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puckinghischier · 7 months ago

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The 7th Year

Nico Hischier x fem!reader

summary: reader wants to celebrate Nico’s 7 year anniversary of being drafted to the Devils

notes: i really wanted to post this on his actual draft anniversary but i’m a slacker and didn’t finish it in time, so here it is now. it still counts cause it’s still draft week, right? anyways, i hope you enjoy and happy reading! 🫶🏼

[4.4k]

“Jack, it’s all wrong!” you cry out, looking at the orange cake sitting in front of you.

“Listen, we can fix it. I can run down to the nearest grocery store and have them make me a new one really quick,” Jack tries to reason with you, attempting to avoid the incoming meltdown.

Today was Nico’s seven-year anniversary of being drafted to the Devils. You know it’s an in-between milestone, most people celebrating every five years, but you didn’t care. You weren’t with him two years ago, having only been dating the hockey captain for a little over a year, so you were determined to make a big deal out of this milestone instead.

Your apartment was decked out in every tacky, red or devil related decoration imaginable, from cardboard cut-outs of Nico littered throughout the large living space to a custom ‘pin the horns on the nico’ party game you ordered for the occasion.

“Jack, I special ordered this cake four months ago, because the bakery he likes had a waiting list almost six months long for their cake decorator. I literally told them I’d pay extra if they could have it done by today,” you shut the lid of the cake box, not wanting to look at the orange monstrosity any longer.

You had sent them several reference pictures of what you wanted done, confirming with them last week that they had the correct pictures and color scheme.

“Well, at least they got the logo right?” Jack tries again, watching you run your hands through your recently curled hair.

People were set to start showing up any minute now, and you were panicking about being ready in time for Nico’s return home in a little over an hour. You barely had time to shower and make yourself presentable after spending all day transforming your apartment into a Nico museum.

All of his trophies and medals from childhood up until now are displayed on various surfaces around your shared apartment, action shot posters are taped on the living room walls, taking the place of your decorative pictures, and several of his old jerseys are on display in shadow boxes propped up in the high-top chairs that usually sit around the small table on your balcony, but are currently placed in various spots around the large room.

“Yeah, sure. The logo says Devils, but the colors say Flyers,” you mumble, pinching the bridge of your nose, trying to stop yourself from crying off your fresh make-up.

Jack had been a trooper today. Luke too. The two of them had shown up to your apartment not even twenty minutes after Nico left with Jesper and Timo this morning for their early tee time. They helped you decorate and arrange your entire apartment, ran all over Hoboken with you grabbing last minute stuff for the evening, and Luke is out right now picking up the catering order that was supposed to be delivered but somehow got marked for pick up.

Your phone starts ringing in the middle of your deep breathing moment, trying to calm your nerves.

“Luke, please tell me you have the food and are on your way home,” you answer the phone, praying Luke is calling to check in and not to give you bad news.

“Yeah, I got it. On my way now. Just calling to check and see if you need anything else while I’m out,” he tells you, the sound of his car door shutting heard in the background.

You breathe out a sigh of relief. At least the food is taken care of, you think to yourself. “No, I think we’re good. I double checked everything before I got in the shower. And Jack has been setting stuff up while I was getting ready. Just please get here in one piece with the food before I have a small stroke,” you attempt a joke, but your tone sounds more strained than anything.

“Aye Aye, Mrs. Captain,” you hear through the phone, picturing the small salute Luke is likely doing right now.

You chuckle out a goodbye and hang up your phone.

“So, am I good to go get changed now, or do you need me to talk you off a ledge right now?” Jack asks you, treading lightly.

You send him an unamused glare. “No, I think I’ve done everything I can do until Luke gets here with the food. Go, change. Shower if you need to,” you wave him off, grabbing the cake on the counter in front of you and walking to place it in the large fridge.

“Alright, but if I hear the balcony door open I won’t hesitate to run out here butt naked to make sure you’re not trying to make an escape,” he sings out as he walks out of your kitchen, turning down the hallway towards your guest bathroom.

You flip him off even though he can’t see you, a smile on your face nonetheless.

Thirty minutes later, Jack is showered and dressed and a few of Nico’s teammates have shown up, decked out in the t-shirts you had ordered and distributed to everyone.

Each of Nico’s teammates are wearing a shirt with his picture from his draft on it. No matter who you were looking at, Nico’s smiling baby face, devils hat on his head and devils jersey pulled over his formal attire, with one finger pointed in the air to signify his being picked first overall, was looking back at you.

You thought it would be funny to have Nico walk into a surprise celebration with his face staring back at him from nearly everyone in attendance, and when you pitched the idea to his teammates they were all for it.

You had ordered your own shirt with Nico’s face on it, too. Although, yours was one of the shirts in the WWE style, overlapping, various pics of Nico making up the design.

As the time got closer to Nico coming home, more and more of his teammates and their significant others showed up, ready to surprise their captain.

Ten minutes before Nico was due arrive, you get a call from Jesper.

“Hey, you guys almost here?” you answer, walking away from the noise of your living room.

“Yeah, leaving the bar now,” he tells you, pausing to bid someone in the background goodbye and ringing out ‘thank you’ a few times as he walks out of the bar.

Jesper and Timo were tasked with keeping Nico busy and away from home today. It started with their game of golf, but quickly turned into an additional eighteen holes and trying to kill time at the clubhouse bar when their games went by far quicker than they anticipated.

Around lunchtime, Timo called you and told you Nico kept saying he was going to bow out early to come home and spend some time with you, but you begged them to find a way to keep him occupied. You ended up having to send him a message, telling him you were out with a friend for a quick lunch before a fake nail appointment that turned into a real one once he asked to see what design you had chosen this time. Which is why you were late getting ready, having to leave Jack to decorate the apartment during your impromptu salon trip.

Most of the time you love that Nico is so invested in your relationship. He always wants to spend time with you, going with you to hair and nail appointments, following you around like a puppy when you go shopping, and simply sticking around the house on days when he has nothing planned just to catch up on your latest reality show obsession he always gets hooked into.

Today, though, you wish he was a little more apt to spending time with his friends. The amount of ‘I miss you’ and ‘can’t wait to come home and binge love island!’ texts you got today made you love him even more – if that’s even possible – but also made your anxiety sky rocket each time, because you know if he wanted to, he would simply leave in the middle of his plans with Timo and Jesper, no amount of convincing able to keep him there.

“Alright, don’t forget your shirts,” you start to remind him. You turn your body to look behind you, hearing a chorus of “Lukey!” and “Moose!” ring out, signaling Luke was finally back with the food. “Hey, I gotta go Jesp, Luke just got back with the food. Be safe!” you rush out before hanging up, making your way back into the small crowd.

You weave through bodies until you reach your kitchen, watching Luke attempt to sit down the large disposable trays.

“Luke, please don’t drop those,” you run over to him, helping him slide the heavy food onto your kitchen island.

You unstack the pans, making sure each one is unharmed and an appropriate distance from the edge of the counter.

“C’mon, Y/N, have a little more faith in me than that. I can carry a few trays of food,” he tells you, dramatically flexing his arms at you.

You roll your eyes at the curly-headed giant. Checking the time on your phone, you figure you have enough time to try and set up the food a little bit before Nico gets here. Opening the various pans, you freeze.

“Luke…what is this?” you ask him, a cold feeling washing over you.

Luke furrows his brows at you, peeking over your shoulder from his spot behind you. “The food you asked me to get? Is this a trick question?”

You dropped the flimsy lid, condensation from the hot dish flying everywhere.

When you were thinking about what food you wanted to have for the party, you knew it would be in the off-season, the Devils losing their playoff spot pretty early this season. So, you figured it would be a good time to order a few pans of his favorite dishes from his favorite Italian restaurant.

You ordered a pan of their lasagna, chicken parm, and a large pan of a steak and pasta dish specific to the restaurant. You had called them to confirm this morning, which is how you found out it was marked as pick up instead of delivery, causing Luke to have to drive forty-five minutes one way in order to grab the food.

What you were unaware of, however, is the fact that this restaurant, apparently, also caters an array of vegan options.

When you opened the three pans, you were met with a large pan of what looked like roasted cauliflower with tomato sauce, eggplant boats covered in pesto, and what looked like breaded and baked zucchini.

You had no issue with vegan food, some of it being some of the most delicious food you’ve ever eaten, but this is not at all what you envisioned surprising Nico with.

“I ordered lasagna, chicken parm, and steak pasta. There is no chicken, parm, steak, or layered noodles in front of me right now,” you try to keep your tone even and calm, knowing it’s not Luke’s fault.

“I swear, they handed me the box of food that had your name on it. I even checked the receipt and everything,” Luke defended himself.

You can feel the tears welling up, despite your attempt at taking big, deep breaths to avoid your emotions getting the best of you.

When the first tear falls over, the rest come crashing out before you could even stop them. You bring your face to your hands and start sobbing, upset that you couldn’t have everything be perfect for such an important day for Nico.

“Hey, don’t cry,” Luke coos as he wraps you in a hug, your face still hidden by your hands. “You’re going to ruin your make-up. You don’t want to greet Nico while looking like a little raccoon, do you?” you let out a chuckle at Luke’s words, his attempt at cheering you up working for a quick moment.

You bring your hands away from your face, sniffling and trying to carefully wipe your eyes. Luke keeps you trapped in a hug, giving you a few moments to collect yourself before stepping back, rubbing your arms instead.

“I just wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted Nico to walk in here and see all of his friends here, ready to celebrate him. I wanted to surprise him with his favorite meal and his favorite cake from his favorite bakery, since he doesn’t ever get this stuff during the season. But instead he gets an orange cake and a vegan dinner,” you huff, gesturing to the food in front of you.

“Well, he’ll definitely be surprised,” Luke attempts another joke, this one earning a sarcastic laugh instead of a genuine one. “Listen, we can fix it, okay? We’ll call the place and get a refund then order a few pizzas, alright? It’ll be fine. Everyone likes pizza.”

He bends his knees so he’s eye level with you, trying to gauge your reaction to his suggestion.

You look over to the food on the counter, bringing a sliver of your bottom lip in-between your teeth, mulling the idea over in your head.

“Yeah, we can do that. Everyone does like pizza, don’t they?” you try to convince yourself pizza will be fine, you could just take Nico out to dinner for his Italian food later this week.

“They sure do. And lucky for you, I have the best pizzeria in Hoboken on speed dial. I’ll make them do a rush order for their favorite customer,” Luke winks down at you, stepping away to pull out his phone and make the last-minute order.

You cover the food in front of you back up, picking up each tray and tossing them in the trash can at the end of your island, knowing that a group of hungry hockey players wouldn’t want three trays worth of vegetables to eat for party food.

You stand in the middle of the kitchen, trying to compose yourself and wipe away any mascara residue when Jack comes running through the open doorway, frantic eyes landing on you.

“Y/N, what’s wrong? Why do you look like you’ve been crying? Jesper just texted and said they’re on the elevator on their way up,” he rushes out, walking towards you to make sure you’re alright.

“Catering mishap, Luke’s ordering pizza now. Don’t worry, I’m fine. Go grab him, quick,” you suddenly perk up, nerves bubbling in your stomach.

As you follow Jack out of the kitchen and make your way to the front of the small crowd at the end of your entry way, all you can think about is hoping Nico likes what you’ve done. You hope he doesn’t think the decorations are too tacky, or that the shirts are weird. You hope he’s okay with eating greasy pizza and orange cake. You hope he likes the custom Halifax and Devils split jersey you plan to gift him later to represent where he started and where he is now. Overall, you just hope he understands how proud you are of him.

You see Jack and Luke walk up beside you out of the corner of your eye, matching with the rest of their teammates that are surrounding you. Luke leans down to whisper “Pizza’s ordered, it’ll be here in twenty,” into your ear before standing back to his original height and facing forward, waiting on his captain to walk through the door.

You’re suddenly hit with a thought about how thankful you are for the people surrounding you. For Jack and Luke who dealt with your demanding and crazy self today, talking you off of ledges and running around doing your bidding all day long. You’re thankful for the teammates that showed up today, ready to celebrate the captain they love almost as much as you do. You’re thankful for Timo and Jesper, making sure Nico stays in the dark about the surprise, doing everything in their power to keep him out of your hair until this moment.

You’re so incredibly thankful that the universe has allowed you to not only love someone as kind, loving, and special as Nico, but that he loves you back just as much. You also gained an entire family through Nico, his teammates treating you like one of their own, showing you just as much love and care as they do him. You’ve found some of your best friends through him, Jack, Luke, Timo, and Jesper being four of the best people you’ve ever had in your life.

The sound of the front door opening distracts you from your sentimental thoughts. You see Jesper enter first, his Nico shirt looking a little out of place paired with his golf pants. Nico follows him in, blindfolded. You have to stop a snort from making its way out, not knowing Timo and Jesper were going to resort to blindfolding him. Timo follows a step behind Nico, hands on his shoulders, guiding him and preventing him from bumping into anything.

Timo guides him to a few feet in front of you, stopping him before dropping his hands from his shoulders.

“Alright, Cap, you can take your blindfold off now,” Jesper tells him, him and Timo quickly stepping over to where you stand, joining the rest of their team.

Nico reaches up the untie the blindfold on his head. “I swear to god, if you guys did this just to mess with me and take me to another bar I’m going to kill both of you. I told you I just wanted to go home to Y/N-“ Nico stops mid-sentence when the cloth falls into his hands.

A loud, “Surprise!” rings out around the room, Nico’s eyes darting to each person, then down to their shirts.

You stand there, smiling at his shocked face.

“What-“ he starts, but stops, speechless at the scene in front of him.

You step forward the few feet to him, his gaze finally landing on you.

“Happy draft anniversary, baby,” you tell him, smiling up at him.

He looks down at you, eyebrows furrowing. You can tell he didn’t remember what day it was until this moment, his eyes looking around the room again, understanding settling in on the choice of shirts.

“You did all this? For me?” he asks, a smile taking over his face as he looks down on you.

“Well, duh,” you tell him. “Your seven-year draft anniversary is a big deal, you know?”

He beams down at you, the amount of love in his eyes enough to nearly knock you down.

“I love you, you know that?” he asks, wrapping his arms around you, pulling your body close to his.

“I think you’ve told me once or twice,” you tease.

He rolls his eyes at you, bringing his lips down to meet yours. The kiss is innocent and sweet, considering most of his team is stood behind you, but it was enough to cause a feeling of warmth to wash over you, all the way down to your toes.

When you pull back from the kiss you can’t help but to keep smiling at him. “Alright, go greet your teammates now. I’ll find you later,” you tell him, patting him on the chest as you step back.

Nico gives you a wink before he walks over to his friends and teammates, making his way through hugs and handshakes.

You mostly sit back and observe for most of the night, splitting off from the festivities when the pizza was delivered, placing it in the kitchen and announcing everyone to just serve themselves.

You make your way around your apartment, conversing with Nico’s various coworkers. You cross paths with Nico a few times, each time he tried to whisk you away to your shared bedroom, but you insisted he have a good time with his friends, there’ll be plenty of time for the two of you later. You stick around Jack and Luke some, but finding yourself in a corner talking to Nicole, Jesper’s girlfriend towards the end of the night.

“Y/N, seriously, this is great. I wish I would have thought of something like this for Jesper. Nico hit the jackpot with you,” Nicole compliments.

Your cheeks redden. “He deserves it. I mean, he left everything he’d ever known in Switzerland to come here and pursue this. And look how well he did for himself,” you turn to look over at him standing with Jonas and Erik, Jonas attempting his turn at pinning the devil horns on the large poster of Nico on the wall.

You’ve always been amazed at Nico’s bravery and determination to pursue this dream, knowing how hard it was for you to move just a few states away from your family, much less halfway across the world. He proved every single person that told him he wouldn’t make it wrong, not only getting drafted, but being the first overall pick. And now he earned his captaincy on top of that, proving he’s not only a phenomenal player, but an even better teammate and leader.

“I think he did very well for himself, and not just in reference to hockey, either,” she tells you, leaning over and placing a hand on your leg to emphasize her point.

You look down, not particularly knowing how to respond to her compliments.

“Hey, Y/N, want us to stick around and help clean up,” you hear a voice ask you, turning around to see only Jack, Luke, Jesper and Timo remaining.

Nico walks over to you as Nicole stands and joins Jesper.

“Nah, you guys head out. We’ll call you tomorrow if we need any help,” Nico answers for you, standing behind you and placing his hands on your shoulders, giving them a light squeeze.

“That’s code for ‘get out you goons, I’m trying to be alone with my girl right now,’” Jack says, earning a chuckle from the group.

You and Nico walk everyone to the door, saying your goodbyes before shutting the apartment door and turning around to observe the state of your apartment.

“Don’t even think about trying to clean anything up tonight. You’re not lifting a finger for the rest of the night,” Nico threatens, slipping his arms around your torso from behind, burying his face in your neck.

“C’mon, at least let me clean up the cups your lazy teammates didn’t throw away,” you pat his hands, starting to walk him over to start picking up the red, plastic cups.

“Alright, but after that we’re going to the bedroom and aren’t leaving until this time tomorrow,” Nico points a finger at you as he separates from your body.

The two of you gather all of the stray cups, bringing them into the kitchen to throw them away. You notice the empty pizza boxes, breaking a few of them down while asking Nico to put the leftovers in your fridge so they don’t ruin.

“What’s in the box?” he asks, grabbing the white cake box and dragging it out of the fridge.

“Oh no! I totally forgot about the cake!” you exclaim.

“You bought me a cake?” Nico opens the box.

He looks up at you, amusement in his eyes. “Schatz, why did you get me an orange Devils cake?”

You groan, bringing your hands up to rake them down your face.

“It was supposed to be red, but the bakery fucked it up and I didn’t know until they delivered it,” you explained, walking over to stand next to him as he looks between the cake and you.

“The catering was messed up too,” you continued. “I tried to order your favorite dishes from that Italian place you like, but they sent a bunch of vegan dishes instead, so Luke had to order pizza last minute.”

Nico lets out a laugh at your confession. “So, you threw me a draft anniversary party with an orange cake and vegan food?” he teases, closing the lid to the cake box and turning his body to face you.

You give him a pout. “Don’t make fun of me, I was trying to be nice to you.”

This earns another laugh, Nico placing his hands on either side of your pouting face.

“You could have thrown me a party with water soup as the entrée and ice cubes as appetizers and I would still think it’s the best party I’ve ever been to, simply because you planned it,” he tells you, looking down into your eyes.

“You meant it? You enjoyed yourself tonight?” you ask him earnestly, that small seed of worry making its way back into your brain.

Nico doesn’t answer, he leans down to kiss you for the second time that night. This time, though, he wasn’t as slow and sweet as he was when you had an audience.

His kiss isn’t rushed, but with his tongue slipping its way into your mouth, it quickly turns into a partial make-out session in your kitchen.

He pulls back once the two of you need to come up for air, resting his forehead against yours.

“I had a blast tonight. The shirts were a nice touch, by the way,” he smirks at you.

You let out a giggle, thinking of how funny it was when he registered all of his teammates were wearing his face on their chest.

“Thank you, seriously,” his tone turns serious. “I can’t even begin to explain to you what this means to me. I just wish I could’ve had you by my side from the start.”

You look at him through his long lashes, not being able to think about anything except for how much you love him at this moment.

“Well, you’ll have me until the end of it. Or until you get sick of me, whichever comes first,” you joke, causing Nico to pull his forehead back from yours.

He uses his hands that are still on your face to tilt your head up to look at him. “Not possible. If anyone gets sick of anyone around here it’s going to be you getting sick of me, because I never want to be anywhere but by your side.”

You just stare up at him, shaking your head in a no motion, the intensity of his stare taking any words from the tip of your tongue.

You both just stand there, staring at each other for what feels like hours, but was really just a few moments.

“Enough of us just standing in the kitchen, I think it’s time we take this little party to our bedroom so I can really show you how thankful I am,” he breaks the silence, his eyes going from love to lust before you could even blink.

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, just throwing you over his shoulder while you squeal, carrying you to your bedroom. As you pass all of the decorations on the hallway walls on your way to the bedroom, you’re already thinking of how you can make year eight’s anniversary even better, especially if Nico is as thankful next year as he proves to be this year, thanking you over and over and over again once you reach your bedroom.

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creamecafe · 11 days ago

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Fate by "Design" | Salesman x Artist!Fem!Reader

Summary: While doing art in a subway, the Salesman offers you to play Ddakji, a chance to win money. But you wanted his number. When you win, your acquaintance with the salesman becomes much more.

Pairing: Salesman x Artist!Fem!Reader

Warnings: fluff, flirting, allusions to smut/sex, but not explicit

Word Count: 2.9k

Author's Note: This was requested by Crazy4herluv on my Wattpad book Squid Game Imagines/One-Shots. This is also my first Salesman work, so I hope you enjoy!

*Icon used for this header above that I made in PicsArt is from Pinterest. Divider is from @cafekitsune in this post*

Want a request for a Squid Game character like this one? Check out my post, read my request guidelines and send a request!

Read on Wattpad & AO3 here

The sounds of the almost isolated subway and people walking is the highlight of your daily routine. You had moved to Korea to work for a art company and you do sketches by hand.

It paid very good money but in your free time you liked to be in the subway and do art for others like New York. People would walk and stop to see what you possibly could be doing.

A lot of the time, couples, parents with their kids or even old people would ask for a drawing each day and you get paid at least $130-200 at the end of the day.

Your art simply consisted of charcoal sketches of the person who requested for the art as semi-realistic as possible with a watercolor splash in the back if they ask.

Sometimes you notice while you're drawing or sketching away looking for people to draw, you would see a man in a black suit.

He had black hair and was always carrying a suitcase with him. He was also very handsome, you thought. When you took the time to actually analyze him or look at him, not in a creepy way you thought, you noticed that he would throw something on the ground and slap people.

This guy must be insane, you thought. Slapping people everyday, but it didn't stop you wondering who he really was. You thought of going up to him and asking if he would like his own portrai. But you were nervous of asking such a good looking guy and you are an artist in the subway, so he was way out of your league.

Today felt like any other day. Until one person, the guy in the black suit came up to you. You were going to pack up for the day when you accidentally dropped pencils and other supplies on the floor, then rolled around. As you were on the ground picking up the supplies, you saw polished black shoes stop and turn in front of you.

You look up and see him. The guy in the black suit looks down at you while you're trying to pick up your stuff.

"Good evening ma'am. I have a question for you."

You got up from the floor and brushed off the germs from yourself from the subway ground.

"Hello sir. I finished my hours for the day drawing so I can't accept any art requests right now I'm sorry. You could always come back tomorrow if you like."

"I'm not asking for a drawing. I'm asking if you would like to play a game."

A game? Is this guy Billy the puppet you thought?"

"What game?" You asked?

"It's called Ddakji. Have you heard of it before?"

Ddakji. It should sound familiar but you felt like you don't know it.

"I don't think so. What is it?"

"It's very simple. You fold two pieces of paper, usually of bright colors as it's a children's game like an envelope and the goal is to throw down the paper as hard as you can so the other person's paper flips over."

"What's the point of playing the game?"

"If you win, I'll give you money. A hundred thousand won."

Your eyes widened at what he said. A hundred thousand won? That amount of money to get while doing art in a subway could take a year or two. Yet here's this handsome well kept money offering to you.

"And if I lose?"

"Well usually I slap people until they win or just give up." That explains why you see this man in the subway grounds slapping people and throwing stuff down.

"But seeing how creative you are. How about a portrait of me? Use all your creativity and imagination you can and give me something."

"Ok. I'll play. But I can change something?"

"What is it?" He turns his head to express curiosity. It's rare that people would ask for a change of things while playing, conducting he's the one in charge.

"If I win, I get to have your number."

The salesman is surprised at your boldness to ask him out.

"My number? You could walk out with a hundred thousand won. What could my number offer to you?"

"Well I might see a better prize than money. I see a real piece of art right here." You raised your eyebrow smirking

He smirks at you. This was going to be interesting he thought.

"We have an agreement then?"

You nodded. "I lose, you get a portrait. But if I win..."

"You get my number." The salesman nods smiling. "Five in a row you have to win." He then pulls out two colored orgami tiles of red and blue from his suit jacket.

"What color would you like?"

"Red/blue" you said.

"Alright then. Ladies first."

You look at him and then the ground. 10 in a row you can do this. You took a deep breath and slammed the envelope on the ground. The guy then slams his envelope on the ground flipping yours around.

It created a loud slapping sound and echoed that it startled you. You look up scared he was lying to his word and might actually slap you. You close your eyes and prepare for it.

"What are you doing?" The salesman asks

"Aren't you going to slap me?"

"You don't have to worry. I wouldn't slap a pretty face like yours. I only want a drawing."

Opening your eyes you took a deep breath. At least you wouldn't be slapped.

"1-0" The guys says. You assumed that was his keeping score

You pick up your envelope and roll up your sleeve. You threw it down but it didn't flip the salesmans. He picked his up and slammed it down flipping yours again.

"2-0". Now the chances of getting this guys number seems low and you might look like a fool. You were weren't to give up just yet. You relied on your skills of carrying an easel and so many supplies per day to the game.

Taking a deep breath, you slam down the card and it flipped the guys. You were smiled wanting to jump for joy.

"2-1" You put up 2 fingers with one hand and 1 finger to the guys face.

He said nothing but smirked. Talking wasn't his thing, you noticed. Probably why you found him attractive.

The salesman picks up his card and slams it and your flips over. It was a continuous picking up and flipping cards. You were getting better as the points were getting higher.

Now the score was "7-8". You were becoming tired and kinda wish you were home right now, sleeping. But

The salesman threw down his card and flipped yours. Now it was 8-8. A tie. Just two more and you get his number. You threw yours down and it flipped over. 8-9. Another slam from the guy and it was 9-9.

This was it. You weren't sure you would have enough energy to draw that portrait of his that he wanted. But you needed enough energy to finish this game.

You slammed it down and saw it flipped over. I won, you thought to yourself. Did I actually win? You thought.

"Congratulations. You won ma'am." The salesman smiled.

Those words felt unreal. "Yes! Yes!" You jumped around happy.

"Now, you asked for my number. I suppose you wouldn't have a piece of paper to write down my number, would you?"

What kind of question was that? You were a artist. Blank papers is all you carry. You grab your sketchbook from your bag and a pen to give to him.

He took it from your hands and wrote down his number fast. He gave it back to you and you saw it.

"What do you plan to do with that number, Miss?"

"I was wondering maybe you want to go out?"

"We can do that. Can I pick the place?"

It was the least you could let him do as he offered you money and kept true to his word to give you his money.

"Sure. I'll text you when I'm available. I might see you here too. Who knows?"

He nodded your response smiling.

"You have a good day madam"

"You too" God how you loved how formal he was and calling you madam and ma'am, even though you weren't really that old.

When you went home, you were exhausted but still smiling and excited that you got the guy's number. You texted your name so he could have yours saved as well. You went to bed, wondering what it could lead to. Possibly just one date or even more.

The next day, was the same thing. Wake up, eat breakfast, pack your things and head to the subway. You kept fixing yourself up for the salesman, wondering if he would come by.

He always comes by, you thought. He just has to. You scanned around the subway to see where he is as you didn't want to move your spot. After an hour had passed, it looked like he hadn't been around.

Maybe asking for his number was a bad idea, that he was avoiding to talk to you, you thought. A man walked by and dropped something not that far from you. It looked like money. Seeing this you get up, pick up the bill and try to call out for the man. But it looked like he was already gone. It was

Written in a black permanent marker, it says “Look at your phone ma’am”. Without thinking you check your phone and see a message. Meet me at the park at 4:30 PM. No need to dress so fancy but wear something you feel pretty in.

Blinking your eyes rapidly, you couldn’t believe what’s in front of you, more likely what’s on your phone. He’s actually texting you. The weird quiet but handsome black suit guy is texting you. You packed your things and went home and went to get ready to meet him in the park.

It was nothing special that you wore. Just a simple sundress/pantsuit but it was still one of the nicest outfits you had in your wardrobe. You kept wondering just what the man in plan for you. Walking around the park, you see the man still in his suit, hands in front looking around, possibly waiting for you, you thought.

Smiling, you walk up to him. When he sees you, he smiles with no teeth but still showing joy. He reaches out a hand. Looking at it hesitantly, you took his hand. The salesman then took your hand, bowed a little and kissed the back of your hand gently. You felt your heart skipped a beat when he did that.

“Hello ma’am. We meet again.”

“Hi. Were you the person that gave me the bill?”

“Maybe, a beautiful woman like you deserves more.”

Was this a dream? Were you dreaming or is this real. This man seemed to good to be true. You two walked to what would be your first date. The place he picked out for the first date was an art museum. It displayed the finest arts across the worlds and many different paintings. The salesman would ask about each piece and how did it make you feel. You responded to many of his questions but kept looking around. You guys kept talking and asking each other questions to get more acquainted with each other.

