught should’ve arrived by now, as your shoulders stiffen with being onslaught by Jisung’s intense gaze. But before the chagrin could fully settle in, Jisung has completely passed the point of positioning his racket, causing the shuttle to fall and bounce off of his head and onto his feet. Gently clasping your hand at your mouth, you stop your giggles at the warning glare that Jisung sends to you; although his flushed cheeks aren’t making it any better.

“Say something and see what happens,” He points at you with the tip of his racket. You remove your hand and open your mouth, curious to see where this goes.

“Are you really gonna say something?” He steps closer to your figure, which is now sitting cross-legged on the ground with both hands placed on top of one another in front of you. He drops his racket on the ground, as if it doesn’t cost a limb, and instead places his hands right above his knees, looming over your figure. You can’t help it this time when your gaze follows towards the gap in the collar of his shirt, showing the sharp cut of his collarbone peeking through. It’s when your gaze is caught on his chain necklace dangling from his neck that the sound of a basketball bouncing echoes closer, as both of you look towards the direction it’s coming from. Not long after, a boy no older than ten shuffles in with his shoes squeaking against the floor, looking shocked at the fact that the two of you are here. 

The ball lightly hits Jisung’s calf, who simply picks it up and passes it back to the boy who’s seemingly frozen in place. As soon as the ball arrives at his own feet, he quickly picks it up and dashes out of the place. 

“Do you wanna bet to see who can reach past their toes?” Your question snaps Jisung out of his thought. The boy chuckles and sits down to your right, stretching out his legs and shaking them out as a form of warm-up.

“You’re so on,”

Your hands are clasped behind your back as you strut up to Jisung, who’s at his bag, taking out his needed items. With a tap on his shoulder, he turns to face you, giving you a smile as a greeting before scanning you.

“What are you doing this time?” You gasp in mock offence.

“This time? I haven’t even done anything yet?” 

“But you’re going to,” He points his fingers at your hidden hands. “You’re either gonna scare me or pull the lamest prank ever known to date.” Your smile drops and a scowl replaces it instead. 

When Jisung fully turns to face you, you smile once more and lean your shoulders in. “I actually brought you something to thank you. Again.” You shift the item from your left to your right hand, feeling nervous and embarrassed for saying it all out loud. “Because of you, I can hit a backhand serve and not smack myself.” The boy stands taller with your gratitude, a blush sporting on his face as his eyes look anywhere but at you. You must look like high schoolers confessing to one another with the way you’re both flustered and shy, which isn’t a thought you’re fully opposed to.

He nods his head, still avoiding looking directly at you, as he reaches his hands out, ready to receive what you’ve brought for him. You giggle slightly as he shuts his eyes and shakes his hands in anticipation, “Since you said electrolyte drinks don’t really help, and you like your proteins after class, I thought of a better third option and brought you,” You reach your hands out and place the gift on his palms, urging him to open his eyes.

Cold and dripping with condensation, the plastic water bottle perched on his hands seem small as his hands close around them to keep from falling. His eyes fall as he looks dimly at the bottle in his hands, and you look away briefly to keep from laughing straight in his face.

“Now I know what that kid felt like when he got gifted an avocado for Christmas.”

“Wait,” Chenle plops down next to Juda as he says this, but is quickly shoved to the other end of the couch with a complaint ‘It’s too hot for you to stick your gross body next to me’.

“What’s his deal then?” 

“What?” You turn to look at Juda first as if to check that you’re the only one confused. The furrow of the girls’ eyebrows proves the fact that you aren’t alone, as you both look at Chenle with visible empty thought bubbles surrounding you.

“Well, he’s a badminton prodigy according to you. Seems to have surprased all the basics and is just a step away from being a professional.” The initial shove and retort from Juda barely set him off, as he goes back to his original position and maybe squeezes himself even more to her side and pulls a spoon out, digging into her tub of ice cream.

“Why is he still coming to class if he’s qualified enough to teach you?” Unfortunately, for once Chenle does have a point. You’ve thought about this a few times at the beginning of the semester when you were a little more than irritated by the fact that he joined the class and made you rank down a notch; ever since he agreed to lend you a hand, you’re sometimes even happy when you see him come in.

“He has a point sadly,” Juda waves her spoon towards Chenle’s direction. “If he’s as good as you say he is, why bother coming to class?”

“Maybe you should ask him that on your next date,” The boy wiggles his eyebrows at you, squealing out a laugh when you pull your fist back in a threatening manner. 

“Maybe I will,” you blurt out, attempting an aggressive tone. Before you could let anyone, even yourself, comprehend what you said, you pressed play on the tv and snuggled up to Juda’s arm on her right, with Chenle leaching off of her to her left. 

“The things I put up with,” She huffs as she stabs her spoon into her ice cream tub, feeding you diligently.

[WEDNESDAY; 10:37 PM]

you: you

jwisung: ?

jwisung: what happened to hello

jwisung: ‘how was your day’

jwisung: wheres ur decorum

you: shut up you dont even know what that means

jwisung: :(

you: >.<

you: are you free this saturday at 9

jwisung: you mean

jwisung: the saturday 9pm where we just finish our badminton class?

jwisung: idk i gotta check my schedule to see if i have a badminton class around that time 

jwisung: omg wait are you gonna spoil me 

you: 😐

you: yes but not anymore

you: bye

jwisung: WAIR

jwisung: pleahse im soreu

you: not forgiven <3

you: i know this place that actually has good mint choc ice cream

you: not too minty not too chocolatey 

jwisung: you rmbrd that i like mintchoc?

you: dont do this to me

jwisung: okay i wont 😁

you: good boy

jwisung: …

you: ?

you: oh! 

jwisung: no

you: ill remember this too 😋

Your bag is bigger this time when you go to class, having packed an extra set of clothes and a towel to have a quick rinse after class before your not-date with Jisung. Arriving just in time for the warm-up session, you’re met with gloomy faces left and right. Plopping your bag down next to Soojin’s, you whisper when you ask, “Why does everyone look like they’ve been kicked?”

She looks up to you with a pout adorning her features. “Coach declared today a ‘cardio’ day. Something about wanting to boost our stamina or whatever the fuck.” She sighs as she shoves her stuff back into her bag, sadly shuffling across the court to do her designated warmups. You grimace as you follow, hoping your travel-size soap is enough.

Turns out Coach’s definition of cardio was way more intense than what you remember your gym friends raving about, as you put your hands on your knees to keep yourself from collapsing. A whistle from the coach signals a shift in your rep, making you change stations and do the next cycle of workout.

“Coach, how much longer are we gonna do this—”

“Until I start sweating, Jaemin. Now keep up!” Coach demands, which is absurd, because he isn’t doing anything but watching you do push-up planks and try not to collapse.

“Okay, stop,” He blows the whistle once more and you fall to your hands and knees, with everyone else modelling a variation of your position. Haechan’s high-pitched groan startles you, but not as much as the coach’s yelling that follows after.

“Don’t sit down guys! Sitting down after exercise is terrible for your stamina,”

“This sounds like some facebook myth my mom would tell me,” Ryujin pants as she shoves her fringe out of her face.

Coach smiles as he claps this time around. “You guys were great today, well done! As a gift, you can only do the stretching cool-down activities and I’ll finish class earlier today,” At that, the class erupts in out-of-breath cheers and barely lasting claps. 

You look to find Jisung, just to see how he’s holding up after this exercise round from hell, and you find yourself more than relieved to see him affected for once. Halfway through class, he’s opted to take off his hoodie, which left him in a white shirt and navy sweatpants, with sleeves bunched up to show his biceps and their carvings. The sight of him adorned with sweat and panting sends a twist to your stomach, and you’re quickly reminded that you’re supposed to go out with him after this.

Shuffling to your bag as quickly as you can with the ache pulsing through your legs, you’re about to head for the courts' public showers when you’re met with Jisung’s figure. 

“You can’t leave that easily, I have to try that ice cream,” He murmurs with a crooked smile. You smack at his shoulder.

“I wasn’t gonna leave, I wanted to take a quick rinse before we go out. That cardio really did a number on me,” Jisung falls a bit quiet at your words, as you visibly see him suddenly deep in thought. Before you get to question it, he beats you to it by straightening up and looking directly at you with an idea in mind.

“Why don’t you come to mine?” You blanch at his words but aren’t allowed to react more than that as he continues. “I live really close, and you can just use the shower before heading out. You have your stuff with you and I need a rinse too.” He points at your bag behind you, making you flush and subconsciously move to cover up your efforts. His idea doesn’t seem too bad, and you think this could be another excuse for you to make up to him. Let’s go out one more time because I used up all your hot water. Couldn’t think of a better idea. 

With a nod and a smile, you’re quickly guided out of the building shoulder to shoulder.

Jisung’s apartment really wasn’t far at all, as you arrive at the complex within a five-minute walk from the sports grounds. Living in a two-bedroom apartment with his roommate, who Jisungs said to have gone home this winter season, the place looks relatively clean with the effort of one person living in the area. He directs you to his room, where you place your bags and pick up your clothes before he points towards the bathroom.

“You can use my shampoo and soap, they’re both in some type of white bottle. Don’t use the blue ones because they’re my roommates’ and he has a sixth sense when it comes to these things,” You salute him and shuffle to the bathroom, trying your best to be as quick as possible to not leave him waiting and to not actually use up all his hot water. The bathroom was just slightly messy, with towels stacked on one another in a haphazard manner and shaving bottle caps abandoned and soap remnants staining the sink, you feel warm with the idea of getting to see this side of Jisung. A university student trying his best, not some badminton prodigy.

Rinsing your body one last time, you close the water tap and open the glass door of the shower, reaching out your hand blindly to retrieve your towel. After a few seconds of mindlessly flinging your arm and only coming back with a bang of your knuckle against the metal towel holder, you don’t really recall pulling out the towel from your bag, much less hanging it anywhere near the bathroom.

“Oh my god, why today?” The cold of the world outside the shower cubicle washes shivers over you as you open the door wide enough to fit your head around, scanning to see if there’s any alternative you can use instead. All you’re met with is bundles of toilet paper rolls stacked on top of one another and used toilet paper rolls dumped into a basket haphazardly. Your panic settles a bit quicker as your mind blanks from solutions, but not before a knock is heard through the door with your name being called.

“Yes?” You hide the waver in your voice as best as you can, closing the glass door just a bit more.

“Is everything okay?” Jisung’s voice rumbles through the door. Your hand flies to your body, suddenly feeling exposed with the reminder of Jisung’s presence. Slipping back into the shower, you raise your voice as much as you can to be heard through the door; “Yup! Everything’s fine. Just . . .” It’s just I’m dripping and naked in your house and the only remedy is a towel, which I don’t have.

“I noticed you forgot your towel,” The muffle of his voice cuts you out of your trance, “I can give it to you— I mean of course I won’t look! I can just— maybe I’ll stick my hand in?” You laugh slightly at the fact that he’s just as flustered as you, before replying with an agreement. 

As he opens the door with the smallest gap to fit the towel and then his wrist, the cold air of the outside reminds you again of your stark nakedness, one hand going across your chest as you reach your other to grab at the towel. With a skim of your wet fingers against his warm and dry ones, you retrieve your towel with a shy thanks, as Jisung quickly goes to close the door.

While getting ready as quickly as you could in the bathroom, your mind was filled with thoughts of how you were supposed to face Jisung after that whole incident. You couldn’t think if it was better to joke about it and get it over with or forget about it and have to come back one day for some form of closure. You hoped there was no need for closure.

But before your overthinking could get to you, Jisung regarded you like he would any other day when you stepped out of his bathroom — with a shy look and awkward hands — and you immediately relax, shoulders slumping as you go up to him, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Jisung’s eyes flit towards it, but not for long before he opens the door and lets you lead the way.

The trip to the ice cream store was a short one, requiring only a train ride to the han rivers’ skirts where the shop is situated. The store itself was busy with people sitting all around snacking on its offerings, but once you get your respective ice creams and head out back towards the river, it’s a bit quieter; a breeze slips past you as you wrap an arm around yourself. With spring in the air, the trees’ full bloom flowers scatter around the pavement and are imprinted by the soles of your hoses as you walk by.

Finding a bench by the tree, the two of settle down on it, as you turn and face Jisung in anticipation of his first try.

“It’s really good, trust me. And it’s like a bit thicker with its mint rather than the chocolate bits which is a bit hard to do when you eat mint chocolate ice cream because it’s always the chocolate that's richer and you get si—” a spoonful of your ice cream is stuffed into your mouth, spluttering you to a stop as you glare at Jisung whos laughing at your expression.

“I had to shut you up one way,” You fist your hand at him in faux aggression, pulling out your spoon and placing it back into your cup.

“Just eat it quickly before it melts,” You exclaim with a hurried expression, feet bouncing up at down in anticipation. Jisung glances at you while he picks up his spoon, prodding at his ice cream before he picks up a spoonful of his ice cream, slowly bringing it to his mouth as he looks at your expression. He only laughs and detours his spoon once, bringing the spoon back up to his lips when the expression on your face shifts to a deadpan.

The pink of his lip contrasts with the mint colour of the ice cream dripping slightly from the spoon, as he finally fits the ice cream in and gives it a taste. Looking at his eyes with suspense, Jisung’s default expression of scepticism is what you see first, before it shifts into surprise, into confusion, and finally into the same expression as a kid getting candy. The glint in his eyes shines bright in the dim lighting that you’re in, as Jisung points to the ice cream while he continues consuming the ice cream.

“It’s good,”

“Of course it’s good. I wouldn’t bring you to try good mint chocolate if it wasn’t actually good mint chocolate,” You stifle a giggle when Jisung throws you a glower.

“You know what I mean,” At his positive reaction, you comfortably dug into your own ice cream, a comfortable silence blanketing you two with background noises of cyclers whizzing by and people talking in the distance.

“You’re doing really well,” Jisung starts with his eyes darted away, suddenly shy to look at you as he says, “In badminton, I mean. Your overhead shots are cleaner than mine.” Eyes still averted, he elbows you lightly with his compliment. You preen at his praise, leaning forward subconsciously to him with a thank you.

“It’s all thanks to you. If you weren’t as good as you are I wouldn’t even know that there are two methods of serving the shuttle.” 

Jisung’s laugh sounds less humorous, “Yeah, it must’ve been weird seeing me play alone during class,” There's a heavy pause as you visibly detect the boy sort through his next words. “I didn’t think you guys were . . . fond of me. When we first started,” You feel your stomach go white, colours flush from your face from his words. Did he know? Were you that blatant? You feel bad, remembering how isolated the boy was at that time as everyone distanced themselves since learning his level of expertise. You weren’t any better, the bitter feeling you harboured when you got ranked into the third group now coming back to you after three months of attending practice.

At the glum expression on your face, Jisung quickly goes to wave his hand. “Ah, it was— it wasn’t your fault or anything. I secluded myself too, so of course it would’ve been hard to talk as comfortably.” He rests his hand on yours that’s pressed against the bench, comforting you as if you’re the one whos been wronged, and not the other way around. Frowning at his consolation, you don’t know what comes over you as you flip your hand around, making your palm face his as you clasp his hands in yours.

