#Still. Used to be Dave's. Probably will still be used. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pathologicalreid · 10 months ago

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gemini | S.R.

two emotionally wrought people collide at a wedding, and a sexual escapade ensues.

part two

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: smut (18+ mdni) content warnings: softdom!spencer, use of the term "good girl" (i couldn't help myself), unprotected sex, reader on bc, alcohol, spoilers for 14x15 truth or dare, lowkey idiots in love, fucking against a wall?, fingering, heavy petting, r has an oral fixation, r is wearing a dress and makeup, explicit consent (hot), public sex, i think that's all word count: 3.42k a/n: this is a little self-indulgent and i don't care! based on literally just the first line of the song gemini by del water gap. probably not ever gonna get a part two. i've never done angsty smut (smangst?) before, so this was fun.

so, here's the setting, we met fucked up at a wedding

Swirling the drink you held in your hand, you watched your friends as they chatted. The pink liquid in the cup, concocted by Penelope Garcia, was far too sweet for your taste, but you needed the liquid courage to make it through the wedding.

It wasn’t that you weren’t happy for Krystall and Dave. It was that weddings oftentimes left a bitter taste in your mouth – one so bitter that not even Penelope’s drink could offset it.

In your periphery, you saw a blur of purple in the corner, looking up to see Spencer. His hand still bandaged from his most recent brush with death, he used his free one to grip a glass of water. Raising your eyebrows, you gave him your best attempt at a smile before you greeted him, “You look good, Dr. Reid.”

He was fully donned in his favorite color, and you tried to pretend that you didn’t notice that your dress matched the purple hue of his suit. “Thanks,” he said shortly, not quite meeting your eyes.

Noting the way he was looking past you, you demurely leaned your head down, glancing over your shoulder so that you could see what he was looking at, only to see JJ. She looked gorgeous in her red dress, laughing at something her husband said before her eyes caught something.

She was staring back at Spencer, and not for the first time, you found yourself wondering what happened in that pawn shop. Bringing your eyes back up to Reid, you watched the confused look in his eyes bloom as he peeled his eyes away from JJ.

Sick of it, you spoke up, “Alright, I had dibs on being the mopey one tonight. What’s wrong?” You had wanted to brush it off as long-lasting nerves from the hostage situation, but he was acting strange.

You knew you weren’t his best friend, that was a title that JJ had been the reigning champion of since the beginning of time. Yet, you still noticed the rigidity in Spencer’s shoulders as he displayed a clear discomfort with his surroundings. You tried to think of something to say to him. How could you ask him if he wanted to get out of here without it sounding like a sexual proposition?

“JJ told me she loved me,” he said, his voice so low you weren’t even sure you had heard him correctly.

Your head snapped up, “Oh.” Swallowing thickly, you tilted your head curiously, letting loose hair tumble to the side. “Do you love her?” Likely not the right conversation for the wedding of everyone’s favorite right-person-wrong-time couple, but you were desperate for a rope to pull yourself out of your wallowing.

He took a sip of his water before setting the empty glass on the bar counter, “I did.” The admission hit you like a ton of bricks, until her continued, “but now…”

Filling in the blanks, you shrugged, “She’s married. They have kids.” Spencer was always doing the right thing, so pushing his feelings aside for the sake of JJ’s family made the most sense.

Furrowing his brows, he pondered this for a moment before speaking, “It’s not just that. I have feelings for someone else.”

“Oh,” you repeated, and somehow the thought of him being in love with an unfamiliar figure hurt more than him being in love with your mutual friend.

The both of you let the conversation lag, watching as Penelope came back up to the bar and poured more drinks. After she accused you of being boring for not wanting another drink, everyone returned to the tables. “Have you dated anyone since him?”

You choked on your newly acquired water, cupping your hand underneath your jaw in an attempt to stop water from getting on your dress. “Uh, no. I’ve kind of sworn off dating ever since,” you replied, shaking your hand out and letting water droplets fall to the floor.

Sighing, you slouched in your seat, remembering that all you’d ever be was a jaded bride. Left by your fiancé on the day of your wedding, doomed to never love again. Until you met Spencer Reid.

“For everyone?” Spencer asked, and you cursed his natural curiosity.

His question caught you off guard. Despite yourself, you shook your head, “I have like… one person who, if they asked me, I’d say yes.” Your skin started to feel warm, and you weren’t sure if it was your proximity to him or Penelope’s drink coming back with a vengeance.

Spencer stepped a little closer to you, leaning casually on the counter as if he wasn’t affecting your ability to focus. “Who’s your person?” The question was innocent enough that it made your heart ache.

“It doesn’t matter, he’s into someone else,” you told him, reaching behind your neck to pull your hair up, haphazardly twisting it. You didn’t have a hair tie, so you let the locks fall once you felt some semblance of relief.

This statement seemingly bothered Spencer because he looked into his glass, “Did he tell you that?”

Nodding, you chewed on the inside of your lip. “Yeah,” maybe not in so many words, Spencer was rarely crass enough to say he was into someone, but you understood well enough.

The conversation lagged between the two of you once again, your own private thoughts were only interrupted when the music changed. It was a slow song, one for the couples of the night to dance to.

You took a chance, “Do you want to go explore the building with me? It’s getting stuffy in here,” you said, taking one final swig of your water before jumping up from your stool.

He looked back at JJ, who was there with Will, and then forward to the girl who was asking to take him away, “Yes.”

David Rossi had spared no expense for his second wedding to his third wife, and the manor that you found yourself meandering within felt never-ending. Something about following Spencer as he led the way and told you facts about the history of the building felt so normal, and you wondered if it would hurt when the night was over. Maybe this would just end as another memory to loathe about weddings.

Trailing him into another room, you stumbled into his back. Quickly, Spencer spun back and caught you before you could fall to the ground.

Steadying yourself, your heart thrummed at the way he was touching you, tightly holding your waist so that you wouldn’t trip. Once you were no longer wobbling, Spencer reached up and gingerly lifted the fallen spaghetti strap of your dress back over your shoulder. Before you had fully thought out your actions, you leaned up on your tip toes and kissed him.

It was hesitant and gentle, but once you registered that you were kissing him you soon realized that he was kissing you back. What started out as a small peck on the lips quickly morphed into full, open-mouthed kisses.

You thought Spencer might eat you alive, and for a moment, you thought you might let him.

Without separating your lips, he herded you over to the wall, pinning your hips to the wall as you felt heat grow between your legs.

Pulling at your bottom lip with his teeth, Spencer pulled away ever so slightly, your faces just inches apart. “Is this okay?” He asked you, his eyes flickering down to your lips like he was holding himself back from kissing you again.

There was fear. A fear that if you moved forward tonight, nothing would ever be the same, but you took a chance and nodded quickly, “Yes.”

Your answer acted as a release as Spencer dropped his head back down and the two of you reattached your lips. Despite your attempts to ignore it, you felt his hardened length pressing into you through several layers of clothes.

Twisting your head away, you gasped as Spencer took the opportunity to place his lips on your neck, gently suckling on the tender skin as you tried to catch your breath. “Are you sure about this?” You breathed, running your hands underneath his suit jacket, wanting nothing more than to push it off of him.

“Yes,” he answered, giving you the same consent that you had already given him, and it was enough for you to reach for his belt buckle. No matter how badly you wanted to see him entirely bare in front of you, this just wasn’t the place for it.

Gently, you slid your hand down his front, savoring the way his breath hitched against your neck as your fingertips precariously lifted the waistband of his boxers. He gently nipped at your earlobe as you wrapped your hand around the base of his cock.

You let your head fall backward, allowing him better access to your neck as you moved your hand. Moving your hand up so that you could swipe your thumb over the tip.

You dragged your other hand down, pulling his boxers down so that you could get a good look at what you were working with, and biting your lip at the sight of it. Slowly, you started to pump his impressive length, noting how his breathing patterns changed with your movements.

Dragging a knuckle up the underside of him, he dropped his head to your shoulder as you collected his pre-cum on your index finger on your way up, bringing your hand up to your mouth and licking the droplet off, peering up at him.

“You’re so good at that, baby,” he told you, sighing as he reached up and placed his hand on the side of your neck, skimming his thumb over your jawline as his free hand started to make its way up your dress, pausing when he only met bare skin. “No underwear?” He questioned, furrowing his brow at you as you bit your lip, trying to refrain from pressing into his hand.

Whimpering almost indiscriminately, you shook your head, “Couldn’t, panty lines would show under the dress.”

Spencer hummed in recognition, moving his hand up to cup your sex so that you could feel your own wetness on his hand. A pathetic whine escaped your throat as your walls clenched with need, still stopping yourself from grinding on his hand. “What do you need?” He asked, a teasing lilt in his voice, “Come on, you can tell me.”

“You, please,” you answered, your voice dangerously bordering on pleading. “Your hands, anything,” you squeaked out, breathing heavily as you awaited his next move.

Gently, he slipped a finger inside your wet hole, causing you to release a satisfied sigh. “You’re so wet,” he whispered in your ear as you tilted your head back and pressed your lips to his.

As his hand picked up in pace, so did your breathing. With each movement of his hand, you struggled to keep your volume at a respectable level, small whimpers continued escaping you even as you bit down on the inside of your lip. “Spence,” you whined, moaning aloud as he slipped a second finger into you, “Oh, god.”

The silence of the room around you only exacerbated the wet sounds that were emanating from your sex, and if it didn’t feel so good, you might’ve been embarrassed. In fact, as you felt a familiar coil winding in your abdomen, you found that you didn’t have the capacity to feel anything other than pleasure.

Crying out, you nodded as Spencer continued to thrust his fingers in and out of you, “Fuck,” you said, caring less about your volume levels. Even less so when he responded by pressing the heel of his hand against your clit, the pressure proving to be enough to send you over the edge.

“It’s okay,” Spencer whispered in your ear, “Let it go for me, baby.” His words continued as you felt your walls spasming around his fingers, his ministrations had slowed, but he worked you through your orgasm before withdrawing his fingers and lifting them up to your mouth.

Accepting the invitation, you leaned forward and sucked the sweet juices off of his hand, slipping your tongue between his two fingers as you looked up at him. You half expected him to be watching you with lust-blown eyes, but he was watching you just as attentively as he had when you started this escapade.

He retrieved his fingers from your mouth with a satisfying pop and reached down to ruche the fabric of your dress up around your waist. “Wait,” he said suddenly, gripping the silky cloth, “I don’t have a condom.”

Your eyes widened and you shook your head, “I don’t mind.” Still breathing heavy from your previous orgasm, you shook your head again, “I mean. I’m on birth control – and I’m good at it. I mean I keep up with it.” Now babbling, you hoped he’d say something. “I’m clean. I trust you.”

Nodding in understanding, he placed a hand on the side of your neck and looked at you intently. “I’m not going to do anything until you catch your breath,” he told you, taking up an authoritative tone.