After the museum, he took you a some place to eat. Then you guys went to get ice cream. He paid for everything and asked if there’s anywhere else you would like to go. If you tried to pull out your card or even cash to pay for your own things, he would refuse so and said he got everything and that anything you wanted he’ll get for you. It had been late, so he dropped you off home and asked how was everything and if you enjoyed it.

You couldn’t thank him enough for the wonderful day you had comparison to just drawing in a subway for hours. Before you left his car, there was a slight tension between you guys that it could be cut with a knife. The man wanted to say something else but couldn’t stop looking at your lips. Looking at him, you see his hands reach towards your face and cup it as his lips softly touches yours.

His lips were so baby smooth and his cologne was so sharp from his neck, it felt like a gas hyptonixjg you. You cup his face, grazing it with your thumb. He pulls away, still looking at you with such yearning. Your thumb still on his face grazed his lips as you said goodbye and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Ever since that night, you two have been dating. He would take you on dates to other places. Mostly just walks in the park or art related stuff that you like. Your small kisses would turn into small makeouts into something more. He would sometimes, well mostly go over to your place and sleep over. In the mornings he would make breakfast in his underwear. You wish you could draw him right then and there.

He loves to pose for your art or whatever reference you need for your assignment in class. Once a month, he'll take you out to the art store to get whatever supplies you need. Your messy clothing consisted of paint or oil pastel stains is opposite of his clean, ironed and steamed suit. But he loves it either way.

The only time that he was out of the suit was when he was in bed with you. But other than that, you wanted him to be a bit more fun. You wanted to him have more color. Seeing those videos of online of couples doing painting of each others to see both of your art skills.

You begged the salesman to do wit you and he finally agrees. Squealing you get everything ready, canvas, paints, brushes, water and paper towels. You had 10 minutes to try to get each other’s features as accurate as possible

Time passes and both of you guys are done. You show your art of him and it’s him in his suit, pretty accurate and semi realistic but some details were missing. He nods and says it’s impressive of how much you can get done in less than hour.

You ask for his painting and he turns his Canva around and you see you in an almost renaissance like painting. Your mouth dropped and all felt like years of your art skills go away to just 10 minutes.

“What! How’s that even possible? Why didn’t you tell me you were good at art?”

“Well two people can’t be the artists in a relationship. One has to be a muse, to inspire the other.”

You scoffed at his bullshit. He just didn’t want to brag. An idea came in your mind. You grab a paintbrush and leave a stroke of red paint on his face.

“If you want to be a muse, why don’t you have some color on you?”

Smirking, the salesman takes this as a challenge and grabs his paint brush and paints across your face too.

Now you guys were having a paint battle. You tried to paint him more but he lightly grabs your arm and stops you. He leads you the floor, where he’s now on top of you. Seeing this as an opportunity, you grab a bottle of paint that’s open and smeared on his white shirt. He laughs at this and rolls you over where you’re now on top of him, straddling him.

Nothing was said between you both as you kept looking at each other. Like that night of your first date when you guys first kissed. Putting your head down you kiss him and he put his arms around on your back. The paint on your guys�� face mixed with each other. Breath was running out so you decided to stop. Your heart was beating so much just as he was trying to catch his breath too.

Now you’re forever grateful you asked for his number then taking the money. It’s a better reward than what the salesman had to offer you, as you got him, yourself. It felt like a dream come true. Even if it was, you didn’t want to wake up. Everything of being with him was like straight art. Maybe it was meant to be. That day you accidentally dropped your pencils and he came up to you. It could be called fate by others. Fate by design you like to call it.

He was right, one has to be the muse in a relationship and the other an artist. But to him, it was the thing he was missing the most. An new reason to be in the subway that fateful day.

Taglist:

@deffreal, @cocofia143, @sorry-meme, @elizabeth-hatake, @nini-0808, @hobinistaworld, @ineedsmootching, @alittlebitofeverything , @happyfrog7681 , @tiuhiatus, @goofiestgoober27, @jayyyourbabe, @ninahorikoshifr, @ikeithy , @vampiregirlxoxo, @ouwioworuuu, @cloudysxkura, @l4venderia, @anthea1239, @iidontwannadiealone,

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allllium · 14 days ago

Text

Perfect for Me

~ Matt Murdock x insecure!reader

~ omg two posts in two days 😮 this is not edited at all so ignore my mistakes

~ Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, WC: 1,679

- Matt comforts insecure reader -

Dating a blind guy is very different from any other relationship you've had for very obvious reasons. Not only is it an adjustment going out with and even living with someone that can't see, but Matt is different. He has senses that other blind people don't which makes things even harder. You love Matt but that doesn't mean it's not an adjustment.

Obviously he can't see you but he knows everything about you. He knows the basics of how you look but not the details. Sometimes that's hard. Only because you fear he has some other idea of you in his head. Like the real you can't match up to the look of you he has in his head.

It's silly, you know, but it's not like you can just get rid of the thoughts in your head. Matt can tell something's wrong, a bonus of his super senses. So far though, he hasn't asked about it. He's learned over time to give you a little bit of time to process your issue before he tries to get involved.

It's not his fault, simply your insecurities getting the best of you. It'll be fine you tell yourself, wondering around the apartment you now share with Matt. Maybe that's where it's coming from. You guys have always spent a lot of time together but now your space is his, and when you want space to yourself, you don't have a separate apartment to hide in. You certainly don't want that but what if he does?

You turn on some music to fill your rattled brain. Nothing loud but enough to distract your thoughts. You soon turn from wondering to cleaning. It's become a daily habit since Matt rarely has time. You have no problem doing it because you know it makes Matt feel slightly better. Not as much dust and grime for his senses to focus on.

You're very ingrained in your scrubbing of the counter when you hear the door shut.

"Hey, Matty." You call out to greet him, not taking your attention off the counter for a second.

"Hi." His faces lights up as he sees you. "How was your day?" He asks, planting a soft kiss on your temple.

"Not nearly as eventful as yours I imagine." You smile, turning around to meet his beaming face. He has already taken off his suit jacket while walking towards you and has began loosening his tie. Giving him that slightly casual look that you know and love.

"I actually think that's true today, though the most amusing part of it was hearing Foggy fall out of his chair not once but twice within a twenty minute period." You listen intently to his words as you finish wiping off the counter. His words get quieter as he slowly makes his way to the bedroom for more comfortable clothes.

You know Matt feels a great pressure to keep the city safe by going out every night, but your favorite night of the week is the one where you've both agreed he stays in. One of the few requests you had when moving in.

"How the hell did he manage that?" You chortle, imagining it in your head. You can hear Matt's laugh from the other room.

"I have no clue, you'd think he'd learn after the first time." He comes back into the living space wearing black sweatpants and a plain t-shirt. After you got together, you had to take Matt shopping for new, plain, clothes considering most of the ones he owned had something stupid and possibly embarrassing on them due to Foggy, bright colors and big slogans. "I heard him whine about it for the rest of the day."

"At least your days aren't boring like the other lawyers."

"That's definitely a plus of partnering with him."

This is the best part of your day. Talking to him about your days and gossiping about the people you know, plus all the people Matt hears about during the day. The only problem seems to be the words that won't leave your head.

"How do you feel about spaghetti for dinner?" You ask him as he grabs a water out of the fridge. Usually, he'd grab a beer but out of fear for his liver you haven't bought any in a week.

"Sounds perfect. How can I help?"

"I can do it, you worked all day."

"Worked is a loose term." He laughs to himself. You and he both know a lot of their work consists of finding new cases.

"You can boil the pasta if you want to be helpful."

"Oh that's easy. It's almost as if you don't believe in my culinary skills."

You turn and give him a stare that makes him smirk. "Matthew, I know what you lived on before I moved in."

"Okay water it is." He gives you get another kiss before searching for a suitable pot.

You hum along to the soft background music as you and Matt work on your tasks. Once he's done with his, he stands right beside you in silence.

"So." He starts.

"So?" You repeat.

"I didn't want to bring this up but I think it's important-"

"That sounds scary."

"For me, yes. I talked to Karen today."

Oh fuck. To say Karen knows your deepest darkest secrets would be an understatement. For Matt to start a conversation like this about her, she told him something. Something you're know wracking your brain to figure out.

It's not that you think Karen would sell you out. But Matt is very charming and sometimes you find yourself telling him things without even realizing.

"I would hope so." You try to play it off like you're not immensely worried about his coming words. "She is your secretary."

"I don't think she'd appreciate that title." He laughs nervously. You know he's nervous because his glasses are still on. He's trying to make sure you can't read him at the moment.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't want it to seem like I was invading your privacy."

"Matt, you always do that. You hear literally everything I do."

"Yes but this feels different."

"You wouldn't have started this conversation if you didn't have something to say so please get on with it."

"I heard you talking to Karen the other day when she was over. And I tried not to read too much into it but then I talked to her today and I'm officially reading into it."

"Karen and I have talked about a lot of things, that doesn't really help me understand."

You try to seem nonchalant by stirring the pasta sauce.

"I heard you telling her how you don't think you live up the version of you I have in my head." He whispers the words as if that'll make it easier. Of course. Out of everything he could've heard, it was the one thing you really, really don't want to talk about. You know Matt isn't going to let this go until you answer all his questions.

"That was over a week ago." You whisper over the sauce.

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. But I only heard a part of what you said and I couldn't handle not knowing the rest."

A heavy sigh escapes you. It's not his fault. You are still adjusting to how much he can hear from so far so you didn't even think about that when he came home that day. You also can't fault him for wanting to know more, if the roles were reversed you would've gone to Foggy to know more almost immediately.

"You obviously weren't supposed to hear that." You turn off the stove top and look at him. "I don't suppose we can keep acting like you know nothing about that?" Your words come out with a hopeful tone.

"No we can't. Sweetheart, how can you feel like that? Have I made you doubt yourself like this?" He pulls you away from the kitchen and pushes you to sit next to him on the couch.

"You have done nothing Matt. You're perfect. I just can't get it out of my mind that every time you're complimenting me, it's not actually me. It's the more beautiful version of me you have in your head." He already knows enough, might as well tell him the rest.

"I know what you look like. Maybe I can't see every detail but I know enough to know every compliment I've ever given you, has been for you. I can't see everything on your face but I can sort of see the shape of you."

You're just now realizing you've never actually asked Matt what he can see. Knowing he was blind you always figured he couldn't see anything.

"What do you see?" You ask now.

"It's difficult to explain. I see certain figures but not all the time. It's kinda like flames that prevent me from seeing things but they don't always stay in the same spot."

"So how are you so confident I'm the same that you think I am?" He moves closer to hold your hand and lean more against you.

"Because I've had everyone describe you. Foggy, Karen, even Frank at one point. And I've felt your face a lot, enough to understand the shape of everything. Your eyes, lips, nose. Everything that makes you, you."

"Feeling is different than seeing."

"For other people yes. For me, this is the only way I know a lot of things. It's the way I've learned to know things so I'm better at it. I don't need to see every detail when everything I've felt is beyond perfect."

You feel tears appear in your waterline. Leave it to Matt to know the perfect thing to say. Always.

"When I say you're perfect for me, I mean it. More than anything."

He wipes the tears off your face the second they begin to fall.

"You're perfect for me too, Matty."

"Good." He states. "You're gonna be with for the rest of forever."

"That's a nice plan."

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starsstuddedsky · 1 year ago

Text

Persimmon Problems

jaemin x reader

summary: fantasy crushes are all fun and games until it stops being a fantasy and he’s really talking to you. but what are you supposed to do when he invades every part of your life?

genre: fluff, angst, university au, non idol au, he’s not a frat boy but he’s basically a frat boy, inaccurate depictions of student council, I don’t actually know what this is

warnings: swearing, drinking, implied sex (it’s pg-13), lmk if I missed any

wc: 18.3k (oops)

a/n: ahahaha remember that jaemin dream… yeah. anyways so I’ve looked at this for so long that I don’t even know what this is anymore, all I know is that I can’t keep working on it. also I still don't know what a persimmon tastes like so.. yeah. I really wanted to try one but if this stays in my drafts any longer I will go insane. I hope you all enjoy!!!! as always I'd love to hear what you think :)

You’ve never had persimmon before but you think maybe it’s the best word to describe Na Jaemin. He is a persimmon in your palm, an unknown flavor to be discovered if you dare to bite. It doesn’t help that he chose to wear orange today, the sweater a shade away from pink.

There’s a pinch at your side. “You’re staring again.”

You glare at Renjun, who doesn’t bother to look up from his laptop, working on the graphic for the student council. “Was not.”

“Whatever,” he says. “Just don’t let the pretty boy distract you from paying attention because I needed to finish this yesterday.”

“The only one distracting me is you, and you aren’t pretty.” You pretend his silence is agreement instead of him trying to force you to take notes as Professor Bae closes up the lecture.

It’s not that you can’t focus around Na Jaemin–your perfect notes at the end of class prove just the opposite. Jaemin simply exists in another world. There is your corner, mostly filled with student council responsibilities and never ending university work, and there is Na Jaemin, honorary member of every frat on campus. Not that you’ve been thinking that much about him, but his Instagram shows up in your recommended often enough for you to know that he goes to parties nearly every weekend. The sliver of overlap in the Venn diagram of your world and his only includes Microbiology on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 1 to 4, and that’s enough for you. To fantasize about him from here, a fruit you’ll never have the opportunity to try.

Jaemin starts to turn around and you quickly turn to Renjun, resisting the urge to peek at him out of the corner of your eye. You look at the shapes on Renjun’s computer instead.

“That looks like shit.”

“Trust the process,” he says.

“You spent the entire lecture working on this, you are aware we have a lab where you actually have to do things right?”

“You don’t think you can handle it on your own?”

“Stop trying to bait me into doing all the work.” You close your laptop, standing and stretching. You see Jaemin out of the corner of your eye, a blob of black hair shuffling down the aisle toward the door to the classroom. The orange-pink sweater is actually a cardigan, large cream colored buttons keeping it together. That’s when you realize you’re staring again. Shit.

“Are we eating before lab or do you seriously think you’ll finish that thing in the next thirty minutes?” You ask Renjun, who still hasn’t moved.

“You want to be president when you aren’t even pressuring me into posting the election announcements that were supposed to go out yesterday?”

“I want to eat something before we have to stare into microscopes, so what do you want?” You wonder if he’s focused enough to miss you grabbing his wallet out of his bag.

“Whatever you want is fine and if you use my card it will literally decline.” You curse and toss his wallet back into his backpack.

“Should have taken that class with Chenle, his card never declines.”

“That’s because it’s his parents’ black card.” He finally looks up from his laptop at you. “Are you getting the food or not?”

You open your mouth to say something extremely witty and/or smart, but your stomach rumbles. “I’m going to fire you when I’m president.”

“And who else will put up with your bullshit?” he calls as you walk down the aisle. You prepare a mature response (sticking your tongue out at him), walking backwards. Directly into someone—bouncing off their chest, more specifically.

Hands grab your shoulders before you can react, straightening you before you have a chance to fall. “Woah there.”

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry,” you say as you turn around and find Na Jaemin staring at you. Apologies spill out, even as he smiles at you, a true, knees-to-jelly, threat-to-sunshine smile.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says.

“Sorry,” you repeat. Your brain struggles to diversify its vocabulary with him looking at you, smiling with his eyes in full focus. His eyes are so dark it’s difficult to distinguish between his pupils and his irises. Staring, again, the third time in an hour. Why can’t you be normal around him?

“I was blocking your way out anyway, so it wasn’t all your fault.” He steps back, letting you out of the aisle. At least, giving you the space to do it, since your feet decide not to work. He tilts his head at you, sending your brain into a spiral of predictions, ranging from he’s going to ask you out (rather fantastical) to he’s going to tell you that you have something stuck between your teeth (horribly realistic).

Instead, he says, “You’re YN, right?”

“Yeah. How did you know that?”

His smile widens when you say yes. “Student council vice president, right?”

You don’t trust your voice so you nod.

“I’m Jaemin,” he says, extending his hand for a moment like he wants to shake hands but he pulls away at the last second. “Your picture is on the website.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say, mouth going through the motions on its own since your brain’s whiteboard has been wiped completely clean. The only thing left is NA JAEMIN in giant bold letters, bright red marker and all.

“Yes, it is,” he says. Does he know the effect his smile has on people? Legally it could be considered a weapon. He pauses a moment longer, like he wants to say something else but instead he turns away, walking back to his seat, waving at half the class because of course he does.

You don’t have to turn around to feel Renjun staring at you. You don’t feel like hearing his judgy comments, even when they’re only passed on through his eyes. Whoever said eyes are the window to the soul was right—Renjun’s give you a clear view of the most judgmental person you have ever met. You leave the class without looking back.

Very few places nearby campus sell edible food, and even fewer are ever empty enough to be able to grab food and eat before the three hour lab starts. Today is even worse than normal, as if everyone has chosen to be hungry at the same time as you. You end up at a 7/11, grabbing Takis since they’re the only chips Renjun will eat. You grab an iced tea, tapping your finger in line as you wait. Getting the food was enough of a distraction to keep you from thinking about Jaemin but as you wait for the person in front of you try to get a discount using a coupon that expired three months ago, you go over every millisecond of the interaction–and god, you were so awkward. All you really did was apologize to him, you couldn’t even move. You have got to grow up, stop acting like a middle schooler with a crush.

The cashier finally gives up, giving the person a discount and waving them out. You set your food down and smile at her. She does her best to put a customer service smile back on her face, though you can see the exhaustion. You thank her as profusely as you can.

By the time you make it back to the lecture room, there’s barely five minutes left of break.

“Thank god, I’m starving,” Renjun says, grabbing the bag out of your hands. You keep your iced tea on the side farthest from him, glaring at him until he tilts the bag so that you can reach it too. “We are going to make Donghyuck cook tonight, I need real food.”

“Agreed,” you say, covering your mouth with your hand so you don’t spew hot chip dust everywhere.

“And I took pictures of you embarrassing yourself in front of Jaemin, so please try to replace me as your social media correspondent.” He smiles at you over the purple bag.

“You’re horrible, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Music to my ears, sweetheart.”

Unfortunately, Renjun’s graphic does look good, though still not good enough to warrant how much time he spent on it. The messy shapes don’t look half as bad when they’re the right color, and all the information is listed (not in Comic Sans, though it’s only a matter of time before he tries to use it again. You have yet to find out if he actually likes the font or just wants to be annoying). He posts it an hour after the lab, which wasn’t half bad. Your percent error was under 50% for once.

It’s a Friday morning, no classes since your university actually listened to the student requests for a three day weekend, which the student council (you) takes full credit for. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean you are responsibility free. Instead you sit in cheap plastic chairs rented from the events and planning committee and under a tent that’s in serious danger of blowing away.

You cling to your ball cap, NCIT STUDENT COUNCIL embroidered on the front. The papers in front of you whip around, the weights on top of them holding steady. At least it isn’t raining, though the thick clouds overhead get darker every minute.

Realistically, there’s no reason for you to be here. All the information about running for student council is posted online and with over 30,000 students, only a small portion of the student body actually care—none of whom are walking around campus at 11 in the morning on a Friday. You pull the blanket tighter over your shoulders. Just another fifteen minutes and then Jisung will relieve you. Mark should be the one freezing his ass off since he’s the one that insists on upholding tradition, but as president he takes advantage of avoiding work whenever he can.

Only two and a half months before that privilege is yours. Assuming you are elected, of course, but there’s no real danger in losing that. You’ve been a part of the council since freshman year, appointed as vice president as a sophomore. Few people have more qualifications, and fewer are actually interested in the position. Usually the competition comes from within the cabinet, but none of the rest of the guys have said anything about the running, though that might be because you haven’t shut up about the position since freshman year. Either way, the position is all but yours, and there is absolutely no reason you need to sit here when you could be studying for midterms.

A strong gust of wind blows from in front of you instead of behind and this time you are too slow. Your cap flies off your head, tumbling across the empty quad. You shuffle after it, keeping the blanket wrapped tightly over your shoulders, which helps protect you from the cold winds. Unfortunately, said cold winds don’t stop blowing, and your hat blows faster than you can shuffle. It reaches to the sidewalk on the opposite side of the squad by the time it finally stops.

Moving as fast as you can wrapped up one dry day away from mummification, you try to snatch the cap before it gets blown away again. You bend down to reach for it but a pair of sneakers appear in front of you and a mitten-clad hand grabs it before you can. You stand up and find Jaemin, wearing bright red earmuffs that have a green headband to make it look like a pair of cherries. He holds your hat out, smiling when he sees you (when he recognizes you?).

“What’s wrong? Hat got your tongue?” He waits, with an expectant smile. The boy next to him, wearing more layers than you, shakes his head. “Sorry,” Jaemin says, “bad joke, I know, but I couldn’t help it.”

Even the most lovesick part of you can’t defend him on that one. You take your hat from his outstretched hand, sticking it back on your head when you realize what your hair must look like after crossing the quad with all the wind.

“It’s Jaemin, from microbio,” he says, as if there’s actually a chance you don’t know him.

“Thanks, Jaemin from microbio.”

He flashes a smile that warms you better than any sun. “My pleasure, Vice President.”

“You can just call me YN,” you mumble.

“Where’s the fun in that?” You swear he winks, though maybe it’s the wind blowing in his eyes.

The boy next to him nudges Jaemin with his shoulder, keeping his hands tucked safely in the pockets of his jacket. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Jaemin rolls his eyes. “This is Jeno, he’s–God, I guess he’s my best friend.” He glances at Jeno, unimpressed. “The position is temporary.”

“Thanks!” Jeno says brightly.

“Jeno, this is the vice president of the student council,” he says.

“YN,” you say, “I’d shake your hand but…” You show your hands, stuck keeping the blanket wrapped around you.

“It’s alright, I lost my gloves, so my hands are stuck here.” Jeno lifts his jacket with his hands in the pockets, just to prove his point.

“Hey, I didn’t get a handshake,” Jaemin says.

“Did you need a handshake?”

He tilts his head, showing off his jawline, not that you’re paying attention to that at all. It simply calls attention to itself, and who are you to ignore a jawline that could have been sculpted by Michelangelo (not the ninja turtle). He must be cold with so much skin exposed.

“I’ll settle for some advice,” Jaemin says. Right, maybe you shouldn’t be comparing his face to famous works of art mid-conversation (save it for the Instagram stalking like everyone else).

“Advice?”

“I was actually looking for you anyway.” Jaemin glances at Jeno before meeting your eyes again. “The student council election is open to anyone, right?”

“The presidency is open to seniors that are enrolled here, but yeah,” you say. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I’m going to apply.”

You blink at him. “For president? Of student council?”

“Yeah,” he says. Jeno shuffles beside him, stuffing his hands impossibly deeper into his pockets.

President… but that’s your position. If it wasn’t for the senior-only rule, you’d already be president. You rose through the ranks, suffered through a vice presidency with Mark to get here–it’s your position.

“Do I apply there?” He asks, pointing at the table you’re supposed to be sitting at.

“The application is online,” you find yourself saying, “you have to submit a resume and go through a qualifying process, and submit your proposals for campaign policies and a whole bunch of other stuff, it’s all on the application information.” You’re about halfway through your own application, though it’s mostly copying and pasting from the document you’ve been working on since you joined student council.

“You can scan the QR code on this blanket, it’ll take you to the application.” You hold it straight, cursing Renjun in your head for being so creative with marketing. You look like an idiot, waiting for him to scan your shoulder.

“Cool,” Jaemin says, pulling out his phone, but instead of scanning the code, he hands it to you, a new contact profile with your name already in it. You glance between the phone and the smiling boy. “Can I ask you if I have any questions?”

Jaemin is asking you for his phone number. To help with his campaign, against you. Your brain works in overdrive, trying to determine how you are supposed to feel. Your heart doesn’t hesitate to take advantage of the internal turmoil. You put your number into his phone and hand it back to him.

“Sure,” you say, even as your brain screams at you not to. “Whatever I can do to help.”

He grins and your brain fully malfunctions, gears popping, cartoon sparks flying. “Thank you, YN.”

“No problem,” you mumble, knowing that’s not true at all even without a functioning brain cell. You should have let him call you vice president when you had the chance–this is so much worse.

“I should go back,” you say, taking a step backward, a gamble considering your history of walking backwards around him. Trying not to linger in Jaemin’s presence is like a planet resisting the pull of gravity to the sun–no matter how hard you try, you can’t beat physics.

But maybe he isn’t the sun because when you take another step, Jaemin takes a step to follow you. Are there stars that revolve around planets? But Jaemin doesn’t revolve around you, he doesn’t even exist in your solar system. Maybe a black hole is a better metaphor, sucking you in from a galaxy over. You should stop making metaphors based on middle school astronomy.

You peer at Jaemin as he continues across the quad, walking leisurely beside you as you shuffle. Jeno trails behind slightly, risking the cold to pull out a phone.

“Are you following me?”

Jaemin looks at you over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows. “You think you’re that special already?” Before you can answer, he laughs. “But, yeah, I am. I can’t leave you all by yourself out here, anything could happen.”

“As opposed to by myself at the table?”

He shrugs. “There’s two chairs. I could sit with you.”

It’s your turn to raise your eyebrows, looking him up and down. He’s got a puffy jacket (bright red, probably to match with the earmuffs) and jeans. “You’d freeze in five minutes.”

“You could–”

“Are we going to Doyoung’s or not?” Jeno calls from behind you.

“Right,” Jaemin says, “I definitely did not forget about that.” He glances at you. “Rain check?”

“I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities for you to keep me company freezing my ass off,” you say, “but seriously, I wouldn’t let you stay anyway.” You reach the table, turning to face him.

Jaemin pouts. “Why not?”

“For starters, I don’t want to be responsible for the hypothermia you’re bound to catch,” you say, “and it’s a student council thing. You’re not a part of the student council.”

“Not yet.”

Right. The standard, crush-threatening-the-dream-you’ve-spent-three-years-working-toward-situation. “Also, no offense, but I barely know you.”

“Offense taken,” Jaemin says, holding a hand over his chest. “We’ve taken half a class together!”

“We’ve spoken twice if you count today!” You say. Does he really not get it? “At the very least it would be awkward.”

“I take full offense to the idea that I could ever be awkward,” Jaemin says. He folds his arms over his chest, eyeing you. “I’ll prove it to you.” Your gut twists, sending off the warning bells, but there’s no way Jaemin is actually flirting with you. He probably hates the idea that someone doesn’t immediately trust him with their heart and soul. He doesn’t need to know that you already do. That’s why there’s simply no way he’s flirting with you–it simply doesn’t make sense.

“Dude, we seriously need to go,” Jeno says. “Doyoung is spam texting.”

Jaemin wiggles his eyebrows at you. “I’ll see you in class.”

“Bye Jaemin,” you say. You watch him walk away with Jeno, throwing his arm over his friend’s shoulders. He doesn’t look back at you.

What just happened?

Jisung approaches so quietly you jump when you turn around and he stands in front of you. “Was that Na Jaemin?”

“Yes–wait, how do you know him?”

Jisung avoids your eyes, turning to watch the pair of boys trudge away. “Renjun talks.”

You’re going to kill him. But first you need to defrost, so you hand the blanket over to Jisung and jump a few times to warm yourself up, trying in vain to make up for the loss.

“What was he doing here?” Jisung asks, wrapping himself so tightly his feet are bound together. One strong push would send him tumbling over, probably unable to get up. If only it was Renjun.

“He wants to be president.”

“Of student council?”

“Apparently.”

“Huh.” Jisung sits back. “Aren’t you supposed to be president?”

“Yep.”

“Huh.” Jisung stares at you.

“Have fun!” You say. The air without Jaemin is so much colder. Maybe your toes have frostbite. “It’s cold!”

Jisung grunts, huddling down and you don’t spare a second look at him. There’s a solid chance he’s texting Renjun already, since your best friend has decided to be a dirty gossip. You walk along the sidewalk and try to tell your heart that no matter how pretty his smile is, Na Jaemin is bad for you. Your heart reminds you that he saved your hat.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. You pull it out, fully expecting to see a message from Renjun but instead a string of numbers show up. you better save my number :). You stare at your phone until it fades to black, which is why you know the exact moment it starts to snow. Though it’s March and the groundhog didn’t see its shadow, a snowflake falls on your phone, melting quickly. You walk home in the snow, thoughts of Jaemin piling up a snowbank that no plow can clear.

For breakfast on Tuesday morning, you have an untoasted bagel with a side of impending doom. You woke up with the feeling, a knot in your gut that usually only appears before exams or after you drink too much coffee, but today has chosen to warn you of unknown horrors yet to come. It has to be the dream you had, only you forgot it the moment you woke up.

[Bitch #1] You’re just trying to avoid jaemin.