You avoid looking at his expression as you make your bold move, looking at the river as you start. “If it makes you feel better, Jaemin always talks about how jealous he is of you whenever you do a smash,” Gathering the courage, you squeeze his fingers as you look at him, another question popping up in your head.

“Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to, of course, but—” You cut yourself short when Jisung nods his head at you, looking at you with a calm demeanour.

“Why do you still come to class if you’re already so good? I mean, I swear you’re at national levels at least,” Jisung snorts at your words, growing shy from your praise.

“I’m being serious, don’t laugh!” Even as you say your words with furrowed eyebrows, your efforts barely last as you smile at his bashful posture. Puffing his cheeks, he ponders a bit on how to answer your question; you’re about to tell him to just forget it, not wanting him to answer something so personal, when he straightens his posture and stares ahead with a determined expression.

“The first time I played badminton was at a family gathering for new years, and I might’ve been four or maybe five when my dad put a racket in my hand and swung my arm around to hit at the throws my cousins would send my way. Then when I got older and was forced to play actual sports in school, the only thing that I was willing to play was badminton. I didn’t try hard in the beginning and was there because I heard that the teacher conducting it didn’t really care,” You snort at the picture of young Jisung barely lifting his hand to play, or letting the shuttle zoom right past him while flinching away entirely.

“But when the interschool competitions came around and I was ranked in the last group to play, I had won by pure luck,” He rubs his hands up and down his pants as he reminisces, shoulder rubbing against your subconsciously. “And then everyone started cheering me on because apparently, my accidental win had helped us accelerate to the next round. It made me feel good that I was the cause of such a thing, so I tried a bit harder the next time. Then I asked the higher ranking kids to help me with my serving, and then my mom to admit me to a badminton class, and I ranked up from F to D, and then to B and then A. My class started to admit me to local competitions outside of school hours, and then it had become such a big part of my life that I was determined to get to a national scale.”

“Did you?” Your voice was quiet when you spoke, ending with a bit of a rasp from its lack of use. You were on the edge of your seat if your position meant anything, arms wrapped around your knees, thighs pressed to your chest, making the waistband of your shorts dig a bit higher. Jisung’s smile is a sentimental one, reminiscent of a win resulting from years of effort.

“I was fifteen when I was cast by a racket sports centre, which focused on training people ranging from kids to young adults to get to national competitions and even more. I was over the moon and became one of those kids you barely see in class and when you do, they’re just sleeping through the subject. My first competition was scheduled three months after my admission, which was unheard of; even kids who have been learning at the place for two years would struggle to pass the first rounds for the entry.” Your eyes move along Jisung’s hand, as he comically explains his words through the movement of his fingers, expanding and collapsing joints onto one another.

“I didn’t win the first one, but I won the second, and the third, and built a streak - although short, just four months into training. In the beginning, it was all so exhilarating, the thrill of winning the title of first place with all these people who were just as gifted, if not even more. And so I would win because I was capable, I didn’t win because I was it was expected of me.”

“But,” You murmur as Jisung halts, bringing his hand down as his fingers fiddle with the texture of the bench. 

“But,” His excitement has burnt down to a sort of nostalgia, and you reach your hand down and clasp your hand over his again, before he looks down and turns his hand, palm facing yours as he links your fingers together. “But then, when I was seventeen, I had passed the initial rounds for the national Olympic competition. It was big news; our centre hadn’t had someone do that in decades, and that was when the pressure was tangible.

“My parents would schedule my day down to the minutes, and my coach made my diet strict, telling me what exactly I should eat each day until the competition. I loved the order and agenda that was set for me; I didn’t have to think what’s next? I just had to keep doing what I was good at. But then came the first round of the match, and the people were ruthless. No one was there to watch two teenagers play badminton, but instead fight for their lives. I didn’t think much about it until my third round that day when the kid I was playing against deliberately tried to hit the ball to my face.” 

You couldn’t help it, your laugh had spilt out before you could even think of stopping it, but Jisung’s squeeze against your hand assured you that it was fine, as he chuckled with you.

“Who the fuck practices hitting the ball at someone's face?” Your voice was pitched higher with exasperation. “Do you reckon he had a cardboard cutout of you to practice on? I doubt someone can do the calculations of face-hitting range that quickly under pressure.” Jisung contemplates your idea teasingly, tilting his head and measuring random angels with his free hand. Seeing that, the weight of your hand held against his now weighs tenfold, as the butterfly in your stomach flutters with the subconscious squeeze of his fingers. You bump at his shoulder as you squeeze yourself closer, bringing your linked hands to rest against your stomach, wanting to hold him closer. 

“It was definitely weird, but it didn’t set me off my rhythm, I just thought that it was a way to rile people up. But my coach was the one irritated, and when the boy had almost hit my eye, that was when my coach started to interfere,” You can only imagine the noise surrounding seventeen-year-old Jisung, his coach stepping forward to halt the game and talking to the referee to take some sort of action, pointing accusing fingers at the opponent and their mentors. 

“The place that we were competing at was big, bigger than what I was used to back then, and there were a lot of people and so it was noisy;  but the noise that my coach and the kid were making was something else. When my coach came back to me, all riled up, I couldn’t do much but take in his energy. I remember being very tense, thinking that I should just step my ground a bit more next time ‘round so they wouldn’t think of doing something like aiming the shuttle at my face.

“I think it was either the fifth? Or the sixth round, when I was in the zone of playing ‘professionally’ rather than doing what I was already good at. I would do overhead deliveries and front-hand serves even though I’d rather do a simple back-hand. Then there was an opening for a smash, it was a weak point for the guy— and I was over the moon with the opportunity. I’d only done the smash successfully maybe enough to count off of my fingers, but I knew that if I timed it right I would get it,” Dread fills your stomach at the direction that Jisung is going, You’re sure if you clench your fingers any harder there would be an imprint left of the poor boy's hand, but Jisung either doesn’t notice or simply doesn’t care.

Jisung’s chuckle drifts lightly in the air, “I was too enthusiastic, and I bunched up all my energy into hitting the ball that I’d missed the perfect time and instead had delivered a simple overhead. It would’ve been okay otherwise, I mean, I was able to deliver something instead of losing a measly point, but before I could recover, the shuttle had travelled to the back end of the court, and in my attempt of getting it, I’d tripped and landed pretty badly,” While telling the story, Jisung’s free hand had been wandering over his clothed knee, fingers fiddling with the fabric and one another. Bunching up the fabric at the end of his pant, he pushes up the lax fabric up and over his knee, where a pink and slightly faded surgical scar paints the inner side of his knee. Your hand clasps over your mouth once met with the scar, and your heart fills with admiration as you see him trace his healed gash with sentimentality. Bringing your linked hands to rest on your knee, you prop your cheek against it while looking at him, sparkling eyes encouraging him to continue.

“I couldn’t play anymore after that, not with the same vigour I had before. Suddenly I had to go back to class regularly and didn’t have to do any sort of reps just so I don’t fall behind on my weekly plan. My schedule had more free time than anything, and so I had enough time to get to thinking; what if I hadn’t misstepped? Would I have won? But I knew that all of that thinking wouldn’t do me any good. So when I was watching the Olympics months later, I remember seeing the camera pan onto the coaches, and how happy they were to see their student playing. I missed the joy of playing for the thrill and adrenaline of moving around, and so I thought, why not become a coach?” Understanding fills you as you realise why Jisung is going through all this effort of attending a class that he’s exponentially overqualified for. His cheeks go red as he realises your gaze settling over his figure, now looking away from you and onto the still water. 

You can’t help it, you find it simply so endearing that he’s set his time into achieving something to allow people to have fun with badminton. Feeling overwhelmed with affection from his story and words and actions, you lean over and place a peck on to his cheek. 

The contact was brief, as your lips barely took in the smoothness of his skin before you’re coming back with a start. “Oh my god, Jisung. That’s so cute, you’re generous and you’re going out of your way to do such good things, and you didn't deserve to go through that at such a young age—” Your words were smushed together as you barely reach the end of your sentence, the cause being Jisung’s big hands gently attacking your cheeks at once. His wide eyes stare straight at yours as his colder hands warm against the puff of your cheeks; and you are seconds away from voicing your confusion before you see his gaze settling on your pouted lips, glistening and redder from the ice cream. 

You couldn’t even smile teasingly at him, as his hands refrain you from doing so. The nervous adrenaline running in your vein might be another reason too, but you don’t get to ponder on that for long before you see Jisung’s tilted head leaning closer, hooded eyes glancing at your eyes before focusing back on your lips, wanting to imprint it’s cute pouted shape.

The warmth of his lips lands on your cold ones, sending a wave of warmth to wash over you. You can feel his desire through the pressure of his lips against you, his soft lips fitting over yours lovingly. You mourn the loss as soon as Jisung pulls back, but not for long before he presses another close-mouthed kiss, this time with his hand tilting your head the other way, fingers slipping and cupping your jaw gently. Your stomach warms as you feel the fervour within Jisung, from the tip of his cold fingers on your heated cheeks to the push of his body towards you, wanting to get closer with each passing second. 

When he pulls back, his eyes are clouded with the haze of your kiss and a bit of timidity. Your giggle bubbles between you, causing him to smile along with you, his shyness catching up. Not wanting his hand to stray far as they fall from your face, you clasp at his palm and lace your fingers, pulling down to get his face closer to yours, placing a peck at his nose first, scrunched from being bashful, and then one on his lips. And another, and another, then it’s him who’s leaning in and slotting his lips against yours, and you’re pulling your linked hands behind your back and let go, opting to slot your hand behind his neck.

After two, three, and four more kisses to the cheek, forehead and lips, you tuck your head into the junction of his shoulder and neck, feeling shy from doing all of this in public. Jisung’s laugh is sweet to your ears, hands rubbing up and down your back before brushing at the ends of your hair. 

“Give a warning next time round, will you?” You tease as you pull back, hand falling on his forearms, eyes looking everywhere but at his.

“Sorry, you just looked too cute. I felt this sudden urge to either bite you or kiss you,”

You pull back even more, hands coming up to shield yourself in mock reservation. “I don’t know if I should be thankful you chose the second option or fear for when the first option will happen,”

Jisung hums, “Maybe both?”

Your pinkies are linked as you walk along the river, basking in each other's presence as you talk, shoulders brushing every now and then. It’s when you’re both childishly debating about who had fallen first when Jisung suddenly points his finger at you accusingly.

“Is that why you forgot your towel?” His question comes out more genuine than anything, as he tilts his head quickly in thought. With a light gasp, you smack at his shoulder before your arm falls back and crosses on your shoulders, scandalised. “I didn’t!”

“Was that how you were gonna seduce me? By forgetting your towel and having me bring it to you? What was next, you wanted me to lotion your legs for you too?” You can tell he’s teasing this time around, as his tongue pokes at his cheek ever so slightly to withhold the grin that was blooming across his features.

You point your finger at him, catching on. “You probably distracted me with your whole ‘which bottle of shampoo’ debacle just to make me forget it.” Poking at his chest with eyes squinted in suspicion, “You wanted to see me naked on the first date? That’s not very decorum of you.”

Jisung scoffs and rolls his eyes at your accusation, shoulders squaring to better defend himself. “I don’t need to go through all of that just to get to you,” He throws you a quick glance from the corner of his eye, a rush of giddiness washing over him with the look of your flustered expression.

“You’re right,” This time, you’re looking at his lips as you say this, catching Jisung off-guard with your compliance. Moving closer, you rest your hands on his arms, pushing yourself up and closer to his body, chests brushing. Your voice, barely above a whisper, brushes against his ear, “It’s gonna take a lot more than that to get to me, baby.” 

You know the smile on your face is menacing if Jisung’s gaze on you is anything to go by, partly annoyed and part timid. Ghosting one of your hands down his arm, you slip your fingers in between his and give them a squeeze, giggling as you swing your arm back a forth a bit like a school couple.

Jisung’s next sentence takes a bit of effort to say if his demeanour is anything to go by. With his gaze settled on your intertwined hands and a slightly open mouth— as if to say something, you give his hand another gentle squeeze to encourage him. 

The gleam in his eyes looks more assured as he straightens his posture and looks directly into your eyes, giving your hand a squeeze back. “Do you wanna go back to mine?”

Leaning in, you give another peck on his cheek, his scent pleasantly wafting through your nose. “I’d love to,”

You can feel the tension grow with the sound of the door closing and sounding its locking chime, toeing off your shoes as you look up at Jisung. He reaches out a hand towards you once you straighten up, pulling you close and guiding you towards the door of his bedroom.

Like the rest of the house, Jisung’s room is clean but still spotted with signs of use, with his desk having papers and laptop wires strewn around while a plethora of empty hangers are placed at the foot of his closet. As he sits on the bed, with his hand still holding yours, he tugs you forward, his free hand going to your thigh, clasping above your knee. 

His eyes glisten as he looks up at you, “This okay?” his touch ghosts on you as he asks this. You nod your head, wanting him to touch you, needing him to touch you more. His fingers grow bolder and heavier in weight, as his hand clasps at the back of your thigh, bending your leg and resting it next to his thigh. Understanding his movements, you follow suit, settling yourself on his thighs with your linked hands resting on his stomach. He leans in and presses a soft kiss against you, easing in with feathery light touches. The slot of your mouths against each other starts a small fire in your stomach, as you push yourself onto him more, needing him to know that you crave more. 

He sighs against your lips as you settle down more, the pressure not far from where he wants it the most. He kisses you feverishly, the smack of your lips growing louder with each plant of his lips. His touches grow heavier as his fingers go from grazing against your knees to tracing lines up your thighs, barely a touch away from settling under the seem of your skirt. Knitting your fingers in his hair, his hand flies to your love handles, squeezing them in an attempt to ground himself. A sigh leaves his lips when you separate just the slightest bit, taking a breather as you kiss the corner of his lips, hands falling from the ends of his hair down to his collarbones and at the bottom of his shirt. Your spread your fingers on the skin of his stomach, nails skimming ever so slightly making Jisung’s breath hitch, his stomach tensing under your touch, eyes still closed as he takes in your touch, his stomach knotting from finally being able to do this with you.

With his grip already tight on your waist, he maneuvers you off his lap and sits you on his bed, crawling between your legs, making you open them and welcome him in as you lie down on his bed. He kisses you again, his hands now staking claim everywhere he can, pushing your shirt up to your ribs, fingers grazing against your bud form under your bra before he brings his hands down and kneads at your thighs.

“Jisung,” You sigh when he swipes his tongue against your lips. He takes your tongue in his mouth, humming against it at your call, its vibration sending hot waves down your body. His touches on your body take you higher, but you need more.

And so you say just as much, “More, give me more.”