Blinking rapidly, you evened out your breathing as he ran his hand up and down your torso, “I’m sorry,” you whispered, taking another deep breath as you looked up at him.

Spencer shook his head, “Don’t be sorry.” He leaned his head down, pressing soft kisses down the side of your neck as you finally pushed his jacket off of his shoulders. “You’re so pretty,” he murmured, leaning down to grip the backs of your thighs.

“It’s okay if you can’t lift me,” you rambled quickly, getting his attention as you aired your concern.

He raised his eyebrows expectantly, pressing his hips into yours and lifting your feet off of the ground. The leverage that he had, along with the support of the wall behind him, allowed him to get both of your feet off of the ground. You would’ve spent more time being impressed by this feat if you weren’t so distracted by his painfully hard cock that had now slipped between your folds.

Leaning down, you desperately kissed his lips, wanting him to give you those open-mouthed kisses that you had started out with. Instead, you cried out when, without warning, his full length slipped into you.

Placing gentle kisses on your collarbone, Spencer murmured, “Are you okay?” He whispered, seeming like he was using all of his self-control to just stay still.

You nodded, feeling his cock throbbing so deep in you that you were almost afraid you’d come from just that pressure alone. “Been a while,” you murmured, taking a deep, shaky breath.

He hummed in understanding, “I’ve got you, take your time.”

His words filled your stomach with butterflies, and it wasn’t just because he was fully sheathed in you. “Spence,” you whimpered, “Move.”

On your cue, Spencer gave a tentative thrust, permitting your resulting moan to mix with his grunt. “Fuck, baby,” he said, continuing to thrust in and out of your cunt, filling the room with the crude squelching of your actions. “I’m not going to last long,” he informed you.

Throwing your head back in ecstasy, you moaned helplessly when Spencer dropped one of your legs to the ground, hooking his arm underneath your other knee, providing a new, deeper angle. You swore as the sensations started to feel overwhelming.

The new angle gave him more control over his movements, enabling him to use his free hand to pull at your breast through the fabric of your dress. As you tugged gently at his hair, you tilted your head back, “Spence, I- shit,” you cursed, recognizing the tell-tale signs of your second orgasm approaching.

If it weren’t for his words of encouragement, you would’ve been embarrassed by coming too quickly, and if anything, the words only spurred you closer to the finish line. “Come for me,” he said, thrusting harder into you as he tried to reach the same point. “Let me know how good I make you feel,” he said, continuing his thrusts until his hips stuttered.

“Coming,” you whimpered, dropping your head forward onto his shoulder as you felt your walls tightening around his hard length. Crying out as he continued to pound into you, you buried your face into his neck and nipped at the skin to muffle your sounds.

Now he was solely working toward his own orgasm, having given you two of your own. “You’re such a good girl,” he panted.

Suckling gently at the skin on his neck – not hard enough to leave a mark, you littered kisses on his sensitive skin. “Come in me, baby,” you murmured, trying to spur him on.

Your success was apparent as his movements faltered and his cock started throbbing, feeling the pulses of his cum as it filled you, your eyes rolled back at the feeling while Spencer slowed to a halt, waiting for a beat before he pulled out of you entirely.

Shuddering at the emptiness you now felt, you leaned against the wall once both of your feet were on the ground. As your legs trembled, you watched as Spencer crouched to fish something out of his jacket, leaving you with your mixture of fluids running down your legs.

As he grabbed the handkerchief from his breast pocket, you gasped slightly as you realized his intentions. “Spence, you’ll ruin it,” you insisted.

“Would you rather go back out there with my cum dripping down your thighs?” He asked, knelt in front of you with his brows raised in mock innocence.

Swallowing thickly, you shook your head, “Jesus.”

He chuckled, using the handkerchief to wipe up the mess the two of you had made on your legs before carelessly tossing it into a nearby trashcan. Noting the way your legs were still shaking, he lifted your chin ever so slightly, “Are you alright?”

Nodding, you offered him a tired, but genuine smile. “I’m great,” you told him, wiping underneath your eyes where you were sure there was a mess of mascara.

Taking your hand in his, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, Spencer led to toward the French doors that led to the balcony, taking you out into the fresh air.

As you leaned up against the railing, Spencer shook out his jacket and draped it over your shoulders, doing his best to keep you comfortable. “Hey,” you whispered, “I really am fine. Are you? How’s your hand?” In all of the hormones, you had forgotten about his injury.

Spencer nodded, looking over the property that Rossi had rented. “I’m good, Y/N. I feel good.” You wished he’d call you baby again, but maybe that was too much to ask for. His eyebrows furrowed.

“What are you thinking about?” You asked him, recognizing the look from years of working together.

He hummed, reaching up and sweeping a strand of hair off of your forehead. “That guy? The one who told you he’s into someone else? I can confidently say he’s an idiot.”

Flushing, you smiled to yourself at the fact that Spencer was calling himself an idiot, especially when he was anything but. Shrugging, you waved him off anyway, “Nobody’s perfect, Spence.”

“No, I suppose not, but even so…” he told you, allowing his voice to trail off like he wasn’t totally sure what he wanted to say to you. “If he can’t see what’s right in front of him, then maybe you need to turn your attention elsewhere.”

Sighing, you leaned your chin in your hand, “Thanks, but I don’t know. Maybe there is better out there, and I’m just not worth it.” No, after tonight, you’d likely never get over him. It might’ve started as a workplace crush, but you felt in your heart that it was now something deeper.

Spencer shook his head, “Now, that’s where we disagree.”

“Spencer, I can’t-“ Your voice is cut off when you hear someone calling your name from inside the building, smoothing out the front of your dress one more time, you step back into the room, coming face to face with JJ.

She smiles in recognition of you, but the grin immediately fades from her face when Spencer walks out behind you, “Hey, we’ve been looking for you guys,” she said flatly. “They’re about to cut the cake.”

Nodding, you took another quick look at Spencer before following the blonde out of the room, leaving your secret in the room behind you.

part two

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artificial-transmutations · 11 days ago

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Grunt Force Gamer

Friday evening, finally. After a rather stressful week at the office, Finn was looking forward to his favorite past-time activity, which was blasting through the missions of *Duty Force Alpha* with his buddies. He was a bit surprised though when he logged into the voice server to find only one of his teammates there, even though he was the one who was late.

"Hey Beck! Sorry I'm late. Where is everyone?" he asked.

Beck was the newest addition to the team and had only joined a few weeks ago, bringing them up to five guys, or a whole squad.

"Let's see..." the other guy answered.

"Joey has to help a friend to move, so he is out for tonight. Alex has to prepare a presentation for his work on Monday. And I haven't heard from Dave at all."

Finn groaned.

"So, probably girl trouble again." Dave had a history of disappearing without any trace for a couple of days, only to emerge again a few days later and explaining that he was on a date. It never seemed to work out in the long term, though.

"Anyway. What about you?"

"I'm game. Looks it's just the two of us tonight." said Beck, and Finn could vividly imagine the cocky grin of the other guy, even though their cams were off right now. Finn agreed and started up the game but couldn't stop his heart from beating faster. The thing about Beck was that he wasn't just the newest member of their team or a cool guy to hang out with. Beck was *also* rather hot, especially for a gamer, and every time he spoke, his voice alone was enough to send a chill down Finn's spine. In short, Finn had a hard crush on the other man, and the prospect of spending the evening alone with him - even though it was just digital proximity - was both exciting and frightening to him.

The trouble was: Finn knew borderline nothing about Beck at all. He knew they lived in the same city and his first name, but that was about it. He had no idea if Beck was into guys or if he was single - which Finn could hardly imagine either way - or what his type was. And, of course, he was way too shy to actually ask him.

Just as Finn logged onto the game server, Beck spoke up again.

"Ah fuck, I've got to go AFK for a few minutes again, sorry."

"Sure, no problem. I'll go get a snack as well."

Finn muted his microphone, but instead of going to the kitchen, he was quickly distracted by a message from the game, announcing a change in skill trees. As he was reading the patch notes, however, after some moments, he heard a strange noise from his headset. It sounded a bit like a quiet slapping sound, and while he was still trying to identify what it was, a faint moan reached his ears.

Oh. *Oh*! Finn froze as his brain connected the dots. Beck hadn't gone AFK in a broader sense. Well, his hands probably were off the keyboard, but...

His mind was racing, and his own cock was twitching. Beck was *jerking off* right now, and he had forgotten to mute his microphone. What now? He couldn't just sit here and listen to his teammate beat his meat, right? Perhaps he should give him some privacy and go get that snack.

On the other hand,... imagining the lean Beck stroking himself, probably watching some porn in his gaming chair was pretty hot, and Finn felt his own cock strain against his pants. He double checked his own microphone. Muted. Good. Finn felt his heart beating in his throat as he slowly fondled himself, not quite masturbating but listening to the increasingly labored breaths of his crush on the voice channel. He wondered what he was watching...

Suddenly, a coarse whisper joined the jerking noises and the moans.

"Oh yeah. Show me those big guns, Sarge. I bet your sexy biceps are so much bigger than your brain... Well, I wouldn't mind..."

No way! Beck wasn't just rubbing one out to a random porn video, but instead he was drooling over one of the game characters, Sarge, the meathead heavy type of the game.

But that meant...

Disappointment set in shortly after euphoria. Yes, that meant Beck was gay. But it also meant he preferred the more or less exact opposite of what Finn had to offer. He was a smart guy with a rather unimpressive physique - quite the contrast to Sarge, who was basically a meat mountain. In fact, Finn's character in *Duty Force Alpha* was the exact opposite of Sarge. It was a character class called 'Engineer', whose main feature was to build turrets to shoot down enemies.

But these were just game characters, right? A fantasy. Perhaps Beck didn't have those expectations in real life? Well, there was no way he would be able to ask him, not without giving away that he listened in on his masturbation session.

As if on cue, Beck was moaning loudly now, and with an almost grunting noise, the slapping stopped. He had finished, and Finn was hard. It took only a few seconds until the sound of his breath was gone, replaced by his normal voice.

"Hey, Finn. Did you get that snack?"

Finn decided to wait for two more minutes before unmuting his own microphone to keep up the charade.

"I'm back. Are you there, Beck?"

"Yeah, sorry man, I had to take care of something first. Anyway, let's get going!"

Taking care of something. You could say that. Beck chose his usual sniper character as if nothing had happened and Finn's mouse hovered over the engineer, but he hesitated. He knew Beck's fantasies rather well now. Perhaps if he tried to act a bit simpler... He clicked.

"No way! You're playing Sarge? What happened to your engi?" Beck's voice was surprised.

"Well, I..."

Finn cleared his throat, remembering that Beck apparently had the hots for the simple men.

"Heh, yeah, figured I'd mix things up a bit. These guys seem pretty... capable. And we need a bit of meat shield if it's just the two of us."

Adjusting his pattern of speech to what he thought was simple and cool was harder than expected. He found himself tripping over words more often than not, but if that had any effect on the other guy, he didn't show it immediately. He didn't ask further questions about his choice of character and the two of them went on their way, starting the first mission.