You don’t know why you expected Renjun to support you. Unsurprisingly, he found out about Jaemin’s intent to run for president before you made it back to your apartment, and dedicated an hour to lecturing you over FaceTime, then spent the entire pregame on Saturday side eyeing you.

Jaemin’s message sits at the bottom of your recent texts. He hasn’t sent anything since Friday, though neither have you. You close your phone and try not to think about him, an impossible task. In the end you can’t think of a valid excuse, and go to your morning lecture. It’s one of your favorite classes (world history of medicinal developments 1200-1600) but today your mind drifts, still trying to figure out why today feels so off. Are you forgetting an assignment? You’ve checked the syllabus for all of your classes and the reminders your professors sent out but nothing has slipped past your the list on your planner. You check your outfit after class to see if you put something on backwards but you look fine. By the time you head toward microbio, you’ve resigned yourself to a day of inexplicable anxiety.

You should have trusted your gut.

You take one step into the room and the knot in your gut twists itself into a mess that spells out leave now while you still have the chance.

In your normal spot at the back of the classroom, sitting beside Renjun, sits Jaemin, grinning and waving at you like he’s been sitting there the entire semester.

You walk carefully down the aisle of desks, stopping in front of him. “You’re in my seat.”

Jaemin doesn’t seem to notice Renjun’s snort, opting to smile at you. “Hello YN, it’s nice to see you.”

“Hi Jaemin,” you say, “you’re in my seat.”

He rolls his eyes, sliding his backpack to the side and slipping into the next seat over. “I was just getting to know Renjun.”

You glare at your best friend, sitting beside him. “I’m sure he’s been lovely.” Renjun smiles innocently, turning back to photoshopping a graphic of the student council.

Jaemin pulls out his laptop, sitting leaning back into the chair. Is he planning on sitting here for the whole class?

“What are you doing?” You ask softly. Renjun continues to click around, not even pretending not to eavesdrop.

“I told you, I could never be awkward,” Jaemin says.

“Speak for yourself,” you mutter, shrinking in your seat. Does he really not notice the class staring at you? Okay, maybe staring is an exaggeration, and it’s not the whole class, but the people he normally sits with keep glancing back at you and whispering to each other.

Professor Bae walks in and they turn back to the front, saving you from (more) embarrassment. From the corner of your eye, you watch the boys at your sides—Renjun doesn’t bother to open the notes doc he shares with you, opting for continuing the edit, which you can’t really complain about because it’s the series of posts you asked him to make. Jaemin pulls up a cartoon series, Teen Titans, volume off with the subtitles on.

“Is this what you do every class?” You whisper.

Jaemin looks away from his fake typing for a moment. “She grades for attendance, not participation.”

“Are you even passing this class?”

Jaemin grins. “Sweetheart, I skew the curve.” Just to prove his point, he pauses the bickering superheroes and pulls up the grade review for the class. True to his word, his scores are well above average, rivaling your own. With the exception of Renjun, you haven’t met anyone who’s gotten similar grades.

Jaemin smiles, switching back to the show. He exudes confidence, and why wouldn’t he? Not only hot and popular, he’s smart too, smarter than you—it takes you hours of studying, exam cram sessions, paying attention in class—he doesn’t even hide that he isn’t paying attention, and from his reputation alone, you know he doesn’t spend as much time studying as you. Does he know what he’s getting into with student council? Even the laziest of presidents put in several hours of work a week.

Jaemin laughs at the show. Renjun finally glances at you, raising his eyebrows at Jaemin in a silent question. You shrug, mouthing, I don’t know either. He purses his lips and turns back to photoshop. You’re sure the second Jaemin steps away he’s going to be on your ass again.

Belatedly, you realize you’ve spent far too much of the class thinking about Jaemin. Professor Bae has already moved on from weekly announcements to new topics, meaning you have a date with YouTube review videos tonight. Thank god Professor Bae actually cares about her students and has recorded lectures. You just have to hope you didn’t miss one of the exam hints she only drops during class.

Jaemin and Renjun stay quiet for the rest of the class period, though it does little to help you actually focus. Between Jaemin existing next to you and the inevitability of Renjun’s judgment, it’s hard to stay focused on virus identification. You take half the notes you usually do.

But can you really blame it on them? It’s you that loses focus, you that is distracted by Jaemin beside you when he doesn’t actively try to pull your attention. He may have disrupted the balance of the universe by sitting beside you, but that doesn’t mean you have to fall off the scale.

Professor Bae announces the end of lecture a couple minutes early. You swear you see her raise her eyebrows at you and glance at Jaemin before disappearing into her office for the half hour break before lab. Is it too self-absorbed to wonder if she’s taking things the wrong way? But what is the wrong way? None of it makes any sense except that maybe Jaemin is too stubborn for his own good. Funny how a week ago he didn’t know your name and now you can say he’s ‘too’ something.

“So what do you normally do during break?” Jaemin asks. “Other than bounce off the chest of your roguishly handsome classmates.”

You roll your eyes to keep him from noticing how flustered his comment actually makes you. “Go over the prelab in case someone forgets to do it–”

“I always do it!” Renjun says.

“–but usually get snacks and do homework. Lately Renjun has been doing a lot of student council work during class, but that’s because he doesn’t know how to manage his time.”

“Says the one who asked me to design a scheduler for them.”

“Just because you’re good at Canva doesn’t mean you’re on top of your work.”

Renjun shakes his head. You can tease him all you want, at the end of the day, you know that it doesn’t really matter. The truth is, he just doesn’t need to study as much as you. Sort of like Jaemin, and absolutely nothing like you.

“What do you normally do during break?” You ask.

Jaemin purses his lips. “Well, my lab partner rarely does the prelab, so usually I let him look at mine.” From the row where Jaemin normally sits, a guy in a striped yellow polo glares back at you.

You glance between him and Jaemin, who turns away from his partner to look at you. “Should you go over there?”

“Probably.” He doesn’t make a move to get up, instead tilting his head and smiling at you a little. “You’re very interesting, YN.”

You cough, breaking eye contact to fiddle with the A key on your laptop which is in serious danger of falling off. “Well, your lab partner is probably going to try and inject you with a virus during lab if you don’t go over there.”

Jaemin laughs. “You’re probably right. I’ll talk to you later.” He stands up and glances at Renjun, who finally looks away from his laptop. Jaemin nods at him and flashes a smile at you, showing perfect rows of white teeth, and finally turns around, backpack half open in his hand.

You tear your eyes away from him, turning back to Renjun, who sits with his elbow on the armrest, chin in hand. He softens his eyes and looks up at you. “You’re very interesting, YN.”

“Shut up,” you say, pushing his elbow out from under him, though he doesn’t fall like you wish he would.

He shakes his head. “I do not like that guy.”

“Really?” You frown. “Why?”

“The fact that you’re even asking me that.” He sighs. “He’s just not my favorite type of guy.” He glares at you before you can tease him. “You seem to exclusively be attracted to shitty men, and then I become associated with them through proximity and it’s overall not a fun time for me.”

“Okay first of all, you barely know Jaemin,” you say, “and second of all, nothing’s ever going to happen with him.”

Renjun raises his eyebrows.

“Seriously,” you insist, “he’s literally Jaemin, and I’m… not his type. You can hate him all you want but don’t do it on my behalf.”

Renjun stares at you a little longer. He doesn’t believe you, and he’s probably right not to. But he turns back to his computer and doesn’t argue back.

“I didn’t do the pre lab, though,” Renjun says, “that was a lie.”

“I’m going to kill you and make it look like an accident.”

Jaemin doesn’t show up to class on Thursday. You stare at your phone, the single message in your conversation with him. Curiosity and something bitter boil together, making it impossible to think logically. He acts so friendly around you it would be easy to mistake him for a friend, but it’s not like you don’t have friends. You wouldn’t have a second thought about sending a text like this to Renjun or Donghyuck–but you’ve never felt butterflies when either of them looked at you.

So when your phone dies, you slip it into the pocket of your sweatshirt instead of trying to fight Mark for a charger (ever since “someone” stole one, he’s been overprotective of the cords). It’s movie night anyways, it’s not like you need your phone.

“Wait,” you say, “since when are we watching Endgame?”

“We literally just voted,” Donghyuck says, “You could have tied it for Lilo and Stitch but you weren’t paying attention.” He glares at you.

Mark throws an arm over your shoulders. “It’s all good, YN can just make the popcorn.”

“It’s hitting buttons on a microwave.”

“Oh, would you look at that, the movie’s starting!” Mark says, pushing you off the couch and towards the kitchen of his apartment. You glare at him, but the guys have made you watch Marvel movies enough times that you are glad for the excuse to escape any part of it. It’s bad enough you can hear it from the kitchen.

The shelves in Mark’s apartment are tall enough that he keeps a stool in the kitchen so that he can reach the highest of them. Of course that’s where he keeps his popcorn, so you jump as high as you can, snatching the box. Except you pull a little too hard and the box flies clean out of your hand, your feet slipping out from under you. You tumble to the ground, narrowly avoiding banging your head on the faux marble countertop.

A moment later, Donghyuck appears standing over you, box of popcorn in one hand. “You could have just used the stool.”

“That’s so much work.”

“And yet it keeps you off the floor.” He holds out his free hand and helps you stand. Your tailbone hurts a little but otherwise it seems you dodged major damage.

“You okay?” Chenle shouts.

“Fine,” you shout back. You wonder what the odds are that they’d let you bleed out to finish the movie—probably higher than what you want to calculate. At least Donghyuck is as anti-Endgame as you.

He sets the box on the counter, pulling the plastic off a bag and putting it in the microwave for five minutes. You would’ve just used the popcorn button but Donghyuck insists it tastes better this way. He turns around, leaning against the counter and studying you.

“So,” he says.

You raise your eyebrows. “‘So’ what?”

“So, Jaemin.” Donghyuck stares at you, eyes unreadable. He’s been like this ever since you met him—pulling people apart with his eyes and extracting the most important bits, all with a smile on his face. He knew Shotaro was going to drop out before Shotaro did.

“He’s…” A friend? A crush? The guy you wish would stay out of your life so you could keep daydreaming about him?

“He’s sort of famous,” Donghyuck says. “Or infamous, depending on who you ask.”

“And if I ask you?”

Donghyuck smiles like this is going according to his script. “He’s lots of fun to party with. I don’t know anyone that doesn’t like him.”

“But?” You jump when the first piece of popcorn pops.

Donghyuck pins you down with his eyes. “But he isn’t the boyfriend type. I mean, I’m not best friends with the guy, but it’s pretty obvious, and I talked to—”

“Stop.” You hold a hand up. “I know exactly what kind of guy he is, I’m not an idiot.”

“I’m not saying you’re an idiot, I just—”

“Donghyuck, I get it.” You stare back at him. “I really do, but I promise I know what I’m doing.” Okay, maybe that last part is a lie, but you know what you aren’t doing. You don’t expect a single thing from Na Jaemin.

“I heard he’s running for president.”

“Come on,” you say, “you think he can beat me?” Donghyuck raises his eyebrows. He won’t call you out on it, but he doesn’t have to. Your lie doesn’t even convince yourself. Jaemin has it all—grades, good looks, and, most importantly, popularity. Yes, he can beat you. Easily.

“Why are you helping him?”

“Jisung can’t keep his mouth shut, huh?”

“Renjun was actually the one that told me, but that’s not the point,” Donghyuck says.

“He hasn’t even asked for help,” you say, “and it’s not like I’m going to give up. I just…”

“You like him,” Donghyuck says. He raises his eyebrows, waiting for you to try to deny it but you won’t fight a battle that’s already lost. But you won’t admit it either.

“I know what I’m doing.”

Donghyuck chews on his lip for a moment. “Just be careful,” he says, “I do care about you. A little. Just a tiny bit. And from what I know, Jaemin is a good guy, but I don’t want you to get hurt because he isn’t what you want him to be.”

“Gross, stop acting like we’re friends,” you say.

“Never mind, I take it all back,” he says, “and I won’t be your vice president.”

“Too late.” You shrug. “You already signed a contract.”

“Fine, I’ll veto everything you propose.”

“You don’t have the power to do that.”

He tossed his hands up. “What is the point of being vice president?”

You beam at him. “Doing the shit I don’t want to do!”

Donghyuck opens his mouth to argue back but he pauses, sniffing at the air, and that’s when you realize the popcorn has long since stopped popping. Behind Donghyuck, smoke rises.

He curses, pressing the button to open the door only to take a wave of smoke straight in the face. At least the bag isn’t on fire. You laugh as he waved his hand in front of his face, coughing.

“Dude, what is that smell?” Mark shouts from the living room.

You spend half the movie bickering with Donghyuck while trying to get the sharp smoky scent out of Mark’s kitchen. By the time the Avengers have all the infinity stones again and are in the final battle, you are curled up on the floor with a blanket, the popcorn bowl confiscated by Chenle when he realized how much you and Donghyuck ate while making it (it sort of tastes like smoke anyways). Two Marvel movies later, Mark shakes you awake and sends you and the rest of the guys out.

You’re so tired by the time you get home, you plug your phone in and fall asleep. That’s why you don’t see the message until your alarm goes off the next morning.

[Na Jaemin] you busy?

For the past three weeks, you’ve tried meditation. Renjun swears by it, but you’ve seen him lose it over half a quesadilla, so it doesn’t exactly instill confidence in you. Still, you set aside ten minutes every morning to listen to the podcast he sent you. It’s meant to be calming, to connect you with yourself, and usually you do feel better, at least for a few minutes.

You peek at your phone, checking how much time in the lesson is left (3 and a half minutes). No new notifications.

Jaemin’s message gave you a heart attack when you woke up. He sent it at 8:12pm, probably right after your phone died. So seeing his message first thing in the morning woke you up pretty fast. You sent an apology that you definitely didn’t rewrite fifteen times, and now you wait.

But no, you’re meditating right now. Clearing your mind, not thinking about a single thing except the air that floods your lungs, letting your heart beat twice before releasing the air again. You peek your right eye open. No new notifications.

The narration ends and you sigh, laying back on your bed and checking your schedule for the day even though you’ve memorized it. In half an hour you need to be in the library to meet with your study group, then a council meeting, some space for lunch (which will undoubtedly end up crashed by Chenle or Donghyuck), then more homework in the afternoon. Tonight you’re supposed to go to a party thrown by one of Mark’s friends from grad school—depending on whether Renjun can find out if he’s a poli-sci major or not.

You jump when your calendar disappears and the incoming call screen pops up. You stare at Jaemin’s name for a couple seconds before your brain begins to function again, and you slide the button at the bottom of your phone to answer the call.

“Hello?”

“YN,” Jaemin says. His voice is a little deeper than normal, raspy like he just woke up. “I was starting to think you’d blocked me.”

“Sorry, my phone died last night and Mark doesn’t let anyone use his chargers.”

Jaemin laughs, the phone distorting the quality, sounding choppy and un-Jaemin. “Damn, does the student body know he treats his council like this?”

You laugh a little but can’t think of anything else to say. The silence stretches longer as Jaemin doesn’t speak either. The ceiling of your apartment has a constellation of holes, evidence of the former tenant’s antics. You have yet to figure out exactly what it could be—stabbing the ceiling with a broomstick? What does Jaemin’s ceiling look like? He’s so hard to pin down, like the more you get to know him the less he makes sense. He’s the type to have a messy room with clothes tossed everywhere and a bed that’s never made, yet he’s also the type to keep it neat, put up diagrams to match the college aesthetic of studying even if Jaemin himself is allergic to it.

“So,” Jaemin says, apparently realizing you aren’t going to say anything else. “I actually texted last night because I wanted to see you.”

You shove down the butterflies that spring up. “For what?”

“First of all, it’s cruel that you don’t think I’d want to see you just to see you. But also I was gonna ask to go over microbio together because I heard a rumor that Professor Bae talked about the final.”

“Don’t you have a lab partner?”

“Yeah, he’s who told me she talked about it. Unfortunately he’s worse at taking notes than me.” He pauses. “Besides, you’re much cuter.”

“Oh.” The butterflies breach containment, digging like madmen trying to escape your stomach.

“So are you free?”

Despite just checking your schedule, your mind goes blank. You frown, trying to remember what you’d just seen, and thank every deity that might exist that Jaemin can’t see your face right now.

“I’m free after the council meeting. How is 12:30?”

“Damn, council meetings on Fridays,” Jaemin says, “that works though. Meet you in the library?”

“We can use the council room on the third floor,” you say, “no one else will be there.”

“Okay,” Jaemin says, “see you soon, YN.”

“Bye, Jaemin.”

The butterflies have turned into zombies, rotting in your stomach and spoiling the leftover popcorn from last night. It’s just sharing notes. It’s just Jaemin. He’s just a boy from another world. The butterflies groan and demand chocolate.

Council meetings feel a little bit like the Magic School Bus series. The tagline plays in your head: A normal council meeting? With this group? No way!

Some of the blame can be directed towards having such an eclectic group of majors, Mark as the only true political science major. The rest of the group has been adamant about keeping the council safe from political science majors (how Mark doesn’t see the horrors of his classmates you truly don’t know). Another point towards Jaemin, being biochem and pre-med.

Though being a non-poli-sci major doesn’t mean he can handle the presidency. Mark can barely do that. Not that he’s a bad president. Though it sometimes feels like you do all the heavy lifting for him to take credit for, he does work hard. No, Mark’s problem isn’t his leadership—it’s that he doesn’t know when to give up.

The council meeting is long done but he continues to bicker with Donghyuck, who holds the entire student council hostage.

“It’s a proven fact,” Mark says. “How are you arguing with science?”

“Can science tell me what I feel?” Donghyuck folds his arms over his chest. His laptop has faded to black, the meeting notes long forgotten. “This isn’t about facts, it’s about my experience!”

You check your phone. The meeting has already gone over fifteen minutes. Any longer and Jaemin could walk in on a very not-empty room with Mark committing a crime against Donghyuck for saying that Froot Loops have individual flavors. Maybe it’s time to intervene.

“You’re just gaslighting yourself,” Mark says, “it’s not physically possible!”

“Well, you’re not physically possible!”

“That makes negative sense. I’m getting dumber listening to your attempts to argue.”

“Okay,” you say, standing up so quickly your chair falls back. “This isn’t council business anymore. All in favor of concluding the meeting?” According to the official rules, Mark is the only one that can conclude the meeting, but Jisung’s hand flies up, followed quickly by Renjun and Chenle.

“Cool, majority rule,” you say, ignoring the outrage on Mark’s face. Donghyuck pretends to be mad too, but he was only arguing with Mark to piss him off. He’ll probably follow the older boy around just to ruin his day. The two always have some fight going on—you’re convinced the reason Donghyuck agreed to be your vice president (if you win) is just because Mark would hate it.

Jisung leaves first, eager to escape from Donghyuck and Mark. Donghyuck pauses long enough to write a few more summarizing notes on the meeting but catches up to Mark before he can vanish, continuing to pester him about Froot Loops.

“Going home,” Renjun says, “we’re going out tonight, by the way. Turns out Taeyong is an econ major, and also a former frat president.”

“Huh,” Chenle says, “I can’t believe neither Donghyuck or me know him.”

Renjun shrugs. “I need to finish a couple projects since nothing will get done tomorrow.” He grins. “See you guys later.”

“Bye Renjun,” you say, tapping your phone screen to check the notifications.

[Na Jaemin] in the library [Na Jaemin] lost in the library [Na Jaemin] nvm found the stairs

[yn] need me to come find you?

[Na Jaemin] nah i don’t get lost (yes please)

“You’re texting with Jaemin?” Chenle breathes over your shoulder, making you drop your phone. Unfortunately it’s still open, your messages easy to read and Chenle doesn't hesitate to snatch it. At least the rest of the guys left, only Chenle is nosy enough to wonder who you’re texting.

“This is painful,” he announces. He hands the phone back to you. “You could at least add an emoji. Or, like, send more than one sad message.”

“Why?”

Chenle shakes his head. “You are texting the Jaemin, right? Na Jaemin?”

“Is there any other?”

“You’ve got a chance here,” Chenle continues, ignoring your question. “Not many people—well, I’ve actually heard he’s quite experienced but that’s beside the point, because you have a chance and that’s rare.”

“Genuinely, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You glance at the door, just in case Jaemin appears. Somehow you don’t think you want him overhearing this conversation.

“Okay, look,” Chenle says, “you’re you. Student council, 4.0 GPA, plans to be the next director of the WHO or whatever—”

“That’s not at all what I want.”

“—never a second you aren’t working, and then there’s Jaemin, and sure he’s a STEM major too, but the he’s type that strolls through life, who has things fall into his lap because he’s hot and lucky but you can’t really be mad about it because he’s Jaemin.” He pauses, like that explains everything. But you already know that Jaemin exists in a realm outside your own. Chenle waits a moment longer then shakes his head. “You know what, you’ll figure it out eventually.” He glances at you with a frown. “Maybe.”

“Good bye, Chenle,” you say pointedly.

He moves extra slow, closing his laptop only after spamming the save button. He once forgot to save a spreadsheet after a two hour budgeting session and you think he’s still traumatized. Still, spending a full thirty seconds hitting CTRL + S is excessive even for him—he’s stalling, trying to be as nosy as ever.

“I’m meeting him at the elevator so you can stop stalling,” you say. You hover over the send button, Chenle’s “advice” infecting your brain. You hit send before you can overthink it any more.

[yn] on the way now 👍

Chenle sighs, returning to peeking over your shoulder. “You’re hopeless.”

You grin and give him a thumbs up. “Thanks buddy. If you hurry you can run into him in the elevators.”

Chenle perks up, grabbing his still-open bag and sprinting out the door. You feel a little bad for lying to him, but he was the one that didn’t read Jaemin’s messages closely enough—evident from missing the fact that he’s on his way up the stairs and how Chenle thinks he might actually be flirting with you. You shake your head at the thought.

Just when you reach the doorway to the stairs and wonder if you should meet him in the stairwell, the door flies open. Despite climbing three flights of stairs, Jaemin breathes normally. A different backpack than usual is sling over his back, bright orange, like… well, an orange. (Persimmon, your brain unhelpfully supplies).

“Hi,” he says. “Sorry I’m late.” You wonder how anyone is immune to his smiles. A smile like that robs you of everything irreplaceable and leaves you missing it as soon as it’s gone.

“You’re not late,” you say, showing him the time on your phone as you walk to the council room. “Exactly on time.”

“Oh.” He glances at you, and when you turn your phone back to face you, you understand the awkwardness.

[Chenle] good luck 🤪🤪🤪

[Chenle] have fun with the hottie 🔥🔥🔥

[Chenle] but not too much fun 😼😼

You clear your throat, praying he didn’t get a chance to read all of the messages. “Chenle’s just making fun of my emoji use. Or lack of emoji use.”

Jaemin nods. “I hate to take the side of someone I’ve never met over you, but he might be right.”

“I use a perfectly respectable amount of emojis,” you say. “Besides, I’ve never seen you use any.”

“You’re just going to have to text me more to find out.”

You’ve never been so happy to see the doors to the council room. It’s nothing more than a glorified study room, with a rectangular table that stretches in the middle of the room, eight wooden seats set around it. A giant whiteboard stretches the majority of the back wall. The only truly special part of the room is the projector that hangs from the ceiling, with a screen that needs a button to come down. The walls that line the hallway are glass, along with the doors, so that anyone can see the council discussions, though tucked away in the back corner of the third floor, only the occasional passerby is subject to the bickering.

Jaemin raises his eyebrows and whistles. “This is nice.”

“Don’t lie,” you say. “The only nice thing about it is that we have full access to it whenever we want.” You point to the sign that reads Student Council Members Only. Truthfully, the six of you use it more as a private study room than for actual council work.

“It is nice,” Jaemin says, holding the door open for you. He pauses in front of the whiteboard. Chenle had been sitting closest to it, apparently spending the final thirty minutes of the meeting drawing out different game plans for the basketball club he somehow has time for.

“Chenle,” you explain, “he thinks he’s a part of the Golden State Warriors.”

“How much council work actually gets done in these meetings,” he says teasingly.

“You catch on fast,” you say. “It took me the full first year to realize how incompetent we are.”

“How come?”

“The president just wanted resume padding. He was incredible at sucking up to faculty and making the right people think he was a great leader, but he would send us fresh-terns to pick up condoms and sent Donghyuck with a fake to get drinks once.”

“Fresh-tern?”

“The freshman interns,” you explain, “since the president is the only elected position and the rest of the council is appointed, the only way to get known is through the ‘internship,’ which technically is open to anyone but only freshman are dumb enough to dedicate that much time to a job that does absolutely nothing—like, it doesn’t pay or even guarantee you a spot on the council in the future. It’s all based on whether the president likes you or not.

“Anyway, our president last year was marginally better, and he tried to abolish the seniors-only president rule but couldn’t get it to pass in time, so we ended up with Mark. Not that Mark is a bad president, though council meetings could be half as long if he wouldn’t go on tangents every two minutes.” You stop, realizing how much you’re talking. You’ve come dangerously close to telling him the truth about the presidency. Jaemin says nothing, probably bored. “Anyways, we’ve got a few new initiatives this year but mostly we try to maintain the annual events and keep Mark’s head on his shoulders until he graduates.”

“Sounds like fun,” Jaemin says.

“Sometimes.” You pause. “How’s your application going, by the way?”

He glances at you, smile fading a little. He turns back to the whiteboard, this time studying the fading drawing Renjun made a month ago of a goat fighting Donghyuck. “Still figuring things out. Mostly working on my campaign goals.”

You nod. A part of you wants to press further, learn more about his plans—but because you want to beat him or because it’s Jaemin? Why is it so difficult to think clearly around him?

You sit at the table and open your laptop, pulling out your notes. He sits beside you, scraping the chair against the tile floors until his knee is an inch away from yours. He must not notice the way your breath catches in your throat when he leans closer. A moment later and your brain is invaded by his scent, a clean smell like laundry detergent or body wash.

“It’s organized by subject,” you explain. “Usually I take notes in class and then Renjun reviews and organizes it with keywords and highlighting and this coding system that I don’t really get but he swears by. Either way it works for us.” You show him the keyword that Renjun uses to signify exam hints, combining it with the past class’s date to cross reference the relevant information.

Jaemin lets out a low whistle. “This is crazy.”

“Yeah,” you say, “Renjun puts a lot of time into it. But when we study for exams, it’s worth it.”

“You know Renjun from student council?” He asks, beginning to type a few notes.

“I guess that’s where I met him first,” you say. “But he’s pretty much my best friend. The whole student council is pretty close, way closer than the group Mark came into. He tells us horror stories about how they made the fresh-terms compete just to turn them against each other, though that’s back when it was filled with poli-sci majors.”

“None of you are poli-sci?”

“I’m public health,” you say, “and Mark is poli-sci, but the rest of the guys avoided it. We swore that the next council would be free of the plague of poli-sci majors.”

“You really hate them?”

“They deserve it,” you say. “But also it’s because I made the mistake of dating one last year.” You shudder at the memory.

“Really?” Jaemin looks away from his laptop, staring at you instead.

“Don’t make fun of me,” you whine. “It was a moment of weakness and he confessed to me with cookies.”

“Not making fun,” Jaemin says. “Were the cookies at least homemade?”

“Well, yes.” You shake your head, trying to stop the next bit from coming out. But Jaemin raises his eyebrows and you can’t help it. “He had his ex make them, actually.”

“No!”

“Yeah, and then dumped me for them after, like, two weeks, and the guys are all convinced that he cheated on me with them,” you say. “So, no, I don’t really like poli-sci majors.”

“A good observation,” Jaemin says. His approval makes your cells glow—scientists could discover a new form of bioluminescence from within you.

Jaemin continues to stare at you, eyes full of warmth. It’s so easy to get lost in them, glancing between the pure dark chocolate and fond smile on his lips. The change in light when your laptop screen fades snaps you out of it.

You eye him. “Do you even need these?”

“Nope,” Jaemin says. He grins at you. “Just an excuse to see you.” He turns back to the laptop and continues to copy your notes into his document. You turn around, giving him no chance to see the smile that creeps onto your face. You seriously need to get a grip. Jaemin needs to get a grip and realize that he can’t flirt with you like this, not without completely upsetting the balance of the universe. But even as the world slides sideways, you smile.

“Nothing special.” That’s what Renjun said when you asked him what he wanted to do for his birthday. But March 23rd falls on a Friday this year, and everything snowballed from there.

That’s how you find yourself wearing an outfit even the most lenient parents would dub inappropriate, wearing more body glitter than exists in the state of Utah, taking your fifth shot.

“Sixteen more to go,” Renjun says, patting your back. Why you promised to match him shot for shot, you aren’t quite sure. You had reasoning, at some point. Definitely before the shots.

At least you aren’t alone—Donghyuck curls his lip after his shot, lime slice snatched out of his hand by Mark before he can take it as a chaser. Mark laughs as he grimaces.

“What’s our motto?” Donghyuck shouts.

“Two and three to infinity!” Mark shouts.