“Fuck,” He sighs against your lip, “Yeah? Okay, I’ll give you more, anything for you,” Pressing one last peck against your lip, you see his body slide down your figure, his fingers going to unhook your bra as you arch your back. He groans at the sight of your breasts free from your bra. “I love your tits, so much,”  His hands are big against you, but they fit perfectly against the cup of your breasts, squeezing them together as he smothers himself against your cleavage. He licks a stripe of each bud, before focusing on your left one with his mouth, tongue lapping around the swell as he sucks, opting to circle his fingers on your other tit before pinching it harshly, making you keen against him.

You rake your fingers in his hair, petting him. “Such a good boy, you make me feel so good,” Your words make him whine against your breast, making his hip stutter against the mattress,  for some sort of friction. He releases one hand from cupping your breasts, opting to use one hand while his now free hand dances its way down your torso, unzipping your skirt and taking it off, before meeting the seam of your panties. With his pointer finger, he hovers a line ever so slightly on your slit, eyes wide as he glances at the pleasure breaking out on your face and the wetness of your underwear spreading.

He keeps his touch light, drawing circles on your clit through the fabric of your underwear, frustrating you. You huff when he uses the point of his fingers and presses the slightest amount into your hole, the fabric refraining you from feeling his direct touch. You pull at his hair that’s winded through your fingers, urging him on; he moans at the pull, getting the memo once he looks up at your face with an eye squeezed closed from pain or pleasure. Or both.

He licks at your entrance briefly through your panties, the heat and wetness making you moan, before his fingers finally fit themselves into the seam, sliding them down your legs. You feel more than see his gaze on your core, hooded eyes watching it squeeze around nothing as his fingers tease around it. He comes back up to you and presses his lips against yours, lips slotting together briefly before you feel his thumb rub against your sensitive nub, his middle finger prodding at your hole, eyes watching your face as he pushes the pad of his finger against you. You keen when his finger fills you, as he pushes his finger back and forth, his thumb following by pressing into your clit and pulling away rhythmically. He brings his head against your neck, licking a stripe against you before his teeth catch on your skin, lips wrapping themselves around you straight after, sucking into you before parting and finding another part of your skin to taint. He quickens his pace with his one finger, but it’s not enough, you can barely get enough of him.

Hugging his head that’s still tucked at your neck, you scratch at his scalp soothingly before pulling at strands of his hair. “Jisung,” You pant, “Another one, fill me up, please,”

“You want more?” He bites at your jaw lightly, before he pecks your lips lovingly, as if he isn’t trying to have you come undone with his fingers alone. You nod your head, “Please, I’ve been good, haven’t I?” You beg as your cup the side of his face, your eyes looking at his blown-out pupils, probably no different than yours.

Jisung gronas at your words. “You’ve been so good, such a good girl.” He pulls his finger out so just the tip of it hangs onto your gaping hole, before he joins in another finger, two fingers now filling you. You whimper out a thank you, hands clutching at his shoulders as he picks up the pace, hand now slapping against your cunt, fingers curling inside your sopping pussy. Your body feels like it’s floating and coiling into itself all at once, with Jisung’s unrelenting fingers contrasting his gentle pecks and scrape of teeth against your skin. Every few thrusts and squeeze against his fingers have his hips grind down, sometimes grazing against your leg, making you feel his hard-on.

You bring your hand down from his shoulder, curling it at the bottom of his shirt before tugging at it, mumbling the word off. He pulls back slightly and pulls his shirt off with his free hand while you help with getting it over his head. You scratch your nails against the lines of his stomach, eliciting a hiss out of his before you palm at the outline of his cock through his sweatpants. “You listen so well, don't you? Always doing your best,” You pant out, testing the waters as you tuck the tips of your finger under his waistband. His moan comes out higher in pitch with your words, hips jutting forward and into your touch.

“Good for you,” he breathes against your cheek, eyes squeezed shut at the brush of your fingers against his clothed cock, muttering another fuck under his breath, rutting into your palm for more. 

You’re losing your patience, as Jisung speeds up his hand even more, the pleasure bordering with pain from his pace and harsher bites Jisung plants on you, too far gone with pleasuring you to be mindful of his strength. 

You can feel your orgasm reaching, breath hitching and your stomachs coil tightening further and further. You wrap your hand around Jisung’s wrist, slowing him down slowly before prodding them out of you. You whine at the emptiness briefly but are soothed when Jisung plants wet kisses against your collarbone. You push yourself up onto your shoulders, making Jisung shuffle back slightly in order to not lose touch with you, Reaching over, you dig through your bag and pull out a condom, shaking it between your bodies to bring Jisung’s attention to it.

The sound of the plastic wrapper catches his gaze, “You’re gonna let me put it in?” He grabs the packet from your hand before gently pushing you back down. He kisses you again, seeming to not get enough, as he pushes his pants and boxers down in one go, his tip smacking against the soft lines of his stomach and leaving a glisten. The rip of the packet sounds before he rolls it on, and you shift closer when you feel the tip of his cock lined up with your pussy.

The sheets ruffle around you as Jisung comes down and places a kiss on your cheek before looking into your eyes. “Ready?” He asks, and with a nod of your head, you feel him slowly ease himself into you. The stretch feels amazing, as you both moan into each other mouths, your hands squeezing and wandering everywhere around Jisung’s shoulders, back, torso. 

Jisung sighs, “Fuck,” His grip on your waist tightens, the pressure turning you on even more, squeezing around his cock. “You feel so good, so tight,”

“Fuck, Jisung,” You groan out as he quickens his pace, the sound of his hips slapping against your skin picking up. “Fuck, you’re doing so well. Stretching me out so good,” Jisung throws his head back, eyes squeezing shut at the pulse of your pussy around his member. He looks back down, wanting to see the join of your bodies, pulling out till his tip, before ramming himself back in, losing himself to the blissful feeling.

The knot in your stomach tightens. “Jisung, I’m close—” You’re cut off by your own moan as Jisung starts rubbing at your clit again, building a rhythm to his thrusts into you. 

“Yeah? Fuck, let go baby,” He grunts as he bends down, his cock twitching inside of you as he kisses your lips before tucking his head back into your neck, lapping at your skin as he keeps up his speed with his fingers on your clit and his thrusts inside you. Your body curls up as your orgasm crashes into you, hands hugging at Jisung’s shoulders tighter as your thighs squeeze around his hips, keeping him in your pulsing core. Panting, you release your grip from his hip, bringing your leg down and patting Jisung’s head, wanting to kiss him again. 

As he pulls away from you, you lean up and plant a kiss on his lips, chest bursting with the affection you feel while coming down. Jisung pulls his cock out from you, going slow as to not overwhelm you. He pulls off his condom, not having cum yet as his cock smacks against his stomach, the precum from the tip joining the light sheen of sweat covering his body. He fists his hand around his cock, tugging and pumping himself to a finish. You’re too spent to give him a helping hand, but you decide you haven’t spent your mouth enough.

“Pretty boy, you’re doing so well,” He hunches over your body at your words. “Looks so good fisting your own cock like that,”

“Fuck,” He groans, “If you keep going I’m gonna—”

“Cum baby, make a mess on me,” You run your hand up his thigh, before pulling up and grabbing at his hair and combing through the strands. His moan comes out high pitched as his hips stutter into his fist, before a spurt of come shoots out and lands on your stomach. He twists his fist around the head of his cock as he milks it out, before heaving a sigh and slumping down, placing a kiss on your shoulder before he lies by your side, cupping his body into yours. You continue running your hand in his hair as he settles on your shoulder, his cheek poking out which makes you poke at it. A giggle is shared as the giddiness of you two being together in the moment settles in, and when you go to place a kiss at his forehead, you’re reminded of the wetness of sweat all over your body and the slowly drying cum on your stomach.

“Oh, let me go get something,” He gets up and goes to his bathroom, coming back with a few paper towels and a wet cloth. Rubbing down your spent body, he pats you dry with the paper towel before putting them away and plopping down next to you, wrapping his arm around you and tucking himself close.

“I didn’t know you were the cuddly type,” You say as you hug at his shoulders, hands rubbing up and down as a faux massage.

“Well, I mean, I can let go?” Jisung’s nervous front grows again, as he goes to put some distance between the two of you. But before he could get far, you wrap your arms tighter around his shoulder as you hook your leg around his, stopping him from pulling away.

“I never said it was bad; I like this girlfriend bonus.” Jisung’s hair bounces as he pops his head up to look at you.

“Girlfriend bonus? Does that mean you’re my girlfriend now?”

“Only if you agree to my boyfriend bonuses,” You shrug. He laughs as he places his head back on your shoulder. “What are these so-called ‘boyfriend bonuses’ of yours?” You tap at your chin mockingly as you think.

“You can fuck my boobs next time?” You shrug again. His head whips up faster this time ‘round.

“Are you serious? Don’t joke about it, because if you are I won’t be—” You smack your hands on his cheeks, squeezing his lips into a pout. His shoulders slump at your attempt of shutting him up, eyebrows drooping as he gazes at you, making you laugh at his expression as you squish his cheeks repeatedly.

“Okay, good job guys, take a water break.” Coach Son claps, as everyone shuffles to their bags and grab at their bottles. Jisung’s elbow brushes against yours as he grabs his bottle from his bag next to yours, taking a few light sips before he places it down, looking at you with his cheeks full of water. It takes all his might to not spit the water out as you elbow him back and raise your fingers tauntingly, moving closer as if you’re about to tickle him.

Before you can successfully begin your quest, Coach lets out a sound as to gather you guys back ‘round, clapping his hands twice before waving you guys in.

“Since we’re coming to the end of the semester and you guys have proved to work really hard, I’m gonna conduct one last test to see how much your levels have changed since the beginning of the semester!”

“Oh my god,” You whisper out to Jisung as your hand cups your mouth, wide eyes looking at his as his eyebrows raise in surprise. This could finally be the moment that you can prove yourself, advancing onto a higher level to have an overall better ranking.

“Who wants to go first?” Jaemin steps up and raises his hand, confidently wanting to prove his skills. 

He plays a round with the coach, showing signs of trying his best and knowing how to play, but his reaction speed comes a bit too late as he misses the shuttles by a step. Sometimes two. Sometimes he mixes up his left from his right, but that’s just occasionally. Minji and Ryujin play a round each, and show good improvement throughout the semester.

“You should go next,” Jisung leans into as he whispers, both of your gazes settled on the coach and Ryujin going back and forth with clears being delivered. Your blood rushes quicker at the thought of playing an official round, thinking of all the mistakes you can make that would cost you. 

Sensing your nerves, Jisung places his hand on yours, grabbing it before giving the palm of your hand soothing rubs. “To help with the nerves,” He says when you look at your joint hands questioningly.

“Alright, next player?” Giving your hand a light squeeze, Jisung lets go and ushers you forward onto the court, as you raise your hand slightly, grabbing at your racket once Coach nods you in.

Arranging yourself, you pick up the shuttle left at your side and get into your serve position. You hit the shuttle and serve, commencing the game. You are able to reciprocate most of coach’s deliveries, stepping left and right when needed and angling your racket to optimise your own delivery, but it’s when you’re halfway through the game with Coach Son’s and your score being eleven and ten respectively, coach starts playing with a more advanced method. The drops become more frequent, catching you off guard as you have to run from the back to the front of the court in order to make it to the shuttle, as well as the clears going in different angles making you almost trip a few times as you attempt to make it to them.

Jisung has his fist at his mouth as he watches you from the side, with everyone else in awe at how quickly you’re moving compared to the last time they played officially.

“How did she get so good?” Haechan questions with his hand pressed on his racket. The whole class shifts their head from left to right at the sidelines as they watch you battling it out with their coach, the shuttle relentlessly being delivered with neither of you wanting to lose touch of it.

“It’s the perks she gets for having an almost professional-level badminton player of a boyfriend.” Ryujin’s smile is devoid of any callousness, patting at Jisung’s shoulder as she says this. Jisung can feel his cheeks grow red as he splutters into his sleeve, hiding his flustered expression as the rest of them shout out their reactions.

“All credit goes to her, she’s just a diligent student.” 

“I can be diligent too,” Jaemin bats his lashes as he leans in from Jisung’s other side, but flinches and clutches at his shoulder when Soojin smacks him.

Back on the court, you’re starting to lose your breath when Coach delivers another serve to the back of the court, shuttle going straight as you attempt to create enough distance to successfully hit back. As he does a clear delivery, you position yourself at the back fo the court in order to meet his hit, before quickly centring yourself, preparing for his next move. From a steady pattern of his serves growing in your head, you were more than ready to reciprocate his short hit of the shuttle near the net, as you step forward and hit back.

Usually, you would’ve stumbled to hit the shuttle back at maximum velocity, sending it flying up and giving Coach more than enough time to think of his next move. But from your extra hours of playing with Jisung, you’re picked up the knack of delivering a short end with another short end, making the shuttle travel only the slightest bit over the net and plummeting down into the court. Coach Son is caught off guard when you do this, but his reflexes from years of practise kicks in, and before he could process his actions, he delivers a lob, sending the shuttle high in the air. Jisung gasps from the sidelines, making everyone alert.

He calls out your name, “Smash! Do a smash!” 

With your eye settled on the descending shuttle, you think back to the one class you had with Jisung.

“You hit a clear when the shuttle can meet your hand at twelve o’clock. You have to wait for it to drop to the same level that you’re hand would be at a ten o’clock position to be able to deliver a smash; but remember that you have to keep going with your delivery until your hand reaches six o’clock.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

You’re still not sure what he meant, but with the fall of the shuttle, you’re not really at the privilege of recalling things for a long amount of time. 

Positioning your hand at the first base, you wait for the shuttle to be at least a few inches from your head before you reach out, smacking at the shuttle and aiming at the bottom of the court. Coach, who was ready for you to hit the shuttle to the back of the court like you usually do, was not ready for the shuttle which was arriving at a quick pace. In a blink, the shuttle lands just past his ankles, and you’ve officially scored a point.

“Jisung!” You scream once the shuttle lands, looking at your boyfriend who was staring intently at your match. A look of victory glows across his face as his mouth drops in disbelief, eyebrows raised and fists clenched, over the moon at what you had just accomplished.

“I smashed! I did it! I smashed so hard oh my god, I think my arms gonna fall off,” The game is far from done for you to be celebrating like this, but you’re without care when the rest of the class cheers for you, Minji running up to you to give you a hug. You both start jumping with giddy while the rest join in, all while the coach looks at your huddled bunch with a smile on his face.

“This is Juda and this one is Chenle.”

“Why’d you talk about me as if I was a dog?”

“Because you are,” Juda shrugs before she plucks out a Yakult bottle from the packet in her hand, swingin it above Chenle’s face. “Who wants a treat? You do! Who’s a good boy?”

“Nice to . . . meet you guys too?” Jisung’s wave hangs mid air as he looks at Chenle slowly shift from a expressionless face to enthusiastically nodding his head up and down, wanting the drink.

“What did I tell you? You’ll fit just right in with us,” You link your arm through Jisung’s elbow, pulling him into your shared house with Juda before sitting him down on the couch. Juda and Chenle follow after, with the latter having his own bottle open and already emptied halfway. Juda offers Jisung yakult bottle, and goes to pick up the remote, going through the movies to put something on. You quickly grab a few snacks from the kitchen and come back, settling yourself right next to Jisung, leaving no space between the both of you.