At first, Finn tried to play tactically, as he was used to by his engineer, but after half a mission, he reconsidered. Not only was Sarge simply not built for this playstyle, but he figured Beck would be more into another approach. So, he changed strategies completely and just charged into the enemies head-first and with blazing guns. This worked out remarkably well, and soon, Finn was having actual fun behaving like the meathead he was pretending to be. He even threw in a few grunts and battle cries for good measure that seemed to amuse Beck a lot.

"Sounds like someone is having fun with his new class!" he laughed after a particularly successful attack.

"Yeah. I'm just here to shoot and look pretty. No need to think of anything. Leave that to the smart guys. Like you. All I need is my guns."

The bit of boldness probably came from all the adrenalin, but it was getting easier to get into character now. In any case, Beck didn't seem to mind.

"Awesome man! So, what do you do when you're not gaming? Hit the gym much?"

Finn froze and almost got hit by an enemy assault as a consequence. Fuck! This was the first time Beck showed any interest in his personal life. But the honest answer to that would be 'no, never', clearly not what Beck wanted to hear. Against better judgment he had to lie.

"Uh... yeah, sometimes. Gotta stay in shape, y'know?", hoping that Beck would buy it.

"Nice! Hey, why don't you turn on your cam, show me those gains."

Crap. They sometimes played with their webcams on, that's how Finn knew how Beck looked like. However, since he had been sick and didn't want to turn on his own camera last time, Beck had not seen him before. And that was the only reason his bluff earlier could have worked.

"I don't know, I didn't clean my place..." he tried to evade, but it was no use.

"Aww, come on, man."

Beck had already turned on his camera and smiled into the lens, and Finn could see the handsome face he often dreamed of at night. That was, of course, too much for Finn to resist, and he turned on his camera, too, with a beating heart, expecting Beck to call him out on his lie.

But instead, Beck nodded approvingly.

"Yeah, nice. I can see your progress. You're looking pretty fit, man."

Finn just stared at the monitor for a moment. Given, the lighting wasn't all that good, but how on earth would Beck think he was looking *fit*? He inspected his own miniature image on the screen. Okay, yes, the shadows of the badly lit battle station worked in his favor here. With some fantasy, you could probably make out definition that Finn knew very well wasn't there in reality. Perhaps, Beck was just being polite.

"Uh, thanks." he said, before quickly adding "... bro." for the effect.

He felt a rush of excitement. Perhaps he would be really able to pull this off!

With the cams still on, he charged into the next pack of enemies, and watched Beck lean back into his gaming chair, giving Finn a good view of his own somewhat toned chest under his t-shirt.

"So, you got a girlfriend, Finn? Or are you more of a player?"

Fuck, more questions. His first impulse was to lie again, but no! If he wanted to have a shot with the other guy, he *had* to be honest here. He swallowed hard and answered with his eyes still lingering on Beck, trying to read his body language.

"N-no girlfriend. I'm... uh... not really into chicks."

That came out a lot less confident than he hoped. There was no sign of animosity in Beck, and even though thinking was somehow getting harder, rationally, Finn knew it was a good opportunity to ask him the same, exposing Becks own orientation. But he just couldn't bring himself to do it, so he chickened out and tried to change the subject.

"Anyway, did I tell you about this thing that happened at work the other day? I totally saved our asses by-"

He stopped again, suddenly remembering that he's supposed to play dumb.

"Uh, I mean, I dunno, it was pretty boring office stuff. Who cares about that shit, right?"

At least the lingo came a lot more naturally by now, and sometimes, Finn had to remind himself that it was a role he was playing. It was, right?

Beck raised an eyebrow, looking curious.

"Office stuff? Didn't know you worked in an office, Finn. Thought you were more of a hands-on kind of guy."

Shit! what a slip-up.

"Uh... yeah, uh... I actually am. I'm..."

Fuck, thinking was *hard*. He had to come up with something here, but his mind drew a blank until he looked back at the screen.

"... a soldier. Yeah, I'm in the army."

"Wait, you're a soldier? For real?"

Beck sounded impressed but Finn's heart was racing as he realized what he just said. But he couldn't back down now.

"Uh, yeah, that's right," he replied, trying to sound casual. "Been in the army for a couple years now."

Beck looked impressed. "No shit? That's awesome, man! But what were you doing in an office then?"

Shit, lying was *hard*. Now he had to come up with another one, and fast.

"I... uhm... Oh, right. I was actually applying for a new job, at a private security firm. Y'know, with all the political bullshit goin' on, a lot of us are lookin' to get out and find somethin' else."

That was believable. A lot of people didn't want to stay in the army with a president like that. Heck, that's why *he* was looking for another job, right?

Wait, but wasn't that part of the lie? Finn's confusion grew and he barely registered Beck's answer:

"Yeah, I hear ya."

Finn scratched his head, trying to clear his mind. Thinking had never been his strong point - or has it? However, he was quickly distracted again by a weird feeling. As he had raised his arm, his shirt felt... tight. Constricting even. Hardly believing what he felt, he looked down at his own body and felt his solid pecs through his t-shirt. No, they weren't just solid. They were *large*. Large enough to stretch the fabric of his clothing and to limit his movements. Suddenly, he was aware of his other muscles, too. His arms were far bigger than they should be. Or was that right? Wasn't that why he went to the gym every day?

"Damn Finn, I never realized how built you are." Beck’s voice interrupted his slow train of thoughts and Finn could see Beck subconsciously licking his lips at the sight.

Something was wrong here, somehow.

"I... uh... I need to piss." he declared, the crude language coming all natural now.

He almost forgot to take off his headset and stumbled to the bathroom, splashing his face with water. The man who was staring back at him from the mirror was... not him. There was a certain similarity, of course, but *this* Finn was looking all different. He stripped down to his underwear to see better and was greeted by a much more massive body than before: a six-pack, bulging biceps, pecs, and all. His hair was also shorter than it used to be, and his features overall looked more rugged and less nerdy. He was a whole new, hot and handsome version of his former self. Even his face had squared up, and his jawline was much stronger. And his underwear... It looked positively *stuffed*, like he had pushed a sock in there. But he knew that wasn't the case. No, this was *his* package, the outline of his own cock pressing against the fabric, and it was a lot more than he remembered.

Finn stared at his reflection, and the reflection stared back. Something was wrong, but the fog around his brain was only getting denser.

Right, that was it. His big fingers brushed against his stubbly beard. He didn't shave, that's what was wrong here. Without a second thought, he grabbed the razor and started working on his upper lip, his chin and even his chest, until he was presentable again. It was only a few swipes, and once he was finished, he was satisfied with his work. Better.

He grabbed his clothes from the ground and didn't realize they, too, had changed into a pair of large olive cargo shorts and a white tank top.

"Yo, I'm back. Did I miss any action?"

He grinned for the camera and Beck shook his head.

"Cool!"

He readjusted his crotch and got back to playing, occasionally exchanging a joke with Beck. The game was getting really fun. Finn was blasting through enemy ranks without any consideration for strategy anymore. He was a simple guy now, and simple guys didn't need that kind of thing.

After an especially hard boss fight, he yanked his fist up in the air in triumph.

"Hell yeah! Did you see that?"

Beck laughed. "Yeah, I did, Finn. You were a beast out there."

Beck's praise gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.

"Thanks man. One sec."

Without a second thought he pulled off his headset, followed by his tank top, leaving him bare-chested in front of his PC.

"Better. It's getting hot in here."

"Wow, you can say that... Holy shit!"

Beck’s eyes looked like they are about to pop out of his head. "You been hidin' that bod all this time? Damn, you look amazing!" The lust in his voice is clearly audible by now.

"Thanks, man. Just thought I'd get comfortable, y'know?" Finn grinned and ran a hand over his chiseled chest, feeling powerful and sexy. Suddenly, he remembered something.

"Right, wanted to ask ya, since we're bein' honest and all... you got a girl? Or maybe you're into dudes like me?" He didn't get why he couldn't have asked that earlier, it really wasn't that hard, was it? Heh, hard.

Beck's cheeks flush slightly but he grins. "Yeah, I swing for the other team too, Finn. Never found a chick who could handle all this."

He gestured to his own, rather toned body, which wasn't quite as impressive as the one Finn was sporting now, bringing Finn to smirk in acknowledgement.

"Well, if you wanna get more comfortable too, feel free to lose the shirt, man. Unless you're scared to show me up."

Beck chuckled, reaching for the hem of his shirt. "Scared? Please, I'll put your buff ass to shame!"

The two of them continue to play, now with their shirts off, and their banter becomes increasingly flirty. Finn was enjoying the attention, and it was obvious that Beck was enjoying the view as well. However, after two more missions, Beck noticed a sudden drop in his teammate’s performance.

"Dude, what's up? You're playin' like shit all of a sudden." he teased, while his eyes remained glued to the difficult situation.

However, after hearing the grunted answer from Finn, he immediately looked up to the video stream again.

"It's... hard to play with one hand, y'know?"

Beck's mouth fell open as he saw Finn, grinning, with one hand still on the controller and the other tightly wrapped around the massive hard cock he had fished out of his underwear and was stroking slowly, all while maintaining eye contact with Beck.

"Woah, dude. You're... You're jackin' off right now? While we're gaming?"

Finn just grinned broader before his hazy mind produced an idea. Instead of the controller, he took his phone in his hand and typed a bit, all while slowly continuing to work his cock. Beck didn't have to wait long for the mystery to resolve itself, though, as his own phone buzzed.

"That's my address," Finn growled, his voice deep and commanding. "Get your fine ass over here and I'll show you what this soldier can really do."

"I... I'll be there in 10 minutes." Beck promises, his own voice coarse with arousal.

The last thing he saw before his webcam switched off was a lewd grin on Finn's new face.

Hey, sorry for the long silence! I've had some stressful time at work, but now I'm back writing!

#dumbing down #muscle transformation #male transformation

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felassan · 3 months ago

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David Gaider on Zevran, under a cut for length:

"I was going to skip over Zevran, honestly, as I felt like I didn't have a lot to tell in the way of stories about him... but I know he still has some (ardent) fans. Plus, on reflection, I thought maybe I DO have a few things to say. 😅 Sooo we'll see how this goes. Zevran came along much later in the DAO process, as we were trying to round out the cast of party members. Alistair and Morrigan were well underway (as "main" characters, they were concepted very early) and I'd just started to consider who our Rogue followers might be when... things changed, a bit. See, BioWare had released a game not long beforehand called Jade Empire. It had included some same-sex options in its romances - not obscured like the way Juhani's "romance" had been hinted at in KotOR, but explicit. To this day, I have no idea who on the Jade Empire team was behind it, or why. More to the point, the same-sex options had received a lot of attention and praise - almost universal praise, in fact. In 2005, everyone was just pleasantly surprised. And I don't recall if I went to James and asked about it or if he came to me to suggest DAO should include it. The latter, I think."