“Nobody goes to the hospital!” You shout.

“To the grave!” Renjun shouts.

“Huh, I guess we should have coordinated that,” Donghyuck says. “I was thinking something more like ‘happy birthday Renjun.’”

“Shoulda said something,” you say. You take a step to the couch, the world tilting to the side, though maybe it’s actually you because you stumble into the wall. It holds you up until you make it to the couch, sighing as you reach solid ground. A couple people sit next to you, friends of friends of Renjun whose names you don’t know regardless of the alcohol.

“You’re YN, right?” The girl closer to you says, making you feel a little guilty for having no idea who they are. She beams when you nod. “I live in Apollo Hall, Karina is my RA, she says you aced biochem.”

“Oh, yeah,” you say. “Who do you have?”

“Professor Ahn,” she says.

“He’s good,” you say, “I had him for a different class and he talks off topic all the time but if you visit him in his office hours once, he’ll remember and be more lenient on the research report. I can send you my notes, too, if you want.”

She smiles even wider. “Really?”

You nod, your brain sliding around your skull with the movement—not a good sign, only five shots into the challenge.

The music changes, a Britney Spears song that Donghyuck must have slipped into the rotation. The girl’s friend drags her up to dance before you get the chance to ask for her name.

Dancing sounds like so much fun, until you stand up and realize that you’ve been hydrated too well. Your bladder announces its need for attention much like the maintenance worker that fixed the leak in your shower—loud and last minute.

You push your way through the people crowded at the edge of the room, making your way to the hallway where the bedrooms and, more importantly, bathroom are. You pass by a semi-familiar face flirting with a girl from Renjun’s study group, but your bladder gives no time for your brain to make connections of recognition, let alone time to wave.

Finally, you break the crowd, ignoring the couple making out concerningly close to Donghyuck’s bedroom door (something you like to call “not my problem”). All your focus is on the door to the bathroom, a piece of lined notebook paper taped on with RESTROOM scribbled in marker. Just as you reach for the handle, the door swings inwards.

You might have caught yourself, two or three shots ago. Instead you tumble forward, the floor coming to meet you fast. And then you aren’t.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” Jaemin says, laughing. He caught you by the elbows, your face pressed into his chest. He helps you straighten up, though he doesn’t let go of your arms.

“Jaemin.” You grin at him.

He tilts his head. “You’re drunk.”

“You’re pretty,” you say. Jaemin tilts his head and smiles at you. Endearing. Endearing, that Jaemin has an amused expression on his face. Like he is endeared by you. How funny.

But he really is pretty. He must be hot in the leather jacket, loose over his broad shoulders. Yes, those broad shoulders. He’s hot too. But first, he’s pretty. His black hair falls just above his eyes, loosely split down the middle, framing the perfect angles of his face–the perfect line of his nose, gentle curve of his cheekbones, that jawline–and of course those lips. Perfect lips.

Jaemin leans closer. “You’re prettier.”

You burst into laughter, stopping only when you snort. “You almost sound serious.”

Jaemin doesn’t say anything else, still smiling at you, only a couple inches of space between you. Ignoring those lips this close is impossible. They’re the prettiest shade of pink, and he must have put on lip balm–or maybe it’s the lighting–because they glow. What do they feel like? They have to be soft—you’d bet everything in your pocket (if these pants had pockets) he tastes sweet. Like a fruit, a yummy, juicy fruit, dripping with juice, which reminds you—pee.

You push past Jaemin, into the bathroom. “Need to pee.”

He catches his hand on the door before you can close it, frowning a little. “You’re not going to slip and crack your head open?”

“Nope,” you say. “Really need to pee.” He lets go of the door and you slam it shut, using one hand on the counter to steady yourself while you fumble with the lock. After an eternity, you finally get to the toilet, which, despite the number of people crowded in a house of two college guys, isn’t totally disgusting.

Two minutes, an empty bladder, and clean hands later, you push the door open. Your balance has improved just enough for you to feel confident in your ability not to die on the dance floor—and with perfect timing because Break Your Heart by Taio Cruz just started playing. You find Donghyuck in the middle of the room and join him, grinning when he cheers.

Renjun appears halfway through the next song, shots in hand. More of the tequila ends up on the ground than in your stomach by the time you knock it back but Renjun shouts, “Six!” anyways.

Another 2000s hit plays (it’s definitely Chenle’s playlist, which reminds you that you haven’t seen him in a while) and you get Renjun to stay on the dance floor for the full song. It’s hot and sweaty and you wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world.

Donghyuck cheers again, hyping up the people that join your little circle. You turn to see Jeno, wearing a piece of fabric that technically could be called a shirt though it really looks like a hole for his head that’s completely open at the sides except for the ties at the bottom. Beside him, and right next to you, Jaemin grins at you. He throws an arm over your shoulder, pulling you against his side.

“And I was like baby, baby, baby, oh!” You shout along with the song, vaguely aware of the rest of the guys singing along—except for Jaemin, who waits for Ludacris’s verse to come in to rap it word for word.

Renjun drags you away before the next song can start. “Number seven,” he shouts in your ear over the bass.

“What about Donghyuck?” You glance behind you where he starts a full performance, an empty water bottle as a microphone.

Renjun shrugs. “He’ll catch up.”

You watch Renjun struggle to pour the tequila, holding the bottle with two hands off the edge of the counter to get the mouth as close to the paper shot cups as possible. You can’t see how much tequila actually makes it into the cups but it burns its way down, sending your stomach spinning. Only a third of the drinks you are supposed to take with him but you’re already questioning the next round.

Renjun gets dragged away from you by some people you aren’t even sure are actually his friends, but you lose track of him when someone tugs on your hand. Jaemin, again. He lost his jacket at some point, wearing a shirt that matches Jeno’s, showing off his considerable arms. Even in the poor lighting from the strobe lights Donghyuck set up, you can see the definition in his biceps.

Yeah, you’re definitely staring.

Jaemin asks something but you can’t hear him over the music. You step closer, stumbling a little on your own feet. As always, he catches you, arm sliding around your waist.

“How are you doing?” He shouts over the music.

You grab his other forearm to keep yourself from falling over. “I’m so hungry.”

Jaemin leans closer, lips brushing against your ear. “Wanna get out of here?” You raise your eyebrows at him and he grins. “The McDonald’s, across the street?”

“I need French fries,” you say, letting go of his arm and spinning out of his embrace to face the door. He catches you before you can go too far (and fall on your face), looping his elbow through yours.

As soon as the door closes behind you, everything falls silent. Not everything, because you can still hear the bass from inside the house, and cicadas sing, and the highway is close enough to hear the rumbling of engines passing by. But quiet falls in the space between you and Jaemin, a breath waiting to fall free.

He doesn’t let go over your arm, using his other hand to brace the three steps in front of Donghyuck and Renjun’s place. He leans on you as much as you lean on him, magnets stuck to each other, except magnets don’t struggle to stay upright crossing an empty street. Maybe if they could get drunk.

The street light flickers above you, crackling electricity. You can feel Jaemin’s bare arm against yours, firm muscle held taut. You peek at the boy beside you, his head tilted to the sky. Pretty. You won’t say it again for fear of being repetitive, but it’s the right word for this moment. Not just Jaemin, but the chilly night air, the faulty light above you fighting with the neon lights to illuminate your breath. You’ll blame the alcohol in the morning, but tonight it’s all pretty.

Jaemin swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and he turns to meet your eyes. It’s definitely the alcohol but you don’t look away.

The crosswalk changes to the white man, beeping at you to cross the street. You tear your eyes away from him, settling for clinging to his arm to make it past the striped crosswalk illuminated by headlights.

You’re hardly the only drunk couple at McDonald’s. Jaemin notices you limping a little and drops you off in a booth, stumbling on his own to order. You must have done something dancing, though you don’t remember anything hurting. Your ankle hurts now, so you lean your head into your elbow and watch Jaemin’s back.

The fluorescent lights can’t make him look sickly. They show his arms in their full glory, open sides revealing enough of his body to make you self-conscious. The hint of a farmer’s tan dusts his arms, shoulders just a shade lighter than his forearms. Where did he get that from?

So many questions about him. So much to know. So little you do know but you like him so much it gets so hard to tell. What matters.

Jaemin puts his wallet into his back pocket, turning around and smiling when he meets your gaze. He slides into the seat across from you. “Potatoes are incoming.”

“Do you know what persimmons taste like?”

“What?” His brow furrows, a cute frown that makes you forget what you’d asked.

“Never mind,” you mumble. Opening your mouth any more around him is a dangerous game—you aren’t quite sure what will spill out.

He reaches out to tap his finger on your arm. Like the sun, being in his atmosphere makes everything warmer, his touch boiling your skin. The heat flows through your body, each cell vibrating with the need for something.

“You feeling okay?”

It takes considerable concentration to work past his finger, which has graduated to drawing shapes, and answer him. “Renjun wanted to do twenty-one shots for his birthday but seven is beyond enough.”

Jaemin whistles. “Is Renjun going to survive tonight?”

“Probably not,” you mumble. “That opens up a council position. You could be a good social media person. Your face is pretty enough.”

“Is that the only requirement for student council?” Jaemin asks. “Being pretty?”

“You can’t be a poli-sci major either,” you say, “which you pass. It helps that you’re smart, and kind. I like people that are smart and kind.”

“That’s a low bar,” Jaemin says. “What else do you like?”

“Hm…” Your voice rumbles, a funny feeling in the back of your throat. You hum for a little longer before you remember Jaemin asked you a question. What do you like?

“Sharks. They’re much cooler than dolphins. And potatoes, I love potatoes. I like Renjun. And Donghyuck. And Mark, even though he’s a poli-sci major. I like Chenle and Jisung. They might be my favorite people.” And you. I like you so much I don’t know how to say it.

“What about doctors?” Jaemin leans closer, intertwining his fingers with yours. “Do you like doctors?”

You lift your head up, pouting your lips at him. “Doctors have needles. I don’t like needles.”

Jaemin laughs. “Even if the doctor is super rich?”

“Rich? From taking all my money?” You cry.

“Rich from saving people’s lives,” he says. “Like a neurosurgeon.”

You squint at him, the blurriness of your eyelashes mixing with the blurriness of the alcohol and canceling out until his face becomes clear. “Are you actually pre-med because of Grey’s Anatomy?”

Jaemin looks away, running a hand to the back of his neck. “Maybe.” His biceps are almost enough to distract you from his admission. Almost.

“Oh my god.” You can’t hold back the giggles, trying to cover your mouth with your hand. Tears prick at your eyes and you gasp for breath, stomach twisting the alcohol with the giggles and turning over itself until you aren’t sure if you’re starving or need to throw up.

“It’s a perfectly respectable career!” Jaemin says.

“You want to be Patrick Dempsey?” You say between giggles. “Not even McSteamy?”

“Hey, he’s—wait, you watch it too?”

You shrug. “It’s fun.”

“Then how are you making fun of me!” He cries.

“I didn’t go into medicine because of it!”

Before he can say anything else, the workers shout a number. He glances at the receipt and shoots you a glare without a drop of malice in his eyes and leaves.

Jaemin being silly. Jaemin bickering with you. Hard to believe that even two weeks ago, you never would have believed he watched children’s shows in class and chose his profession because of a soap opera. Jaemin who keeps surprising you, who makes you want to believe that maybe he’s from the same planet as you after all.

He brandishes the brown paper bag in front of him like treasure. What does it matter that you’re grinning because of him and not the golden treats inside?

“For you,” he says, setting the bag in front of you and tilting it on its side so you can reach inside for the fries. “I didn’t know what sauce, so I fought… Okay, maybe flirted with the worker, but the important part is that I got one of each.” He pauses glancing at you. “Which apparently you don’t need.”

“So good,” you say, eating them properly: no sauce, just freshly fried golden perfection. You look up to find Jaemin smiling at you… fondly? Is that what’s in his eyes?

“What?”

He shakes his head. “You’re just cute.”

You stare at him, fry halfway to your mouth. He looks down, the tips of his ears tinted red as he grabs a fry and dips it in honey mustard.

The rest of your time at McDonald’s is dedicated to properly enjoying the French fries and not at all sneaking glances at Jaemin sneaking glances at you. You finish the fries long before the swirly feeling in your stomach goes away. The butterflies must be drunk too.

“Back to Renjun’s?” Jaemin asks, standing up and extending a hand for you to take. The most dangerous handhold of your life. You don’t think twice about taking it.

“Mm, I’m pretty tired,” you say, “and Renjun was pretty adamant about the twenty-one shots thing. If we go back, he won’t let me go until one of us is in the hospital.” Walking is easy when Jaemin lets you lean on his shoulder. Standing just outside the McDonald’s, your shadows stretch ten times as tall as you, the lines between you and Jaemin undefined.

Jaemin raises an eyebrow. “You aren’t worried about him?”

“He swore to send Donghyuck to the grave before him, he’ll be fine,” you say, “plus Jisung is there, sober. They’ll be fine.”

“And you?”

“I’ll be fine when I get home.” You tilt your head up from his shoulder only for him to look down at you, his nose brushing against yours. Your breath catches in your throat, heart pounding. But you don’t move away and neither does he.

“Take me home?”

He doesn’t move for a heartbeat, eyes flickering to your lips. Then he turns his head straight, patting your head with his free hand a couple times. “Okay.”

You whisper directions, a ten minute walk from Renjun’s place. The walk home is considerably less stumbly, your balance recovered halfway through the fries. You cling to Jaemin’s arm anyway, more afraid of letting him go than falling.

The building appears far too quickly, Jaemin pushing open the glass doors and walking you to the elevators. You don’t dare say a word to break the silence as the elevator dings to the third floor. He waits until you reach your door to disentangle himself from you, standing with the tips of his sneakers a millimeter away from yours, catching your hands in his.

“Goodnight, YN,” he says.

No. This isn’t the time for goodnight, not when every atom in your body might explode if he takes a step away. You tighten your fingers around his.

“Do you want to come in?” You ask. “See my apartment?��

He tilts his head, a little frown creasing his brow. “Okay.”

You fumble with your keys, hands shaking when you open the door. Emotions swirl around you, making it difficult to tell the difference between excitement and anxiety, if it exists. Calling the place an apartment is a bit of a stretch. Glorified broom closet is your preferred term–a bed shoved against the far wall with a tiny window next to it, desk tucked in next to it like a puzzle piece without enough space for a chair, a door for your bathroom, directly next to the “kitchen” of a stovetop oven and sink, and a closet that barely fits your coats.

Beyond being tiny, you left the place a mess, second, third, and fourth contenders for outfits strewn on your bed, unwashed dishes in the sink. The entryway is the only space for the two of you to stand together comfortably but you lead Jaemin farther in, balling up the clothes and tossing them into your hamper underneath the bed.

“I don’t normally have company,” you explain.

“It’s okay,” he says, “my room’s a mess too.” He picks up the pink teddy bear from your bed and smiles. “A gift?”

You shake your head. “Bought it myself for surviving sophomore year.” You pull the great white shark out from beneath a blanket. “Freshman year.”

“Cute,” Jaemin says, still looking at the bear.

You follow Jaemin as he wanders the tiny room. He pauses at a framed picture of the student council that sits on your desk. It was a gift from last year’s graduating cabinet, the whole group, president, appointed cabinet, unofficial members, and the fresh-terns, fifteen people in total.

“That one’s my ex,” you say, the word still strange in your mouth. “If you count two weeks as even dating.”

“The one in red?”

You nod.

Jaemin snorts. “I’m way hotter than him.” He sets the picture and turns, and suddenly only a couple inches of space separate him from you. This close, you can see exactly how pretty he is, long eyelashes that cannot be natural, even longer when he stares at his toes instead of meeting your eyes. And, this close, you can see the soft pink of his lips, lower lip jutting out just a tiny bit.

Not drunk, not yet sober, it’s easy to lean a little closer, brush your lips softly against his. The kiss is over before you can think about it.

You open your eyes to Jaemin staring at you, eyes wide, somewhere between disbelief and fear. You open your mouth to apologize but he moves faster, hand coming up to cup your face and pulling you closer until you kiss him again, your hand instinctively catching you against his chest. He links his fingers with your free hand, tugging you even closer to him.

He moves slow at first, a gentle kiss that takes your breath away anyway. He pulls away when the stars flood your brain, smile boyish and sweet. His thumb strokes your cheek into the shape of a heart. Then he slides his hands to the back of your neck, letting go over your other hand to wrap around your waist and pull you against his chest.

Jaemin knows how to kiss. He moves like it’s his last chance, desperate lips telling truths words can’t capture. And you might not have as much experience, but you understand the language of desperation. A never ending chain of fireworks explode within you, pushing you to wrap your arms around his neck, kiss him even harder. Your hands move on their own, tugging at the cloth of his shirt until he leans back, breathing heavily.

“How far you want to go?” He asks, chest rising and falling with each breath. “You know consent is so sexy.”

You laugh, giddiness making it difficult to think. “You have a condom?”

Jaemin grins, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. He slips the shiny packet out, tossing his wallet to the floor along with his shirt. He gives you a proper amount of time to ogle his chest before tugging you against him again, your heart pounding so hard against him he must feel it.

He tilts your head towards his until his lips brush against yours, and when he speaks, you feel every word. “Now where were we?”

[Na Jaemin] sorry I had to go :( [Na Jaemin] wish I could have been there when you woke up [Na Jaemin] but! I have a surprise [Na Jaemin] [image attached] [Na Jaemin] see you in the morning <3

You blink at the message, a picture of him wearing a fuzzy headband in the middle of his skincare routine. Your head pounds a little, but otherwise your hangover isn’t too bad. Definitely not the worst it’s ever been.

No, the strange feeling in your stomach is something else. Last night is burned into your memory, every move, every touch. Jaemin, who you fell asleep beside, though the timestamp on the texts show he didn’t stay much longer after. Not that you expected him to. It’s Jaemin, you remind your traitorous heart. No matter how much he flirts, no matter what he did drunk, he was never yours.

Your phone rings, but it isn’t Jaemin.

“Hey,” Renjun says.

“You sound awful,” you say, throat aching.

“You’re one to talk,” Renjun says, “and you didn’t even get to double digits. Donghyuck out-drank you.”

“And how’s Donghyuck doing?”

“Throwing up in the shower, it sounds like.”

You laugh, the motion, sending your stomach spinning. “Happy birthday Renjun.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, “I actually did call for a reason.”

“I am not helping with clean up,” you say, “Chenle swore he’d do all of it since he bailed on set up.”

“Not that,” Renjun says. “I’ll be over as soon as I can walk without passing out.” He hangs up, leaving you to frown at the empty screen.

Well, considering how late he got back, Jaemin probably won't be awake any time soon. You need to shower and rehydrate and try to convince your stomach to take something—and with how Renjun sounded over the phone, it seems like you’ll have plenty of time.

An hour later, slightly burnt toast, and post-Advil, the headache is mostly gone. Your stomach still twists at the thought of Jaemin. You jump at the doorbell but find Renjun wearing a mismatched sweatsuit and his bright orange crocs, glasses nearly sliding off the bridge of his nose. He wears the hood of his sweatshirt up but you can see tufts sticking up.

“God, did you shower?” You catch a whiff as he passes by, reeking of tequila.

“I was serious about coming over as soon as possible.” He groans, collapsing on your bed. “I think I maybe came over too early though. Might need to throw up.”

“Do you want toast?” You offer.

He glares at you. “Just sit.” Renjun rarely speaks with patience but today he seems extra short on it. Maybe because of the hangover, but the way he glares at the carpet before turning to look at you makes you wonder if something else is wrong. His eyes soften a little when he meets your eyes, his frown lightening just barely.

“I really wish I didn’t have to tell you this,” he begins. “Did you go out with Jaemin last night?”

“He… took me home,” you say. “What’s wrong Renjun?”

“Last night—well—this morning, I met some guys from Sigma Nu, who are friends with Jeno and Jaemin,” he says, “who were talking about how Jaemin is going to be president. About how he’s messing around with the frontrunner, trying to distract them or fuck around, trying to take the presidency.” He falls quiet, studying your face.

“He wouldn’t.” Your voice feels so small.

He wouldn’t, you said, but you can’t even convince yourself. Your heart flounders, drowning in a lake of its own creation, choking on fantasies. Your brain takes control in the chaos, gears turning despite the crashing waves. Facts don’t need oxygen.

1) Jaemin approached you about the presidency first

2) he pretended not to know you were running

3) he’s known for hooking up with anyone

4) he never belonged in your world

The conclusion is obvious, a conclusion you could have come to much sooner if you weren’t too busy getting swept off your feet by his easy flirting and sweet smile. Though your heart doesn’t want to believe it, it makes too much sense. So much more sense than the hope you were stupid enough to believe in. Jaemin isn’t that type. How many of your friends told you that? How many times did you tell yourself that? But you let him hurt you anyway because he held your hand and called you cute. How quickly a fruit can rot when it sits in the palm of your hand.

Jaemin doesn’t exist a universe away–he lives in your world, worse than a cliche. The type of boy that made you want to believe in him, even when you knew better from the start, and maybe that’s the worst part. He never hid who he was, what he wanted. It’s you that wanted more, that believed he could want something more. How pitiful.

“I’m sorry,” Renjun says softly. “I wanted him to be different.”

“Did you? Because everyone was telling me about how I needed to be careful, protect myself, not get hurt over him. Did any of you consider that I didn’t ever expect anything from him?” You shake your head. “No, you all thought poor little YN, getting their feet swept out from under themself over a boy that doesn’t give a shit about them? A boy that’s actively trying to stop them from achieving a dream they’ve had since they started college? Well, guess what? You all were right. Congratulations.” You bite your lip trying to hold back the tears but it’s too late.

“I’m sorry,” Renjun repeats. He pats your arm, looking away when you swipe at your eyes. He waits for you to take a shaky breath, hand on your arm. You grab the teddy bear, trying not to hear Jaemin calling it cute.

“I slept with him.” The admission burns its way up your throat. “Last night.” You sigh. “You don't have to tell me I’m an idiot.”

“Okay, I wasn’t going to say that,” Renjun throws his arm over your shoulders. “Though I’m kind of regretting sitting on the bed.” He scoots a little forward but squeezes your shoulder. “You’re going to do things you regret, there’s no stopping it.”

“Why do you always have to be right? Why am I exclusively attracted to shitty men?” Your chin digs into the innocent bear, jaw tightening. “Why can’t I just like a boy that likes me?”

“Do you think maybe you liked him too much?” Renjun asks gently. “Like maybe you liked the idea of him more than Jaemin himself.” He pauses, squeezing your arm. “Don’t let a boy that isn’t real hurt you.”

You lean into his touch, resting your head on his shoulder. “But he was real. Sweeter than persimmon. Like a strawberry. Or a mango.”

“Okay, I’m not understanding.”

“I thought he was a persimmon, a magic fruit I could imagine tasting sweet or sour or tart but he’s real and even though his flavor isn’t a mystery, it’s better than what I could have imagined. Like taking a bite of a pineapple and it’s the best pineapple you’ve ever had, juicy and sweet.”

“Okay first of all, that’s a terrible metaphor, please stop talking about how he tastes or I will throw up,” Renjun says. “Also persimmons are real.”

“I know that,” you snap, “but I’ve never had one, so they’re magic to me.” You stare ahead, grateful Renjun knows when you just need a little bit of time to work up the courage to say what you need to say. “I’m saying you are right. I didn’t really like him, not at first. But it’s worse than that because when I did get to know him, it was so much better. He wasn’t a dream, he was a boy who watches Grey’s Anatomy and does skincare even after a night of partying.

“I know it makes more sense, that his flirting wasn’t real, that he was never really interested in me. But nothing real about him makes sense, and I want to believe in him, still.” You purse your lips. “Pretty pathetic, huh?”

“You really liked him,” Renjun says, “that won’t just go away.”

“That would be too easy,” you mutter.

Renjun laughs. “You’re going to be fine. There are so many better men.”

“That’s what you said last time,” you say.

“And I was right,” Renjun says, “Jaemin is better than last time. Marginally. At least he isn’t a poli-sci major.”

You snort.

“See, you’re already laughing at him.” Renjun pushes you off his shoulder, standing up and groaning. “Now, I’m going to throw up in your bathroom, and then we can watch dumb action movies until your brain rots. The rest of the guys are supposed to come over, though I think Donghyuck is still throwing up.”

You bury your face into the bear. “Does everyone know?”

Renjun pauses. “The guys from this morning were sort of proud to be the ones to tell us.”

You groan. The door to your bathroom closes but you barely hear it. You clutch the bear a little tighter, as if the fluff could break through your chest and fill the spilling hole in your heart.

It would be too easy to blame Jaemin, to pretend like none of the pain is from your own stupidity. But you already told Renjun. You knew it from the start.

Knocking at the door, a knock that means only one person. You wipe the tears from your eyes and take a deep breath that does nothing to steady your heart.

“God, I was afraid I was waking you up.” Jaemin starts talking as soon as you open the door. He holds up a bag, a tray with two iced coffees and a hot cup. He looks unfairly good and, of course, he grins at you. “I wasn’t entirely sure what your hangover cure is, so I got hot and iced coffee, and there’s a breakfast sandwich and a donut and also these potato things, I really wasn’t sure what you’d like, but–”

“Did you know that I was running for president?”

Jaemin freezes, frown slowly curling his brow. “What are you–”

“Just answer the question.” You grip the door handle, knuckles turning white.

He pauses a moment too long. “It’s not like that.”

“Never talk to me again.” You fight the urge to slam the door, but your neighbors don’t have to suffer your wrath. You shake your head, “I can’t believe I fell for your bullshit.”

Jaemin opens his mouth but you close the door, sliding the deadlock as hard as you can. He has the audacity to try to explain himself. If you didn’t want to hear him out so badly, you might laugh. Instead you turn your back on the door, sliding down it until you can rest your head on your knees and sob.

Jaemin makes it halfway down the aisle of seats on Tuesday before you turn to Renjun, panic and tears in your eyes. He glares at Jaemin so hard he freezes in his tracks and doesn’t try again. He doesn’t look at you in class, not even a peek. On Thursday, he walks straight to his seat.

Chenle doesn’t bother to throw his packages into the recycling after opening them. He says he’s hanging onto them to make moving out easier, but really he’s just too lazy to break them down. You have to step around them to get into his apartment, since he thought it would be fun to make an obstacle course out of them. Navigating these sober is hard enough, you have no idea how he makes it to bed after a night out.

But today, it’s worth it. It’s been two weeks since you cut off Jaemin, a month since the day you bumped into him in class (a month and three days but who’s counting?). He doesn’t look at you anymore. You haven’t fully escaped him–every once in a while you’ll hear his laugh from the other side of the lecture room. The sound still stabs between your ribs, a wound turned new each time you hear it. But it cuts a little more shallow each time. One day you won’t feel it at all.

And today, Chenle got a puppy.

She cries before you make it over the baby gate in Chenle’s room. A tiny ball of white fluff bounds toward you, tripping over her own feet.

“Hi baby!” Your voice automatically rises three pitches looking at her. “Aren’t you just adorable!” You crouch down, letting her jump on your knees. She won’t sit still long enough to be pet, sprinting around your feet, then back to Chenle sitting on the floor, back resting against his bed.

“Hi to you, too,” Chenle says pointedly.

“Hi Chenle,” you turn back to his puppy. “And hello puppy!”

“Her name is Daegal,” he says. You can hear him rolling his eyes. “‘Cause she’s got a big ass head.”

“Chenle is so mean to you!” You coo at the puppy at your feet. “But that’s okay, I’ll take good care of you. You can come home with me!”

“You hear that baby?” Chenle says. “YN wants to pay me $1000 to take care of you!”

You stare at him. “Did you seriously adopt a $1000 puppy?”

He shrugs. “She’s really cute.”

“You’re insane.” Daegal settles down enough to let you pat her head.

“I invite you into my home for some much needed puppy love and this is how you treat me?” Chenle sighs. “To think that I felt bad for you, that I told you about her before anyone else. This is how I get treated for my kind heart.”

“I don’t need your pity,” you say. Daegal licks your hand.

“It’s not pity.” He pauses. “Well I guess it is pity, but you’re also my friend YN. Believe it or not, watching you live the sad boy lifestyle over some dude, again, is not fun. I’d much rather watch you being happy with my puppy.”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” you mutter.

Chenle claps his hands, making Daegal jump. “But that does remind me, everyone has been too much of a coward to ask, but I’ve heard from tertiary sources about his reputation, but I’d love a first hand account.”

“What are you talking about?” You eye him.

“How was the sex?”

“You’re seriously asking me that?”

He shrugs. “Well, yeah.”

You pick up Daegal, staring at her instead of Chenle. She wiggles her tail, then her paws, so you set her back down. “I’m not answering that.”

Chenle narrows his eyes, studying you. “That means it was good.”

“That’s not at all what I said.”