“Wait,” Chenle turns to look at you from his positon on the ground, grimacing a bit at the sight of you two cuddled up, before continuing. “What happened with the new ranking then?” Your smile is shy when you look at him and Juda looking back at you expectantly. 

“I got into group B.”

“YES!” Chenle whoops, grabbing Juda and shaking her by the shoulders. “No more whining and complaining and whinging about the class!” You chuckle as you cheer alongside him, with Jisung looking at your interactions with raised eyebrows. 

Laughing, you tuck yourself into his side, linking your arms again as you rest your head on his shoulder. With Juda and Chenle bickering about settling on what movie to watch, you press a quick kiss on his cheek in appreciation.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” You smile at him, to which he grins shyly at. “Even though I lost, the smash pulled me through. Your smashing abilities were so flawless that even I, a young duckling was able to smash through,”

“Okay, thank you for the compliment but maybe don’t say how good my smashing abilities are—”

“You just smash so hard and so well—”

“Please—”

“Jisung the smash master!”

if you liked this, dont be afraid to tell me !

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[moondirti]

animalic (6)

← chapter five // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 4k summary: misery makes good company warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, angst, i mean it guys, miguel o'hara is really not nice in this one, fighting, death/extinction, morally questionable characters, weapons of mass destruction, implied drug withdrawal, reader is given a backstory notes: apologies for what's to come. it's okay if you hate me after

“Don’t move. You’ll make it worse.” 

There’s a warm hand cupping the back of your head, callused fingers spread to steady the junction between it and your shoulder. It’s the first thing you notice when you wake; that, and the breath fanning across your face.

You think it odd. Signs of life pound beneath you like the febrile concoction of a dream, burning hot in emphasis that you’d survived. A heavy pulse behind your brow, the headache pinching at every sense until they all dim to conductive static. Your tongue, pasty on the roof of your mouth. The hind of your arm itches, the urge running bone-deep, humming from flesh gracelessly torn apart by a gutter. When you shift to examine it, a fire roars up your neck, the smouldering pain robbing you of any effort. 

(The only other time you’d been this uncomfortable, you were bitten by a spider the third month of your internship with Alchemax. The puncture site didn’t burn so much as the delirium that followed.)

“What did I just say?” 

And, there’s that voice. You find it difficult to discern its more unique attributes, words muffled from behind the wavering pane of your lucidity – yet, even still, it stands as the most tangible thing present. Deep, resonant. Smoked with a ruggedness you can feel in your teeth. It doesn’t occur to you why it seems so unfamiliar; perhaps it’s the fact that you catch it through its source, your ear pressed to a muscled chest. Or, that’s it’s whispering. 

You’ve never heard him whisper. Not to you. 

The need to retaliate swells once you realise who holds you. It’s nothing productive, not the string of questions you should be asking – what’s happening, where are we; but it’s the only natural instinct that overcomes you. When you attempt to make good on it, though, the clutter of jokes, gripes, and snubs tangle in your throat, emerging as little more than a groan. 

And the act wears you more than it probably should, exhausted tremors wracking your frame. A tender ache ripples from a point on your ribcage – separate from the area you’d fractured at the quarry. The pressure here is more centralised, a focused bruise you locate the source of with a wriggle of your elbow, when a rock comes loose and clatters to settle underneath you. It joins a mound of similar rubble, a pseudo-cushion of chalky cement broken off the larger slabs surrounding you.

You assume they do, at least – based on what you can tell of the terrain behind your back. In reality, you have no means to confirm your circumstances. The space around you swims in ink-blot darkness, the type that is almost material, where sheer absence of light could be considered an element of its own. You squeeze your eyes shut, then widen them, and find that there’s no difference between the two. 

So – dark, dusty and… cramped. You’re positioned across Miguel’s lap, his legs running under and perpendicular to yours. Neither of you can stretch them to their full extent, however, forced to cross and bend in unwieldy ways, tangling further in each other's limbs. Your clothes are worn out enough to allow you to detect when any surface of his body – tense abdomen and thick thighs – twitches, thrumming with a molasses-slow tension that starts to diffuse through you. 

Not a scenario of his own choosing, then. 

But the turn of events that might’ve converged to this are lost on you, white noise fluffing the space they’d evacuated. Last you recall, you were staring down a cop car, the lingering comfort of a child’s trust filling you with a remarkable sort of purpose, that which you cannot place. Had you acted against that convict? Or left it up to the man cradling you? 

As if on cue, he speaks. 

“You’re trapped under a collapsed building.”

He says you like he’s not a confounding variable in this equation. You know it’s meant to single your blame in this, stranding it somewhere where you can brood without cross-examining him or why he’s here too. It nests on a well of guilt you keep suppressed for good reason, irking you in a particularly special way. 

“Figured that out for myself, thanks.” Despite the trouble you put into getting the retort out undisturbed, it ends up sounding more unconvincing than not. Miguel waits for the coughing fit you have afterwards to subside before pitching in his acknowledgment. 

“Did you, now?” 

Little shit isn’t even trying to hide his sarcasm. 

You ignore him, continuing with your scepticism. “I’m just wondering why we’re still here.” 

Because it’s a genuine conjecture. While you’re not a part of the educated camp in spider-hero abilities – being so clueless to the extent of your own – you’re far too familiar with that infamous super strength. You’d sensed the difference for yourself; your increasing aptness in carrying hefty weights, the fluidity with which you cruise through life, physically unperturbed. And you’ve been on the receiving end of the spectrum too, your skin littered with scars that point to the sheer power of your companion. 

A few tonnes of demolished concrete should be a walk in the park for him.

He clicks his tongue like it’s obvious. “I pulled under a steel arc in time for the debris not to crush us. If I disturb this pocket, or try to rearrange a tunnel, then I run the risk again.” 

The logic makes sense, as much as you hate to admit it. Of course, that doesn’t stop you from picking at the contrivances in his language. It was you when discussing what went wrong, and now it’s I when it comes to the out. You realise it’s probably unintentional. Somehow, that makes it worse. He must truly believe you’re nothing beyond a malevolent fuck-up; some villain willing to sacrifice herself for the greater demise.

(The latter might have its validity. It’s the former you hold issue with.) 

Likewise, you also ascertain an easy fix to all this – on account of your spectral properties. And, if you were a better woman, it would’ve been feasible. Phase out, crawl through until you breach the open, get help.

It’s long since been established that you’re not that person, though – and you’ve come to accept your own incompetence. You don’t mean to die here; you’re not sure if you want him too either, for all your ire. But your immateriality is a fickle thing, recurring at the most inopportune times, in the smallest increments – a potential problem for the doubtlessly long crawl it’d take to escape. You don’t want to imagine what would happen should you solidify within the walls. 

Resignation seems easier than tempting it. 

Miguel must recognise the option as well. As it stands for him, he can’t afford to let you go, nor is he desperate enough to trust you yet despite it. You don’t bring it up then, maintaining the upper-hand by his misunderstanding of your capacity. 

(Maybe you are evil.

Or, just tired.)

“That’s okay. I think it would be funny if we passed like this.” You pitch, nudging your cheek to urge the smile clearly lacking in your tone. There’s no humour behind your choice of phrase, and it’s a jarring step back from where he’d been, expounding himself. You suppose it might be a clumsy distraction from the exact gravity of your predicament, yet even that rolls over in your brain, not quite satisfactory to dissolve as truth. “It’ll make a nice story for the people who dig us up.” 

His chest puffs, filling with an irritated inhale. In the same movement, his fingers constrict onto your cranial base; it has the adverse effect of bracing your neck for the sudden shift, minimising the soreness triggered by any activity. You decide to take it as the warning it’s meant to be instead. 

“Eres patética.” He murmurs, sinking back down. You wince when his clutch weakens, pain flaring. “And whiplashed.” 

You purse your lips, critical. “I’ve had worse.” 

“Sure.” 

“My arm–” 

“Will be fine.” As if to punctuate, he reaches for the wound. A clink sounds when he taps it. “Used the nanotech off my suit as a bandage.” 

You should have caught that it doesn’t sting like it would’ve if exposed. Similarly, his hands are gloveless. Bare – while the rest of him isn’t. You’d felt the dry surface of his palm, the fixed warmth it emanated, but for some oversight, you hadn’t considered that he was touching you. Skin-to-skin, the simple size of his fists dwarfing you in every measure. 

A stone lodges in your throat. 

“Did– How’d you know?” You pry, referencing the perpetual tenebrosity you’re suspended in. 

What he replies with shouldn't shock you, not as much as it does. But the air’s shifted to a nuanced degree, a hesitation substituting loud anger. It's the awareness that he's just as tuned in to you as you are him, sympathetic to try and redirect you off the brink of death. Or, more likely, it’s the poignant impression of his fangs, wedged in your flesh, his tongue lapping up the very same path. 

(And the wanton moan it’d triggered.)

“I could smell the blood.” 

Oh. 

Truthfully, you’ve no clue whether you respond aloud or keep your contemplation close to your psyche. He admits it almost… awkwardly, like it’s a condition he’s not so fond of himself. Yet it’s one that reverberates in the strained silence, plucking at taut strings that stretch with every passing second. You play it on repeat, stewing over the way in which he spoke; the diction, the stressors, the slight roll of his accent. 

I could smell it. I could smell you. The blood. 

Your life on the run hardly ever allows for moments like these. Over the past year, stress has anchored itself by the dock of your being, streamlining a flow of cortisol to every major organ. Continuity hinges on an alertness to the forces propelling you, and while the occasional wisecrack can alleviate some effects it has on your health, you don’t have the luxury of sinking into whatever fear bolsters it all. 

It’s with him, though – hanging from a crane, or cornered in a pen of his own design. Only ever with him are you slapped with the resounding, festering distress of your own weakness. It consumes you, gnawing on your gut with its brutal teeth, tearing away the indifference you’d built around your systems. How dissimilar the two of you are; a girl unwilling to fight for even herself, and a man capable of wrapping a slash in the dark. 

(He could smell it. And he can probably see, too. 

By just how much does he outmatch you?)

“You’re welcome.” Miguel growls. You scold yourself for your elongated reticence, the pace of your heart overtaking the anxious torrent of thoughts that pump through you. It’s good practice to thank the man who’d saved your life four times over. Be that as it may, does it really count if he’s the reason it was necessary to begin with? He’d dropped you off that crane, he’d swung you a hundred feet high. Him, him, him. 

You curl your tongue, desperate to quell the barrage of resentment that escalates at his prodding. Despite it pulling you from your rapid dissociation, your fight-or-flight peaks, forcing you to face a confrontation you don’t need. There’s nowhere to run – presently, you’re moored into place, his physicality and unique provocation blocking the possibility all together. 

You scoff to placate the spiralling desire to argue. 

It doesn’t work. 

“For what?” You hiss.

All too quickly, his legs spread, creating a trough for you to slide down into. When your ass hits the unforgiving floor, you involuntarily cringe at the contrast it poses to his leg. A calculated effect, you’re sure – so too is the newfound freedom of his grip releasing your head, the crossing of his forearms pushing you away from the post his pecs provided. 

It’s what you wanted, to distance yourself from his overbearing stature. And he manipulates it to his own favour; you’re made to bear your burden, the agony of your injured state tripling as if to exclaim: ‘see?’

Touché.

Nevertheless, it palliates your memory. The chill of the earth under you spikes your nerves, clearing the brume overcasting your day previous. You’d driven a car into that symbiote based on a groundless hypothesis; bold, any scientist would tell you. Yet, as far as your perception extends, it worked. 

“Selfish.” He announces, far from discrete. It’s so unlike him that it smites the ego beginning to coagulate at your remembered success.

Your eyes snap to where you assume his face is, squinting like your glare makes any difference. “Excuse me?” 

Undeterred by the threat inherent in your tone – that which is all talk – he persists. “Who do you think you are exactly, Wraith?” 

The interrogation holds a dangerous quality; again, it feels out of place, a spirit tugging at the strings of his hollow self. 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Why? What would you prefer? Anomaly, banshee? You drag death behind you like it’s a curse, only you’ve opted into it. I told you it wasn’t our place to interfere, and you had to push it–” 

He can be jaded, or subtle. Oftentimes, he’s dismissive and passively rude. 

But Miguel O’Hara is never heedlessly hostile. Not like this. 

“That wasn’t my fault, asshole. I fucking glitched!” 

“¡Órale, estás bien pendeja! Nothing ever is, of course! Has it never occurred to you to take a good look in the mirror?” 

The irregularity scares you. Your voice breaks with it.

“O’Hara–” 

“Because I’ll tell you what I see; a girl who can’t face what she’s done.”

“You don’t know me.” You shake your head, tamping the stiffness in your shoulder. It does nothing to exercise the sharp unease that flays you alive. 

“A self-serving criminal who refuses to listen.” 

“I d– I tried.” Hiccupping, the edge worsens.

“You’d have gone back home–” 

“There’s nothing left for me there!” 

“Like there is anywhere else? You’ve devastated them!” 

“Stop it–” 

“Wrecked entire worlds! I’ve been the only one holding it all together,” He yells, pushing his knees closer to one another. You’re slowly crushed in the process, thighs drawing up to press against your torso. “You’re no victim. You’re no hero.” 

“Stop it!” 

“Tell me I’m wrong!” 

Feverish tears slice down your cheeks, spouting to escape the pressure that balloons within you. Your lungs tighten alongside it, heart aching. It’s progressed past the point of prevention – no longer do you retain control of how this turns out. All you can do is drift; a feather, seized in this tempest, stirred by a disembodied man.

When you don’t respond, preferring to preserve your energy for the sobs that rip from you, he inches closer. You sense it when he repeats himself, his hot breath lining the shell of your ear.

“Well,” His claws sharpen, grazing the small of your back. “Am I?” 

His lisp is more pronounced like this, fangs extended to affect the natural position of his mouth. It warps the undertone, like a pool does light, and sends it back more viscous than ever. He’s uninhibited – an addict missing his fix.

It’s almost impossible to choke the admission out against the hatred churning your stomach. When you unhinge your jaw, it’s a credible wager that you retch all over yourself instead.

“No.” You manage to warble, a mixture of snot and wet misery streaking down your chin. Your wrists stay plastered, allowing the mess to mask your countenance, tucking between your legs in a childlike attempt at comfort. Cruelty crackles – self-propagated now – assaulting your faux-confidence until it plummets to a fraction of what it was. 

Cursed. A wraith – haunting the multiverse with her unfinished business. 

There’s nothing left to declare as his impressions are confirmed. You both mark it, this changed, spoken into existence by your divulgence. By some miracle, if you were to slip his capture, it’d be no more of a victory than the gore crusting your fingernails. Proof for his belittlement; that you truly are so inconsiderate as to further endanger the lives of millions. 

(Would you be able to live with yourself?)