"You might ask "Aren't you gay, Dave? Weren't you already pushing for this?" And the answer to that is, emphatically, "no, not at all". It might seem odd looking through the lens of 2024, but there was no talk of 'representation' or 'diversity'. Not at any level where we were aware of it, anyhow. Today, fans argue about how MUCH representation to include and whether it's done well enough... the idea that, less than twenty years ago, it being included *at all* was very much in doubt feels so far away. But, back then, I'd always assumed my private life and my work in games would never meet. So I think it was James who brought it up, because I remember being startled. Pleasantly so, of course. Now I had to look at our two rogues and figure out how this would apply. I sketched out the female of the two (who was taken on by Sheryl Chee) and then looked at the male - he who became Zevran. I'd been reading about the CIA and one thing that stuck with me was how they'd (allegedly) recruit gay men as assassins because they rarely had familial ties. Zevran wasn't going to be gay (bisexuality wasn't a question of representation, but a cost-benefit compromise) but that was the inspiration."

"Then there was the question of how "flamboyantly" I was writing this character, whether that might be too stereotypical? I don't remember how it arose, but I had too many "flamboyant" friends to do anything other than double down. This character was gonna be Zorro the goddamn Gay Blade, that's what. So that's how Zevran happened. Fun, a bit nihilistic, maybe a bit too overtly flirty for today's audience but very confidently *sexual*. Everything I'm not, so I'll admit it was an interesting exploration to dig down and find that voice somewhere inside. He was the anti-Alistair, and I needed that. Casting him was difficult. Caroline always tried to go for authentic accents, when we could, but for some reason this was getting us nowhere. I think back, and I suspect it's because I hadn't yet learned the lesson to not use terms in casting descriptions I thought were universal... but were not. What do I mean by that? Well, there was one write-up that said "drow elf". Now, I know what a drow elf is. It wasn't even important to the description, but the director saw the word "elf", and you know what we got back? A Keebler elf. Like a leprachaun, high and sweet and cutsie. Can you imagine?"

"In this case, I think it was the use of the word "assassin". Combine that with the sorts of roles many Hispanic actors in LA probably are asked to play, and all the auditions we were getting were 150% dark, mean, and gritty. 🫠 So we widened the casting call a bit, and this led us to Jon Curry. I knew Jon wasn't Hispanic, but what I wasn't prepared for when I flew down to meet the DAO actors was that he's this extremely tall, extremely Nordic looking dude who just happened to do the most amazing Antonio Banderas impression. Watching THAT man channel Zevran was... more than a bit surreal. 😅 And he had fun with it. As soon as we gave him the go ahead to play the fun and flirtiness to the hilt, that's exactly what he did. Over the few days where we found Zevran's voice, it totally supplied me with something I could hold in my head when I went back to Edmonton and finished writing him. Zevran was funny enough that the fans liked him. The only part of the reception I thought odd was the occasional comment by a male player who felt "tricked" into having sex with Zevran. "You mean... that part where he invites you to his tent for a sensual massage?" "Yes! I was expecting a massage!" "He literally says the massage is sensual." "Well he wasn't clear enough!" This is where I first came to the conclusion that a certain number of our players just don't know how to people. And that maybe an adjustment to the way we approached the messaging (or massaging lol) of romance was in order. If I could go back, would I change anything? Maybe I'd remind the systems team Zevran should really be able to pick a lock. And maybe not allow him to die. We had no idea we'd need to import these choices into the future - we kinda thought DAO was "one and done". Not so much, as it turned out. 😁"

[source thread]

David Gaider: "there's something to be said about how Zevran flirted and even had sex with you because he thought that's all he had to offer... not just you, but anyone. And when he realized you wanted something deeper, suddenly he was on unsteady ground and it truly unsettled him. It was fun to explore." [source]

User: "So David - besides loving the fact that the third image you picked is a gay sex scene - what happened in DA2(DAE - come on) with Zevrans design?" David Gaider: "Check the ALT text. It wasn’t a custom sculpt, so that’s as close as they could get it. Which… was not close." [source]

User: "Just to make sure I fully understand: the director (was it the voice director?) saw the word "elf" and thought you were looking for someone high, sweet, and cutesie?" David Gaider: "Yeah, this was from back before we managed VO in-house. The voice director in this case just didn’t have an association with “elf” like some familiar with fantasy would." [source]

#dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost #jade empire #lgbtq #alistair theirin #fav warden #morrigan #queen of my heart

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jellybeanium124 · 5 months ago

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yeah so sloane and luther found each other, got remarried, and luther is the world's greatest stripper and sloane is a physicist. diego and lila went to couple's counseling and are doing better than ever. diego quit his UPS job and started a food truck selling street tacos. lila teaches mixed martial arts at a gym. allison is continuing to pursue her passion for acting and raising claire. maybe she and ray even find each other again. klaus falls in love again. he misses dave, but not everything can work out. he overcomes his hypochondria and can have fun again. five retires. he's going to learn who he is without constantly having to be on a mission. ben... is honestly probably still a bit of a selfish asshole, but he starts working on himself. maybe he gets some other kind of tech or salesman job. viktor may have been dumped by every woman in town but that doesn't mean there aren't any men for him to date. he's got his bar and his life, his violin, and maybe a dog or cat.

they're all adults, finally. they get together enough to never miss each other, but not too much so they all get annoyed with each other. with reginald dead and their powers gone, they can all finally start to move on from the past. they're no longer the children they used to be. they no longer have to be defined by their childhood and where they came from.

#tua #the umbrella academy

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cuddlytogas · 11 months ago

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So I accidentally almost got into an argument on Twitter, and now I'm thinking about bad historical costuming tropes. Specifically, Action Hero Leather Pants.

See, I was light-heartedly pointing out the inaccuracies of the costumes in Black Sails, and someone came out of the woodwork to defend the show. The misunderstanding was that they thought I was dismissing the show just for its costumes, which I wasn't - I was simply pointing out that it can't entirely care about material history (meaning specifically physical objects/culture) if it treats its clothes like that.

But this person was slightly offended on behalf of their show - especially, quote, "And from a fan of OFMD, no less!" Which got me thinking - it's true! I can abide a lot more historical costuming inaccuracy from Our Flag than I can Black Sails or Vikings. And I don't think it's just because one has my blorbos in it. But really, when it comes down to it...

What is the difference between this and this?

Here's the thing. Leather pants in period dramas isn't new. You've got your Vikings, Tudors, Outlander, Pirates of the Caribbean, Once Upon a Time, Will, The Musketeers, even Shakespeare in Love - they love to shove people in leather and call it a day. But where does this come from?

Obviously we have the modern connotations. Modern leather clothes developed in a few subcultures: cowboys drew on Native American clothing. (Allegedly. This is a little beyond my purview, I haven't seen any solid evidence, and it sounds like the kind of fact that people repeat a lot but is based on an assumption. I wouldn't know, though.) Leather was used in some WWI and II uniforms.

But the big boom came in the mid-C20th in motorcycle, punk/goth, and gay subcultures, all intertwined with each other and the above. Motorcyclists wear leather as practical protective gear, and it gets picked up by rock and punk artists as a symbol of counterculture, and transferred to movie designs. It gets wrapped up in gay and kink communities, with even more countercultural and taboo meanings. By the late C20th, leather has entered mainstream fashion, but it still carries those references to goths, punks, BDSM, and motorbike gangs, to James Dean, Marlon Brando, and Mick Jagger. This is whence we get our Spikes and Dave Listers in 1980s/90s media, bad boys and working-class punks.

And some of the above "historical" design choices clearly build on these meanings. William Shakespeare is dressed in a black leather doublet to evoke the swaggering bad boy artist heartthrob, probably down on his luck. So is Kit Marlowe.

But the associations get a little fuzzier after that. Hook, with his eyeliner and jewellery, sure. King Henry, yeah, I see it. It's hideously ahistorical, but sure. But what about Jamie and Will and Ragnar, in their browns and shabby, battle-ready chic? Well, here we get the other strain of Bad Period Drama Leather.

See, designers like to point to history, but it's just not true. Leather armour, especially in the western/European world, is very, very rare, and not just because it decays faster than metal. (Yes, even in ancient Greece/Rome, despite many articles claiming that as the start of the leather armour trend!) It simply wasn't used a lot, because it's frankly useless at defending the body compared to metal. Leather was used as a backing for some splint armour pieces, and for belts, sheathes, and buckles, but it simply wasn't worn like the costumes above. It's heavy, uncomfortable, and hard to repair - it's simply not practical for a garment when you have perfectly comfortable, insulating, and widely available linen, wool, and cotton!

As far as I can see, the real influence on leather in period dramas is fantasy. Fantasy media has proliferated the idea of leather armour as the lightweight choice for rangers, elves, and rogues, a natural, quiet, flexible material, less flashy or restrictive than metal. And it is cheaper for a costume department to make, and easier for an actor to wear on set. It's in Dungeons and Dragons and Lord of the Rings, King Arthur, Runescape, and World of Warcraft.

And I think this is how we get to characters like Ragnar and Vane. This idea of leather as practical gear and light armour, it's fantasy, but it has this lineage, behind which sits cowboy chaps and bomber/flight jackets. It's usually brown compared to the punk bad boy's black, less shiny, and more often piecemeal or decorated. In fact, there's a great distinction between the two Period Leather Modes within the same piece of media: Robin Hood (2006)! Compare the brooding, fascist-coded villain Guy of Gisborne with the shabby, bow-wielding, forest-dwelling Robin:

So, back to the original question: What's the difference between Charles Vane in Black Sails, and Edward Teach in Our Flag Means Death?

Simply put, it's intention. There is nothing intentional about Vane's leather in Black Sails. It's not the only leather in the show, and it only says what all shabby period leather says, relying on the same tropes as fantasy armour: he's a bad boy and a fighter in workaday leather, poor, flexible, and practical. None of these connotations are based in reality or history, and they've been done countless times before. It's boring design, neither historically accurate nor particularly creative, but much the same as all the other shabby chic fighters on our screens. He has a broad lineage in Lord of the Rings and Pirates of the Caribbean and such, but that's it.

In Our Flag, however, the lineage is much, much more intentional. Ed is a direct homage to Mad Max, the costuming in which is both practical (Max is an ex-cop and road warrior), and draws on punk and kink designs to evoke a counterculture gone mad to the point of social breakdown, exploiting the thrill of the taboo to frighten and titillate the audience.

In particular, Ed is styled after Max in the second movie, having lost his family, been badly injured, and watched the world turn into an apocalypse. He's a broken man, withdrawn, violent, and deliberately cutting himself off from others to avoid getting hurt again. The plot of Mad Max 2 is him learning to open up and help others, making himself vulnerable to more loss, but more human in the process.