“And yet you’re not denying it.”

“Please shut the fuck up.”

For once he listens. With Renjun, silence means peace–he doesn’t say anything that doesn’t matter. When Chenle doesn’t speak, it means he has something to say and he isn’t sure how to say it. You peek up at him and your suspicions are confirmed. He chews on his lip, frowning at you.

“Just tell me.”

Chenle purses his lips. “He dropped out.”

“Of school?”

He rolls his eyes. “The election.”

You stare at him. “Seriously?”

“He hasn’t touched his application since Renjun’s birthday and Donghyuck said yesterday he emailed and said he wasn’t going forward with it.” He doesn’t say anything about how technically you should be checking the email.

“But it doesn’t make any sense.”

Chenle shrugs. “I’m just telling you what I was told.” He stands up. “Now! How much do you like cleaning up dog pee?”

You glance down at Daegal, who squats in the middle of the room, a dark stain on the carpet beneath her. Chenle tosses you some paper towels and a can of Febreeze.

“Why am I cleaning up after your dog?”

“Because you tried to steal her,” he says, “and I’ve already done this three times today and I’m really sick of it.”

You shake your head but pull off a paper towel and press it into the stain.

“We’re going out tomorrow night, by the way,” Chenle says. “And you’ve passed two weekends in a row so you’ve hit a cap for the month. You have to come with, no ‘buts.’”

Apparently the grace period of pity is over. Whatever, it’ll be nice to do something other than hiding in your room watching Powerpuff Girls. And maybe you will see him. Maybe you’ll get an answer to the giant question mark that’s lodged itself in your heart when Chenle told he dropped out. Maybe the little caterpillar of hope that’s survived these past few weeks can metamorphize.

And maybe he’ll break your heart again. But you won’t get any answers daydreaming.

How Renjun can still drink Tequila, you truly do not understand. Ever since his birthday, the thought of it makes your stomach flip, and you didn’t even drink that much. But he sips on the margarita, insisting it doesn’t taste like alcohol.

“It’s disgusting,” you say, pushing it closer to him. “I am not drinking this.”

He rolls his eyes. “You do realize the whole gimmick of this place is all their drinks are made with tequila, right?”

“No one told me that!” You glare at Chenle, who showed up at your door at exactly 8:00pm and dragged you to the bar. “For the record, I would have pre-gamed. But I guess I can be the babysitter tonight.”

Chenle cheers. “Donghyuck, you’re back in! YN is babysitting!”

Your drink slides down the table to Donghyuck, interrupting whatever ‘conversation’ he was having with Jisung.

“I thought the whole point of dragging you out was to make you have fun,” he says.

“You better be fun, then,” you say.

Donghyuck raises his eyebrows but eventually take a long sip. “Brain freeze!” He cries, clutching his forehead. You laugh with the rest of the guys. It’s almost normal, except you can’t help but peek at the door whenever somebody walks in.

The night passes and the guys get more drunk. The bar gets more crowded–soon you are squished between Renjun and Chenle, barely able to breathe as the music slowly gets louder. The tequila looks more and more appealing but the guys need at least one person sober to make it back alive: Chenle arm wrestles a stranger while Donghyuck has some poor soul cornered, practicing his pick up lines.

When Chenle loses, you push past him, muttering something about fresh air that they probably can’t hear. You push through the crowd of drunk people, trying not to remember the last time you did this.

You squint at the steps, edges difficult to see with so little light. Who builds a bar on the second floor of a building? You make it to the final step but misjudge how close it is and your foot slips off the edge, sending you tumbling forward. You might have caught yourself, but you don’t have to—strong arms catch you mid fall, wrapping around your waist and swinging you clean off the stairs and onto solid ground. You aren’t surprised at all to look into Jaemin’s eyes as he lets go.

He frowns at you, eyes so dark they look black. Maybe it’s the lack of light, but the twinkle in his eyes, the glint you’ve come to recognize as trouble, is missing.

“Hi,” you say.

He drops his arms, stuffing his hands into his back pockets. “So you’re talking to me now?”

An apology begins on your lips but you can’t push it out. Not when you still don’t understand. “Can we talk?”

He glances at you. “Have you been drinking?”

You shake your head.

“Okay.” He doesn’t walk away, folding his arms over his chest.

When you imagined this conversation, the sun shined so that you could see the warmth in his eyes. He smiled at you, called you silly for ever doubting him. The Jaemin in your head wouldn’t ever do something to hurt you.

But Jaemin doesn’t exist in your head–it’s far past time you learned that.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I shouldn’t have just cut you off. But I thought… I don’t know what I thought, let alone what I think now.” You force yourself to meet his cold eyes, searching for a hint of warmth. “Chenle told me you dropped out of the presidency.”

He nods slowly.

“But Renjun told me that someone told him that the presidency is the only reason you ever pretended to like me, but if you dropped out then I really don’t get it. Not that I ever got it in the first place, though, because you’re you and I’m me, and everyone kept telling me that, like I didn’t already know that you are supposed to be a persimmon and grow on a tree far far away from my lemon or pomegranate or whatever kind of fruit I am, because the point is we were never meant to be.” You take a deep breath, realizing that you don’t exactly sound sane. “What I’m trying to say is that it doesn’t make sense. It made sense when you were trying to cheat me out of the presidency, but you dropped out. And it doesn’t make sense.”

Jaemin blinks slowly at you. “You would rather believe that I was trying to rob your presidency than that I actually like you?”

“Do you?”

He frowns. “Of course I do. I like you so much I think about things I’ve never wanted before, the silly shit–watching horror movies as an excuse to cuddle, having picnics by the river, buying groceries together–I wanted to do all of it with you.

“You talk a lot about how we’re different people—who gives a shit? If I’m the type of person that wants to be with you and you’re the type of person that wants to be with me, why does any of that matter?” He takes a step closer to you, and you can see you were wrong. His eyes aren’t cold, they’re full of emotion, dark waves of hurt. “What do I have to do to prove it to you? Should I tell you how pretty you are? How incredibly smart you are—not fake smart like me, but really smart. And when I’m around you, I like who I am. I know it’s cheesy but you bring out the best in me.

“I know I fucked up. I should have told you how I felt before anything else, and I shouldn’t have left. I regretted it as soon as I was gone but it was terrifying to lay next to you and give you my bare heart, even when I didn’t think you would ever try to hurt me.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know if it hurts more thinking that you never wanted a relationship or thinking that I’d ever stoop that low. I mean, everyone tells me about my reputation, but I didn’t think you cared about any of that.”

Tears prick at your eyes. How could you be such an idiot? Listening to all the wrong people, especially yourself. Jaemin doesn’t exist in another world, he isn’t any kind of fruit. He’s a boy that you like that likes you back. It doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, reaching a tentative hand out to rest against his arm. “I’m so sorry.” He drops his head, sighing. “I was an idiot.”

He sighs, staring at your hand. You start to drop it but he grabs it, squeezing your fingers. “Where do we go from here?”

You study him, eyes finally adjusted to the darkness. Jaemin who is not a fruit, not an alien, just a boy.

“Hey.” You reach out and cup his cheek, waiting for him to meet your eyes. “My name is YN. I think you’re really cute.”

For a heartbeat he doesn’t move. Then he smiles, cheek rising underneath your hand. “Hey, my name is Jaemin. I think you’re really cute too.”

“Oh really?” You slide your hand to the back of his neck, wrapping your other arm across it. His arms wrap on your waist, pulling you into a hug. He squeezes you flush against him, head tucked into your shoulder just as yours is tucked into his.

“I know we can’t start over,” he says, “but can we start again?”

“How about this time we just talk to each other?” You say, tapping your fingers on his shoulder. “No more rumors and gossip.”

He nods, chin digging into your neck a little. “I swear, I won’t give you any reason to doubt me ever again. I won’t be the kind of guy your friends call a red flag.”

You loosen your grip and lean back to look him in the eye. “Wait, did they seriously say that to you?”

“I ran into Donghyuck after I dropped out and we had a very… one sided conversation with his side doing all the talking,” Jaemin says, “and Renjun made it obvious from the start that he didn’t like me.”

You laugh a little, then even more when he pouts. “You’ll win them over again.”

“They really don’t like me,” he says.

You cup his cheek again. “You’ll change their minds.” He leans into your touch, closing his eyes. You lean forward, resting your forehead against his. He gasps a little, hands tightening on your waist.

“Now, am I remembering incorrectly, or are you an amazing kisser?” You ask.

He grins, leaning forward and closing the distance without wasting a second. Neither of you can stop smiling, lips and teeth gnashing together but it’s still the best kiss you’ve ever had.

You stretch an arm out, only to find more bed instead of empty space. You sit up, shivering as the blanket falls away. Right, you fell asleep in Jaemin’s bed. His room is much bigger than yours, sharing an apartment with Jeno. He has enough room for a dresser and a nicer desk, even a chair. It seems he lied to you about being messy, because even when you show up unannounced, like today, his clothes are neatly folded and the biggest mess you’ve found has been three dirty dishes in the sink (which you later found out were Jeno’s).

Jeno, apparently, isn’t all bad–he did let you in even though your boyfriend was still out. He doesn’t fully trust you, but then again, your friends don’t hide their mistrust of Jaemin either. You maintain your earlier stance that time will heal that wound.

You hear a knife against a cutting board coming from the kitchen, so you wrap the blanket around your shoulders and shuffle towards the sound, unable to stop the smile from spreading up your lips when you turn the corner and find Jaemin standing at the counter. He glances behind him and grins at you, and even though you just woke up from a nap and probably have messy hair and marks on your face, he says, “you look sexy.”

“So cheesy,” you say. He laughs and turns back around. You slip behind him and wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his back and closing your eyes. He radiates warmth better than any blanket. It’s too easy to lean against him, take a deep breath of the scent of his laundry detergent and cling to him. Jaemin moves slowly, careful not to hit you by accident.

“What’re you doing?”

“A surprise,” he says, “at least my attempt at one.” He sets down the knife on the counter and taps on your hands, pulling them apart gently and spinning around to face you before setting your hands back on his waist. He tilts his head at you when you purse your lips and frown. “What’s wrong?”

“Still no ass,” you say, patting him a little lower than his waist.

“Hey!” He sticks his lower lip out. “I’m trying.”

“No one’s perfect,” you say, sliding your hands back up and sneaking a kiss to his cheek.

“You are,” he says, cupping your face to kiss you properly. Jaemin still kisses like it’s his last chance, drawing out every moment, lips lingering on yours until your head spins. It’s only when you can’t breathe that he finally pulls away.

“Good answer,” you say.

He smiles. “If you come to the gym with me I’d be more motivated to get an ass you’d be proud of.”

“You send enough pictures for me to know that if I saw you at the gym I would never survive,” you say. “You want me to die?”

He laughs, squishing your face together with his hands. “If anyone’s going to die, it’s going to be me, because you are too cute.”

He presses another kiss to your lips, still squished together in a pout. He laughs at the outrage on your face, letting go of your cheeks and slipping his hands behind your neck, kissing you one more time for real, letting go far too early.

“The surprise,” he says. He lets go of you with one arm, turning to the cutting board and holding up a slice of what he was cutting. It looks a little bit like a tomato, though it’s more orange than red, and about the size of a golf ball.

“A persimmon?”

“I still don’t really get the persimmon thing,” he says, “but I’ve never tried one.”

You blink at him. Jaemin makes it so easy to fall in love. He holds the piece closer to your mouth, waiting for you to open. A persimmon tastes sweet and mild and rich, a little bit like honey. Jaemin eats his own piece, frowning and nodding.

“No more magical mystical fruit,” Jaemin says.

“You’re going to make an amazing trophy husband,” you say. You tap him on the nose. “Maybe we could even be a power couple.”

He grins. “We’ll be so cool. Like Beyoncé and her husband.”

“Jay-Z?”

“Whatever.” Jaemin flips his hand. “The important part is that I am Beyoncé.”

You smack his shoulders softly. “Hell no, Beyoncé would never have a flat ass.”

“It always comes back to the ass.” He sighs. “Be honest: are you embarrassed by me?”

Once you never thought he could be embarrassing. That was before you knew he staked his career on a soap opera and wears jorts to the gym, before he called you drunk just to confess he accidentally stole your pencil, before he spent three hours putting up campaign posters for you (and then another two getting written up by campus police for not having permission). Before you fell in love with him.

“By you? Never.” You pat his cheeks. “Your ass leaves much to be desired, though.”

thank you for reading!

#🌟 stars galaxy #nct #nct dream #nct x reader #nct dream x reader #nct reader #nct fanfic #nct dream fanfic #nct dream fluff #nct dream angst #nct fluff #nct angst #jaemin #na jaemin #nct jaemin #jaemin x reader #jaemin fluff #jaemin angst

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stonesilhouette · 11 months ago

Text

Feline Fiasco

Hetalia x Reader

This is written for a female reader but there isn't really anything specific that would suggest that besides a few references. If you want to read, I'm not going to stop you.

Also (Y/n) is completely uninterested in the countries for the majority of this, all she's interested in is the cats. This is way fluffier than anything else I've posted, which is two things, and this part is relatively America-centric because (Y/n) works for him. This is also way less quality work than those two posts but idk deal with it?

There is more to this but it's unfinished and I'll probably never post it. My friend also helped with the cat names so if you don't like them... uh assume that they chose them. One last note, I thought it would be funny to write the accents so you also have to deal with that.

As one of the many secretaries working in the White House, it was actually quite a surprise to you that you ended up as the main secretary to the human personification of the U.S.A.

Because of this, you had become quite close to Mr. F. Jones and more importantly: his cat.

You couldn't help but coo at the adorable and floofy feline. Sure, you should probably finish filing those papers, but national security can wait a few more minutes. Besides you couldn't resist the allure of the purr. It would be an understatement to say, when you learned that the other personifications also had furry friends of their own, you were excited.

America didn't want you interacting with the other countries, especially not Russia. But you honestly didn't care and you weren't the recording secretary for those meetings, so it's not like you were in attendance anyways. That somehow didn't stop you from having to tag along and meeting more nation cats; of which you weren't sure why they had brought them along in the first place. It's not like you were complaining.

Ball of fur after ball of fur. No cat went un-petted. Except for Germany's cat; he had evaded you time and time again. But no longer! For today was the last day and you were going to pet that cat if it was the last thing you did.

There it was. It's sleek black fur, the ribbon in Germany's signature colors around its neck, and that always alert look on its face. He would evade you no more. You crouched down in your very inflexible pencil skirt and prepared to pounce.

"Vhat are jou doing?" A voice thick with a German accent called out, startling you and the cat who decided to bound back towards him and into his arms.

"Uhhhh." You blanked.

"You're America's secretary right? Vat vere jou trying to do to my cat?" He questioned, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

You gulped and tried to explain your actions in a way that didn't sound absolutely ridiculous.

"I-uh. I wanted to pet your cat and… he kept evading me and I thought if I snuck up on him that I could pet him." You looked away and pitifully whispered, "Sorry."

"If jou vanted to pet him, all you had to do was ask."

"Really!?" Your eyes lit up and you looked up at the German with pure and unbridled excitement. He coughed and looked away with a slight blush resting on his cheeks.

"Of course." He held the cat out. You, with no hesitation whatsoever, immediately started to adore and love the cat, even shifting it from Germany's arms to your own.

As you continued to pet the cat, who despite his earlier refusal, seemed quite happy, you asked Germany a question. "My name's (Y/n). What's yours if you're willing to share? No pressure though."

His eyes widened a bit before he shook it off and gave you an answer. "Ludwig Beilschmidt." He responded, studying his cat. "Germouser seems to like jou."

You could barely stifle a laugh at the name he had given to the black cat. He sensed your amusement and gave an explanation.

"Feli- Italy named him. I vas going to name him Johann or something similar. Italy was zoroughly horrified by my suggestions and vould not rest until I vent vith his."

You smiled at the Italian's antics and shook your head with amusement. "Germouser is a fine name for an absolutely wonderful cat."

Germany seemed to get flustered again as he watched you coo at his cat, completely ignoring his presence. He would have just left him with you, but the meeting was starting soon and he didn't want to be late. Luckily for him, America decided to pop around the corner, demanding your attention. So you were forced to give up the precious kitty cat and return with Mr. Jones.

Alfred was annoyed. Not at you but at everyone else. Why did they have any right to be around you? You were an American citizen. His citizen. Sure, all you were really interested in was their cats. But what if you thought that they and their cats were so cool that you left him and went to live in a different country instead? He couldn't let that happen.

"So, (Y/n), dude, broette." He said on the way to the meeting room. "Here's the deal."

You gave him a look and raised an eyebrow.

"I need someone to watch Hero for me and my sitter flaked so you're gonna be watching him." He fingered-gunned at you and stars seemed to shine in the air around him. This, of course, was nothing new to you. It wasn’t like you would have rather been attending the meeting anyways.

So you stayed in a different unoccupied meeting room with a lovely, furry friend. It wasn't until he started hissing at a corner that you were in trouble.

"Hero, what's wrong?" You asked, concerned at the agitated cat. His tail bristled up and his ears flattened down as he took a defensive position. Out of nowhere another fluffy cat waltzed in from the very corner that Hero had been hissing at. It was Boris, a cat that belonged to Russia.

You hadn't actually gotten to pet him yet because to be honest, you were also scared of Russia. But… He wasn't around… and his cat was. And his cat was purring.

That was about all the reasoning that you needed to brush past Hero and scoop Boris up into your arms. The former started yowling for your attention and followed you as you went to sit down with the Russian cat.

You laid down on the plush carpeted floor and lifted the cat that you were holding up above you. Boris’ fluffy body was placed onto your chest and he immediately started purring louder once he got comfortable. He nuzzled his face into your neck, much to the annoyance of the American cat. Hero yowled at you and pawed at Boris, desperately trying to get him off.

Boris only gave him a smug look in return and kneaded into you, further solidifying his spot. Hero decided that it wasn’t worth the fight and that he was going to get his owner to remove the Russian cat and put him back into his mother’s lap: aka you.

The surprisingly smart and agile cat leapt around the room and pushed down the door handle, slipping out through the crack. You didn’t notice this as you were currently immersed in the bliss of a cat sitting on you and letting you pet it.

Eventually the purring lulled you into a peaceful and warm slumber, the two of you deciding to take a cat nap.

It would be Russia who found you first. Ivan realized that his cat had gone missing and he honestly didn’t care enough about the meeting to stay. It's not like anyone would try to stop him.

So as Hero bounded down the halls towards the meeting room, Mr. Ivan Braginsky came from the other direction; his sense of where his cat was at any one moment was completely uncanny.

The Russian gradually opened the wooden door and it quietly opened without any resistance. He turned his head towards where he heard purring and was met with a surprising sight. It was America’s secretary, with his cat, lying, with his cat.

You were breathing softly and the movements of your chest moving up and down also moved Boris. Ivan couldn’t help but faintly smile at the sight. Said cat opened a singular eye to acknowledge the new presence in the room. He flicked his tail and settled back into his spot. Not wanting to bother you or the cat, Ivan pulled out a chair and sat down.

He pulled out some paperwork, seemingly from nowhere, and began to work on it. The sounds of your quiet breathing, combined with the light purr from Boris, made for a calming work environment.

As the three of you remained in peaceful bliss, another kitty cat was running around the corner on the never ending search for food. Itabby trotted up and down the corridors looking for an open door that might lead to some food that didn’t come from England. Her golden fur glimmered as the sun shined through the many windows in the building. She looked over at a door that had opened slightly and was too blinded by the thought of food to notice the scarily familiar scent coming from the room.

Itabby scampered over to the door but screeched and meowed as she was sent flying by an American blonde and his equally irritated cat. She tentatively peered around the door at the scene forming.

“HEY!” Alfred yelled, startling both you and the cat. You shot up straight, Boris falling into your lap. “What are you doing with her?!” He yelled again, getting his face up into Ivan’s. The other man gave him an unamused look and stood up, towering over him. Alfred, despite this, did not back down and continued to stare angrily at him.

“Go away.” The white-haired male said, his accent heavy as he crossed his arms. “You have startled them with your unnecessary noise. You are just like the rest of your country.”

The air tensed and became heavier as the seconds went on. They began to size each other up as Hero, ironically, “heroically” walked proudly over to you and with his front paws, pushed Boris off of your lap. He quickly took his place and started purring. Boris’ fur began to puff up as he hunched down and prepared to pounce. His back legs flexed and he made the jump, sending both him and Hero flying towards their fighting owners, who were remarkably somehow not in a physical fight. Yet.

You very quickly realized that you did not want to be in the middle of two superpowers fighting and quietly took your leave. (E/c) eyes met feline amber ones and you swept up the cat and made your escape, leaving behind the feuding men and cats.

Itabby snuggled into your arms as you finally slowed down to catch your breath. Her round tail whooshed back and forth as you tiredly walked through the long hallway. The two of you eventually ended up in the rose gardens of the meeting building. The area was well taken care of and beautiful if you did say so yourself. The meeting was taking place in England and Mr. Jones had told you about how the Brit enjoyed gardening, so it made sense as to why it was here.

Speaking of the British, you spotted a fluffy feline shape from the corner of your eye. It was deeper into the gardens and among the trees. Itabby finally decided that it was time to go and return to her owner. She gracefully leaped out of your arms and landed on all fours and trotted off to beg Italy for some pasta. You instead continued your approach to the cat, which at this point, you could tell was a Scottish Fold.

The left side of his face was brown and so was his tail. Alike to his owner, he seemed to have what you assumed were some kind of eyebrows and when he opened his eyes to look at you, his olive eyes stared into yours. He flicked his tail and layed back down onto the wall that he was laying on. His collar jingled as he moved and you quietly moved up to him. On the gold circle attached to the same olive color collar, was a name.

‘Scone’ You thought. ‘Oh my god. This is the most English cat name I have ever seen.’

You almost started laughing but the smoldering glare the cat gave you made you think otherwise. The stone wall was surprisingly cold for the summer sun and as you sat down, you took a look at Scone. He seemed to still be quite grumpy, but he knew you from earlier in the week, so he was not alarmed. You lifted up and moved your left arm forward to start petting him.

Scone was soft and clearly well-taken care of. His fur was clean and had no knots or dirt insight, despite laying around a garden for half a day. You continued your actions and the both of you started to fall back into slumber. Your hand hovered on the back of the feline and your head slumped alongside your body.

It was peaceful. With birds chirping and the wind lightly blowing. There was a river babbling somewhere in the background and it made for a serene scene. The only reason he had let you pet him was because you had fed him earlier in the week. He didn’t have his collar at that point so this was the first time you had gotten his name. Your eyes closed as you recalled the event from a couple of days prior.

The day after the plane landed you were on the hunt for felines. Armed with some cat food, a retractable mouse-on-a-stick and hope, you made your way around the building England had set aside for housing the rampant countries, and byproduct, their cats. France’s cat, Monsieur, was an absolute attention wh-. He really liked attention, and would rub himself against your leg anytime the two of you crossed paths. It’s not like France, or Francis, was much better.

It’s not like you minded petting him. He was adorable after all. The cat, not Francis. But you had wanted to meet as many other cats as you could and so you had to stop by Francis’ room multiple times to drop off Monsieur.

“Je suis désolé.” He said, taking Monsieur out of your arms. “He keeps getting out. But I guess he knows when there’s a lovely lady around.”

You ignored his attempts at flirting and instead scratched Monsieur’s chin one last time before leaving. He purred at you and while you felt bad about leaving him, you were on a mission! Besides, you had a certain Japanese cat to track down. Monsieur meowed at you as you walked down the hallway and if you didn’t know better you’d say so did Francis.

Either way, nothing was going to stop you from petting Tama, Japan’s cat. He was an adorable little black and white feline with the cutest little bob for a tail. You had actually spotted him earlier and was about to go up to him before Monsieur literally jumped into your arms, demanding attention. Of course you weren’t going to say no so Tama quickly left your sight as you went to return Monsieur.

Wait, isn't Monsieur just sir in French? Oh well there was no time to think about questionable cat names, this building was full of them.

Monsieur wasn’t the only attention whore of a cat. Prussia’s cat, Purrussia, wasn’t much better. He would follow you down hallways and meow with his scratchy meow at you while Austria’s cat, Allegro, whined behind him. He literally tried to jump up at you a few times.

Of course both of them were interrupted when Hero ran straight at you and tackled you like a professional linebacker. You had thought that it was mostly fluff, but no, apparently Hero could pack a punch. He knocked the wind out of you as you fell backwards onto the tiled floor. The cat sat proudly on you and looked around like he was waiting for something or someone. Whoever he was waiting for, however, wouldn’t show up fast enough to see Purrussia return the favor and tackle Hero off of you, much to Allegro’s horror.

The white cat had a German ribbon as well but it looked like it was fraying at the edges. The reason you were bringing this up was because Hero was currently using one of the edges to try to choke Purrussia and Allegro was using the other to try to pull Purrussia away from Hero. Neither was really working and all it was really doing was making Purrussia more and more agitated.

“PURRUSSIA!!!” A shrill voice yelled out from down the hallway.

The cats stopped their roughhousing to see two of the countries barrelling down towards them. Well Prussia was. Austria was slowly walking over, looking more inconvenienced than anything else.

“Purrussia! Purrussia!” Prussia reiterated, pulling his cat up by its arms. “Did jou vin?!”

Everyone but the two Prussians stared in disbelief at his statement. The albino feline furiously nodded his head and if he could have talked you would have imagined that he would have been saying, ‘I’m awesome!’

Hero angrily meowed down below, as if to oppose Purrussia’s non-verbal statement. Allegro just haughtily licked his paw and stuck his nose up as if to pretend that he was disgusted with their fighting as if he hadn’t just been a part of it. Austria picked up his in-denial cat and you picked up Hero who calmed down as soon as you did.

“Sorry about him.” You said, brushing his unruly fur down with your hand. “He gets a little competitive.”

“Ja. It’s fine.” Austria said, petting his own cat. “Purrussia is not much better.”

“HEY!” Prussia yelled. “My awesome Purrussia is doing his best! And besides, at least he actually does something!”

“Jour cat picked a fight vith a vall (wall) Gilbert.” Austria sassed.

“Vell jour cat’s piano playing is trash!”

Austria gave a gasp of horror before inching closer to the Prussian.

“Jou take zat back, RIGHT NOW!”

Prussia just laughed, still letting Purrussia’s back paws dangle as he held him like one would a toddler. He got in close to the Austrian’s face, smiling deviously at him.

“Nein.”

He suddenly, while still holding Purrussia, took off, running away from Austria. He wasn’t far behind though and you could hear the man yelling in German all the way down the far corridor.

“Well Hero.” You said, looking down at the cat who had made himself very comfortable. “That was weird.”

He just snuggled closer to you and you sighed. You scratched him once more before heading down the opposite hallway. The destination was clear, before you could continue your cat quest, you’d have to get this one safely back to its owner.

You suddenly snapped back to reality, still sitting on the wall. The sun was now high in the sky and the spot underneath you was no longer cold. You were especially warm as you now had a Scottish Fold sitting comfortably upon your lap. Quietly cooing at the cat, you looked to see if there was any way to escape your furry prison. The most important rule of cats: once a cat sits on you, you’re not moving until they do.

You sighed, legs uncomfortably stiff. Scone was far more content and his bushy tail occasionally brushed against your leg. It was incredibly cute but it didn’t make your back stop hurting from being hunched over for the last half hour.

Voices came from farther within the garden. There were two people currently engaged in a soft conversation. You caught bits and pieces of it; there was a man with a British accent and a man with what you thought was American until you heard him say ‘aboot.’ You couldn’t help but snicker at your own observation, disturbing Scone in the process.

He scornfully meowed at you and you offered pets in an apology. Around the corner turned Scone’s owner and a man who looked incredibly similar to America. They both turned to look at you when the Scottish Fold you were fondling stretched out to impossible lengths and complained like a cat while he did it. England looked down at your lap to see his cat very happily cushioned on your thighs. The man next to him was also holding a cat who again looked very similar to America’s.

They were clearly different though. This man’s hair was more auburn and his eyes were a shade of impossible purple. There was also more of a wave to it whereas America’s hair was as straight as hair comes. Familiarity lit up in your eyes, not for the man however.

“Maple!” You exclaimed, wanting to go to the cat but also not willing to disturb the one on you. “How have you been?”

The men stared at you, wondering if you were talking to them or the cat. Of course Maple himself answered this as he jumped out of his owner’s arms and darted over to you. He gracefully climbed up the small wall and placed himself down by you. Scone was on your lap and he was nicer than Hero so as to not push him off. You moved one of your arms to pet Maple and kept the other on Scone. They were so cute you felt like you were going to explode.

“Oh.” A quiet voice spoke out. It came from the man behind England. “You’re Alfred’s secretary right?”

You smiled and nodded at the man. “And I assume that means you’re Canada, right?”

He looked a tad taken aback before nodding himself. “Yeah…” He trailed off and England instead picked up the conversation.