You relapse, agonising over the past week. Not a victim – you’d taken advantage of him with a kiss for an unsure opportunity. Not a hero – you’d punched a robber and gotten a civilian killed in the process. You’d run over a murderer and buried several under an early grave. 

(Can you live with yourself?)

And home–

Trapped, you boil in a pond of your transgressions. It’d been a long time coming – your fault, in fact. You should’ve noticed the water was gradually heating. 

There’d been a dam of careful construction at this bank, stacked tirelessly over the several nights you’d been given to think on what you’ve done. To prevent your clear culpability from catching up to you, to blind others to it too. He’s right, but not about all things. You’ve memorised your reflection at this point. Put it in a line up, and you’ll point your place in hell with facile certainty. 

So, there’s no need to admit anything else. Regardless, his sabotage compels you to. Here, loitering purgatory with the one person who’d never understand; what harm could confession do? His opinion of you skims rock bottom, and you’ve no hope at seeing a priest before you rot. 

Forgive me, for I have sinned.

“I’m not innocent.” You start. “Never have been.”

Alpha Centauri, that was the goal. 

Located only four light years away, it’s the closest star system to Earth; with suns Rigil Kentaurus, Toliman and Proxima Centauri forming a trinary network. All main sequence stars – like humanity’s very own Sol – orbited by suspected habitable exoplanets. With the average chemical rocket, it’d take upwards of six thousand years to get there. 

There lay alternatives, of course. Nuclear fission, with an energy yield of almost zero from its original mass. Fusion, ten times as efficient – still, not nearly enough. Ion accelerators, sunlight capture. Interstellar arks were of no interest; no, you’d wanted to achieve extrasolar travel within your lifetime. Warp drives and hyperspace – all theoretical. 

As an undergrad, you’d settled on matter-antimatter collision. 

The latter, antimatter, exists as an inverted twin to ordinary subatomic particles, with flipped states on every front. Antiprotons – negative protons with oppositely directed magnetism, and positrons – positively charged electrons. When the two meet their counterparts, their entire mass is converted into energy. And, when such annihilation is modelled within engines, a ship can accelerate to ninety percent the speed of light. 

Therein subsisted your only chance to touch the stars. 

Of course, like all hypotheticals, it came with its own array of issues. No natural reservoir of the substance is known, and producing at least one tonne would take more power than mankind has used in all its history. Moreover, it’s near nonviable to store. Any container that has ever touched regular matter would only cause preemptive decimation.

You wrote papers and studied computer-generated prototypes. You argued with professors, and attended pro-conferences. Months worth of minimum wage were blown on trips to Argentina,  where the neighbouring system can be spotted through a telescope, winking above the horizon. When it all started to appear fruitless, you caught wind of Alchemex’s exploits within the field.

It was a young company, hobbling on its feet after a rocky merger with Oscorp. But they were daring, and rich, endeavouring into categories that most deemed nonprofit. You’d applied for an internship, waited months to hear back. By some cosmic karma, it turned out to be good news when you eventually did.

They were already working on manufacturing the antimatter. It was your suggestion that encouraged them to use magnets to store it within a vacuum. 

It looked auspicious. It had been. 

Then, you were bit. 

The spider was from another division – radiation, you suppose. By some breach on account of a more negligent temp, the critter had found its way into your improvised cubicle. And so the story goes; it’d champed down on the webbing between your thumb and forefinger, before promptly suffocating under the cup you’d snared it in. The area stung for a while, venom having directly found your veins. Yet, by the time you’d returned to your dorm, your immunity seemed to have diluted its effects. 

Until, you’d gotten sick. The hysteria was slow to consolidate, starting as a sore throat. You’d used your one day off then, ignorant to just how bad it could get; because the fever only deepened, lesions on the lining of your oesophagus oozing ichor into bile. Your doctor waived the possibility of tuberculosis, mistrusting the notes your instructors sent with you, complaining of in-class fainting bouts. 

You couldn’t miss work, though. Never. Not when you were so close. 

So you stuffed sheets of pills in your pockets and braved each shift with trembling joints. You’d no friends to notice your suffering, and for such an ambitious company, overtime was expected. Sweating through multiple layers of clothing, you kept an eye on your poster of the galaxy and lagged on those long nights. At the rate you were going, you genuinely dreaded a life cut short before you could realise your objective. 

If nothing else, it urged you to work harder. 

Your first milestone came at the one kilogram mark. A party was hosted to celebrate, billionaires invited to gather around the vessel which held such a revolutionary feat. Despite your interloper status, you’d been summoned too, to play big girl scientist and present Alchemex’s future course of action. Your affliction was improving, and you were the inspiration behind the project’s advance. It felt like the biggest night of your career. 

(‘Magnets! What a genius solution.’ From a nobel prize runner up.

‘That ambition will get you far, mark my words.’ The CEO’s cousin.)

In truth, it was the last. 

Because the antimatter had taken centre stage, security slackening with its continued stability. So long as the magnetism wasn’t tampered with, so long as the vacuumed vessel remained airtight, things looked to be fine for your speech. You’d cycled through every known variable, staring down the container, a champagne flute tucked in your sweaty palms. 

Your skin prickled.

The glass smashed to the floor. In your embarrassment, you’d brushed it off as clumsiness prompted by the perspiration – notwithstanding your recount, having seen the drink fall through your mass. Did it matter, though? You couldn’t put it past your illness to cause such hallucinations. It was impossible, a trick of sight.

The festivities progressed, yet the tingle of your nerves didn’t subside. Anxiety – you chalked it up to common apprehension. So, when your boss announced your name for all to hear, and the agitation flared, it wasn’t alarming. You could think of nothing else anyway, honed in to the address you’d practised all morning. 

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.

Your gut flipped. Your vision blackened. 

The steps lost depth; you stumbled up them with all the grace of a hunted fawn. 

Today–

Your skin prickled once more, and you collapsed. Through the antimatter’s vessel, through the floor. 

There’s nothing to recall after that. Not for a long while. 

“I don’t become intangible.” Your brow bone rests on the curve of your knee, body curled in a foetal position. “My particles merely… find the best way through something.” 

Miguel has remained eerily quiet throughout your chronicle. You try not to let it dissuade you. 

“So–” 

“Some came in contact with the antimatter.”

“Yeah.” You murmur, moved by an unnamed emotion. “It detonated, naturally, with a force roughly equivalent to a nuclear bomb. Wiped out everyone in the city upon discharge, then everyone in the state with its impact. Or– maybe, I don’t know. I was discarnate for weeks – the explosion had no effect on my immaterial self, and the radiation couldn’t hurt me when that spider damn well sought and failed at it already.” 

You hug yourself tighter. 

“I only witnessed the winter that followed. The blast was large-scale enough to trigger firestorms and a global climate cooling – similar to the one they scare you with when talking about nuclear warfare. Crop failure, famine. Millions died and my home devolved into cataclysm. It was mass extinction,” You school yourself, waving the snivel crawling up your nose. “Because of me.” 

An end by starvation or infection, confined to this tomb, seems a perfectly fitting penance. 

“Explain this to me, O’Hara – what just providence made me spider-woman to a barren land?”

chapter seven →

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[whencartoonsruletheworld]

never have I played any nights at Freddy fazbears

pls explain the whole plot and all lore to me as if I were small and slightly stupid

oh great timing i literally JUST explained this to my asoue discord

this is a VERY simple summary, but things to keep in mind while reading:

very very VERY little of this is directly spelled out for us. the creator, scott cawthon, LOVES to confuse people on purpose and the vast majority of the lore is gleaned from hidden minigames, secret cutscenes, and easter eggs. this makes things very confusing and controversial within the fanbase, so im gonna try to explain where there are differing opinions

really, there's two main stories: the first main story was completed with FNAF6 and Ultimate Custom Night, the story going on rn is the second and it is still ongoing. as such, a lot of the lore is still a mystery to all of us.

For clarity's sake, I will divide this between: THE AFTON STORY, the one the movie's gonna tell a part of, and THE GLITCH STORY, which the games are going through

dont worry i will make it fun to go through so it doesnt feel like school

ok lets go

THE AFTON STORY

First, let's get a visual chart in here. don't worry it's just for show

These are the important families we will be talking about; the Emily family, with father Henry and daughter Charlie, and the Afton Family, with father William, two sons (Michael and a boy who is still unnamed, he might get named on friday? We call him Crying Child "CC") and a daughter, Elizabeth. Don't worry about the mothers they're not important

Okay so here's the thing: of these four children, all but Michael die VERY early on in the timeline

The problem is we do NOT know THE ORDER each of them died. There's a lot of arguments on all sides but I personally think the order is sad boi->charlie->baby so imma present it in that order. But keep in mind that we don't actually know because of the confusing way the lore is dropped.

okay so for starters.

Backstory/FNAF4

purple guy is william afton and he and this guy vcalled henry start opening a restaurant chain starring freddy fazbear

in the original location they've got two animatronic suits, fredbear and spring bonnie. the other location has freddy, bonnie, foxy, chica

the og location suits are ~special~ tho, bc henry and william are crazy inventor dudes. these suits are called "springlock suits". they function as full animatronics but you can wind all the wires and gears and endoskeleton and shit back and step into the costume yourself. only problem is the safety is jackshit and if you like. cry or sweat or breathe wrong the springlocks will fail and the metal will come crashing back and crush u to death. u should have enough time to get to the back room so u dont bleed out in front of the customers tho. springlock suits are important remember those

michael is in his early teens and has just learned how to be a shit to his siblings and is trying out this hot new bullying thing. he's picking a lot on CC because CC is terrified of the freddy animatronics. it is said that he "saw something" that scared him, it could be anything as benign as "saw someone go into the suit and got freaked out" to something as serious as "saw one of those aforementioned springlock failures and person bleeding out." could also be charlie or elizabeth's death if those happen earlier in the timeline. again we dont know bc cawthon likes to confuse us

CC is not scared of the freddy characters tho, he has all the plushies and calls them his friends. he's just scared of the animtronics. unfortunately his dad works there so he has to be there like 90% of the time so he's having a wonderful time. hence the moniker "crying child". bc he cries all the time

anyway at his birthday party, michael decides it would be really funny to shove CC up into the animatronic's mouth for kicks. this goes about as well as you'd expect cause the mouth closes and fuckin. crushes his head

kid goes into a coma for a while but eventually flatlines. while he's in the coma we hear michael tearfully apologizing, and his fredbear plush talks to him (presumed to be william) saying he will "put him back together"

anyway that was fun. so next up charlie emily gets FUCKING MURDERED

Backstory/FNAF1-2

for some reason charlie gets locked outside the pizzeria. william's driving by and decides to stab her bc why not

honestly most of us believe that this occured after CC just bc it gives william motivation to be pissy at his business partner and kill his kid abt it, but also a book that released a month ago implies that william might have been nightmare gassing his kids for shits and giggles so. who knows. dont worry about that btw its not relevant rn

anyway the thing is willie and henry had an animatronic designed to protect the children called the puppet. the puppet sees charlie outside and goes out to help her but it's raining so it fries up the puppet's circuits and it crashes on top of her dead body. cheery!

except this is where it gets wild bc charlie proceeds to like. possess the puppet

possession is really complicated in this universe but basically there's no real way to communicate openly with people and the possesser might not even be aware of who or where they are or anything really but. yeah the lil girl def possesses the puppet

its after this that william starts killing kids for funsies. a lot of us presume that he saw the puppet getting possessed and was like "holy shit a way to bring crying kid back" but again he might've just decided this was fun

anyway he lures five kids into the Secret Freddy's Backroom That Is Not On The Maps by wearing the spring bonnie costume. after killing them he shoves them into the other animatronic suits (freddy, bonnie, chica, foxy, fredbear "golden freddy") and yeah they start gettin possessed

the fifth missing kid was stuffed in fredbear and here's where it gets veeery theoretical cause we dont have straight confirmation of this but just some theories. it's VERY likely that crying child was also haunting fredbear at this point, and shoving another kid in there got two kids haunting the same bitch and it causes fredbear (golden freddy) to be really fucking weird and glitchy and eldritch or w/e. anyway you dont have to worry about that rn cause golden freddy doesnt show up much they're too busy ascending or smth

now this is where the lore gets confusing-- the first game claims that after the last two were lured, someone was caught on camera, arrested and charged. however we know for a fact willie-boi wasnt caught so either 1) this got retconned when cawthon decided to actually make lore, 2) he wasnt convicted and somehow still kept a hold on the fazbear empire during this, or 3) a lot of us theorize that henry was framed for the crimes and thats why he disappears from the timeline until the sixth game. cause yeah he disappears from the timeline until the sixth game. personally i believe the third it makes a lot of sense but yeah willie-boi stops killing at about five kids

anyway will is going full scientist with all these animatronics and he's like. ripping parts off them and putting them on other animatronics to see what happens. we THINK. again this is really vague but this is just kinda the most logical explanation here.

anyway this is what happens in fnaf2 and what it does is like. split the souls and shit. and he's like "oh this is sick" except this makes all the suits act erratic as hell and very angry towards adults (theyre cool with kids tho) and eventually one of them causes the infamous Bite of 87. we're not entirely sure what it was but one of the animatronics bit off the frontal lobe of someone in 1987. this caused this location to get shut down and willie boi just puts the pieces back on the og animatronics and is like "well shit what do we do now boys"

FNAF5: Sister Location

anyway so this is where we think elizabeth dies in the timeline. william makes these things called the "funtime animatronics"-- we know they are made after a fnaf location shuts down, though it's not specified which. these animatronics are built SPECIFICALLY to kidnap children. ballora is built as a distraction for parents, the other two are built to only move when not seen, and then Circus Baby™ has an arm that can grab kids and drag thtem into her until willie lets em out. she is programmed to only do this when a child is alone in the room so william tells elizabeth "do not go see baby when you are alone in the room"

so elizabeth is like 6 and she goes to see baby when she is alone in the room and baby grabs her but the arm is fucked up and the kid dies p badly

funtime's location is then immediately closed due to "gas leaks" and william rents out the funtimes for parties. at the same time he starts shoving some haunted parts into the funtime animatronics to see what happens. we THINK.

important location here btw is the "scooping room." it's actually very good horror but basically it's a bitch that is supposed to rip the endoskeletons out of the suit whenever theyre malfunctioning. super smart idea that will cause no nightmares going forwards.

anyway the animatronics all kinda know that william killed them so after a while (a few years??? who knows) they start trying to kill him and he's like "hmm. i cannot go into this bunker anymore. let me send michael, my last surviving kid who i hate." this is where michael, now an adult, re-enters the timeline.

mikey boy is told by his dad that he can bring his baby sis back to life if he goes down into this bunker and does some shit. michael is like "oh sweet" bc honestly he probably still feels guilty about literally killing his bro and so he goes down to the bunker.