This ties directly into the themes of Our Flag - it's a deliberate intertext. Ed's emotional journey is also one from isolation and pain to vulnerability, community, and love. Mad Max (intentionally and unintentionally) explores themes of masculinity, violence, and power, while Max has become simplified in the popular imagination as a stoic, badass action hero rather than the more complex character he is, struggling with loss and humanity. Similarly, Our Flag explores masculinity, both textually (Stede is trying to build a less abusive pirate culture) and metatextually (the show champions complex, banal, and tender masculinities, especially when we're used to only seeing pirates in either gritty action movies or childish comedies).

Our Flag also draws on the specific countercultures of motorcycles, rockers, and gay/BDSM culture in its design and themes. Naturally, in such a queer show, one can't help but make the connection between leather pirates and leather daddies, and the design certainly nods at this, with its vests and studs. I always think about this guy, with his flat cap so reminiscient of gay leather fashions.

More overtly, though, Blackbeard and his crew are styled as both violent gangsters and countercultural rockstars. They rove the seas like a bikie gang, free and violent, and are seen as icons, bad boys and celebrities. Other pirates revere Blackbeard and wish they could be on his crew, while civilians are awed by his reputation, desperate for juicy, gory details.

This isn't all of why I like the costuming in Our Flag Means Death (especially season 1). Stede's outfits are by no means accurate, but they're a lot more accurate than most pirate media, and they're bright and colourful, with accurate and delightful silks, lace, velvets, and brocades, and lovely, puffy skirts on his jackets. Many of the Revenge crew wear recognisable sailor's trousers, and practical but bright, varied gear that easily conveys personality and flair. There is a surprising dedication to little details, like changing Ed's trousers to fall-fronts for a historical feel, Izzy's puffy sleeves, the handmade fringe on Lucius's red jacket, or the increasing absurdity of navy uniform cuffs between Nigel and Chauncey.

A really big one is the fact that they don't shy away from historical footwear! In almost every example above, we see the period drama's obsession with putting men in skinny jeans and bucket-top boots, but not only does Stede wear his little red-heeled shoes with stockings, but most of his crew, and the ordinary people of Barbados, wear low boots or pumps, and even rough, masculine characters like Pete wear knee breeches and bright colours. It's inaccurate, but at least it's a new kind of inaccuracy, that builds much more on actual historical fashions, and eschews the shortcuts of other, grittier period dramas in favour of colour and personality.

But also. At least it fucking says something with its leather.

#everyone say 'thank you togas' for not including a long tangent about evil rimmer in red dwarf 5x05 #Our Flag Means Death #Togas does meta #and yes these principles DO fall apart slightly in s2 and i DON'T like those costumes as much #don't get me wrong they're fun and gorgeous - but generally a bit less deep and more inaccurate. so. :(#I'm not sure this really says anything new about Our Flag but I just needed to get my thoughts out #i hate hate hate Gritty Period Drama costumes they're so boring and so ugly and so wrong #god bless OFMD for using more than 3 muted colours and actually putting men in heels (and not as a shorthand for rich/foppish villainy) <3 #looking at that Tudors still is insane like they really will go to any lengths to not make men feel like they've got bare legs XD #image descriptions in alt text #and yes i DID just sink about two hours into those so you'd better appreciate them

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stardusthuntress · 1 year ago

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This is SO COOL!!!

AND, I have a theory. Hear me out here.

We know Crosshair is 9904. He’s number 4 of 4.

We also know he’s eyesight is better than Hunter’s, a man with heightened senses! When Hunter said he couldn’t see Omega in the water between all the wreckage anymore, Crosshair still could! Crosshair saved her!

And on the ice world when he still made that impressive shot without his helmet because he dropped it after the flash!

AND with this snipers are slightly faster at the math, it only amplifies my theory!

I think that Crosshair was the Kaminoans attempt to combine Tech’s attributes with Hunter’s!!! He’s got a lot in common with both of them! AND it could explain why he is convinced he can be a better leader than Hunter. He’s got so much in common with both of them! I think there’s a reason the writers decided he should be the 4th of 4, 9904.

So here’s my theory:

I think they made Wrecker and Tech first. Brains and brawn, I mean they both technically have both (I know Wrecker can disarm anything AND builds weapons in seconds from scrap; while Tech routinely catches Omega mid-air and spins her to safety, and pries open metal walls like they’re nothing!), but each has one dominant trait that is their specialty!

Then Hunter! With the goal of making a good hunter, obviously! The “what about those times when technology is not enough, or the intel is wrong, or something happens and it’s just down to these men, their instincts, and their armor, what then” scenario. Essentially: how do you make a human an expert predator? That’s Hunter. Honestly tho, that man is even built like a bear or a wolf!

And then they needed a man who could step into any role if need be. Someone who could watch everyone’s backs from a safe vantage point - a sniper… who can also lead, calculate, and provide shelter (cover fire). That man could also keep an eye on and protect all of them (from afar in his nest) if they ever were forced to separate. That’s Crosshair! And he might not have Wrecker’s strength, but he does have the math and the eyesight for a sniper. That’s why I think he’s a combination of the same genetic alterations that Tech and Hunter bear!

The only problem was that he was so quiet and distant… communication and empathy, essential qualities in a good leader… so they made Hunter the sergeant… and I think part of the reason for the cold shoulder he’s been giving to Hunter stems from the idea that Crosshair never stopped feeling like he failed. So he made himself believe that they were all superior to the regs anyways, or at least, that’s what he told them he believed. But he never really seemed convinced of it. The way he put a comforting hand on Echo’s shoulder after his first battle back with the GAR during the extraction. He doesn’t really think they are superior. But he wants Hunter to believe it, because then he can be ok with being one of the best if he can’t be the leader of the best. Because he does look up to Hunter, whether or not Hunter knows it.

And I was really hoping it would be Tech that was gonna tell Hunter how much Cross really cared about Hunter… but now, Hunter might finally be able to see it on his own…

Okay I love the thought of Crosshair being faster in math than Tech. I mean not exactly better but as I said faster. Because Crosshairs job is it to constantly calculate. I never realised it till I saw a interview with a real sniper who explained his work. So just imagine Tech being jealous and frustrated that Cross can always calculate a little bit faster than him and without the use of a calculator because he trained himself to do it without one.

#that being said I still firmly believe Mr Million Backup Plans could have truly died #but that’s what I believe Crosshair is really dealing with #that’s what I think they’re not telling us #they’re waiting for an extremely emotional moment to stab us in the back with something like that #something that is jist as emotionally destructive as the end of season 3 and order 66 (every. damn. time)#whatever remains of my heart #I am preparing to lose it in season 3 #BUT I DONT WANNA #DAVE BE NICE THIS TIME #THESE MEN NEED A BREAK!!!#UOUVE TAKEN ENOUGH FROM THEM ALREADY #YOU dont actually have to BE as cruel as PALPATINE #tbb crosshair #crosshair #tbb tech #bad batch headcanons #tbb hc #bad batch tech #hunter tbb #tbb wrecker #that was long winded #my bad #honestly started writing this like 10 mins after a mutual reblogged it #it’s probably been like an hour now as I pour my heart out into this #I can’t help it #being nerdy is fun even if it hurts sometimes too #stardust rambles #stardust rants #zenith rants #zenith rambles

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ylangelegy · 23 days ago

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like a python 🧊 jihoon x reader.

jihoon doesn’t know how many years of pining he has left in him.

★ rockstar!jihoon x reader. ★ word count: 2.5k ★ genre/warnings: alternate universe: non-idol. jihoon-centric, childhood friends, yearning... so much yearning, young k makes a cameo, jihoon is a bit lame (affectionately), cussing/swearing. mentions of alcohol, food. ★ footnotes: got7 dropped winter heptagon and it's all i can think about. wrote this in one sitting as a show of gratitude to @chugging-antiseptic-dye for introducing me to these boys. haven't done a song fic in a hot minute, but for lee jihoon and got7? anything. shoutout to igot7_MarKP on twitter for the english translation of the lyrics.

🎧 now playing: python by got7 — i know i'm an icon, watch me with the lights on; but she got a hold on me like a python.

▸ MUSIC IS HOW I'VE BEEN VENTING NOW... OVERSEAS, I'M SELLING OUT.

It’s pretty surreal to Jihoon, being in a room with some of the biggest names in rock.

In the past hour alone, he’s met Alex Turner, Dave Grohl, and— holy shit, is that Hayley Williams? Jihoon is getting dizzy, and it’s not only because of all the secondhand smoke he’s inhaled since he got to the Rolling Stones afterparty.

The best of the best. That’s what the invitation had boasted. It was the scene’s most coveted event, and Jihoon somehow made it to the guest list.

Unbidden, your voice nags from somewhere in the back of his mind. You’re the best, Jihoon-ah.

He shakes his head, like he’s physically trying to get away from the thought of you. This had been happening a lot more as of late. Fleeting moments wherein he’d imagine how you would react, what you’d say.

But Jihoon always catches himself. He snaps himself out of it and goes back to recording, goes back to performing.

God, he needs to get it together. He’s starting to regret saying ‘no’ to the cigarette Ely Buendia was offering him earlier.

(In Jihoon’s defense, he didn’t smoke often. He didn’t want to fuck up his vocal chords. He had a one-cigarette-a-year rule, and he wasn’t about to use it now. It was only January; who knew what else the year would throw him?)

Jihoon is contemplating some other vice— maybe he can go grab another beer— when he feels a tap on his shoulder. At the sight of who came up to him, Jihoon immediately folds into a bow.

“There’s no need for that,” Younghyun says, equal parts amused and embarrassed. “We’re all the same here, yeah?”

Jihoon pulls himself to his full height. “Not… really,” he says lamely, and then he immediately launches into mumbled apologies when he realizes how he might have sounded.

It wasn’t that Jihoon thought he was better than his peers. Hell, he knew that he was the least important person in the room. That’s what he meant; they were not all the same, because Jihoon still had a long ways to go.

Especially when compared to rock icon Young K, who is— gracefully— taking Jihoon’s awkwardness in stride.

“You’re holding up a lot better than me,” Younghyun muses. “At my first afterparty, I threw up on Rupam Islam.”

“No.”

“Yes, unfortunately. He was very nice about it, though.”

Jihoon lets out a stutter of a laugh. He’s never been a fan of small talk, but he clings to it now like a lifeline. “Does it get easier?” he asks.

Younghyun’s eyebrows raise. “Throwing up on rockstars?”

“No, no–”

“I was kidding,” Younghyun says in between chuckles. His expression is a little more pensive when he goes on, “I can’t say for sure that it gets easier, but you learn to deal with it.”

You learn to deal with it. Jihoon can almost laugh at just how accurate that is. It seems applicable to every aspect of his life— including missing you.

Jihoon winces. Younghyun notices.

The older man doesn’t comment on it, probably thinks it’s something else entirely. Younghyun doesn’t flinch away, either, when Jihoon nervously says, “Can I ask you another question?”