“I thought you were supposed to be watching his furrball cat, Hero.” He walked over and leaned against the wall.

“I was. But then he and Boris got into a catfight… and then America and Russia got into a catfight.”

Canada laughed in the background but quickly covered it up. England stared at Scone, looking to see if there was anyway to get him off of you without being scratched himself. He had enough injuries, that should have scarred had he not been a country, from the cat. He shivered a bit, though also began to pet the feline, scratching his under the chin.

“That sounds like those two.”

You hummed in agreement, continuing your affections. Canada also came over to pet his own cat who ironically did smell like maple syrup.

“Can I make you the villain of this story?” You asked England, gesturing to Scone. “I do actually have somewhere I need to be.”

“Oh I suppose I can assume that role.” He mused, carefully picking up his cat. He was not happy to be moved but England just shushed him.

Canada also picked up his cat who was slightly nicer about the whole thing. He fidgeted with Maple’s ear as he held him.

“I’m Matthew.” He said, carefully shifting Maple so he could put one arm out to shake your hand.

You finished the formal greeting. “I’m (Y/n).”

The other blonde butted in from the background. “I’m Arthur, love.”

“It’s very nice to formally meet both of you. Seeing you from across a meeting room doesn’t really count.” You smiled and gave a small pat to each of the feline’s heads. “Well I wasn’t kidding about needing to get somewhere. I really didn’t mean to get stopped as long as I did.”

You playfully glared at the Scottish Fold sitting comfortably in his owner's arms. He promptly ignored you, instead turning around cutely. England apologized but you told him it was fine. You were at least 50% sure that Mr. Jones was probably still fighting with Russia. Those two really were like angry cats. You waved the two men off and went on your way to find out the answer to that question.

Instead of coming across two feuding superpowers, you came across two of the Asian nations’ cats. You had already met them both but this was the first time you were seeing them together. Tama was sitting up high on a shelf while China’s cat, Meowzedong, was angrily meowing at him from down below. Everytime he tried to climb up, Tama would use a paw and swipe a book or other object down at him.

You flinched as a very breakable, very expensive-looking, vase crashed down. It was this movement that alerted the two cats to your presence and Meowzedong wasted no time at all to come over to you and complain. Now you couldn’t exactly speak cat but you got the jist.

Bending down, you carefully picked up the cat. Meowzedong always had a weird clump of fur that looked almost like a ponytail that, no matter how much China cut it, always grew back. He yowled at you and pointed a furry paw in Tama’s direction. The other cat had already loafed on top of the high shelf and you looked at him, back at Meowzedong, back at Tama, and then back at Meowzedong again.

“I don’t know how tall you think I am but I’m not that tall.”

Meowzedong just narrowed his eyes and meowed at you again. You sighed, looking back at Tama. If he had a long enough tail to flick it at you he would’ve. Sensing the futility of his quest, Meowzedong instead spread himself out in your arms and if you didn’t know better you would have said that he was mocking Tama. And if you really didn’t know better you’d say that it was working and that the bobtail was getting more irritated by the second. The personifications might have had to act cordial but their cats had no such qualms.

Finally, Tama de-loafed himself and gracefully hopped down a few other layers before reaching the bottom. He gracefully walked over to you and sat on your foot… Well shoot. What were you supposed to do now?

So here you were, from one cat prison to the next. Standing in the middle of some random, out-of-the-way hallway because the nations’ cats were all attention-hogging, though very adorable, brats.

You didn’t know how much time had actually passed. There was no clock in the hallway, you didn’t wear a watch, and both of your hands were occupied so you couldn’t check your phone. As cute as they were, your legs felt like they were about to collapse in on themselves. You couldn’t even shift how you were standing because Tama had taken it upon himself to lay across both of your shoes. Your arms also felt like they were going to fall off at any second. Meowzedong wasn’t a particularly heavy cat but try holding anything over five pounds for longer than five minutes.

You were desperately hoping that either they would finally get bored and leave or someone would come to save you. Wow you guessed you really did need a “Hero” right about now… Dammit you thought that referencing needing a hero in your head would magically summon America or his equally hotheaded cat.

“Tama. Meowzedong.” You murmured. “Can you please get off?” You hoped to whatever god or gods were out there that they didn’t hear the desperation in your voice. Never show weakness to a cat.

The two cats made eye contact with each other for a moment and seemed to come to an agreement. Meowzedong stretched his body out before jumping onto the ground. Tama did the same but instead greeted Meowzedong when he landed.

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration if you said that you collapsed onto the wooden floor below. You quickly got up however as you didn’t want them to see it as another chance to sit on you. At least not right now. You pulled out your phone to see all of the messages and calls you missed. You had put it on silent while watching Hero and forgot to turn it back to vibrate.

‘Oh my god Mr. Jones called me twenty-three times.’ You thought, frantic. ‘I’m gonna be in so much trouble!’

You raced down the hallway, startling a group of micronations as you went. There was no time to apologize! You had to keep your job! If not for you then for the cats!

Not even thinking to knock you burst open the door where America was staying, side note why wasn’t it locked? And were greeted with the sight of!... Mr. Jones… crying? His cat looked pretty dejected too and was currently hanging himself off the side of the bed like a rug.

“Sir?” His head shot up to look at you.

He quickly snapped his head back away, mushing at his face in an attempt to try to make it seem like he wasn’t crying.

“(Y-Y/n)” He stuttered for a second, before immediately going back to the hero persona. “Where’ve you been!?”

“Are you okay?” You ignore him, instead asking your own question.

You titiled your body to look at what he was looking at… Was that a framed picture of you?!

It didn’t matter because he was very quickly all in your face again. You could see what seemed to be a rapidly healing black eye and a tooth that hadn’t fully regrown in yet as he smiled at you. Just how long was he fighting with Russia for?

You sat him down on his bed, considering if you should even bother getting a medkit for him. Either way you ended up spending the rest of the day with him, watching movies and sitting what you considered a good ways away from each other on the plush couch. He apparently had a nicer room in all of England’s properties from when he used to live there during parts of the year.

Hero filled the gap in-between you of which America was mildly annoyed about. He kept trying to get you to use ‘Alfred’ but you insisted that it was unprofessional. He’d close the gap one day.

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yezhi1k · 18 days ago

Text

Flowers & Cherries chp.2.5 (Jinx x Reader)

Notes: hey guysss.... so half-way through this chapter I got super-duper wine drunk and was not in the condition to finish this chapter... so sorry besties, the smut will come in the next chapter I promise.

Summary: you went to the meeting with Silco, and something bad happened... that's about it.

“You look like you were dunked in shit. Lighten up.”

You were sitting on a boulder with your elbows on your knees, spinning the full cylinder of a gun. Your eyes traveled up in the direction of the voice; Smeech was looming over you, looking smug and careless as usual.

The two of you, along with the rest of the gang, were stationed at a desolate courtyard in front of a, seemingly, abandoned building. The reality was different; inside was one of Silco’s many shimmer production plants, churning out more and more of the purple hellish liquid by the second. You found yourself in that courtyard, sitting on that very boulder, every month. Every month, Silco, accompanied by Sevika, would announce all the modifications he wanted done to your protection plan, where people should be posted, which areas the Firelights migrated to, and so on. You didn’t quite understand why he wouldn’t just write all of this down and let you read it to your goons, maybe he felt that showing himself in the flesh would maintain an air of fear and discipline in your ranks. Who knew what Silco was thinking? Not you, especially not that morning.

Smeech was awoken by a frantic pounding on his front door. Grabbing the nearest weapon, which happened to be a bat one of his goons left behind, he creeped up to the door as silently as his squeaking limbs let him. He waited at the door for a moment, listening as the pounding continued. After a few seconds, he swung the door open so hard it almost fell off its hinges and brought the bat over his head in the general direction of the pounder. To his surprise, he didn’t find a violent intruder. Only you. You looked disheveled, your eyes were wide and bloodshot with grotesque shadows casted underneath. The color was drained from your face. Smeech would’ve been furious, if he wasn’t so intrigued. He had almost never seen you like this.

“Have you slept?”

You shook your head and pushed past him. Smeech cast several cautious glances up and down the street and, satisfied that no one else was around, shut the door. He found you wildly pacing back and forth. Neither of you spoke until you suddenly stopped in your tracks and stared at him with the two scarlet saucers that were now your eyes.

“We can’t go to the meeting today.”

Smeech let out a huff and dropped himself onto the sofa.

“Why not?”

You started pacing again. Smeech’s tiny pupils followed you.

“Don’t know,” you muttered, biting the nail of your index finger, “Don’t know, but Silco is planning something. That fucker is planning something bad.”

“How do you know?”

“Because, damn it!” your voice broke off into a hoarse yell, “First he called me into his office, and offered to essentially buy me off you, and when I said no Jinx cornered me and practically begged on her knees that I wouldn’t come today!”

You suddenly made a sharp turn and stormed up towards Smeech’s sitting figure. As you reached him you grabbed him by the collar and pulled him in.

“What did you do?” you hissed, eyes wild, knuckles turning white from the pressure, “What the actual fuck did you and your half-baked goons do to piss him off? I literally did everything for you, I built rapport with him, I negotiated with him, I run to his office to kiss his ass every week just so you fuckers would get paid more. What did you do, you son of a bitch?!”

Before you got the chance to strangle him, Smeech ripped your hand from his collar and pushed you back, before jumping to his feet again.

“Have you gone crazy? Calm down!” you took deep, ragged breaths as you watched him adjust his collar, “We didn’t do anything.”

It was your turn to collapse onto the sofa now. You put your elbows on your knees and cradled your head in your hands. Back home you have emptied your medicine cabinets trying to battle another migraine. Silco’s stuff was good, no doubt about it, but it turned out it wasn’t at all long-lasting.

“Smeech, be fucking real.”

“I am!” the yordle threw up his mechanical paws, “When have I ever let you down?”

You were about to narrate the monstrous list of every single time he had let you down, but he kept going.

“As for Silco and Jinx… Everyone knows you’re Jinx’s new favorite toy now. No offence.”

You scoffed.

“None taken.”

“So maybe she just nagged her daddy into trying to get you… fully. And when you didn’t budge, she threw a tantrum,” Smeech continued. You glared up at him.

“Do you even believe what you are saying?”

“Fully,” he nodded and plopped onto the cushion next to you, “Silco has a soft spot for Jinx, Jinx has a soft spot for you. She’s probably throwing a fit because she can’t have your undivided attention.”

Your shoulder slumped and you shook your head. You didn’t believe him. He was wrong.

“We shouldn’t go, Smeech. Please, let’s not go. It’ll end badly.”

“It will end really badly if we don’t go,” said Smeech. He was still rubbing his neck, trying to alleviate the pressure left behind by your grip on the collar, “You know this. If we show up, things might go fine. If we don’t show up, Silco will definitely have it out for us.”

Smeech had the capacity to be right sometimes; rejecting Silco’s request for a meeting was the equivalent of signing a death sentence. But everything inside still screamed and gnawed at you, telling you to run the other way, that you are walking into some sort of death trap. You didn’t believe Smeech’s theory one bit, despite the fact that you really, more than anything, wanted to. If only it was as easy as Jinx wanting to see you more and convincing Silco to get you on their team to achieve that. If only.

You sighed and buried your head deeper into your palms.

“Alright… but we have to be a lot more careful this time,” your eyes shot up at him from underneath your fingers, “Really careful, Smeech. No fucking around, no dumb jokes, no stupid deal propositions. Keep your eyes peeled, make sure the others do too. If anyone notices anything out of the norm, we go.”

The yordle just waved at you in dismissal. Something bubbled over in you.

“Listen to me! This could be a matter of life and dea–”

The migraine tore through your brain from the base of your skull; a hot knife dug at your eyeballs from the inside. Collapsing onto the floor, you held your forehead tightly, desperately, trying to use the pressure to alleviate the pain. You couldn’t see, vision streaked white. Every blink felt like sandpaper.

As you rocked back and forth, stifling whimpers, you heard Smeech leave in the direction of the kitchen. He rummaged through the cupboards, then, after a few minutes, you heard his footsteps approach you. They stopped several inches away from where you curled up on the floor. You looked up at him, and through a milky film which was blocking your vision you saw him pass you a vile of something. Your shaky hand found the vial in the air above you. As you consumed all of its contents in a single swig, you anticipated immediate relief, akin to the one you experienced in Silco’s office several hours prior. That didn’t happen though. It wasn’t shimmer that Smeech gave you. Despite the fact that you knew his cupboards were full of the stuff, in every form you could imagine. Liquid, in syringes, powdered, pressed into tablets, in gas canisters, as primordial crystals. A part of you wanted to believe that Smeech simply remembered and honoured your disdain for taking shimmer. A larger part of you knew that wasn’t true. He just didn’t want to give it up.

The pain dissipated unbearably slowly. You thought hours had passed by the time it subsided enough for you to open your eyes. A glance at the clock told you that, in reality, only about thirty minutes had gone by. Smeech was long gone to his bedroom, presumably resuming his slumber. You looked at the time again, having to squint to make out the numbers and hands. It was still several hours before you had to leave, and you suddenly felt very tired. The last of the adrenaline wore off and you collapsed, face down, onto Smeech’s sofa. ‘This dumbass is going to get us all killed’ was the last thought your brain managed to produce before a heavy, silent darkness enveloped your mind.

From your position on the boulder, you could see all your goons as if they were in the palm of your hand. They were as disorganized as ever; some lazily sent streams of smoke into the morning air, some were kicking around a rock in a game resembling one you’ve seen some kids play upside many years ago. What was it called again? Soccer?

As your eyes followed them, you tried to untangle the amorphous bundle of emotions stewing in your chest. You never ended up acclimatizing to your gang, and they have never accepted you as one of their own. They simply followed your orders because, over the years, they have figured out that that was easier than thinking for themselves. There was something about you, something that clung to your skin, that stunk on your breath in a way that was entirely alien to them, in a way which they rejected on every level of consciousness. They weren’t your family. Sometimes, when you walked Jinx home after a long evening out at the Last Drop, you listened to her ramble about Silco; how often he went on entirely unsolicited tirades about the injustices of life, about how hard he had to fight to bring Zaun up from its knees deep in the fissures and about how it was up to her now to continue his legacy, and you couldn’t help but feel scorching jealousy rise from the pit of your stomach. You knew very well that, despite the sleepless nights and grueling days, not a single goon in your ranks, and especially not Smeech, saw you as anything other than a convenient life raft. You weren’t continuing anyone’s legacy, you weren’t anyone’s pride or joy. You were useful, but, ultimately, entirely replaceable. And the most horrifying part was that, putting aside the indifference of your gang towards you, you yourself didn’t even see a point in anything you were doing. You weren’t fighting for anything, and your death wouldn’t be tied to any cause. You were just running. Running as fast as you could, running until a film of sweat blocked your vision, to make sure that you didn’t have the opportunity to look back. Looking back would mean facing the fact that, up to that very moment, nothing you did had any meaning. You would die in some ditch, they would tear your wanted posters down, and that would be the end. Simple. Pragmatic. The world would go on, sterile of you.

And yet, something bound you to Smeech. You told Silco it was pride and weren’t completely lying. But it wasn’t the whole truth. Your pride would most likely not suffer terribly if you were to finally grow a backbone. But what would you do if you left? What would you be? What would stop you from letting the polluted water of Zaun creeks envelop you?

A groan ripped out of your throat, and you rummaged around your pockets for another vial of painkiller. Three empty ones were already discarded by your feet. You weren’t particularly educated in the topic of human health, but you could still tell that the amount of pain medication you were consuming was most likely not healthy. But your brain felt liquefied from the pain, and you didn’t care. You squeezed your eyes shut as the bitter liquid slipped past your lips and coated your throat. Fuck this day. Fuck this day big time.

A strange rustling caught your attention. You pried your eyes open and tried to find the direction of the sound. After a few moments you heard the rustling again, from a far corner of the courtyard. You glanced around; no one else seemed to notice. Of course they didn’t.

The sound seemed to come from a half-dead shrub that somehow managed to sprout between the concrete tiles in the corner of the courtyard. You approached it carefully as its leaves vibrated. Your breath caught in your chest. Time seemed to stand still as you found yourself several centimeters away from the plant.

And suddenly, everything around you erupted in a cacophony of sounds and colors. An overpowering, invisible force threw you off your feet. The next thing you knew, you were plastered on the cold concrete; your body suddenly felt very heavy.

With a great deal of effort, you managed to turn your head onto its side and look behind you. For a moment, you couldn’t make out anything. Then, you saw rubble. Massive chunks of concrete and rock laid on the ground, enveloped in streaks of dust. Another moment, and you could make out limbs poking out from under the ruble. Lifeless. Your frantic eyes suddenly found a mechanical paw. It was bloody, detached from the body it once served. Smeech.

Strength refilled your body quickly. Your head was still spinning as you tried to return to your feet. Everything around you swayed and shook. He might still be alive, you thought.

But before you could make a step, a moist cloth, reeking of harsh chemicals, came over your nose and mouth. You felt a pair of lean, warm arms wrap around you. You struggled, but your limbs were no longer under your control. Through your rapidly diminishing consciousness, you made out only a few raspy, yet melodic words.

“Shh, don’t worry. I got you. I got you.”

Tag list:

@kiaralee25

#arcane #jinx #jinx arcane #jinx x reader #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #sfw

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flanaganfilm · 10 months ago

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howdy!! do you rewatch your own work? if so, how often? im wondering if it has the same "artist just sees faults with what they create" thing, or if youre able to appreciate past projects the way they deserve

I don't, typically... usually, by the time we're finished with post production, I've seen the thing so many times that I'm thrilled to stop watching it. I'm either sick of it, or just feeling like it doesn't belong to me anymore. There are other reasons, too - Hill House was a traumatic production for me, for example, I have a lot of complicated emotions woven into it, so I haven't felt ready to rewatch that one since before it aired. Maybe in a few more years.

Somewhat recently, I've revisited a few of the older movies with my eldest son, who is 13 now. He's basically as old as my career itself. We've watched Oculus, Hush, The Midnight Club (which he LOVED, proving it worked for our target audience) and Ouija: OOE together, and each of those screenings was a really cool experience. His reactions and questions were really fascinating, and I felt like I was able to see those movies anew through his eyes. That's the closest I've come to feeling like I was really seeing them, and that's only because so much time has gone by for those. I watched the Director's Cut of Doctor Sleep a few years back at the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park Colorado. It was part of a live NoSleep Podcast event, and that was the first time I'd seen that movie since it was released. It was also the first and only time I'd ever seen the Director's Cut with an audience. That was a really special screening and it meant a lot to me.

I haven't yet had the guts to revisit any of the TV series other than Midnight Club. As my kids get older, I'm sure I'll watch them all with them. The one I'm most excited to see is Midnight Mass, which remains my favorite of the shows. I haven't seen it since before it came out - I remember the last day of post on that show, watching down each episode with final mix and color. That's a series I wish I could actually watch like a viewer at home, and while I'll never truly be able to do that, I look forward to looking at it with some real distance.

There are a few of the older projects I'd be curious to watch now. I wonder how Absentia holds up - I was such a baby when we made that movie, and it's been so long. I imagine I could watch that today and have a really trippy experience. I also haven't revisited Before I Wake in a very long time, and I always really loved that script. The movie was a rough road, and my feelings were mixed by the time it finally found its finish line (Relativity Media really beat that one up), but that could also be a really interesting viewing experience at this stage of my career.

But generally, each of these movies is a journey, and once the journey is over it's tough to ever really go back. There's little point, and moving forward feels like a matter of survival. The "finished product" is only the tip of a large, deep, labyrinthian iceberg for me. It's impossible to only see what's on the surface, no matter how hard I try.

(Interesting side-note: The only exception I've found to this rule is The Life of Chuck. We just finished post production on the movie, and I've watched it dozens and dozens of times now - but I've never grown tired of it, not even a little bit. That movie is something special, and I am eager to watch it again - and again - and again. I don't know that I'll ever want distance from that one; in fact, watching it brings me a sense of joy, comfort, and safety.)

#midnight mass #the fall of the house of usher #the haunting of hill house #the midnight club #doctor sleep #the haunting of bly manor #ouija origin of evil #oculus #before i wake #absentia #ouija: origin of evil #gerald's game

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em1e · 2 years ago

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⠀若年 // THIEVES AMONG US ⠀ ༝ ༝ wakatoshi ushijima ⠀ ༝ ༝ 1k words ⠀ ⚠︎ fluff to make up for the heartbreak i've been posting ⠀— ushijima is tired of having no hoodies left

ushijima wakatoshi was a lot of things.

standing at a strong 189.5 cm, all muscle and intimidation to those who don’t know him. quiet and kind to those who do.

patience is not something that ushiwaka finds himself lacking in the slightest. it’s actually one of the few things he prides himself in, tolerance for things at another level compared to others. on rare occasion does he find it wearing thin, and today seems to be one of those rarities.

he’s looked everywhere for the stash of hoodies he keeps hidden in his room, locked away from your sticky fingers that manage to take home every other jumper, t-shirt, or jacket you can grab. as the days begin to get colder, leaves turning and falling off of their trees with fall turning to winter, he finds it necessary to have one of the few hoodies he has left under his roof before he goes out the door, and he cannot seem to find a single one.

he almost wants to be amazed at how quickly you manage to grab them - unknowingly to his analytical eye, but frustration bleeds its way under his skin as he stands from looking under his bed for the third time.

not in his closet, not shoved in the backs of his drawers, not even at the bottom his laundry hamper. poof, gone. disappeared into the wind with no evidence to prove they were ever there in the first place.

ushijima heaves a sigh, pulling on his old, thin volleyball jacket with the decision of that needing to be enough. it’d have to be, with the fact of not having anything else to pull on over his long sleeve looming bitterly over his head.

and to think you hate the color of his shiratorizawa jacket - now worn and dull compared to how it looked when he was still in high school. but, if he had to pick between your distaste for the jacket or be uncomfortably chilly for your date, he’d choose the former. at least then, he can have some amount of satisfaction with being able to point out that you are the reason he’s been pushed to such measures.

this bit of spite is enough to spur him on to your house to pick you up for your date.

you looked excited when you pulled open the door, only for your face to drop and your nose to scrunch as you take in the sight of his jacket. faded purple clashing with the off-whitish-yellow shirt he’s decided to pair it with.

“waka . . .” you almost whine as he steps inside so you can slide on your shoes, “we’re gonna take pictures, you don’t have any other jackets to wear?”

“i think you know better than i do the answer to that.” the baritone of his voice cutting through you as you stand on your toes to press a quick kiss to his lips. it forms into a giggle when he returns it, leaving you to be the one to step away so you can finish getting ready.

“‘m not sure what you mean,” you wave off easily, but you grab his hand to pull him towards your room so he doesn’t hover in the entryway while you put the final pieces of your outfit together, “can let you borrow one of mine, though.”

he makes a noise, low in the back of his throat, that tells you he knows you mean one of the many you’ve robbed from him, but he doesn’t voice a complaint because even the short walk to your home was enough to leave goosebumps on his skin - his shiratorizawa jacket doing nothing to protect him from the elements.

he watches as you grab a sweater of your own to pull over your shoulders, cute and matching the outfit you’ve picked perfectly, before getting on your knees beside your bed and pushing some stuff around under it, pulling out a large storage container with a huff.

“don’t be upset,” you’re starting to say, popping open the lid and taking it off to reveal . . . every single hoodie he’s been missing in the past three years you’ve been dating.

“how . . .” he starts, brows shooting up in shock before they furrow, “why?”

“i like the way you smell,” you pout, puffing out your cheeks to fight the heat rising to them as you avoid his stare to dig through the tub, “s’nice for when you’re out of town for games.”

you pull out one of the neatly folded hoodies you’d been searching for. a sage green that goes well with your own outfit and the shirt he’s got on.

you offer it to him with a grin, “i can let you borrow this one, but i’ll need it back.” you say matter-of-factly, pulling it back to yourself when he doesn’t say anything to the comment, “i need confirmation you’ll give it back!”

you have the audacity to look serious right now. deadly so, as if your life may be on the line without this very hoodie.

“i’ll give it back.” he affirms, “but i need at least three back if you don’t want to ever see me in this jacket again.” he gestures to the worn jacket he’s began to pull off his shoulders, offering it to you in exchange for the green one still being held hostage in your hands.

your eyes flick from the shiratorizawa jacket to the container at your feet. thinking. calculating.

“fine,” you hold the hoodie out to him, “but i get to pick which ones.”

he pulls the hoodie over his head, just barely catching the way your eyes eat at the portion of his abs that shows when his shirt rides up. he grins, “i’ll take that.”

#salmon rowe #ushijima wakatoshi x reader #wakatoshi ushijima x reader #ushijima x reader #wakatoshi x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #ushijima wakatoshi #x reader

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missyscorner · 28 days ago

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𝘊𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭 — 𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘻𝘰 𝘉.

𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘻𝘰 𝘉𝘦𝘳𝘬𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘹 𝘍𝘦𝘮!𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

Synopsis: Lorenzo was never big on relationships; he had only ever been in one — one which resulted in heartbreak and him sulking in his room for a month. Since then, he’s vowed to only have meaningless sex with girls, nothing more. When the two of you have sex one drunken night, you agree to have sex with no attachments. But one of you wants more.

Warnings: Suggestive content (no actual smut), vulgar language, very short, there’s one mention of Y/n (I’m so sorry), dialogue-heavy, not proofread, angst, & no happy ending.

Songs: Casual by Chappell Roan, Kaleidoscope by Chappell Roan, Somethin’ Stupid by Frank Sinatra & Nancy Sinatra, & Dealer by Lana Del Rey.

A/N: Hello! This is the first time I’m actually posting something I’ve written so I hope it’s not too much of a letdown. It was written on a whim so please ignore any inconsistencies or repetitive words.

There’s chatter scattered throughout the Slytherin common room, most of it coming from the group of boys sprawled out on the velvet green sofa — most of it coming from Draco complaining about Harry. You weren’t paying much attention to him, though. Your eyes were glued on Lorenzo staring at you with a sly grin.

When Draco had finished his monologue on his supposed enemy, Theodore was done with three missing assignments in Transfiguration, and Blaise had counted all the ice in his glass twenty-two separate times. You, however, had been gone the moment his speech had hit the ten-minute mark. As much as you loved Draco, you could not bear to listen to him talk for another moment. So, instead, you stood in front of your mirror, pinning your hair up. You wore a long, flowy, cream-colored nightgown, one that cascaded down your body so, very elegantly.

“Cute.” You hear the familiar voice echo from behind you, a small smile plays on your lips as you see Lorenzo’s reflection locking the door. Then, you feel his arms wrap tightly around your waist.

“You’re early,” you whisper, to which he only groans against your neck in response. “You should really start knocking, as well.”

“Missed you.” He leaves a feather-like kiss on the exposed skin of your shoulder, ignoring your lecture.

A light pink flushes across your cheeks, and his hand moves lower. You feel his breath fan against your collarbone, making you instinctively close your eyes.

“You were looking at me quite a bit today, I think you may need to tone it down, Enz. The others may start suspecting something.” Your voice is breathy, but you can’t help it. Not when his hands touch you like they are.

“Would that be a bad thing?” He pulls away, moving his hands to your lower back, gently leading you to your bed.

The mattress molds beneath your body, and his lips meet yours. The kiss is soft, it tastes like coffee and honey. It almost takes away from the harsh reality of the situation — you’re lying in bed with a man who does not feel anything for you. The kiss is cruel, it tastes bitter and deceitful.

You pull away, “Enzo, stop.”

He does. His body moves away from yours.

“Are you okay?” He asks, almost as if panicked.

“Yeah.” Lie. “I just — um, I’m not really feeling it, y’know?” Liar.

“Oh.” He swallows, “Right. I’ll be on my way, then.”

You watch him leave, and a pit forms in your stomach. It resides there for the rest of the night.

The next day, you sit in the courtyard, eyes scanning the words of your book, Lorenzo quietly slides onto the bench next to you.

“Whatcha’ doing?” He looks over your shoulder, startling you slightly.

“Gods — you scared me.” You hear a mumbled apology, closing your book. “What do you want?”

“Why do you always assume I want something? What if I just wanted to say hi to my favorite girl?”

“It’s never just ‘saying hi’ with you, Lorenzo.” There’s a bite in your tone.

“Are you mad at me or something?”

This isn’t fair to him, being mean because he doesn’t want you isn’t fair. You agreed to this, you agreed to emotionless sex; it isn’t his fault it’s not emotionless for you anymore. It’s not his fault he looks at you with the softest eyes, it’s not his fault he touches you so sweetly, it’s not his fault you cling to every moment with him and analyze every second of it. It’s not his fault.

“No, sorry. I’ve just had a rough day, not your fault.” You force a friendly smile.