the animatronics eventually tell him "go into the scooping room it'll be totes mcgotes" and when he gets there he finds out that the animatronics have killed all the other employees, scooped themselves, and fused their endoskeletons into one conglomerate called ennard

ennard is like "yeah we cant escape here cause they just bring us back so we're gonna use you as a skinsuit k thnx" and they scoop him and use him as a skinsuit

it's really good horror i promise

BUT this turned out to be a bad plan because Humans Decay so after like a week ennard gets puked up by the MikeSuit and escapes into the sewers.

here, meanwhile, is where mike pulls a reverse uno card and possesses his own decaying corpse

LIKE A FUCKING BADASS

he then calls up his dad and is like "hey dad :) elizabeth's fine now :) BUT :) they fucking killed me :) because they thought i was you :) you sure sent me down here to die huh :) anyway :) im gonna come find you :) you have a ten minute head start start running :)"

actor really fucking sold that monologue too ngl

so he's like. PISSSSSSED and rightfully so he is walking around in his own corpse. so he goes to find his dad

Backstory/FNAF3

this is about when peepaw willie goes back to the original fnaf location (we THINK) and is like "ok im just gonna take apart all the animatronics and do something with these"

only when he destroys the suits the missing kids' ghosts show up and spook him. so this guy who's been studying ghosts is like "oh fuckshit there's ghosts here" and tries to hide in the spring bonnie suit. only he laughs and this causes the springlocks to malfunction and FUCKING VIOLENTLY KILL HIM. get springlocked idiot

except then HE possesses the spring bonnie suit and this is springtrap. but also he's in a super secret back room while this happens so he is trapped there for a while

FNAF6

so ennard, michael and william are fuckin around for a couple years. at some point ennard decides that elizabeth is kinda a freak actually and kicks her out of the hivemind so she just rebuilds herself a circus baby suit and keeps wanderin around so now we got four bitches doing who knows what

eventually it's been 30 years since the last freddy's closed and someone opens up a haunted house parody of it. mike goes to work there as a security guard* and guess what they found springtrap and bring him to the attraction thinking he's just an animatronic. after five nights of fucking with him mike sets the place on fire to try and finally kill his dad fr. it does not work

*note that this isnt confirmed to be michael but we kinda. all know it's probably him. it really seems to be him

anyway then michael finds out that an actual fazbear's is opening and needs an owner so he goes and becomes owner of the restaraunt. while some guy on a cassette tape is giving him tutorial instructions he sets up the place and also collects several animatronics. these are:

scraptrap (peepaw post-fire and really pissed)

scrapbaby (elizabeth now thinking that maybe if she kills things her dad will pay attention to her)

molten freddy (remains of ennard still not entirely sure what's going on)

lefty (a bear solely built to capture the puppet, who was still fuckin around the fnaf2 location i guess. anyway now the puppet is here thats important)

so after our five nights scrapbaby comes on the speaker system and is like "omg dad if we kill people will you love me. we're gonna kill soooo many people it's my passion actually" and that's when the cassette tutorial guy interrupts her

and he just goes "yeah. you're not doing that"

anyway he's like "hi guys. you remember me??? henry??? from 30 years ago?? i owned half this business? you killed my daughter and stuffed her soul in a puppet? lmao yeah i literally lured you all here and you came like the fucking idiots you are. im setting the place on fire, we're all gonna die and go to heaven. except for YOU, WILL. you are not going there. lmao bye" and he sets the place on fire and they all burn. it's more epic when he says it tbh

now henry mentions that he had an escape route ready for the building owner but he figured out the owner was michael and was like "i feel like you wanna stay and burn with us" and michael's like "fuck yeah"

you might think that wraps up the story nicely but OH NO THERE'S MORE

Ultimate Custom Night

see, the next game is ultimate custom night where you can choose which animatronics hunt you and their level of difficulty. it is through hidden messages and shit that we find out that ucn is, canonically, william being tortured in hell. which is sick af

anyway the tormentor is a spirit labelled "the vengeful spirit" in the files, and "the one you should not have killed" by the animatronics. we sometimes hear either a light voice behind the other animatronic lines (could be either a woman with a light voice, a little girl, or a little boy), and the pic that sometimes shows up as a hallucination is a distorted photo of scott cawthon's son. we know for a FACT this spirit is someone from the fnaf6 fire cause they reference the fire more than once while poking willie with a stick. it's probably not elizabeth cause she was just tryin to get her dad's attention. it's not charlie/puppet bc one of her lines is like "ffs just stay out of my way for ONCE." we also know for a fact it's not henry cause they were like "henry sure tried to release us huh. not happening im not letting you go that easily bitch haha" so that narrows it down to michael and the missing kids

now here's the thing.

the vaaaaast majority of the fandom is convinced that the vengeful spirit is cassidy, the missing child that was stuffed inside golden freddy with cc. this is because golden freddy is in a looot of ultimate custom night and if you beat the hardest mode you just get a quick cutscene of him glitching and then everything fades to black

however. i have seen legiterally no convincing evidence that this is the case. all we know about cassidy is she is the golden freddy missing kid and was talking to cc through the logbook. and we BARELY know this. in the alternate universe book she first showed up in (the silver eyes) she wasn't even the golden freddy kid. people point out a similar situation to her and cc in fazbear frights where one of the kids was tormenting william (stitchwraith) but that's literally a whole separate universe and completely separate characters with separate backstories and personalities

there's a sprite in security breach who fights glitchtrap (explained below) who was named in the files as "cassidy" so ppl point to that but 1) they changed that name after people made a deal out of it, 2) that could mean literally anything, 3) the protag of the next game was named "cassie" and her story kinda paralleled the sprite's first game so uuhhhh anyway

honestly i think it's WAY more likely the vengeful spirit is mr michael "i'm going to come find you and set you on fire twice" afton, using his childhood likeness to fuck with his dad. this is strengthened by one of the easter egg cutscenes in ucn, where the vengeful spirit talks to a benevolent spirit who tells them to "leave the demon to his demons. there is nothing for you here." the audio in the background is someone distortedly screaming "HENRY" and "MICHAEL"

one of the animatronic lines also says "is this a prison for you or for me? perhaps both" implying that the vengeful spirit feels like they belong in hell, which would fit with mike's "i killed my brother" self-loathing. the golden freddy glitch could very easily be his mental anguish as well as william's, with the optional cutscene telling us that while michael is self-harming by torturing his dad in hell, he has the ability to move on and find peace if he can forgive himself. honestly i really like that open ending there

another point towards "vengeful mike" theory is that we play as him for most of the games (definitely 5 and 6, most likely 1 and 3, some theorize 4) and so him being the vengeful spirit is way more emotionally impactful than "random kid #5"

however every time i bring this up to the fnaf fandom they get really really pissy at me because y'all love ur angry lil girl cassidy headcanons and honestly that is completely fair i also love angry lil girls. im just saying this bc we're going over whats canon rn and i firmly believe in vengeful mike (thank @birdsareblooming for that) but yknow. cassidy is also fun as hell

i wrote a whole essay on this btw these are just the cliffnotes. do you guys wanna see the essay

anyway that's where the afton story ends but OHHH NO MR CAWTHON CANNOT STOP

if you just want a quick catchup before the movie you can stop here but anyway. let's talk mimicry

THE GLITCH STORY

the games coming out recently are kinda a sequel-story and bc theyre still coming out we are still very confused about what the fuck is canon and what is not so this one will be a lot more guessing. i digress let's talk about

Help Wanted

so back on earth, it's the 2020s-2030s. turns out the fazbear company is still functional and they're like "well shit guys what the FUCK do we do about all of That"

so they decide they need a brand cleansing and what they do is they secretly hire an "indie game developer" to make the fnaf games in-universe, to make light of the tragedies and make people take them less seriously. they pretend to have beef with this indie dev but eventually put all of his games into a VR game as a show of "good faith." somehow this actually does work in revitalizing the brand image

also sidenote but the books imply that the indie dev was kidnapped and gaslit into making the games but thats not important

now see there's a glitch in the game and the beta-tester jeremy mentions it and then gets increasingly withdrawn and obsessive. because it turns out there is a Bitch in here

now. the identity of the Bitch is uh. controversial in the fandom rn. i will say for clarity that i am in Party Two and will probably be biased towards that but here's the thing. the Bitch is either:

a digital upload of william afton's soul (somehow escaping hell)

THE MIMIC

Help Wanted Interlude: The Mimic

see, the other books (silver eyes, fazbear frights) are set in a parallel universe-ish to the books, similar rules and worldbuilding but cawthon can fuck around all he wants with no consequences. there were charliebots and springtrap mpreg at one point it was nuts. but the thing is right now they're kinda trying to tell us that the current series, tales from the pizzaplex, is game-canon. god only knows if they'll stick to that so some people think the books are in the game's universe, others think they're parallels to the games and not 1-1 exact much like the others

but anyway they give us crucial lore on The Mimic so here we go

some guy named edwin (some think he's a parallel to henry or william, but rn we're just gonna assume he's canon) is a single dad to a toddler. however he's working for fazbear making all these animatronics and he's sooo busy and needs something to distract the toddler so he creates a fucked up nightmare animatronic called The Mimic, whose programming is extremely basic: "copy whatever you see being done"

the toddler actually loves the fucked up nightmare animatronic and teaches him to play patty-cake and carry around stuffed animals or w/e. anyway then the toddler runs out into the street and gets hit by a car

edwin is still grieving and the mimic comes up carrying the toddler's stuffed animal and still copying him and when the mimic that edwin programmed to copy things is still copying things edwin snaps and just beats the fuck out of it bc he needs a grief outlet. he then abandons the thing but however the mimic has just learned Violence

some employees come by to see where edwin's animatronics are and the mimic just starts killing all of them bc. well. it's supposed to copy things. it will copy things

there's a BIG GAP here in what happens to it next but it disappears for the next 30 years. however it is heavily, HEAVILY implied that it witnessed at least one of the missing children incidents

fazbear actually has a Lot of mimic endoskeletons but bc they start copying violent shit they shut them all down. however they all run on the same program, "mimic1" and fazbear keeps that tech around cause you know it could be helpful

Back to Help Wanted

now here is where the "we only THINK this is canon we dont knkow yet" comes in

back to the vr game, they are just shoving random old pieces of code in there to speefd up the process of making the game cause capitalism doesnt like long development times. this puts the mimic1 program into the program and it immediately sees All Of Afton's Crimes In 4K. it decides "oh yeah i can mimic this but i should probably get a physical body in order to do that"

so beta tester jeremy sees the mimic program, which takes the form of Spring Bonnie Suit. this is Glitchtrap

now keep in mind that some people do still believe that all this aint happenin and the spring bonnie glitch is just william. again i personally believe the mimic cause it makes more sense than "william escaped hell somehow" but w/e

anyway, glitchtrap is fuckin around. it tries to possess beta tester jeremy and in order to stop it, jeremy does the sensible thing and cuts his own face off

so glitchtrap is like "hmm. that didn't work out" and decides to go for the more subtle approach. the next beta tester, currently unnamed, starts recording tapes inside the game to send to the next beta tester so they dont fuck with glitchtrap. glitchtrap however seals itself inside the tapes so that when the beta testers try to delete it, it'll instead be inside the tapes and cant be removed lmao. it then "mimics" tape girl's voice and adds a last tape saying "let him possess you its ok i promise"

it also mimics her intro of "hello can you hear me" in the one time it speaks so. mimic

anyway the next beta tester is this gal named vanessa and she gets possessed like suuuper quickly and glitchtrap is like "oh fucking FINALLY"

Security Breach Therapy Tapes

vanessa's acting weird at work so company requires her to go to therapy, however she has the same therapist as Another Patient. this patient will be named later however right now we're calling them Patient 46. they do not talk but have the same therapist as Vanessa and is creepy about it. anyway whenever a therapist prods too much into either Vanessa or P46's life, or discovers them fucking with fazbear tech, the therapist mysteriously goes missing and shows up later dead and mangled by machinery

they go through like five of these bitches at least, but it's clear P46 is another bitch possessed by glitchtrap but they're like more possessed than vanessa is so glitchtrap likes them better

BUT THAT'S ALL BORING, WE'VE GOT A PIZZAPLEX NOW!!!

Security Breach

fazbear opens a giant 80s-style mall with a ton of attractions like disneyland or w/e and call it the Mega Pizzaplex. There's state-of-the-art animatronics in here that are basically sentient ai. they might be possessed but we're not actually sure rn they might just be advanced robots

they start with "glamrock" freddy, bonnie and chica, along with roxy wolf instead of foxy. we're not sure why rn. anyway at some point something suspicious happens and bonnie is found mangled and he's replaced with montgomery gator, a c-list animatronic they had to run the golf course. he doesnt seem to take the spotlight well and has started breaking things but its probably fine

anyway they eventually realize they can automate the staff and stop paying human beings and they jump on that cause they love cutting costs. they've got staffbots everywhere except for ONE person- vanessa, who is hired as the security guard. we find a note saying that her interviewer found her too inexperienced for the position, but someone "very" high up in the company pushed her into the role. this is implied to be glitchtrap taking over the systems

so vanessa and P46 are shoving glitchtrap into the systems because, well, guess what? the pizzaplex is built on top of the fnaf6 location. the one where henry set them all on fire, and they're trying to do some sort of shit with the burnt remains of springtrap. if you believe in william!glitchtrap he's trying to get his body back; if you believe in mimic!glitchtrap he's trying to fuse himself to afton's corpse in order to gain a corporeal form. it also helps that there is The OG Mimic Endoskeleton in this area (its explained in the books im not going into it) but it's pretty fuckin damaged so they gotta spend some time fixing it before fusing it with peepaw's corpse

but the night they're supposed to do that, something goes wrong: a child is loose in the pizzaplex

glamrock freddy had a malfunction onstage, and when he wakes up in his room, there is a child hiding in his stomach compartment (used for oversized piñatas and cakes). this child is named gregory and he looks suspiciously like the crying child and we dont have an explanation for that but no, matpat, he's not a robot, it's probably just symbolism

anyway gregory actually has like very little memory of what's going on and barely remembers his own name but he says that vanessa the security guard is trying to fuckin kill him so he needs to get tf out of the pizzaplex. freddy's like "well you're shit out of luck cause the doors close and seal until 6am but that's fine we can make it til then" and gregory's like "fucking JOY"

long story short gregory has to run around the pizzaplex while every animatronic but freddy is trying to kill him. freddy is not trying to kill him bc his malfunction caused him to enter Safe Mode and it turns out that Safe Mode is safe from the glitchtrap virus. everyone else, however, gets glitchtrapped and is trying to kill this kid

you dont find out why until like laaaate in the game and even THEN you're confused until one of the goosebumps-knockoff short stories confirms a thing, and that thing is:

gregory is patient 46

oh shit

turns out gregory was possessed by glitchtrap for FUCK knows how long and was used as its body for like the entire time. and when he eventually wakes up un-possessed (no idea how that happened) he has no memory of whats going on at ALL and is understandably fucking terrified. doesnt remember being possessed or killing ppl or anything he just wakes up and runs. glam freddy likely malfunctioned cause glitchtrap was like "oh my god go GET that stupid kid" and glam freddy was like "but???? protecc????" and entered safe mode

so gregory eventually fuckin DEMOLISHES all the other animatronics and uses their parts to upgrade freddy. freddy is like "hey where'd you get these parts" and gregory's like "uhhhhhhhhh dont worry about it" "hey where are my friends" "DONT WORRY ABOUT IT"

while this is happening, a possessed vanessa is in a bunny suit calling herself vanny and also trying to kill him. this is just as confusing to us as it is to you

anyway there are six endings to security breach. according to the most recent game, there is a chance that two of them are canon. WE DO NOT KNOW which of the two is canon. these are the endings:

Princess Quest Ending: greg and freddy try to confront vanny and she gets freddy ripped apart by staffbots. gregory then finds an arcade game in her room and plays and beats it which sets her soul free (presumably he knew how to do this cause he's remembering bits and pieces of being possessed??? idk). anyway once the game is beat she is unpossessed and takes gregory and freddy's decapitated head out of the pizzaplex

Burntrap Ending: gregory and freddy avoid vanny and go to the fnaf6 basement where freddy starts acting all fucked up and then thtey find the Springtrap corpse, now Burntrap (fused with the mimic? glitchtrap? yknow). it tries to kill them so you have to Boss Fight everything and then set him on fire again. THEN a tangled mess of animatronic wires with a funtime freddy head (remains of ennard???) shows up and drags him off. again, just as confusing for us as it is for you. freddy and gregory escape. no idea where vanessa is

ONE of these is canon. we do not know which. this is making the fanbase super chill and normal /lying

Evidence for Princess Quest: in ruin, we see a headless glamrock freddy in the exact same area he is in pq. we also have no sign of vanny trying to help glitchtrap. you can collect gregory's fanart of his own game and pq is the only one he didn't draw. princess quest arcade game has sword sticking out of it

Evidence against Princess Quest: aforementioned headless freddy is labelled a prototype on his foot and we know for a fact that our freddy does not have that stamp. he also has a gift inside his stomach when freddy gave his stomach gift to gregory already (and it was a diff color). the pq arcade game has sword sticking out of it BUT that could symbolize the princess being skewered, and surrounding the game is art of the escaped glitchbunny

Evidence for Burntrap: labelled as "true ending" in the files, only ending to be FULLY animated instead of switching to comic form and also only one with boss fight, the tangled animatronic mess is definitely canon (we see it, gregory draws it so he saw it too which means he went in the basement where it was), while vanny isn't seen her grafitti is everywhere and appears to be recent

Evidence against Burntrap: the "true ending" label, like cassidy, could mean literally fucking anything. also if vanessa is still under his control why the fuck doesnt she help him where is she

so yeah we're having fun figuring THAT out

Ruin (the end so far thank god)

the most recent game we got, then, was the dlc for the above game, this dlc is called ruin. a few months after this, a lil girl named cassie wanders into the ruins of the pizzaplex cause her best friend gregory told her to meet him there. when she gets there she finds a walkie-talkie and he's like "girl im trapped under the pizzaplex you need to shut down the security and come get me" and she's like "sounds great"

she finds vanny's mask and puts it on and enters an AR world where a glitched bunny is trying to kill her (this one isnt glitchtrap actually) and a friendly little AR bear is telling her to keep going she's doing a great job (this one IS glitchtrap probably)

anyway it turns out her backstory is her dad worked for the pizzaplex and she had a birthday party there with her Favorite Character Roxy and literally none of her friends showed up. she was sad about it until gregory showed up and became her friend. then gregory went missing and she was sad

anyway the last security node is favorite character Roxy and roxy recognizes her and is nice to her and its very sad

cassie eventually goes down to the fnaf6 basement and is like "ok gregory i opened the door are you okay" and PSYCH, IT'S NOT GREGORY

IT'S

THE

MIMIC

the mimic immediately tries to kill her bc it likes violence but roxy shows up to save her. the real gregory calls her on the walkie-talkie and is like "bITCH GET OUT OF THERE" and she's like "IM TRYING" and gregory's "friend" (whose pronouns are very specifically blurred out, so it could be either freddy or vanessa) uses the building maps to help her to an elevator. however when she gets in the elevator gregory's like "yeahhhhh sorry we cant let you be followed :(" and drops the elevator, trapping her there

it's like a 99% chance this last bit was not gregory but it was the mimic, seeing as gregory is not even in the pizzaplex and the mimic lost cassie right next to the elevator fuse box that it could easily rip out. so you know

anyway we end with either roxy finding cassie or the mimic using roxy's voice finding her so this kid's fucked lmao

also other questions about if mimic is burntrap is that we see the mimic p naked in this game and not in a fun corpse skinsuit so where did bunny go??? however i will also mention that there is a secret ending that shows us that the FUCKING SCOOPER is here so. personally i think that answers that question. get scooped idiot

oh also if you noticed "hey 'cassie' sounds a lot like 'cassidy,' the golden freddy kid who was sharing a body with the crying child, who has a similar design to gregory," congrats! we've noticed that too! we have no fucking idea what it means! :D

and thaaaaat's five nights at freddy's

that didnt take too long did it

#five nights at freddy's #fnaf #fnaf movie #mine

[thot-writes]

[repost bc i messed up] i’ve noticed that despite the fact everyone makes jokes abt astarion being a bottom i’ve yet to see anyone actually write him like one… and like a bat signal in the sky…. i am here to save the day

sub!astarion (aka canon astarion) headcanons for the girlies and the babes (NSFW) (spoiler warning!);

Astarion appears to be a top-leaning switch. not necessarily out of preference, he likely performs sex differently depending on the partner, but more often than not is the one who has to do everything.

being with a dominant like yourself isn’t anything he hasn’t already done a thousand times before, but he must concede that sex with you has always felt somehow different. is it because you’re more skilled in the arts of intimacy than the vast majority of people he’s bedded, or simply because he had the choice in seducing you?

it could very well be both. you are a dominant of great talent, after all.

the first time you sleep together, it quickly becomes apparent what your intentions are and he readily submits to them. you toy with his body, cradle it, worship it while you ravish him. you can sense a performance from him, but that’s nothing you’re not used to— occasionally you’ve been with subs who think the louder they are the better the sex is. you’re accustomed to breaking past that wall.

astarion is no different.

he seems a little too eager, a little too excited by simple touches— you can tell he’s exaggerating. you want his real reactions.

you map every part of his body and take keen notes on parts of genuine arousal, his yelps of surprise, his deep sighs, his involuntary twitching.

it’s a challenge, and you doubt you’ve scratched the surface with him, but you accurately deduce some of his sensitive spots:

the points of his ears, his nipples, his collarbone.

it’s intriguing to you, how his most sensitive places are those that are far from the most obvious ones.

the first time you fuck, he cums with an intensity that he can’t remember having had before.

and all while you were going easy on him.

you sympathetically cringe at the thought of all the god-awful encounters he must’ve had with people before this, if one of your tamest nights was one of his best.

during your sexual encounters, you slowly notice more and more about his genuine enjoyments. but you notice one more thing too, one thing infinitely more important:

he’s unsure if he truly enjoys any of it at all.

he confesses to you his issues with sex, and like the good dom you are you cater to your sub’s— no, your partner’s — needs. it’s months before he’s ready to try again, but your patience is infinite for those you love.

once you resume your sex life, you start off tame again. tamer still than even your first night together, just to test the waters and make sure he’s comfortable.

astarion has learned to trust you in a way he’s never trusted anyone before, and likely won’t ever again. as the intensity begins to ramp up, he finds himself doing things with you that (given his backstory) he should probably balk at.

he lets you collar him, tease him, punish him, and occasionally even degrade him— because he knows it’s you. he knows you. there may not be many places where he’s safe, but by your side is a guarantee.

astarion is very vocal in bed. it starts out as dirty talk, but as he gets closer to cumming he talks less and moans more. whines more. pleads more. by the time he’s about to finish, he hasn’t said a word to you yet he’s told you everything you need to know.

whenever you go too far (which isn’t often), he pulls away a little. he’s not too good at using the safe word yet, but he’s improving. you know enough of his body, his mind, to know when he’s telling you to stop even if he’s not forming the words.

after every sexual encounter you have, without fail, you clean him up and rest with him. you cradle him in your arms and stroke your fingers through his perfect curls. you make sure that he’s okay with what you’ve just done, and reassure him that he can stop this at any time with no judgement.

it’s kind of annoying how nice you are to him, honestly. you’ve just given him a mind-blowing back-breaking orgasm, and you’re still coddling him? just how in the fuck is he supposed to pay you back for everything you do for him? he’s racking up one hells of a debt.

astarion has never had someone like you before, someone who seems to know him even better than he does. he loves that you’re patient and caring, that you’d give up sex entirely if he’d only ask, that he feels safe enough with you to relinquish control while knowing he still very much has it.

a submissive astarion is one that has reconciled — or has at least started the process of reconciling — with his past. one that has developed a trust so deep with his lover that he can feel comfortable with even the most scandalous of acts.

it will take time until he’s ready for the more aggressive side of being dominated, if he’ll ever be ready at all. but a soft dom is one he can very easily get taken from behind.

he knows that even though he submits to you, he’s the one being served.

#SERIOUSLY GANG STOP JOKING ABT BOTTOM ASTARION AND ACTUALLY POST BOTTOM ASTARION!! #PUT SOME RESPECT ON HIS NAME! AND ALL THE OTHER GIRLBOSSES WHO WANT HIS ASS #my posts #reader insert #astarion x tav #gender neutral reader #reader input #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate tav #astarion x reader #astarion x mc #astarion x you #astarion ancunin #minor spoilers #astarion hc #astarion headcanons

[gimmethatagustd]

delicate | pjm

After months of not talking to each other, Taehyung thinks he can charm his way into your life again. Thankfully, Jimin is there to help you work through your feelings.

○ Pairing: Jimin x f!reader (from Only Here To Sin)

○ Rating: Explicit/18+

○ Genre: Established relationship, fluff, smut, pwp

○ Word Count: 3,987

○ Warnings: It's pretty much just porn, OHTS Taehyung strikes again!! he's annoying!!, mentions past sex with Taehyung, references toxic past relationships, consensual sex while under the influence of alcohol (just tipsy), using a tie as a blindfold, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, it's their first time together 🥹, I definitely didn't edit this (as usual, we post when we're done and we never look back)

○ Notes: This can be read as a standalone oneshot, but I recommend reading OHTS to get the full backstory~ and also because it's a disaster of a series, so it's kind of like watching a trainwreck. Don't judge me too much; I had no idea what I was doing when I wrote it. I still have no idea what I'm doing!

○ Post Date: December 16, 2023

○ Masterlist | Send me ur thots

○ What was Jai listening to? Like Crazy - Jimin

You knew going out with Jackie was a mistake. Even more of a mistake was your agreement to go to this nightclub. 

“Are you cold?” 

Jimin’s arms snake around your waist and draw you against his chest, resting his chin on your shoulder. The light, minty scent of his toothpaste mixes with the floral notes of his cologne. Rather than overwhelm you, the smell grounds you and brings you into the present. 

“I’m okay,” you mumble. 

Jimin hums. You feel the sound vibrate from his throat against your shoulder and the side of your neck. He’s not convinced, and you know he isn’t. 

“Want to go find your friends? I’ll order us drinks.” 

You nod and reluctantly detach yourself from Jimin’s embrace. The poor bartender has far too many people crowding the counter. Jimin will have to wait a while; he’s too polite to cut in front of other customers. 

The club isn’t big, but it’s packed. You feel like you’re clawing through the bodies swaying to the music with your head on a swivel to find your friends in the crowd. The last time you were at this club, you’d ended up in the bathroom with Taehyung’s fingers shoved inside you. 

No. You are not going to think about that. 

It has been five months. Five months of detoxing, of neatly packing away the hurt and confusion that Taehyung caused you and storing it in the attic of your mind. You’re a different person now. The person Taehyung manipulated and strung along was no more. And the most important part is that you’ve forgiven the person you used to be. It was too easy to be angry at yourself for your mistakes. 

Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean you weren’t nervous about returning home for summer break. The memories and emotions triggered the moment you pulled into your parents’ driveway were enough to make you feel like throwing up. You’re lucky Jimin got time off from his music apprenticeship in California to visit you, or you may not survive the summer. 

Dreary thoughts aside, you’re beginning to feel frustrated with your inability to find Jackie when you feel a warm hand slide into your palm and long fingers intertwine with yours. 

“Hey, jagi.” 

Despite the loud thrum of music, that smooth voice pierces through you sharply and clearly.

Taehyung’s cheeks shimmer pink with intoxication beneath his honey-toned skin. His hair is longer than when you last saw him. It falls into his eyes, obscuring them in a way that makes his already mystifying gaze all the more intimidating. They nearly glow in the pulsing club lights, sparkling with amusement. 

“Miss me?” Taehyung tongues his cheek as his eyes take apart every inch of your body. “You look really good.” 

How your stomach flutters with butterflies you’d thought were long gone makes you feel sick. You quickly rip your hand from Taehyung’s. You’d missed him, in the beginning, a little bit, but being with him had hurt you more than leaving him. It took making new friends to realize you’d missed companionship, not Taehyung. Now, you have far healthier friendships. 

You can practically hear Alexis’s voice in your head, nagging you about toxic men like Taehyung. 

“The worst thing a man can be is aware that he’s hot,” Alexis lectured you the first time you opened up to her about Taehyung. She wasn’t wrong.  

“No, I did not.” The steadiness of your voice surprises you, though it shouldn’t. You’ve put in a lot of work to process your fucked up relationship with Taehyung. You can do this. 

The smug look on Taehyung’s face doesn’t disappear, but that doesn’t surprise you. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were in town, jagi?”

“Why do you even think I would tell you?” 

Before you can demand that Taehyung stop calling you by the inappropriate term of endearment, you feel lips brush against your temple. 

“I gave up,” Jimin admits with an apologetic smile and empty hands. His eyes take in your crossed arms and rigid stance when you don't speak. With a frown, he follows your gaze to notice Taehyung finally. “Oh, sorry, hi. I’m Jimin, her boyfriend.”  

You try to be kind, but you want to punch the smug look off of Taehyung’s face when he offers his hand to Jimin. 

“Nice to meet you, Jimin-ssi. I’m Taehyung,” he introduces himself. “Her ex.” 

Jimin is too polite for his own good. He shakes Taehyung’s hand with his head cocked to the side. His pink lips scrunch into a sideways pout, and his eyebrows are just as tense. It’s the look he makes while writing his Music Theory essays. (“Music is about feeling, Y/N! Why do I need to write papers about it?”) It isn’t anger or frustration but a struggle to understand. 

All you can think about is that Taehyung called himself your ex. After the grief he’d given you for wanting to be more to him than a sexual conquest, it’s unfathomable that he could claim the two of you had dated. 

“She’s told me about you,” Jimin finally states. You’re not sure what angle he’s going for. In all honestly, you’d love to melt into the floor and bypass this entire conversation. 