“Ask away,” says Younghyun. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

What is Jihoon doing? He doesn’t know either, but it’s either this or fight off the urge to run through a pack of Marlboros. “How do you cope,” he starts slowly, “with… feelings?”

A beat. Crap. Jihoon realizes he definitely could have phrased that better, because Younghyun is now looking at him with an expression of mild confusion.

Jihoon backtracks. “You— we— go through a lot in this field of work. Like, a lot. And you— fuck, fine, I’m— grateful for it, really, I swear. But there’s just… so much other things, too, aside from the gratitude. How do you cope with those?”

Jihoon knows he probably looks and sounds like a trainwreck in his bid to be deliberately vague. By some miracle, Younghyun at least seems to understand what Jihoon is trying to say.

Younghyun’s lip quirks to one side as he thinks of his response. The silence stretches uncomfortably long, but then he gives an answer that’s the last thing Jihoon could have expected.

“I write,” Younghyun says.

Jihoon blinks once. Then twice.

“You write,” he repeats, and the former nods.

“It’s all in my discography. The anger, the heartbreak, the love.” Younghyun raises his shoulders in a shrug. “I’ve written nearly 200 songs, and all of them are just— that. Questions. Answers to questions. Feelings and stories.”

It’s so simple, so obvious. It’s like a glaring traffic sign, like something that every musician should know and do.

Put it in a song. Perform it for thousands and leave the muse none the wiser. Profit. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Jihoon had done it a fair amount of times, but never had he considered putting you to pen and paper. The prospect of it makes something in his chest thrum.

“I—” He clears his throat. “I think I have to go, sunbaenim. It was nice seeing you.”

A hint of humor glints in Younghyun’s eye, like he’s somewhat aware of the fact he’s witnessing something unravel. “‘Younghyun’ is fine,” he chirps. “And it was nice seeing you, too, Jihoon. Take care of yourself.”

The words— take care of yourself— are supposed to be a platitude. To Jihoon, it feels like a tall ask.

▸ I'M TOURING THE WORLD BUT I'M MISSING THE ONE WHO HELD IT DOWN.

Jihoon is exhausted.

As much as he wants to say that he’s never been this tired in his life, it’d probably be a lie. He’d make the claim, hit the road, then end up crashing out saying the same damn thing. He’s seen this film before; he knows how it ends.

He falls back on his hotel bed after his shower. A low groan escapes him, and he sends up a silent prayer to all the higher powers there are. Thank you for sheets with a 300-500 thread count. Thank you for air-conditioning. Thank you for warm showers and Listerine.

Despite his fatigue, Jihoon can’t just go to sleep. Post-show adrenaline always took a couple of hours to wear off.

He briefly contemplates his options. Write a lyric or two? Watch a shitty Netflix movie? Stare out the hotel window until his eyes can’t stay open anymore?

None of the above, it seems, as he reaches for his phone.

Jihoon has never been active on SNS; he just couldn’t bring himself to care about things like TikTok trends or Twitter ‘beef’. It’s a constant thorn in his PR team’s side. There is one thing that he bothers to check, though, and God forbid he deny himself the simple pleasure of some good ol’ fashioned pining.

He’s been on your Instagram page enough times that it’s the first thing that shows when he goes to the search bar. It’s the only thing that shows, really, which gives some pretty good sense of where his head is at.

Your profile loads. There’s no new post, no recent story. Jihoon is both disappointed and relieved.

No news is good news, he thinks to himself as he leisurely scrolls through the photos he’s already seen a dozen times before. You, feeding sidewalk cats. You, sipping tea at a cafe. You, in all the places that were once Jihoon’s, too. The beaches, the hiking trails, the restaurant in your shared neighborhood.

Jihoon opens that particular post. Even though he’s watched your life in squares for the better half of the past three years, this is the one photo that always has him feeling a pang of… something.

Because Jihoon can imagine it— being at that restaurant with you. The two of you had discovered it together, had pooled your measly school allowances to afford the bokguk and ganjang gejang.

He imagines being there with this older version of you, being the one snapping the picture that’d find a spot on your feed. He can see it so clearly in his mind’s eye that if he really, really tries, it begins to look more like a memory than a daydream.

But he’s not in Busan, not even in Korea. He’s in the United States instead, where he has ten stops before heading to Canada and Europe.

Sold-out stadiums. Thousands upon thousands of adoring fans.

All the food that he could possibly want, and yet it’s pufferfish soup and soy sauce crabs that he’s looking for.

Every person that he could possibly have, and yet. And yet.

Jihoon huffs out a frustrated exhale. He’s tired, which he swears makes him delusional.

He casts his phone aside, blissfully ignorant to the way his finger double taps his screen as he does.

Halfway across the world, your phone pings.

woozi_universefactory ✓ liked your post.

▸ I'VE BEEN RUNNING BACKWARDS, RUNNING BACKWARDS LIKE A MARATHON.

The push notification glaring up at Jihoon looks a lot like a bomb that’s about to explode.

Jihoon feels like it’s a bomb, because he refuses to believe that after over a year of absolutely nothing, you’ve messaged first. You’ve messaged first.

He double, triple checks his calendar. It’s neither of your birthdays. It’s not a holiday, either. Is it Chuseok? No— that doesn’t make sense.

“For fuck’s sake,” he chides himself under his breath. It’s a text. Nothing more, nothing less.

Jihoon opens the notification.

And then his heart just.

Stops.

You’d sent two messages— the first, being the post that had him spiraling last night. It’s the proceeding message that has Jihoon hoping the ground will swallow him whole.

Stalking me, Jihoon-ah?

Holy shit.

Jihoon types out at least three different messages, from Are you a fly on my wall to Is there a new Instagram feature I don’t know about to What happened to “hello, how are you”?

In the end, he only sends back a single question mark. When he opens the offending post, he immediately sees his transgression.

Jihoon hadn’t liked the photo before last night. He didn’t like much posts to begin with. How— When—

His phone pings. He’s never been so thankful that he mostly opts to get room service for breakfast, because the squeak that he lets out is definitely not very rockstar-like. Jihoon fumbles, and he ends up opening your DM before he can psych himself up for it.

LOL. Playing dumb doesn’t suit you, you say.

Damn you and your ability to render him speechless. Jihoon wonders if he can get away with not responding, with getting back to you a couple of days later and blaming his work.

Except.

Jihoon’s fingers slowly move across his screen.

It was a good post, he says.

It was a post from a year ago, you answer.

So? He throws in an emoji of a man shrugging for good measure. Jihoon never uses emojis, but he can make some exceptions.

Your respond, So, stalking. You were stalking me.

Jihoon knows he’s digging a hole for himself, knows he’s going to stay up several nights thinking of just how stupid he is. If he were a stronger man, he’d pull the plug on this conversation and that’d be it. You wouldn’t bug him. He would maybe write a song about this moment. The world would go on.

But he can hear you.

In the messages, in the words on his screen. He can hear your voice, the way you’d smile or laugh or tease. How you’d say his name in that sing-song tone he once pretended to hate.

He hears you in your messages, and he’ll live with the secondhand shame if it means that he gets to keep on listening.

Not stalking, he shoots back. Just checking in.

Ah, you say. Because you missed me?~

Despite himself, he scoffs. You’ve always been so shameless. It didn’t matter to you that he was WOOZI the rockstar; to you, he would always be Jihoon who lived three houses down.

As if, he says to your teasing.

You don’t respond anymore. You don’t even read the message, because Jihoon doesn’t see the little ‘Seen’ under his last message.

He waits for it for a minute. Then five minutes. Then seven minutes. He stops checking at the thirteen-minute mark, because he likes to believe he’s no longer a high schooler with a raging crush on the girl next door.

He’s a grown man. He’s WOOZI, for Christ’s sake.

He can’t keep coming back to you.

▸ I GAVE YOU MY TIME WHEN I DIDN'T HAVE MUCH; ALL OF MY FEELINGS, SWEPT UNDER THE RUG.

Except he does.

WOOZI may not want to. WOOZI may be the bassist writing songs about the past in hopes of leaving things in the past, but Jihoon is a different story.

Jihoon texts you the moment he lands in Gimhae International Airport. Jihoon stands outside your front door— definitely jetlagged, probably in need of a shower— with his luggage in one hand and his phone in the other.

Jihoon acts like it’s the world’s biggest inconvenience when he tells you, “Come on, then.”

The two of you get the crabs and soup. He refuses to talk about his time away; he contents himself with listening, like he always does, and you fill the silence with babble. Your desk job, your parents’ nagging, your hobbies and side hustles.

“Probably not as interesting as your life,” you joke after a particularly long-winded anecdote about a delivery rider who got your address wrong.

Jihoon neither confirms nor denies the statement. He only raises one eyebrow and gives you a wordless gesture with his hand. Go on anyway, he’s saying, and you take the cue.

The meal ends. Jihoon invites you for coffee. Then ice cream. Then a walk.

“This is very suspicious.”

Jihoon can’t help it; a snort of laughter escapes him at your words. “Can’t a guy take a friend out to lunch?” he asks humorlessly.

“And dinner,” you note.

“And dinner, yes.”

“And dessert.”

The two of you are taking the long way home. There’s something to be said about how Jihoon drags his feet, about how you walk like you’re not on borrowed time. Even your conversation moves like you’re beating around the bush.

There is an elephant in the room and Jihoon is done pretending that it’s not there. That it hasn’t been there since the day you two met in primary school, since the first time he held your hand as a teenager, since he became a musician and every song he performed became about you.

Jihoon doesn’t know how many years of pining he has left in him.

“Are you dying?”

Your blasé question draws a bark of laughter from him. “Jesus, no,” he says. “Do I have to be dying to want to see you?”

You don’t answer right away. Jihoon once again has that feeling that he’s said something wrong, something loaded, but you save him from overthinking when you respond with, “You wanted to see me?”

There it is. That teasing tone, that hint of a smile.

You bump your shoulder against his. “You missed me, Jihoon-ah. Admit it.”

And Jihoon is done, Jihoon is tired, Jihoon is still yours after all this time.

“I did,” he finally, finally says. “I missed you.”

#jihoon x reader #woozi x reader #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #jihoon fic #woozi fic #svt fic #seventeen fic #jihoon imagines #woozi imagines #(💎) page: svt #(🥡) notebook

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babsworlds · 14 days ago

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BROTHER’S NERDY BEST FRIEND.

pairing. Dave Lizewski x Haynes! fem! reader

synopsis. your brother invited his friends over.

warnings. nothing bad ig? siblings bullying, todd and marty supporting dave’s delusions, no use of y/n.

YOUR TWIN BROTHER TODD WAS THE EPITOME OF IMBECILE, always sticking close to even bigger imbeciles than himself. This was evident because you constantly saw him with his two sidekicks—Dave Lizewski and Marty Eisenberg.

Marty, despite his stupidity, had a certain charm that made him amusing. He could crack a joke that, while not particularly clever, at least brought some laughs. But Dave was a different story.