“Oh. Maybe I can cheer you up, then.” He says, “I have something I want to show you at sunset. I’ll come find you.”

His lips meet your forehead, placing a gentle kiss. Asshole.

You should’ve said no to him, told him to fuck off, and ended things. You would’ve said no if you had gotten the chance to, if he hadn’t kissed your forehead — you probably would’ve said no. Maybe. Definitely. No. No, you wouldn’t have. As much as you resent him for it, he has you in his pocket; from that first night with him, he’s had you in his pocket. He knows that, too.

Three soft knocks fall at your door, opening it, you see Lorenzo standing opposite of you. He’s wearing medium-wash jeans and a plain white tee, his hair is wet and perfectly messy.

“Hey,” his voice is raspier than usual.

“Hi.” You lock the door behind you, and his hand intertwines with yours. “So, where are we going?”

“It’s a secret, my dear. But I can tell you, you’re going to think it’s beautiful.”

“You’re so sure of yourself.”

He snorts in response, “That’s because I know you, and I know you’ll like it. You’re easily impressed.”

“Fuck you.” You roll your eyes.

“Right now? In the middle of the corridor? Scandalous.” He fakes a gasp, and your cheeks taint a light pink.

He leads you out of the castle and to a secluded spot of the Black Lake, trees overlook the area, and the setting sun reflects off the water most beautifully.

“Take off your dress.” His voice sounds from behind you.

“Excuse me?”

“No, I meant — we’re going swimming — not… that.”

“Enzo, I’m not getting in that water. It’s cold out.” You turn around to see him already undressing.

“It’s fine.” He stands shirtless in his boxers, “And I promise if you get hypothermia or drown or something, I’ll save you.” He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“From hypothermia?” You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms.

“Yup. I’ll warm you up with my body heat.” He promises.

“That’s not how it works.”

“Whatever,” he drags his word out, “You’re being too critical. I’m getting in, you can follow if you’d like.” Another forehead kiss.

A sigh escapes your lip as he carefully treads into the water, ultimately, you end up unzipping your dress, leaving you in your underwear. You go after him.

“See? It’s not bad.” His hand grabs yours, helping you in. Don’t read into it, he’s just being kind.

“No, it’s fucking horrible.” Your torso is now engulfed by the cold water.

“Give it a minute, baby, your body will adjust to the temperature.”

In moments like this, you hate Lorenzo. You hate how much influence over you, you hate how you’re ready to agree to anything he says; you think, maybe if you’re willing enough it’ll change how he feels about you.

Your body finally acclimates to the water, it’s slightly more bearable now. Lorenzo guides you further into the water, keeping a firm arm around your waist. Abruptly, he pulls you under, then, you feel his lips on yours. You get a warm feeling in your tummy, it makes your head go fuzzy, and you know it’s time to pull away. Yet, your lips stay on his for a second longer before you swim to the surface for air, Lorenzo follows soon after.

“You asshole, I could’ve drowned!” You smack his chest, water splashing the both of you.

“I wouldn’t have let you drown, put some faith in me.” He chuckles, rolling his eyes.

You sigh, returning to the bay. His voice calls after you, then, you hear him swim back as well. You’re already halfway done with zipping up your dress by the time he gets to you. Presumably, he takes the hint because he’s now putting his jeans back on. However, with his back facing you, you notice something: red scratches. You hadn’t had sex in a week and a half.

“What are those?” You question.

“What are what?” He turns around, genuine confusion painted on his face.

“Those. The scratches.”

“Oh, right. Um, just some girl. Don’t worry about it.” Just some girl? Is that how he speaks of you when you’re not around — when another girl asks where he got the marks on his back?

“Really?” He doesn't owe you loyalty, you think, no, but he owes you decency. “You’ve been seeing other girls?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, then notices your expression. “You can’t seriously be angry. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“Obviously, it’s a big deal.”

“Truly, it is not. You’re overreacting.”

“So, you’d be okay with me sleeping around with other men?” Silence. “Exactly.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t agree to this. You were perfectly fine with us just fucking each other a few month ago.” His voice raises slightly.

“Well, I don’t want to ‘just fuck’ anymore, Lorenzo!” A long pause of quiet surrounds the two of you.

“Y/n, you know — you know I can’t do that.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

Stillness.

“We probably should stop this,” you suggest.

“Probably.”

Swallowing harshly, you put on your shoes. He hugs you for what you assume to be the last time, kissing the top of your head.

“If it’s any consolation, I love you. I just don’t think a relationship with me would be the best thing for you, lovely. I’ve got a lot of shit to work through before I’d be good for anyone, and you, especially, don’t deserve to be subjected to that.” His voice cracks, “You deserve someone with the ability to commit and love you to the fullest extent. I wish that person could be me, but I know that I’d hurt you, and I refuse to do that.”

Looking up at him, you see a tear fall from his eye. Then, you feel a tear fall from your own. His hand wipes your dampened cheeks dry, and he whispers delicate comforts. It’s cruel, the way he makes you cry and then wipes it all away.

You move back, taking in his soft features for the last time before walking away. He doesn’t offer to walk you back, he doesn’t say goodbye, he lets you go. Sobbing, you walk back to the castle. Sobbing, you make it to your dorm. Sobbing, you accept that you’ll never be in his arms again, gently brushing through his hair with your fingers, or counting his light freckles. You let that knowledge rip you apart from the inside out. It hurts, but it’s out of your control.

Divider Creds: @milklemondrop

#✎ missy writes #lorenzo berkshire #lorenzo berkshire x reader #lorenzo berkshire x you #lorenzo berkshire oneshot #lorenzo berkshire x female reader #lorenzo berkshire angst #lorenzo berkshire imagine #enzo berkshire x reader #enzo berkshire x you #enzo berkshire #harry potter #theodore nott #draco malfoy #blaise zabini #mattheo riddle #slytherin #slytherin boys

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the-fictional-wife · 9 months ago

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Finding Happiness (Itachi Uchiha x reader)- 1

This is the start of a series of scenarios for post-war Itachi (yes he lives) finding happiness with you! I miss fluff in Itachi's tag so why not make my own.

I want to mainly focus on the relationship but some chapters down the line will explain more plot also the chapter sequences might not end up in chronological order^^

This will be fem reader heads up so she/her pronouns!

Even though this isn't nsfw, some things in this series won't be exactly appropriate so imma still say MDNI!

////- means pov switch

Word count: 2.0k+

Chapter 1- Grocery Shopping + Cafe Cuties Next Chapter?

“I want to help.”

“You should want to take it easy instead,” you sigh. Itachi was up...yet again to help despite being on mandatory bedrest to help his body regain its strength back. He’s restless; it’s easy to understand; he’s banned from missions, and staying home is rather dull, but...

“Tsunade strictly said you were to rest while on house arrest. That’s the whole point I’m here.” You rest your arm on the cool kitchen countertop to grab a pen and begin writing down a shopping list with a huff.

“....”

At the silence, you turn around with pursed lips to face Itachi only to stifle a laugh when you see his face: eyebrows furrowed, lips just slightly jutted-

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s pouting.

“I would argue three weeks of nothing but bed imprisonment is adequate enough rest, don’t you agree.” Itachi huffs.

After weeks of being detained right alongside Sasuke, Kakashi made the executive decision that Itachi deserved something better than a jail cell: temporary house arrest.

With a babysitter.

You glance at Itachi’s mildly annoyed face, momentarily taking in the sight.

You’ll spare him...for today.

“hm...fine, the sun would do you well anyway.” You finish writing the list and hand it to Itachi, whose eyes blankly rake the paper, then folds it into his pocket.

“Well, let’s go,” You stand at the doorway where a large black seal awaits, designed to trigger the alarm around Itachi’s ankle. Weaving the signs, you both squint at the burst of light before ushering him out the door.

As the two of you walk out of the Uchiha compound, you ponder over the last few weeks with Itachi. You can’t count the heart attacks you’ve gotten from seeing an empty bed and surprise; he was admiring the fish.

He is a quiet, stealthy patient, somewhat akin to an 87-year-old senior citizen. On the more serious end, you think back solemnly; his eyes had often reflected his concession to emptiness. Sunken in and soulless.

‘But now…’ You peer at Itachi from the corner of your eye.

His eyes sharp and attentive; the color is back in his face; sunkissed pink cheeks, his short sleeve shirt giving view to his lean muscles-

‘He’s actually kinda...’

////

Itachi can’t tell if it’s the heat of your gaze or the sun flushing his cheeks.

Your gaze washes over him, a captivating light he yearns to forever bask in. Domesticity is a variable of life he is unacquainted with and…undeniably undeserving of.

And yet, the further you expose him to gentleness, affection, and peace, the more he greedily deludes himself into that he belongs.

Encompassed in a life of peace he’s desperately craved, peace he’s found with you.

Within the shinobi existence, emotions, relationships…living. All become an unforeseeable luxury.

It’s unsettling to desire. To be human.

Itachi silently shifts his eyes toward you, observing as you conceal your face, abashed from being caught. He finds himself smitten.

“You were looking a little pale. If you feel weak at any time, don’t be afraid to lean on me.”

A lie, of course. An utterly endearing one.

‘Perhaps, in this life…’

He capitalizes on the chance anyway.

‘…I can be selfish.’

////

As you head into the village, you feel something creep around your arm.

Neither of you acknowledge it.

+++

Your arm is still intertwined with Itachi’s as you both find purchase in a decently sized everything market. Waving to the cat perched in the front, you read the aisle numbers with its affiliated products: ‘Household items- 1, Toys- 2, Jewelry- 4,...Fruits & Dairy- 5’. After detecting where you wanted to begin, you guys head to your destination, avocados.

Itachi lightly tugs your arm, signaling your attention.

“It’ll be quicker if we split. The potatoes are within eye range; I’ll only be a minute.” Your face scrunches in; reluctantly, you let go with a poorly concealed pout.

“... don’t trust me? I promise I’ll return to you shortly.” With that, Itachi saunters, leaving a lingering graze against your skin.

You pause, leaving the way your heart palpitates unavowed. ‘A kiss would have sufficed,’ you snicker and return to your dilemma with hunched shoulders.

You’re on your fifth avocado before you give a groan of defeat. “I can’t tell which ones are good or not; they all look the same,” you mumble, distracted enough to miss the figure peering closer.

“May I see?”

His gentle whisper tickles your ear, you force the quiver down your spine to still- even when you feel his careless lips making one too many brushes to your ear, you wordlessly nod yes.

His broad chest and feather touch of his hair against your cheek overwhelm your senses as he reaches his arm around your waist to probe at the fruit you have in hand.

You pray he can’t feel the way your heart beats.

“Hmm...this one is ripe. You can tell by the dark color and firmness...good eye.” Within a blink, the weight of Itachi’s presence vanished, and he pulled away.

Ah. That.

“R-right, thank you,” you fumbled over your wording and rushed to the edge of the aisle. “Okay, let’s split from here to make things easier; I do the first half of the list, you do the last. Capeesh?” Fingers bend into a okay sign; you give a shaky grin and rush down to the next aisles, leaving Itachi to fend for himself.

“...” Itachi blinks, idly standing before he lets out a defeated puff of air.

‘...It appears I’ve made a mistake.’ With furrowed brows, he peers down at the list with a harsh, focused stare.

Your mind hasn’t left Itachi as your heart physically pains in guilt; it’s his first time out in weeks, and you flat leave him. Putting your final item in your shopping basket, you haul it down Itachi’s direction, only to find him in the exact same position as before.

Tilting your head, you ask befuddled, “Itachi, what are you doing?...” Oh.

You steer closer, and the pitiful sight in front of you makes your shoulders pull straight; Itachi’s eyes strain, glaring down at the paper an inch away from his face at a poor attempt at reading the words.

He can’t see.

‘How long has he been-’ you quickly shuffle in your bag and call for Itachi’s attention. “You should’ve said something! I had brought your glasses with me, but I completely forgot about it-” Itachi takes it with a grateful upturn of his lips.

“Thank you..” He mutters, drawing his attention back to the list. “We are still missing the tomatoes and bread; I passed them earlier on our way in. Follow me.” Itachi gingerly takes your wrist in hand and leads you down the correct aisle.

Soon after you paid, you’ve collectively decided to grab a bite to eat. “Itachi, you smell that?” You sigh out an exhale; an alluringly sweet smell wafts itself above all the open markets along the sides from a small corner amongst the buildings. A mini cafe.

You brush against the roughness of Itachi’s calloused fingers, only grabbing his pinkie to lead him down.

You’ll pretend like you didn’t see the way he flushed.

+++

Slouching in the seat across Itachi, you flex out the ache in your fingers from the weight of the bags as you wait for your shared order of dangos.

“I’ll assist you with the baggage on our way out.”

Looking up in disbelief, you scoff, “Hell no- you’re still in recovery.”

“Don’t overwork yourself for my sake....”

Hypocrite.

You open your mouth to respond, only to suppress yourself at the sight of the waiter approaching.

The waiter smiles while serving your drink and food, then turns over and carelessly drops Itachi’s tea, droplets splashing onto Itachi’s lap.

With a twitching smile, the waiter laughs, “Oh, how clumsy of me, you should get yourself clean. You mutt; should be easy for a traitor, always covering his dirt.” Your mouth is agape, eyes shifting from Itachi to the waiter.

Itachi remains unfazed, his gaze fixed on the waiter with an air of nonchalance. It’s almost patronizing. The waiter scowls, turning away from the stare-down, muttering his pitiful complaints about Itachi’s mere presence.

“Geez, what was their problem?” You scoff side eyeing the waiter. Itachi sits silently, sipping his tea, looking down at his plate with a vacant stare. “...Itachi, you okay? I’ll go backhand a bitch for you, they had no right to treat you like that.”

Itachi’s eyes shift to you at your aggressive demeanor. “Don’t. I’ve made peace with my past; their hate will only torment themself.”

A lie. For a brisk moment, you noted how his mug trembled under the tension of his grip. You make a tsk noise, propping your head onto your hand, reluctantly letting the situation go.

Glancing up, Itachi discerns how your lips are still pulled into a snarl, glowering in the general direction of the offender.

‘Hm, that won’t do.’

Rolling back the ache in his shoulders, he figures he could relieve your tension. If it’d make you smile,

“…besides…”

He’d be a fool.

You turn back over with an inquiring hum.

“...they just aren’t sigma enough to control themself.” He returns to sipping his tea.

“…”

“....”

“Pfft- WHAT” You break the silence, convulsing with laughter. “I-Itachi, don’t ever say that in your life again- I’m not a good influence on you.” Still unable to break the giggles, you look at Itachi’s soft stare and slowly compose yourself under his unwavering gaze.

You cough in your hand and shift your eyes away.

“Let’s eat.”

You fall into a rhyme of chewing and idle conversation.

“See, now you’re lying! I never laughed when you put your glasses on-” The table shifts from the weight of your knee. You firmly dangle Itachi’s wrist away from his glasses as he attempted to remove them a few seconds ago.

“...you couldn’t even catch your breath.”

“I was just surprised! I’ve never seen your eyes so…beady.” You tremble, holding back a cackle. His prescription, unfortunately, made his lens the size of a brick, but thankfully, Tsunade aided in making it more suitable.

“So now my eyes are beady,” His voice barely whispers, he looks off to the side. A look of dismay washed over your face; you cusp his face between your hands, pulling his gaze back up to you.

“Hey- don’t get all mopey; you know I think you’re cute with the glasses on.” You softly look to reassure him, guilty over your tease...until you notice the subtle twitch in his lips, a poor attempt at maintaining his stoic facade.

He was joking.

Itachi shifts his weight into your palms, eyes closed in total serenity. “Do I?...”

‘Absolutely full of himself.’ You express your annoyance with an eye roll and flop back into your seat, leaving Itachi’s head to hang.

‘...did I displease her again.’ Itachi looks down at the final dango stick and holds it to you.

“Here, a truce for forgiveness.”

“But, that’s your favorite…and we bought that with your budget-” you sheepishly add.

“Please, I insist, I...don’t think I can finish this.” Itachi gives a light smile as he hovers the stick to your lips.

The blood rising to your face makes you dazed as you brush aside bits of your hair and savor the first dango ball on your tongue with a hum.

You swear it tastes sweeter from him.

“Thank you, Itachi; consider yourself forgiven.” You say before opening your mouth for the next one.

+++

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“All done,” you brush your hands off proudly after putting away all the supplies and produce. When cleaning up the bags, you notice a mini bag that looks different from the rest.

‘Could this be Itachi’s?...’ You gently spread open the bag, eyes widening in astonishment; a beautiful crystal necklace sweetly lying in a small box with a small note tagged onto the front.

It reads,

‘I hope it’s to your liking, I noticed you wear this color frequently. Let this be a mark of our friendship ~ Itachi.’

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note: Heyyy haven't wrote anything since like 2021 but I might be back probably, probably not- This is pretty self-indulgent but hope yall still enjoyed ^^

Do I think Itachi would say "sigma" if it meant you'd laugh for him after feeling like he depressed the mood? YES. Live with my canon.

Do I think Itachi actually likes physical touch but is just touch starved? YES. I'm projecting.

Any sort of love is appreciated don't be shy to say hi and good luck to everyone during finals week!

*Also-If you have any tips on writing + writing Itachi please let me know!

#itachi uchiha #itachi x reader #itachi uchiha x reader #reader insert #fluff #finding happiness💗#fem!reader #uchiha #naruto fanfiction #naruto #fanfic #itachi #itachi fanfic

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ronearoundblindly · 11 months ago

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Hideout (3.1)

touch-starved!Nomad Steve Rogers x motel employee!Reader

Sensitive Boy, part I (see previous or series)

Summary: Steve surprises you with help at the perfect time.

Warnings for light smut (I have to split this chapter or it's just suddenly twice as long as the last, but really there's just massage and an implied orgasm in this half. You know me: too many feels and too much development...) MINORS DNI. This series is 18+ only. If you are underage or simply enjoy lighter content, there is plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist, but this post is not for you! WC 3.2k

With so much on your mind, scaring the crap out of you is not difficult, so his strong hands hold you upright.

“Don’t do that,” you shriek, barely glancing at Steve’s face. You startled so suddenly your housekeeping cart is left rolling away at a snail’s pace.

“Sorry, I—“ long arms abandon you and reach to stop the bin “—it said on your website you were closed for renovations, and…”

You look him up and down. You were sure after he left two months ago that you’d never see him again. You’d gone too far. You’d pushed him too hard. He wasn’t ready.

Steve adjusts the strap over his shoulder. “I thought maybe I could help out…if you want?”

The last guests checked out a half-hour ago, and you readied to spend the whole week meticulously refreshing each room with your parents. The list of what needs done, however, doesn’t only include the motel. There’s a bunch you all had let slide up at the house. Help would…be extremely helpful actually.

Steve pulls a paper bag out of his knapsack. “Or I brought you some lunch if you just want a break or something.”

“It’s okay,” you rush out. “More than okay. Thank you, yes. We’d love—I’d love that.”

No one else can know it’s him-him there though. You’ll have to think of a way to keep your parents and St-‘Grant’ as far apart as possible, and how long you can manage that is…questionable.

If Steve’s not worried though, you’re okay.

Turns out, keeping your family up at the house is easy. Your mom shouts down the phone with relief that she can tackle the fridge, and you hear your dad mumble something about ‘the garage in daylight.’ You can enjoy a sandwich in the office with Steve in peace, explaining what all needs done before the electricians show up Friday afternoon.

The closure hasn’t been planned for a long time—not even before Steve and ‘Tom’s’ last visit—hence why you just painted Room 8, 5, 2, and 1 since March, but doing all those is how you and your parents really noticed that the light fixtures from the ‘90s were not only dated but very worn and that the same color layered over and over again for twenty years was, well, getting old.

Warmer months are better for the work. Pipes won’t freeze while you air out paint fumes, etc. The week after the gigantic, city festivities of Independence Day is notoriously dead. Since there were no reservations this stretch as of April, the family jumped at the chance to fix it all in one big, daunting go.

Saying you’d looked forward to this is a wild overstatement. You’ll be glad when it’s finished, and that’s the bulk of your excitement.

With his assistance though? Hope soars.

Steve will help you take down the sconces, the hanging lamps, and the panels above the vanities, then you both can—

“Where’s the paint?”

He’s very intense with the gameplan. Three guesses why.

“Dad’s gonna pick it up today. Probably. I’ll text him.” You whip out your cell again. “We didn’t think we’d get that far by evening.”

Steve nods.

“We also need to move all the furniture away from the walls and drape plastic to protect the carpet. Oh, and put tape along the trim and doorframes, ya know.”

Steve nods again. He wads up the wrapping from his sandwich and casually asks, “are all the doors open?”

You only just get your finger in the air to point at the desk.

“Master key is—“

But Steve is observant and has clocked everything about his surroundings each time he’s stayed, apparently. He stretches over to the wall beyond the counter, snatches the (correct) unmarked key, and heads out the door.

The service bell rings gently to emphasize the conversation is over.

All furniture in every room is pulled away by the time you finish sanitizing the one guest room he interrupted.

He asks where you keep the ladder, not that he’ll need it, but you will for reaching some of the lights.

You don’t know whether to be in awe of or exhausted by his efficiency.

He’s rigid and militant—go figure—until these few moments he suddenly can’t be.

As you toss plastic over the last bed to move, Steve yanks that sucker across the floor so fast, you roll off. His eyes are saucers as he apologizes, but you get the giggles and pick yourself up.

His fingers can’t separate thin layers of the plastic at one point, and he throws a minor fit until three rip apart together. Steve frowns at you and grumbles that he’s only ever used cloth for this before. It seems to take everything in his power not to say “back in my day,” but you can read between the lines.

Years of crusted paint makes the removal of some fixtures tricky.

Steve rips out one stripped screw with needle nose pliers, squeaks in alarm at the hole left behind, and then quietly asks if you have patch paste.

You call your dad before he’s left to buy paint. He adds spackling to the list.

The closest Steve comes to telling you anything specifically about himself is when you struggle with a stuck bolt.

“Just a little trick I learned when I was—“ Steve wraps his big hand around yours to pull the wrench instead of push from the other direction “—smaller.” He huffs out a laugh, adding, “when I couldn’t, ya know, ‘put my weight into it’ because a feather could’a knocked me over.”

As you relish the simple contact of his fingers, you smile, too.

“Hmm. I heard you got into back alley scrapes.”

“If you heard that I won any of those, you were lied to.” He patiently waits for you to finish removing the bolt before he pries the aged metal and glass away from the old paint it’s stuck in. Steve sighs dramatically.

“Shoddy education these days…”

“I…” You tap his bicep with the claws of the wrench. “I can’t argue with that. We hear only what they tell us about…heroes.”

You should have known he’d shut down at that word, but it’s the truth. Even with him right in front of you, the only things you know about Steve Rogers are from books, newspapers, and the internet. At face value—looking directly into the face of this man—all of what you’ve been told is hogwash. It’s insufficient. It barely covers 1% of who this man is.

He teaches you tricks of the weak man’s trade because it helped him once, too. Today, he’s friendly. Not that he was unfriendly before, but Steve is so reserved he never reference the past, in general, i.e. that there was a past existence of like the planet much less him.

It’s the number one rule of Fight Club: you don’t talk about Fight Club.

If there was ever a real fight club, it’s the Avengers.

You have no official rules for what this is between you. You don’t have to to know that is the most important one. You do not talk about Fight Club. Steve isn’t afraid of silence, that much is clear, but he isn’t a fan. He tries—he is trying—to connect and relate. He can’t be a man of the people, however, if he can’t talk to the people.

It’s important: connection. You know with every fiber of your being that Steve deserves it, but even with unlimited, super-human strength, he cannot get himself out from between this rock and that hard place.

You do not talk about Fight Club, especially when you’ve been kicked out of Fight Club.

Today, though, he’s a little different, a little softer. Perhaps it’s knowing there are no other people in the building, perhaps he is truly more comfortable with you, but either way, Steve is not flat or off-putting.

His organized persona, his focus on the work, his indirect interactions and practical touch; they all fit here while he has a project. It’s the closest he can be to his old self, maybe even his real self, without mentioning the past—the fighting past—at all.

“You’re really good company,” you tell Steve, “even when you make holes in the walls.”

He tilts his head down and blushes. He shrugs as he takes the sconce out to the dumpster. Although he didn’t say it, you hope this is okay.

Either way, you relish it. The help. The touch. The silence. All of it.

You relish Steve.

Your dad brings by the paint, spackling, and a surprise of pizza for dinner while Steve is taping the baseboards in a corner. You introduce ‘Grant’ from afar and haul the cans and boxes from the car to the room, cataloguing all you two have finished to this point and what you’ll do before stopping for the night.

Dad is impressed. He’d suspected the three of you—you, he, and Mom, that is—might settle for slapping some paint up around where the electrician would install the new lights. No one planned on getting this far in one evening.

He won’t stand in the way of progress, so your dad simply calls out, “bit of an artist, are ya?”

Steve looks up, confident with only the side table lamps plugged in, he can barely be seen. “Just want to be useful,” he mutters.

You wink at your dad as he heads back to the still-running car. “Grant is a jack of all trades.”

You’re sure to thank him for the food and let him know all the motel stuff is completely covered for tomorrow, too. You’ll work as late as you can and start as early as possible.

Dad says your friend has gone ‘above and beyond.’ You agree wholeheartedly.

‘Grant’ would more aptly be described as a machine.

All the furniture moved, all the lights taken down, all bordering taped, and now all blemishes in the walls smoothed, your impromptu contractor finally calls it quits when he’s forced to watch stuff dry.

You’ve kept the air conditioning going in one room.

Steve tentatively asks if he should walk you up to the house, but you counter with “it’s not any less dangerous for an average guy alone to return” and a cheeky smirk. Besides, it is very late. You let Captain OCD keep going; you tapped out a while ago.

He puts his hands on his hips, arms akimbo, thinking of a comeback that never manifests. After giving up, Steve takes his tiny bag into the bathroom and brushes his teeth.

You can faintly hear it over the murmur of the TV.

You aren’t really watching. It’s background noise to your general exhaustion.

With only a side lamp and the screen as light, Steve’s bare feet crumple over the discarded plastic sheet on the floor. He falls into one side of the bed, fully-clothed and (finally) tired.

Though productive, the day has been a distant one, working in different rooms for most of it and tiptoeing around real conversation. You want him to feel appreciated, not pressured, so you ask if he’d like the TV on for a while or would rather quiet.

Steve just grunts with his eyes closed.

Gently, you place a hand on his chest to steady you, leaning to kiss his bearded cheek.

“Thank you, Steve,” you say softly. “Good night.”

He hums when you say his name, and before you can lift your hand away, he captures it under his, holding you in place.

His eyes aren’t open. He can’t see you smile wider.

“Okay.” You tuck yourself into his chest as he raises his other arm out of the way. “Okay.”

Your ear sits in the dip beneath his collarbone, listening to his steady heart, his thumb sweeping back and forth over you knuckles.

He smushes you closer to his side. You toss your leg over his.

You forget to turn off the TV.

He’s sanding the spackled spots by the time you wake, so you rub across his back and dismiss yourself to get breakfast up at the house.

Steve makes no effort to go with, which is fine. You assumed as much.

Your dad calls Grant a ‘magician’ over the pop of oil in the skillet and insists you give your friend whatever he needs to keep working so fast. You are only half-joking when you admit the key is staying out of his way.

Bonus: the exchange reinforces your parents simply leaving the two of you alone down the hill, and you proudly tell Steve that when delivering him an enormous plate of scrambled eggs.

He jumps right back into planning-mode and orders you to roll the first coat of paint onto large areas. He’ll follow, completing the edges and corners.

It’s such a domestic thing to do. There is no one in danger, there are no bodies piling up if he makes a wrong move, and he can go faster or take his sweet time. Steve breaks when he wants or needs to. He sits outside and listens to the birds in the sunshine. No one is around to question him, not even you. You are only there to encourage.

You realize he was looking for a project. He’s used to—and likes—being busy, getting his hands dirty, producing results.

It’s a long, messy day where he becomes more serene in spirit the more intensely he works. You reward him with gentle sweeps of your hand down his arms, pats on his shoulders, and brushes at the small of his back.

Despite the almost constant movement, the day is over before you know it, earlier than yesterday, but it’s too hot to go on.

All the windows stay open to air out the fumes.

Though it won’t stop you from sweating, you both shower off as many splatters and flecks of paint as you can. You insist he goes first so there’s plenty of hot water.

He’s sitting on the bed, shirtless, checking his phone when you come out of the bathroom, but he immediately squirrel the device away in his small bag. Not much to carry around. Not much to leave behind. Steve can’t leave a trace of himself anywhere.

Hunched over and fatigued, he flashes a polite smile your way and blinks heavily.

He deserves the world.

You grab the small bottle of lotion from the countertop and playfully jump onto the bed behind him.

“How about a massage, yeah? You much be aching.”