“That’s cute.” Taehyung’s eyes twinkle with the sparkles of the disco ball rotating overhead. 

“Hmm, I guess, if you think being an asshole is cute.” 

You hope your gasp isn’t detectable. Both men continue staring at each other, so it’s hard to tell. 

“Do you?” Taehyung grins, and you barely hide your shock when Taehyung blatantly checks Jimin out. 

It’s the same predatory look he’s given you in the past that makes your heart flutter and heat blossom between your thighs. You find it odd to see the look directed at someone else, let alone at your boyfriend. 

It’s also odd that you feel relieved when Jimin’s cheeks flush pink at the sudden attention. Somehow, Jimin’s reaction is the validation you need to remind yourself that you haven’t made anything up. Taehyung has this uncanny power to capture people’s attention and draw them into his clutches with a simple look. Seeing Jimin affected by Taehyung makes you feel better about falling into his trap. It doesn’t take away all the blame; you take full responsibility for your actions. But it helps knowing someone as strong as Jimin can be flustered by Taehyung, too. 

“I do not, actually.” Jimin tightens his hold on your waist. The feeling of his warm hand on your hip keeps you out of your head. Grounded. Jimin always keeps you grounded. 

“Unfortunately, that’s all Taehyung knows how to be,” you pipe up. Even if your snappy comment does nothing to remove the smug look on Taehyung’s face, you get satisfaction from voicing your thoughts regardless. 

“If I remember correctly, you enjoyed that about me.” 

You let out a long sigh. “Tae, what matters is that I’m not enjoying anything about this conversation right now.” 

Jimin presses his fingers into your side, gently reminding you he’s there – as if you could ever forget his presence. 

“Let’s go, Jimin.” You wrap your pinky around Jimin’s and tug. “I’m sure whoever Taehyung came with is looking for him.” 

You don’t wait for a response from either man. You’re over the days of having men tell you what to do.

Two hours later, you’re thoroughly tipsy and stumbling into Jimin’s hotel room with sore feet and the sensation of cotton in your ears from the nightclub’s loud music. Never the type to be out all night, it didn’t take long for you to ask Jimin if you could head back to his hotel room. Although you succeeded in ensuring Taehyung didn’t ruin the night for you, partying isn’t your thing anyway. 

Jimin, on the other hand, is still wired. He strips off his shirt and tosses it onto the couch before working on unbuckling his belt. 

“What’s the name of that guy Jackie’s dating?” he asks with a huff like he’s out of breath. You watch him tug his belt from the loops and toss it onto the couch. 

“Seokjin? Well, he goes by Jin.” Jin and Jackie. They’re an unlikely pair but cute. 

“Yes! He’s so funny!” Jimin pushes his jeans down his thighs. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone take that make shots. And you know how my fraternity is.” 

Following Jimin’s lead, you shimmy out of your dress. The hotel’s vents are blasting cold air, so you quickly sort through Jimin’s suitcase to find one of his oversized t-shirts and a pair of loose boxers to wear. The two of you have undressed in front of each other before, and you’ve even fooled around while naked, but nothing has ever gone beyond using your hands and mouths to get each other off. Jimin has been unbelievably gentle and kind with your desire to take your relationship slow. You’ve been dating for nearly half a year, and he hasn’t pressured you. 

You know it’s basic decency to respect someone’s boundaries, but considering the relationships you’ve had in the past, this is a big deal for you. 

Not ready to sleep yet, Jimin sits in the bed and reaches for you with grabby hands and a slight pout. He looks adorable with his fluffy blonde hair. You’re not sure you can deny him anything, honestly. 

“We probably should have had more water,” Jimin points out as you climb into his lap. Heat radiates from his bare chest, prompting you to snuggle against his skin to absorb some of that warmth for yourself. 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re talking with this cute little slur.”

“I am not!” 

Okay, maybe you are, but you’re not drunk. You’re just tipsy enough to feel loose in your limbs, light in your head, and hot in your core. Biting your bottom lip, you shift to straddle Jimin’s lap. The blankets pool around your waist, and Jimin’s hands naturally rest on your bare thighs. 

Jimin lets you lift his chin so his head is tilted to look at you. 

“Are you okay?” His hold on your hips is light but sturdy. 

“I want you.” 

Jimin’s eyes flutter closed when your lips brush against his neck. You suck at the soft skin where his jaw meets his throat while you thread your fingers through his blonde waves. When you nestle your fingers into the roots, you gently tug his hair. 

A low groan rumbles from Jimin’s chest. His grip on your waist tightens, and the sensation causes your body to shudder. 

“Are you sure?” He opens his eyes when you pull back from his neck, but you’re focused on the dark, reddish-purple bruise you’ve left on his skin. “I don’t want you to feel like you need to do anything after running into–” 

“No.” Your response is curt, probably sharper than Jimin expects if his widened eyes are anything to go off of. “Taehyung doesn’t have any influence over me anymore, Jimin. This is just me wanting you, okay?” 

It’s true; Taehyung has nothing to do with your desire for Jimin. Maybe if he does have some ounce of influence over the situation, it’s only because you feel empowered and emboldened after standing up to him. That, mixed with the alcohol, is giving you a sense of invincibility. It’s confidence that you might lose by the night's end, but you’re willing to ride the wave for as long as you can. 

None of this is anything you’ll regret in the morning. If anything, you’ll be thankful for the opportunity to prove to yourself and everyone else that you’re ready to take on the things you’ve once feared. 

Accepting your reassurances, Jimin nods. He runs a hand up your spine, stopping at the base of your head to cup your neck.

“Can I just say something first?” 

His question makes your stomach flip, but you force yourself to maintain eye contact while you nod. You tend to get nervous with him when you’re intimate. There’s nothing wrong with Jimin; he’s kind and attentive. It’s your bad experiences with sex that make you hesitate. There’s too much pressure to perform well. 

“You always get really nervous,” Jimin starts slowly, rubbing his palms up your thighs. “And I was trying to think of a way to help you relax.” 

Shame burns your cheeks because you feel like this isn’t something Jimin should have to do. It’s pathetic, isn’t it? Why can’t you handle sex without getting so stressed out over it? 

“Okay…” you prompt him to continue, though you aren’t sure if you want him to. 

“Would you be willing to try something? I promise if you don’t like it, we can stop.” 

If it were anyone else, you’d be scared of Jimin’s question, but you find it relatively easy to agree to whatever plan he has – albeit nervously. 

Careful not to jostle you too much, Jimin maneuvers you off his lap and goes to his suitcase. It takes a few seconds for him to find what he’s looking for, but when he faces you again, you feel your heart flutter.

In Jimin’s hands is a silk black tie, which he keeps for special occasions – such as the dinner he attended with you and your parents when he first arrived in your hometown for the summer. It looks good on him, especially when he loosens it and lets it hang haphazardly around his neck. 

Despite your limited sexual experience, it’s clear that he won’t be the one wearing it tonight. Approaching the bed, Jimin instructs you to sit back with your legs spread so he can kneel between them. 

“You trust me?” he whispers. When you nod, he reaches behind your head to secure the tie so that it covers your eyes. “Let me know if it’s uncomfortable, and I can redo it.” 

“It feels okay.” Strange, but okay. 

You can’t see anything, so you keep your eyes closed. Rather than become even more nervous about the unknown of the darkness, you find that it’s actually relaxing. So often, you let negative thoughts ruin intimacy with Jimin, preventing you from moving forward in your relationship. Somehow, being blindfolded empties your mind until all you can think about is how you imagine what Jimin looks like while he touches you. 

You let Jimin guide you to lie flat on your back. With your most prominent sense taken away, you focus on your others to tell you what’s happening. Jimin is slow as he slips his hands beneath the hem of your shirt to push it up your torso. 

“Can I take this off?” His breath is hot against the side of your neck, and you feel the bed shift when he hovers above you. 

“Yes,” you reply, barely above a breathy whisper. 

Once Jimin has removed your shirt, his body heat disappears. You don’t panic, but you feel lost without his touches there to ground you. That is, until you feel something wet flick across your nipple. 

“Oh, god,” you moan when Jimin wraps his lips around your nipple and gently sucks. 

His tongue is hot and sloppy as it swirls around the bud until it’s perky and hard. Satisfied with his work, Jimin attaches his plush lips to your other nipple and repeats the same action. 

You arch your back, pushing against his mouth. Jimin wraps his arms around your waist to press his palm to the small of your back, further pulling you into him. The darkness heightens your sense of touch, making each hot swipe of Jimin’s tongue and the graze of his teeth against your skin even more tantalizing. Your pussy throbs with how wet and hot you’re growing just from this alone. 

“Jimin,” you whimper. 

His fingers hook around the edge of your borrowed boxers. “Can I take these off, too?”

You nod your head quickly and lift your hips to make it easier for Jimin to pull his boxers off of you. 

“So pretty…” 

You let out a high moan when you feel the pads of Jimin’s fingers brush against your entrance. He gathers your arousal and smears it over your lips and clit. You can hear the squelch the wetness makes when he dips his fingers inside of you just enough to gather more of the sticky mess. Your wet skin goes cold, and you can tell Jimin has blown air on you. 

“I’m going to eat you out, okay?” Jimin punctuates his question with a tiny flick of his tongue against your pussy. 

“Please, fuck, please,” you want to cry and try to push your hips against where you think his face is, but his hands hold your hips down. 

“I will, I will.”

Jimin laughs, airy and gentle, before pushing his tongue further between your lips to flick your clit. He repeatedly sucks on your clit, swirling his tongue around the sensitive skin while his lips envelop you. 

Your skin is blazing from the heat of his heavy breathing and how his touch makes you burn. Every suck of your clit makes you gush between your thighs. You can imagine Jimin staring up at you with dark eyes as he eats you out, humming into your pussy with satisfaction.

You arch into his face when you feel pressure at your entrance again, and Jimin slips two fingers into your pussy. He thrusts them in and out, hooking them to press his fingers against your front wall to find the spot he knows so well that makes you squirm. 

“Fuck,” he groans into your dripping pussy. Turning his head to the side, Jimin brushes his mouth against the inside of your thigh. His lips are soaked and sticky. 

You rock against his hand as he fingers you, letting out little “ah ah ah’s” with each thrust against your front wall. You feel like you’re on fire, like every breath will ignite your body, make you combust. 

“Please, Jimin, please.” You never thought you’d be the type to beg, but you’re so desperate to cum that it’s embarrassing. “I’m going fucking crazy, please.” 

You try not to compare Jimin to Taehyung; you really try. But it’s hard not to, especially when Jimin gives you the best head you’ve ever had. Foreplay has never lasted this long before. You can’t tell if it’s a blessing or a curse. 

“Ready for me?” It’s both hard to hear and so fucking hot when Jimin asks the question into your pussy. 

It’s disorienting when Jimin uses his clean hand to pull his tie off your face. You blink a few times to adjust to the light, belatedly realizing neither of you ever turned it off. While some people like intimacy in the dark, you and Jimin always keep the lights on. It’s nice to look at it other; it feels more intimate. 

You switch positions, allowing Jimin to sit against the headboard and have you straddle his lap like you were before. 

“Ride me first, okay?” Jimin whispers in your ear when he takes your arms and wraps them around his shoulders. “I want to see your face when you take my cock for the first time.” 

Your pussy flutters, and you’re not sure if you’ll be able to survive taking his cock if his words are enough to create a reaction in you that makes your knees weak. 

“Oh, oh,” you whimper as Jimin sits against the bedframe. “Okay.” 

“Look at me.” 

And you do. You stare into those narrowed, sultry eyes as you line his cock with your entrance, one hand squeezing his shoulder to help you lean at the correct angle. The stretch is quite easy despite your previous concerns about taking Jimin fully. It should have been obvious; you’re so drenched that you slide down on his cock so smoothly that you want to fucking die.

You know what you’re doing, having had plenty of experience riding Taehyung in the past. It’s different this time, of course. Jimin never takes his eyes off yours as you bounce on his cock. His hands squeeze your hips to guide you up and down his cock, encouraging you to lift until only the head of his cock is nestled in your pussy before sliding back down his entire length. You’re so wet that Jimin’s thighs glisten with your arousal, as do yours. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Jimin says with a soft smile. 

“Oh my god,” you squeeze his shoulders as you rock against him, “You’re, you’re cuter.” 

“Whatever you say, baby.” Jimin rolls his eyes and presses a kiss to your forehead. 

He’s so cute, even as your pussy sucks in his cock and clenches around it. How is it possible for him to seem so innocent in a moment like this? It makes your heart swell with a love you’re worried you’ll never be able to fully articulate to the precious boy beneath you. 

“Feels good,” you moan against his mouth when you lean forward to kiss him. “I’m gonna cum already.” 

Jimin sucks your bottom lip at the same time he slips his hand between your bodies to start rubbing your clit. The two points of pleasure cause you to slump forward, but luckily, Jimin takes over. He thrusts into with swift, strong movements, never stuttering even when you can tell that he’s nearing his orgasm, as well. 

There’s no shame in not lasting very long. You’re both a little bit drunk and extremely horny. The buildup to this moment is almost a climax all on its own. Neither of you can be blamed for how frantically you claw at each other and do your best to grind against each other’s bodies as hard and fast as you can. 

“Come on, baby,” Jimin groans into the crook of your neck as he fucks you. “We can cum together, okay? Let go for me so we can make each other feel good.” 

“Oh, Jimin, y-yes, fuck, okay.” You nod your head and pant your words against the curve of his ear. Needing something to hold onto, you dig your fingers into Jimin’s hair. 

Jimin always knows the right things to say and finds a way to ease your stress and ground you. He talks you through your orgasm and holds you close as you cum. It’s erotic, but it feels gentle and intimate. Rather than dirty talk, it feels sweeter and more caring. 

Even when Jimin finds his release, coming in you with a brutal grip on your waist, he whispers soft words of gratitude because he sees fucking you as a privilege – not a challenge to be won. 

When it’s over, you melt into Jimin’s embrace, chest to chest, with your head resting against his shoulder. You’re both sweaty and sticky, but it doesn’t matter. All you want to do is be close and be held. 

“How are you doing?” 

You nod, unable to find the words to express how utterly content you feel. Not just content – you feel cared for, even when all you’ve done is fuck. It’s different with Jimin. It’s gentle. It means something. 

“Did the tie help?” he asks, curious and wanting to have done a good job coloring his tone. It’s sweet, just like all of Jimin. 

“It did,” you finally speak up. Turning your head to the side, you press your lips against Jimin’s neck and speak to his warm skin. “It helped me get out of my head, so all I focused on was you and how you made me feel.” 

“Good?”

You smile with your eyes closed when you feel him kiss your forehead. “You always make me feel good.” 

Jimin squeezes you in his arms, content with humming a happy reply against the top of your head. No other words need to be said; for now, the two of you bask in the warmth you bring each other and know that whatever the morning brings, you’ll always have safe arms to fall back into. 

Disclaimer: All my writing is fictional and for entertainment purposes only. None of these characters are meant to actually represent the real people mentioned in the stories.

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