There was nothing endearing about him. He was just plain stupid, with an awkwardness that made every interaction a painful experience. It was no wonder he and Todd were best friends—they both seemed to thrive in their shared mediocrity.

While Todd reveled in his nerdy ways, you couldn’t be more different. You were the popular girl with a large circle of friends, always at the center of attention. Social events, parties, and being adored by many—it was all part of your everyday life.

You couldn’t stand Dave. Everything about him grated on your nerves. His round glasses, reminiscent of an owl, seemed to magnify his clueless expression.

His jokes were not only embarrassing but also painfully unfunny. And then there was his curly hair, which somehow managed to look both messy and greasy all at once. Every time you saw him, you felt an irrational surge of annoyance and frustration.

You and Todd stood in the driveway in front of the house, watching your parents load their luggage into the car. They were heading off for a holiday to visit their friends.

“Be careful, don’t kill each other, and please don’t burn the house down!” your mom reminded you, a hint of worry in her voice, before she stepped into the car. “We love you both equally!” she called out as she climbed in.

You gave her an assuring smile and waved goodbye, watching as the car pulled out of the driveway. The sound of the engine fading away signaled the start of your parents' holiday and, consequently, your temporary reign over the house.

“She lied, they love me more,” Todd teased, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

You rolled your eyes, unable to resist the urge to give him a playful slap on the head. “In your dreams, idiot,” you retorted, shaking your head with a smile.

You stepped into the house, feeling the familiar comfort of home. “By the way, Dave and Marty are staying here today,” Todd casually mentioned.

Your eyes widened in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? Do Mom and Dad know about this?” you asked, your voice tinged with frustration.

Todd nodded proudly, a smug grin on his face. “Of course they do.”

You felt a surge of irritation. This weekend was supposed to be your time to relax, but all your friends were busy with their boyfriends or away on trips. Now, you were stuck at home with Todd and his nerdy friends. The thought of spending the weekend with Dave and Marty was far from appealing.

“I heard you telling Katie that Dave is cute,” Todd teased, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

You looked at him, feeling a slight blush creeping up your cheeks. Yeah, you might have mentioned it in passing during a conversation, but it was nothing significant. You were still convinced you hated Dave.

“You're fucking schizophrenic,” you said, trying to deflect the truth, and hurriedly made your way to your room.

You stayed in your room, chatting with Katie on the phone. It didn't take long before you heard Todd welcoming Dave and Marty downstairs.

You didn’t bother to go say hi, because why would you? They weren't your friends. Plus, the guys had practically claimed the entire living room for themselves.

As the hours passed, the sound of their laughter echoed through the house, sounding like hyenas. They were probably engrossed in one of their beloved comic books, completely oblivious to how loud they were being.

Finally, fed up with the noise, you opened your door and shouted, “Shut up, you idiots!” But your outburst didn’t really help; the laughter continued almost unabated, only slightly muffled now.

Unexpectedly, you got hungry after being confined to your room for hours. Deciding to take the risk, you ventured downstairs where it was suspiciously quiet.

As you descended the stairs, you saw Dave sitting on the couch, watching some superhero film. He started at the sight of you, almost jumping off the couch and choking on air. “Hi,” he said awkwardly.

“Where are Todd and Marty?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh, they went to get dinner and told me to stay here and look after you,” he explained, looking slightly embarrassed.

“That bastard…” you mumbled under your breath. “Whatever, I hope they’ll bring me some food too,” you said, heading toward the kitchen while feeling Dave’s eyes trailing after you.

You pulled a cold beer from the fridge and offered another to Dave. “You want some?”

“N-no, I don’t drink,” he stammered, his voice tinged with nervousness.

You rolled your eyes at his innocence and grabbed your beer. Heading over to the couch, you sat down next to him.

For a moment, there was an awkward silence. The superhero movie played in the background, but it didn’t seem to catch your interest.

The comics on the coffee table caught your interest instead. “Is that Batman?” you asked, even though you knew. You just wanted to get Dave talking.

“Yeah,” he nodded, looking slightly more relaxed. But still, your presence was something he wasn’t quite used to.

“Oh my god, Christian Bale was so hot in Batman Begins,” you chuckled, putting the comic back on the coffee table.

“Y-you saw it?” Dave was visibly surprised.

“Yeahhh, but I prefer Marvel, to be honest,” you shrugged. You only watched these films with your family when it was Todd’s turn to choose the movie.

You didn’t want to admit it, but you were kinda into these things too. Superheroes and their epic battles had a certain charm that you couldn't completely ignore, even if you preferred to keep that side of yourself hidden.

You sighed, taking a sip of your beer. “I guess some of them are cool,” you said, begrudgingly acknowledging your interest.

Dave’s eyes lit up, clearly pleased with your admission. “Which ones do you like?” he asked, curiosity piqued.

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I like Iron Man. Tony Stark’s got style.”

As you and Dave sat there, the atmosphere noticeably lighter, you found yourself actually enjoying the conversation. Admitting your interest in superheroes had broken the ice, and for once, Dave didn’t seem entirely unbearable.

Just as you and Dave were starting to find some common ground, Todd and Marty returned, with Marty carrying a box of two pizzas. He grinned when he saw the two of you sitting together. "Oohh, well, who got along there," he teased, his eyebrows wiggling playfully.

“Don’t think much,” you said, standing up from the couch and grabbing the whole pizza box. “Still hate all of you,” you added with a wink towards Dave before heading back to your room.

Dave watched you go, a small smile playing on his lips. Despite your words, there was a certain warmth in your actions that didn't go unnoticed.

After heading back to your room, you sat on your bed with the pizza box, feeling both amused and slightly conflicted about Dave. He was still annoying, but there was something different about him tonight.

As you munched on your slice, you could hear Todd, Marty, and Dave chatting and laughing downstairs. Despite your words, you found yourself thinking about the conversation you had with Dave. Maybe there was more to him than you had originally thought.

You had to admit, it was nice to see Todd so happy with his friends. Maybe you could tolerate their presence a bit more, for his sake.

As you sat quietly in your room, you could hear faint whispers and snippets of conversation from downstairs. Curiosity piqued, you pressed your ear closer to the door, trying to catch more of what they were saying.

“…so, do you like her?” you heard Marty’s voice.

There was a pause, followed by a hesitant reply from Dave. “Well, she’s…you know, she’s interesting,” he said awkwardly.

“Uh-huh, sure, just ‘interesting,’” Todd teased, laughing.

You felt a mix of emotions. On one hand, it was mildly flattering. On the other hand, the idea of Todd and his friends discussing your feelings was a bit annoying. Nonetheless, you couldn't deny the curiosity building inside you. Who would have thought that the nerdy trio would be talking about you?

Deciding to stay hidden and listen a bit longer, you strained to hear the rest of their conversation.

“Well, even if she pretends to hate us, she did offer Dave a beer,” Marty continued, sounding amused.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean she likes me,” Dave responded, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly to yourself. This evening was turning out to be much different than you expected.

You stayed hidden, listening intently to their conversation, feeling a mix of amusement and curiosity.

“Come on, Dave, she winked at you,” Marty teased. “I think she's warming up to you.”

“Nah, I think she’s just being polite,” Dave replied, though his voice had a hint of hope.

“Dude, she doesn’t just offer anyone a beer,” Todd chimed in. “I’ve known her before I was even born. If she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t have even acknowledged you.”

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself. Despite your initial irritation, it was kind of nice hearing them talk about you in a somewhat positive light.

You loved how Todd and Marty supported Dave, even if their encouragement was a bit delusional.

Despite your earlier reluctance, you found yourself looking forward to spending more time with the guys—especially Dave.

#aaron taylor johnson #atj #atj x reader #fem reader #ynstories #dave lizewski x y/n #dave lizewski x you #dave lizewski x reader #kick ass x reader #kick ass #dave lizewski #aaron taylor johnson x reader #reader insert

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ikkyfics · 17 days ago

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Paint Me Yours

Dave Lizewski x f!reader

Summary: You would be the death of Dave, and honestly, he’d die happy. It was a little embarrassing how often he caught himself thinking about you—the way you smiled, brighter than the fucking Sun itself, or how you always smelled like a field of flowers. He knew he was doomed the moment he laid eyes on you.

Warnings: fluffy, language, veteran!reader/freshman!Dave(two years difference), suggestive, college au, first kiss, no use of y/n

A/N: I know that each uni has its own hazing, but here is what happened at mine - a paint bath to celebrate approval

My dear love @gingerteafairy, thank you very much for giving me this idea, I hope you like it <333

Masterlist

You would be the death of Dave, and honestly, he’d die happy. It was a little embarrassing how often he caught himself thinking about you—the way you smiled, brighter than the fucking Sun itself, or how you always smelled like a field of flowers. He knew he was doomed the moment he laid eyes on you.

It was the first day of university, and he was a little lost—okay, very lost, actually. The campus was huge, and there were so many people that the place looked like an anthill. That’s when you appeared, dazzling, and asked if he was one of the freshmen. Dave needed a second or two before he stammered out a yes, watching your smile widen before you started guiding him.

During the welcome party organized by the upperclassmen, Dave could barely take his eyes off you—off your pretty mouth. The way you smiled while answering other freshmen’s questions. At some point, your gaze landed on him—maybe you’d felt his eyes boring into you—and your lips curved into a smile. Dave looked around, unsure if that smile was actually meant for him, but then you laughed, saying goodbye to the people around you before walking toward him.

“Hi,” you greeted, that smile still wrapped around your lips. “Dave, right?”

He nodded, feeling his heart stumble, not trusting his own voice to respond. He barely noticed he’d been holding his breath when you bit your lip, and God, what wouldn’t he give to be the one to do that? They looked so soft and plump—he suspected they were sweet, too.

“Are you enjoying the party?”

Dave blinked, his brows furrowing as he tried to make sense of your words. “Uh… yeah, sure. Everything looks great.” He wanted to slap himself. Damn it, fighting criminals was fine, but talking to a pretty girl? Impossible.

You didn’t seem to mind his lack of tact, though. In fact, you looked amused. “I’m glad,” you said, tilting your head slightly. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

Was it too soon to reveal that he wouldn’t shut up when it came to something he liked? Probably, but he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. “Depends. I can be exhausting sometimes.”

A laugh bubbled from your lips, and he knew he could start rambling if it meant hearing that laugh again. “That’s a little hard to believe.”

Dave stared at you, lips parted in surprise. No, that definitely wasn’t flirting. Absolutely not. Or was it?

Before he could respond, you quickly changed the subject. “You should grab one of the donuts before they’re gone, you know? You’ve barely moved from that corner since you got here.”

“You, uh… noticed me?”

You paused for a moment, as if only now realizing what you’d said. But the surprise on your face was quickly replaced with a relaxed expression.

“I kind of have to. It’s part of my job as an upperclassman, you know—guiding freshmen and all that. So, have you tried one yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, we need to fix that right now. Come on,” you said, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the table where the donuts were. You handed him one with pink frosting and colorful sprinkles, your eyes shining with anticipation. “Try it.”