Honestly, you don’t mean for it to sound sexual, but the phrase comes out downright dirty, making Steve awkwardly chuckle.

“You don’t have to,” he placates.

“Nonsense, I want to. It’ll make the air feel cooler.” That’s as good of an excuse as any. Who cares when the rippled expanse of his back flexes wildly in your touch?

His breathes are audible from the beginning.

You dig at his traps, his leg bouncing as he tries to relax. You use your thumbs, the flats of your hands, and your knuckles.

He shoves his fist in his mouth when he starts to moan, covering the move with a cough, but muffling the noise is abandoned in favor of clasping over his lap. He’s intent on hiding his hardness this time. There’s nothing you can say to truly lessen the sting of needing more. You can’t simply tell him he’s allowed to desire this; you have to ignore his misplaced shame.

But you can take pity on him.

“If you lie flat—“ you step off the bed to give him privacy “—I’ll have more leverage.”

You hear him crawl and adjust on the sheets. “Unlike the torque on a wrench,” you add, just to show you’ve been listening to him.

More lotion is needed for the surface area.

You turn up the TV, feining interest in the late night show so any noise he makes is not as obvious. What the speakers can’t cover, however, is Steve’s involuntary thrusts when you rub the heels of you palms up and down the sides of his spine. If you prop up on your knees, he has more range of motion and doesn’t obviously rock you while mindlessly humping the bed.

His sweats are slung low on his hips, two darts of muscle prominent above his ass.

They are irresistible, the perfect grooves to target and roll into, and he immediately mewls long and deep into the mattress, fingers curling and relaxing while his body seizes.

He hasn’t even finished coming, you think, before he taps at your leg and races to the bathroom.

You hope you didn’t push too far. You hope he’d tell you to stop if he needs more space, more time. Mostly, you hope he knows you’d give him every conceivable pleasure, just because he is him.

The water runs a long time, continuous splashing in the sink, and then nothing.

He didn’t bring much because he doesn’t have much. Your heart sinks, realizing you’ve made him soil one of only two pairs of pants he has here.

He cracks open the door, muttering, but you can’t make out the words.

You turn the volume back down. “What?”

“It pretty hot.” He clears his throat. “Would you mind if I sleep…without…?”

“Naked?” you squeak before composing yourself. “That’s fine. Whatever’s comfortable.”

You shuffle up the bed to click off the lamps. This man isn’t the type to strut around in the nude—yet, anyway—so in the faint and ever-shifting glow of the screen across the room very little can be seen.

‘Little,’ however, can’t describe anything that is visible about the man emerging from the bathroom.

You have to make a point not to stare, but no skit or commercial on the channel promises the same level of entertainment.

Steve slides himself beneath the sheet, sitting near the headboard.

You hold up the remote. “On or off?”

“Off,” he says, “please.”

You’ve certainly done enough for one day. You won’t push your luck, so you hit the power button, toss it on table, and snuggle into your half of the bed, facing away.

“If it’s too hot for any covers, that’s okay, too.”

A rustling interrupts the rhythmic whir of crickets in the night until you feel a warm hand lightly mold to your waist.

This should be encouraged. This should be rewarded.

“Hey, Stevie,” you whisper, waiting for his hum, “happy belated birthday.”

At most you expect a grip of notice, but instead, the big hand snakes across you and hauls you into his chest, his long legs bending to match the crook of yours, his nose and forehead tucked against your occipital.

“We did okay today,” Steve mumbles into your shirt.

You walk your hand over your stomach to find his, lacing the fingers together. “Yes. Yes, we did.”

Steve got to be useful today. He had a partner today. He will tomorrow and the day after, for as long as he stays, for as long as you’re alive. Nothing can change that.

Maybe he can’t talk about Fight Club, but he connects with you anyway.

A/N: Whoopsy. Didn't want to make y'all wait for a 6k+ chapter, so here's the first half! I am DEEP in the feels of this one. So, so many notes have been taken. The brainrot is real, and I fucking love it!!!!

[Next: Sensitive Boy, part II]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @rogersbarber @spectre-posts @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @im-a-slut-for-fluff @fangirl-swagg @georgeweaslysgirl @austynparksandpizza @claireelizabeth85 @jamneuromain @rach2602 @royalwritersoftheuniverses @shelbygeek @rogersideup @eyebagsanonymous @trudy-shams @saranghaey @awkwardgiraffe726 @marvelmenwhore @happinessinthebeing @before-we-get-started @sjsmith56 @esposadomd @cjand10 @yearningforsappho @mrsevans90

270 notes · View notes

non-empatheticloser · 3 months ago

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Just A Little Dance

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Authors Note: Yo, so this is my first fic I ever finished (I'm lazy) and decided I felt it was worthy enough to actually be posted. I don't know if I will ever post another, but we shall see. Anyways I feel like there is rarely any Snape content I can enjoy, so I got my hands a little dirty and decided to do it myself.

p.s. proof read this to the best of my abilities, sorry if something sounds off I got dyslexia. If I read it too much I will change the whole thing. I hope my Snape lovers enjoy these supple crumbs.

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Summary: You decide to take Severus to the Yule Ball, even though you know he will argue with you. However, he decides that you owe him.

Word Count: 5.8k

Tags: Severus Snape x Fem!Reader, Fluff with Smut, Severus Snape x You, Submissive Reader, Choking, Spanking, Grumpy Severus, Professor Reader

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It was just a few weeks from the Yule ball at Hogwarts and you decided that you really wanted to take Severus, even if he would argue. Before you could do that you needed a way to get him to go shopping with you without suspecting anything. So, when you asked him to go with you while you picked out a few new clothes, he didn’t say no. “Hurry up Severus, I want to get there before the students are let out for the afternoon.” You are a few paces ahead of him as he elegantly strides behind you. “What is the rush? I would rather spend more time with you than going back to teach all of those pesky brats anyways.” Although he was arguing he did pick up the pace to match your speed. He reached down and interlocked his fingers into yours as you guided him through the crowd. His fingers were cold but strangely delicate. You've grown used to them over the years, and they’ve become a comfort to you. You pass many different street store and buildings before you come to a stop in front of Mrs. Shortem’s Dress and Suit, which was a small little shop that was located at the end of the street. It was known famously for having some of the best dresses in the wizarding world. There was no doubt that some of them had already been grabbed, but this was exactly the reason you wanted to beat all of the students before the afternoon bell. Today they would learn the date of the Yule ball, and there was no doubt they would all rush to grab the dresses and suits they desired. When you stopped in front of the store Severus raised his eyebrow as he looked over at you. “Buying a new dress? What exactly for?” He paused and looked at you. His eyebrows furrowed and his face stiffened in confusion. Only a split second later, you see the exact moment the realization hit him, and his eyes widened as he glanced back at the store. “No. Not happening. You know I don't like dancing.” He pulls his lanky fingers away from your hand and crosses his arms. “Severus please, I want to take you with me.” You look up at him and bat your eyelashes trying to get a pity ‘yes.' “No.” He says as he begins to turn around to walk down the street. “Fine. I guess I will ask someone else to take me then.” He stops in his tracks. You smirk, and cross your arms.

I win. He lets out a sigh before turning around. He walks back up to you without saying a word and drags you both into the store before anyone else could witness where he was. Upon entering the store, your eyes try to take in all of the beauty that is around you. Looking up, you could see beautiful dresses hang from the racks and ceiling. No matter how many time you saw this place it never got old.

The shop had a chandelier in the middle of the tall ceiling that managed to cast the light from the ceiling to the dresses making them sparkle. There were two floors of clothes, each floor had a decretive railing protecting people from its fall. The floor was pure black marble, and the walls were a brilliant color of silver with jeweled patterns dancing in it’s paint. It was magical, but not the magic you were used to.

“Let’s hurry up before people see me in here,” Severus mumbles. You ignore him and begin scanning the racks of dresses. “Go find something to try on. We will meet at the stairs when we’re done.” You urge him off. Now that you could shop— uninterrupted— you go back to inspecting the dresses. You scan the racks of dresses until one in particular caught your eye. The black jewels sparkled in the lights of the shop. It had an intricate pattern on top of the mesh that blended perfectly with your skin. You took it off the rack and admired it before heading to the changing room. Behind the curtain of the stall you had entered you stared at yourself in amazement. This was the one. This was the dress you wanted. You pulled back the curtain to try and find Severus to show him until, an idea sprang into your mind. The thought danced in your mind while you took off the dress before you head back to the stairs, where you said you would meet him. Severus was standing against the rail holding what you could only assume was a suit. You walked down the stairs causing him to turn around to look at you. “Are we ready to go now?” He looks at you holding something in a bag. He gives you a quizzical look almost as if he is asking ‘is that yours.’ “Yep, lets go grumpy.” You grab his hand as you both walk back to the school. As you walk back together Severus can't seem to shake the snarl on his face. “Oh come on now, going to a dance with me won't be that bad. Besides, I feel like the other professors need to see the side of you that I always do.” You squeezed his hand trying to get him to look at you. He makes a small glance in your direction before sighing.

“It’s not that I don't want to go to a dance with you, but you know I don't do these types of things. Besides, all of students are going to be there, and I would rather not have to deal with… them.” He made a disgusting face at the last part of the sentence.

“Severus, it will be fine. No one will be paying attention to you.” “You don't think people will be paying attention to the teacher they despise when he suddenly starts dancing? Don’t be ridiculous, [Y/N].”

You huff and begin to pick up your pace not wanting to argue with him right at this moment. He notices and picks up his own pace, his cloak flaring behind him. He reaches out and grabs your arm and pulls you back. “[Y/N], I never said I wouldn’t go. I just said it’s hard for me to do these things.” He stares into your eyes, “and I’ll be damned if you go with someone else.” He gives you a reassuring squeeze on your arm before letting you go and returning to his usual stance.

“Thank you.” You give him a smile and hook your arm in his as you walk back to the school. When you approach the doors of Hogwarts the noon bell chimes and you hear the voices of students begin to rush through the halls. Severus decides it would be best to walk around and go through the side door to reduce the possibility of getting trampled. Severus opens the door with a flick of his wand and lets you walk in before he follows and locks the door back. “Thought we weren't allowed to use these doors,” you tease and shove your shoulder into his side.

“Are you going to snitch on me?” He raises his eyebrow back at you. Now that you two aren’t in public Severus can finally be himself. He is quiet warm on the inside when no one is around. He begins to walk up to you and places his hands on your side before kissing your forehead. He lets out an exhausted sigh as if the trouble of walking through town was enough to make him tired.

“When is this dance that I have to go to again?” Severus sets his forehead against yours. It didn’t bother you though, because it seemed to be his way of calming down. “Next week, Sev.” You rests yours hands around his neck and twirl your fingers through his hair. He seemed to melt further into you and let out a sigh before he pulled away and hands you your bag. “Here,” he extends his arm holding the dress you just bought. "I will see you after classes are done. If I spend too much time with you I won't want to teach today.” You take the bag that held the dress with a pout on your face. “You don't even want to see what I bought?” You ask as you wiggle up against him trying to prompt him to go further. He lets out a small chuckle at your performance, but still begins pushing you towards the door. It was a small thing about him that you never took for granted. His laugh was something that always seemed to melt your heart. “Go on, I will see you later tonight…,” he leans down to whisper in your ear, “and you can show me Exactly. What. You. Bought.” This leaves a shiver running down your spine as you walk out the door to head back to your classroom. You couldn’t wait for tonight.

____________________________________________________________ “Severus hurry up! I don't want to be late!” You call out to him from the hallway as you wait for him to open the door. You decide to knock one more time, but before your hand could make contact with the door it swings open, and Severus meets your eyes. For a split second you catch him break the gaze, as his eyes got a glimpse of your dress. Last week you never did show Severus your dress. Things kind of escalated a little to fast, and well… one thing led to another… Anyways, you could tell Severus was enjoying the view, drinking you in with his eyes. God… it wouldn’t be long before he made you thirsty as well.

He was dressed in his usual all black except instead of his cloak he had a tailcoat on, and a black bowtie to complement it. It outlined his slender body beautifully, and made him look very handsome. “Stop that!” You give him a playful slap on the arm. Come on we need to be there a little early, we are still professors after all.” The slap seemed to bring his attention back as he sighs in agreement.

“Fine, but later you will have no excuses to use on me when I get you alone.” He says in his usual low tone. He adjusts his sleeves as he resets the scowl on his face to prepare for his future interactions. “Lead the way, Professor [L/N].” “Ha ha, very funny.” You roll your eyes before walking toward where the ball would be held. As you walked you could feel Severus’s eyes glued to the back of you almost as if he was entranced. After a few seconds, you feel his arm snake its way around your waste as you walk almost as if saying, ‘you are mine tonight.’ The music was a little loud and you could hear it from down the hall. The ballroom was empty of students right now, so you and Severus decide to make your way up to the rest of the professors who were also waiting for the students to arrive.

Minerva spotted you first a strolled up to you with a smile on her face. “Oh, how lovely to see you here dear. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.” You see her sneak a glance at Severus, and you smirk to yourself at how you were able to get him to come. “No worries, we are here now!” You walk over to the other professors to say your greetings and chat a little bit while the students begin to fill the room. You smile looking around at the familiar faces that you have been teaching over the years all dressed up, and enjoying the night. You glance over at Severus and he has his usual stone cold glare plastered on his face. All you could do was roll your eyes and smile knowing he was arguing with himself not to leave at this moment. Once all the students have arrived Dumbledore gives his usual speech to the students about how they should enjoy they night, and with that the ball begins. You let out a sigh as you were finally done standing at the front of the room and immediately began heading over to the punch bowl. You grab yourself something to drink as you watch the students get there first dances in. You feel a presence walk up beside you, when you glance over Severus is standing beside you as his dark eyes scan the crowd. You offer him a sip of your punch and he just stares at the cup almost offended. “More for me then,” you say taking a sip.

“So…-“ you begin to say, but are promptly cut off when Severus sees a pair of students making their way outside of the ballroom. Here we go… You try to go back to what you were saying, but Severus snakes his way around the ballroom to head over to the students already preparing a lecture in his head.

“Sev-“ you call out but realize it is no use over the music. You sigh and set your punch cup down on the table and begin to make your way around the room after him. When you reach the outside you see you are too late. Severus is already scolding them about how they weren’t allowed outside. “A week of detention in my office. You two should know better, especially you Miss Froogle.” You can see the girl lower her head in shame. He was about to continue when you step in and place a hand on his arm. “Head back inside, both of you. Just don't let me catch you out here again, and I might be able to get you out of detention.” You wink at them and give them a nod to the door. A smile forms on their lips out of gratitude, and they both scurry inside. Severus gives me a glare. “Ah, never took you to be one for betrayal.” He says with a cold tone. “Severus I did not drag you here to yell at students all night. Besides, they just want to have fun.” I give him a smile and walk closer to him. I feel his arms wrap loosely around my waist as the music from inside the ballroom plays through the muffles of the wall. Severus leans his head down near your ear, his breath warming the chill from the air. “I’m sorry, I will do better for you.” You can feel his lips gently kiss on your ear before he leans back up to meet your eyes. Out here— alone— you both stare at each other for a few seconds before Severus slowly backs away from you— you give him a confused look that he doesn’t acknowledge— and gives you a small bow. The music from inside the building can be heard as it starts to play a new song.

“Can I have this dance?” He looks up to you awaiting your response.

You smile down at him, and extend your hand for him to grab. “Of course.” He places a small kiss on the top of it before he raises himself up, and pulls you into him. He places his hands on your waist, and you drape your hands on his shoulders as you both begin to sway to the music. A small giggle escapes your lips while dancing which strikes a small smirk across Severus’s face knowing he made you happy tonight after all. With that, he spins you around causing you to laugh. You can see Severus looking down at you with love in his cold dark eyes. When the music stops you both close the distance and share a kiss together. You feel Severus’s hands slowly trail down your back to rest slowly above your behind, but he doesn’t let them go any further. “When this is over,” he leans in close to your ear, “I will make you pay for bringing me out here while you get to run around wearing that.” And with that he opens the doors to the ballroom and walks back inside to continue keeping an eye on the students.

You couldn’t tell if the heat on your face was from the cold or from Severus himself, but you suddenly couldn’t wait for the ball to be over. You head back inside and wander back over to the other professors who have congregated into one of the corners. They were laughing and sharing dances with each other as they tried to enjoy the night as much as they could. You spot Severus in the corner of the room, scolding a student for seemingly causing an argument between two girls. He is always scolding someone, either me or an unsuspecting victim. But before he could notice you staring you hear Minerva call your name out.

When you turn to look, Minerva is strolling up to you with her cat-like grace. “Hello dear, having a good night?” You follow her eyes and realize she is staring at Severus. You knew she was asking if Severus was being his usual grumpy self.

“Actually… I am.” You smile at her and keep your stare on Severus as your mind replays what he whispered to you outside. You see him push his hair back away from his face as he scans the room for you. When he catches your eyes you almost see a smile appear on his face, but it is quickly dismissed when he sees Minerva also staring at him. His usual cold look is instantly reinstalled on his features, but you could swear you saw his eyes travel down your figure. You give him a smile then return to the conversation you were having with Minerva.

After a while the music has begun to die down and the students empty the ballroom. The professors stay behind to make sure nothing is left behind and to ensure everyone gets to their rooms safely. You see Severus standing by the door waiting for you. You walk over to him and he extends his arm for you to hold as you both exit the ballroom together.

“C’mon, tell me you enjoyed it.” You say once you are halfway down the hall. Severus looks straight ahead ignoring you. You decide to take this as a challenge. “Severus I know you had to have a little fun, besides I enjoyed dancing with yo-… Sev!”

Severus has pulled you around the corner and pushed you into a small empty classroom. You stare at him as he closes the door and locks it behind him. “Excuse you, what exactly do you think you are doing?” You place your hands on your hips, but when Severus turns around you can see the look on his face. Oh no…

He walks up to you, “I planned on taking you back to your chambers to do this, but since you are so keen on asking questions I couldn’t wait.” He stalks towards you forcing you to back up until you feel a desk hit the back of your thighs.

“I told you I would have to make you pay for walking around in that dress all night knowing I couldn’t even enjoy it,” he purrs into your ear as he leans above you trapping you against the desk. You can feel the blush start to spread across your face, but the dimness of the classroom hid it from your lover’s view. Even though, you were pretty sure he could tell anyways.

“Severus… you know that is not what I intended. I just wanted to bring you along for a few dances,” you whisper to him slightly confused by his desperation for repayment.

“Darling, it is all the same in the end. You drug me along to this event knowing I would have to stare at you in that dress all night. Yes, I enjoyed the dance with you, but I need more.” He gently pulls you up to stand and replaces your spot on the desk. He sits down and pats his lap. You go to sit on his lap, but he stops you. “Who told you to sit?” He speaks up and you give him a confused look. He gives a deep chuckle before pulling you closer, “lay across my lap,” his slender finger traces your cheek.

The blush on your face deepens as you lay yourself across Severus’s lap. “Good girl…” he purrs while he gently runs his hands up and down your legs. You bite your lip keeping in any sound that might slip out to hint that you are enjoying this.

Severus finally pulls your dress up to your waist to give him a clear shot at his target. You can feel his eye roam your lower half before, SMACK! A slight whimper slips out of your lips. “Sev-“ SMACK! You couldn’t help it a slight moan escapes your mouth.

“Are you enjoying this, darling?” He asks you while gently rubbing the spots he a previously hit.

“A little-“ SMACK! This one was harder than the others.

“Did I say that you should be enjoying this? This is supposed to be my payback.” He runs his hands gently over the spot he smacked giving you time to recover before, SMACK! Severus gives you a few more spanks until he was satisfied with the shade of red that was displayed on your ass.

“Do you think you have learned your lesson?” He leans his head down towards your head as he whispers. His black hair draping to cover the sides of his face. You give him a nod and he gently pulls you off of him as he allows you to make yourself presentable again.

You pull down your dress and run your hands down the sides to smooth out any ruffles. You clear your throat, you don't know what to say so you watch as Severus walks up to you and interlocks his fingers in yours. You two are silent on the rest of the walk back to your chamber. When you finally reach your door you open it and allow Severus to come inside. He takes a step in and closes the door behind him and locks it. With a swift motion he pushes your back up against it. He places both of his hands beside you on the wall trapping you between him and the locked door.

All you could do was stare into the eyes of the slender figure who had you pinned. “Now…” Severus spoke in a low tone, “where were we?” but before you could get a word out he places his lips on yours.

Severus kisses you like a starved man who finally was able to enjoy a meal. “All night, I have had to stare at you in that dress,” he draws back as he whispers in your ear. A blush has already found your face with a deep red shade. His hand creeps up your side, his long fingers grazing your ass.

“Now—” he begins, “—that we are alone—” his removes one of his hands from beside you to trace your jaw with his finger, “—I can enjoy what I have been craving all night.”

You feel your heart rate pick up as Severus grabs you and lifts you over his shoulder. He brings you to the small door at the little corner of the room where your bedroom lies. “Severus!” You squeal. He pushes open the door and sets you down on the bed before returning to close the door. When he turns around you can see that he slowly taking his tailcoat off. Once he throws it on the chair you have in the corner of your room, he untucks his dress shirt, pulling it out slowly from his pants.

His actions seem slow, but for you this is happening all so quickly. He walks up to where you sat on the edge of the bed. You can see a small smirk appear on his lips as he takes his hand and grips your jaw making you look at him. “Such a pretty mouth you like to run, maybe I should put it to good use.”

Your vision was a little clouded from all the adrenaline running through you at this moment. When you looked away from his gaze your eyes fell level with his waist, and you could see just how worked up he truly was. He quickly readjusted your head to look him in the eyes. He begins to push you back on the bed, leaning over you while propping himself up with his arms.

You weren't used to Severus acting on his desires towards you, but god did you love it. The quiet, cold hearted, professor who has a clear distain for everyone chose you. Your mind is racing as Severus’s hands trace the outline of your body enjoying ever little dip and curve that was presented to him.

You think of something to say, anything, but nothing comes to mind. You are under this mans spell, and he has no intention of letting you out of it. As he leans over you you can see his eyes travel down to your chest. His face hiding his true emotions as he begins to talk.

“So pretty, it is quite a shame you made me wait all this time.” Severus is so close to you at this point that you can feel his untucked dress shirt skim your waist. Suddenly he draws back while assisting you up at the same time. He takes a seat on the bed while you stand in front of him.

“I want to see you take it off. I want to enjoy what I have been missing all night.”

“Severus, I-“

“Now.”

You don't wait any longer. He sits on the bed, his posture so elegant as he makes you strip yourself for him.

You begin with the straps on your shoulder. They gently fall to the side with a simple push of your hands. Next, you feel for the zipper on your back. When you are unable to reach it you feel Severus reach out and spin you around. He slowly unzips your dress for you before making you resume your performance.

You see his sharp tongue draw out to trace his lips for a split second as he appreciates the sight in front of him.

The dress finally falls around your ankles. You are left standing in front of the man you love in nothing but your undergarments. Severus takes this opportunity to reach out and pull you towards him on the bed. He traces his hands down the back of your body, finally allowing himself to grab your ass.

You can feel your pulse in your stomach as you watch him stand up and slowly begin to unbutton his shirt. His elegant fingers move with ease sliding the buttons through their designated hole. With each button he undos a glimpse of his pale chest can be seen peaking through his shirt.

When he reaches the last one he removes his shirt, his happy trail catching your eye. The dark hair clearly visible on Severus’s pale skin. It acts as a roadmap as you follow it down his waist until a pair of hands block your view. They twist at the button on the top of Severus’s pants until he pops it open.

Severus looks at you, his face still as cold as ever. “When I am done with you you’ll think twice before you make me go through that again, do you hear me?” He places a hand on your side. It was so gentle, but his words seethe through your skin.

“Yes, Sev.” You answer, but it doesn’t seem to satisfy him. He doesn’t move, awaiting a better answer to slip through your pretty lips. You take the hint, and decide to please him.

“Yes, Severus.” With that he pushes you down unto the bed and crawls onto you. His long body engulfing you as he traps you beneath him.

Severus guides his tongue up the side of your neck slowly as his hands move down towards your underwear that has yet to be removed. You feel his fingers slide just below the hem as they teased you, slowly tracing back and forth. You notice your breath has become more labored as your excitement picks up. Severus notices this as well and decides to go a little further.

He removes his hands from your waste and begins sliding his pants off leaving him in just his black boxer shorts. He refocuses his attention back to you and begins kissing his way down your body. He finally stops when he reaches your underwear again before looking up at you for confirmation. With a handful of his black hair twisted up into your fist, you bite your lip.

He takes that as a yes.

He quickly slides off the bed to get in a better position. He pulls you to the edge with one quick motion. You feel him bite the hem of your underwear as he slowly drags it down your legs. When it reaches your thighs he becomes impatient and pulls them off the rest of the way.

He repositions his face between your legs. You see his eyes devour you before you even feel his tongue. The way he looks down at you with so much anticipation hidden behind those dark orbs.

His long tongue lolls out of his mouth as he eagerly lifts your legs up on his shoulders for a better angle. With that his face disappears between your legs. You squeeze your thighs around his head as he works diligently to please you.

“Right there Sev, yes-” His tongue begins to slide downwards until you feel him slip it inside you. You roll your eyes back as he tongue fucks you, his nose rubbing up against your clit. Everyone who has made fun of him for this nose will regret it for the rest of their lives, you think to yourself.

Severus’s muffled moans of satisfaction were becoming more frequent— sounding like this was the best thing he ever tasted — and he couldn’t get enough.

Finally he pulls his head up, his face glistening with you.

After standing back up he gives you a clear view at the tent that was pitched in his boxers. He notices your eyes and smirks at you, “come here pretty girl.”

You sit up and scoot to the edge of the bed. Severus leans down and plants a kiss on the top of your head before he pulls his boxers off. His cock bounces free from its restraints as it sits level with your face. You look up at Severus with eager eyes.

“Do you want it?”

You don't think you have ever wanted anything more in your life in that moment. All you could do was give him an eager nod.

He doesn’t argue as he pushes himself into your parted lips. You see him tilt his head back as the warmth of your mouth envelopes him. His black hair falls behind his head and his fingers curl into your hair.

Several grunts and moans were shared between the two of you before finally Severus pulls himself out of your mouth. He leans down pulling you up and tossing you onto the bed.

“Now, you're gonna lay nice and still for me, aren’t you baby?” Severus looks down at you with a face you rarely ever see. His stoic composure is gone and replaced with a much darker look. His breath is heavy and you can see sweat starting to glisten on his skin.

Severus— although eager— was not cruel, and allowed you time to adjust for him. When you give him the okay he allows himself to be swallowed by you.

“Fuck. So tight for me…” Severus leans over you placing this hands beside your head as he sinks further and further into you.

“Sev!” The sting of pleasure kept your mind busy while Severus gave you a few seconds to relax. After those seconds were up he didn’t hold back.

“I'm going to make you feel what I felt tonight.” He thrusts into you.

“Ever second I had to endure watching you in that dress.” He picks up the pace.

“I'm going to make you feel this for the next week, just so you know how naughty you were.” He places his hand around your throat as he continues to use you.

“Do. You. Understand?” He leans forward, his hair swaying back and forth with each thrust.

You nod.

“Words darling, use your words for me.” He squeezes a little harder.

“Yes.. I understand Severus.” His grip around your throat loosens. He steadies himself by placing his hands back on the mattress beside you. His pace was quick, his thrusts were hard.

In response to his movement your pleasure was quick to catch up. Severus could tell by the way your toes started curling with his movements, you’re back arching slightly. He grabs one of your legs and quickly wraps it around himself in an attempt to go deeper.

“That’s it darling, you're going to cum on this cock. My cock.” He thrusts deeper at his new angle he created, hitting every spot perfectly.

You start to feel your eyes roll back into your head as the pleasure became overwhelming, until…

“Sev! I’m-” but before you could say anything his places his lips on top of yours. You moan into his mouth while he feels you tighten around him. His pace becoming sloppier as he reaches his own climax.

“I'm going to fill you up, and you're going to take every. last. drop.” Severus kisses you once more until you feel the warmth inside you grow. He lets out a few grunts as he empties himself inside you making sure you take all of it, just as he said.

Then everything stops, all that can be heard in the room is the sounds of breathing. Severus gently pulls away from you and lays beside you on the bed. You look over at him with love clearly evident on your face.

“I guess I should make you go to more school activities with me.” You give him a playful smirk after your comment.

“Do not even think about it,” all traces of what happened a few moments ago gone hidden by his cold tone once more. You smile and roll over into his arms giving him a playful peck on his cheek.

“Always grumpy, I guess I will just have to take someone else then…”

This catches his attention. He lets out a sigh and pulls you into him.

“Good luck trying, [Y/N].”

#snape x reader #severus snape x reader #professor snape #severus snape #severus snape x y/n #snape fanfiction

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