He raised his hand, his fingers brushing against yours as he took the donut. Maybe he blushed under the intensity of your gaze—just maybe. When he took a bite, he closed his eyes, letting out a hum of approval. The dough was soft, and the frosting was perfect.

Your smile widened, if that was even possible. “So?”

Dave opened his eyes, finding you leaning closer to him. He drank in your image—the way the light illuminated your eyes, the soft curve of your mouth, how painfully beautiful you were. He wondered if you could hear his heart pounding furiously in his chest.

“I think it’s pretty girl—” His eyes widened as he realized what he’d said. “Good! Pretty good. I think it’s pretty good.”

He didn’t dare look up. What the hell was wrong with him? Christ, why couldn’t he act like a normal person?

Hearing the soft sound of your laughter, he exhaled deeply, lifting his gaze hesitantly, only to find a playful smile dancing on your pretty mouth. The weight on his shoulders lifted slightly at your reaction. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t ruined everything just yet.

“Dave,” you said, shaking your head slightly as you tried to stifle your laughter, “you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Almost reflexively, a sheepish smile curved his lips. “Sometimes.”

From that first encounter, Dave Lizewski knew he was screwed.

The weeks that followed were a blur. He kept himself busy trying to adapt to his new reality, but every time he crossed paths with you on campus, it was like being struck by lightning.

You always smiled at him, asking one question or another, which Dave took forever to answer because he was too distracted admiring you. He became especially distracted when you wore those spaghetti-strap tops that highlighted your bust. Marty once jokingly told him to wipe the drool off his face while he watched you from across the hallway.

Today had been surprisingly light. There were still a few hours until sunset, and classes had ended a few minutes ago. Dave was walking among the other students in his class, heading out of the building, when he noticed the murmurs around him. He pulled out one of his earbuds, his eyebrows slightly furrowed as he tried to catch snippets of the conversation.

"Did you hear? There's a stash of paint in the lockers," someone said, and it didn’t take long for the other person to reply with a smirk, “I think today’s the day. I mean, it’s been almost a month since classes started.”

But it wasn’t until Dave reached the entrance of the building that he realized what was about to happen. The upperclassmen were gathered, and there was a dizzying amount of tempera paint in sight.

However, that wasn’t what caught his attention. You were there, radiant as always, but today you looked like you were ready to give him a heart attack. The only things covering your body were shorts and a thin top. He swallowed hard as his eyes lingered on your legs, on how soft they looked. It wasn’t hard to imagine how it would feel to settle between them. The image popped into his mind as clear as the waters of a pristine lake. You riding him, your face clouded with pleasure, the sounds you would make. The intensity of the thought made him blush, and he quickly buried his indecent ideas before they caused trouble in his pants.

You, oblivious to his thoughts, continued organizing some of the paint. The memory of your own hazing was still fresh in your mind. It had been epic—there was no other word for it. You didn’t have to think twice before agreeing to do the same for the freshmen.

Hearing the commotion, your eyes lifted just in time to catch sight of Dave. A small smile curved your lips without your permission. That was the effect he had on you, one you were definitely fighting against. He was a freshman, probably two years younger than you, and you had never been with a younger guy before.

The very thought brought a feeling of unease.

But it would be a lie to say he hadn’t been occupying your thoughts more frequently. It was hard—impossible—not to be drawn to those eyes, as bright as sapphires, and those dark curls that constantly fell over his forehead. They were adorable. How many times had your fingers itched with the urge to push them back from his handsome face?

And it wasn’t as though you didn’t know you had some effect on him. It wasn’t arrogance—Dave just wasn’t very discreet. He always blushed and seemed to struggle to find the right words. It was genuinely cute.

Without thinking, you headed toward him.

Dave didn’t notice you approaching right away. He was too busy trying to act casual, which only made him look even more awkward, staring at the ground, his earbuds now hanging around his neck. But when he finally sensed your presence, his whole body tensed, as if the air around him had turned into static electricity.

“Hi, Dave.” Your voice was soft but carried something he couldn’t quite place—a warmth that made his stomach flip with nerves—and something else he didn’t want to name.

He looked up, and seeing you so close rendered him momentarily speechless. The late afternoon sun lit up your face, highlighting every detail—the curve of your lashes, the soft shape of your lips, the delicate line of your jaw. It was impossible not to be captivated.

“Hi,” he finally managed to mumble, his voice rougher than he would’ve liked.

You tilted your head slightly, your eyes locked on his with a playful glint. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He tried to smile but ended up with something awkward instead. “Uh, yeah, I’m fine. I mean, you just showed up out of nowhere.”

“Did I?” You laughed, and the sound seemed to echo inside him. “Or maybe you were just distracted.” Your voice lowered slightly on the last word, almost as if you were teasing him. And it worked. Dave felt his face heat up instantly.

Without hurry, you took a step closer, invading his personal space. “Are you staying for the hazing?”

He blinked, surprised, his eyebrows rising. “Hazing? Uh… I don’t know. I wasn’t planning on it.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smile turning into something that looked like a challenge. “Oh, come on, are you really going to tell me you’re not joining? It’s nothing scary, I promise.” Your voice was persuasive, carrying something that made him want to say “yes” to anything you asked.

He hesitated for a moment, but something in the way you looked at him—like you were challenging him, but with a sweetness that made him want to impress you—made him nod. “Alright. What do I have to do?”

“First,” you started, pointing to the small group of freshmen gathered a little ahead, “leave your backpack over there with the others. You won’t need it right now.”

Dave followed your gaze and saw the other freshmen dropping their bags near a makeshift bench, some already with their arms and faces painted in bright colors. They were laughing, exchanging jokes, their energy light and full of the excitement of new beginnings. Dave sighed, adjusting the strap on his shoulder before finally moving to do the same. He placed his backpack down carefully, as if the act itself carried more significance than it seemed—a small gesture of belonging.

When he came back to you, he seemed more relaxed, but you couldn’t ignore his posture. It was hard not to notice—the way his shoulders stayed square, his arms defined even without him trying to show them off. He was fit, very fit, and you found the words a little harder to get out as you tried not to make it too obvious. Still, the idea of touching him, even under the innocent pretense of the prank, made your heart beat a little faster.

“You’re going to need to take off your jacket,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady even as your heart pounded in your chest.

Dave hesitated for a moment but eventually nodded, unzipping it slowly, the sound of the metal seeming louder than necessary in the silence between you. He shrugged the jacket off his shoulders with a natural ease that felt almost rehearsed, folding it carefully before setting it on a nearby bench. The white shirt underneath seemed simple at first glance, but now, with him more exposed, you noticed how perfectly it fit him—highlighting his chest and arms in a way that made it impossible to look away.

“Do I need to roll up the sleeves too?” he asked, already pulling one sleeve up to his elbow before you could respond.

You only managed to nod, pretending to be deeply focused on grabbing the paint. But it was impossible not to notice his movements—the firm way his fingers gripped the fabric, the casual way he folded each side, leaving his forearms exposed. And oh, those forearms. The muscles flexed slightly with each fold. Heat rose to your face, and you quickly lowered your eyes, forcing yourself to focus, clearing your throat.

“Green,” you blurted out suddenly, as if the words slipped out without thinking. He stopped, looking at you with a curious expression.

“What?”

“Green suits you,” you explained, gesturing toward the row of paints. Your voice came out firmer than you expected, but the truth was that having him so close was starting to mess with your ability to form complete sentences.

Dave raised an eyebrow, a subtle smile tugging at his lips. “Does it? Why?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, trying to sound casual. “It just does. I’d guess you belong in Slytherin.”

He frowned, feigning indignation. “Slytherin? Are you serious?”

You laughed, enjoying the playful tone in his voice. “Yes.”

“I’m definitely a Gryffindor, for your information,” he replied, crossing his arms, though the amused curve of his lips remained. “Lions are better than snakes.”

“Oh, I see.” You laughed again, grabbing the pot of green paint and carefully opening it. “But today, you’re going to be a Slytherin, sweetheart.”

He smiled, but you could see the faint flush creeping up his ears, something that made him look even more endearing. Would he mind if his cheeks were bitten? You blinked, forcing that thought away.

“Now stay still,” you said, dipping your fingers into the cool paint. “I’ll start with your arms.”

Dave obeyed, keeping still, but you could feel his full attention on you. Your fingers touched his skin, sliding carefully as you began drawing soft lines and delicate strokes along his forearm. The warm texture of his skin contrasted with the fresh paint, and you lost yourself for a moment in the simple act of tracing each curve.

He was quiet, but you could feel his breathing change—slightly heavier, as if he was aware of every touch. When you glanced up to check if he was okay, you realized he was looking too. Not at his arm, but at you.

His gaze was intense, his blue eyes fixed on your face for a few seconds before dropping, almost accidentally, to the neckline of your shirt. The movement was so quick that he blinked, shifting his focus back to his arm, but the blush rising to his cheeks was impossible to miss.

“I... uh, you’re pretty detail-oriented, huh?” he tried, his voice slightly lower than before.

You smiled, feeling the heat rise to your face too. “I like to do things properly. Now your forehead.”

He blinked, surprised. “My forehead?”

“It’s a prank, Dave,” you replied, laughing. “The arms are just the beginning. Come here.”

He tilted his head hesitantly, letting you get closer. Your fingers were covered in paint, and as you began to glide the tip along the contours of his forehead, you realized just how close you were—so close you could catch the subtle scent of his cologne, something warm and woodsy.

The silence between you grew heavy, charged with something that felt electric. Each breath seemed synchronized, every move you made met with his gaze. When you finished the drawing, your fingers lingered, still lightly brushing against his skin. It was Dave who broke the silence, laughing softly.

“Now that you're officially painted, I think you're ready to be a proper freshman,” you joked, trying to ease the tension hanging between you.

You stepped back, tilting your head to evaluate your work. He already had some green marks scattered across his arms and forehead, but somehow, he still looked surprisingly... neat. That wouldn’t last long, of course.

“Time for a picture,” you said, raising your phone. “We need to capture this ‘tidy’ phase,” you explained, stifling a laugh. “Because soon, my friend, you’ll be unrecognizable.”

He chuckled, a bit shyly, and nodded. “Alright.”

You winked, adjusting the angle of your phone. He stood there with a small, reserved smile, proudly displaying the name of his course and the university's initials, but with an ease so natural that you didn’t need to ask for anything else. “Look here,” you directed, snapping the photo. “This one’s good. Now, give me a serious face or something.”

He attempted a more serious pose, crossing his arms and furrowing his brow, but the effect was ruined when he started laughing—soft and full of life.

“You’re terrible at this, you know that?” you teased, laughing along. “Alright, last one. Just smile this time.”

He complied, and this time his smile was brighter, more carefree—something so genuine you already knew it would be your favorite. “Done. Immortalized.”

“Not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” he said, still smiling.

Before you could respond, one of the upperclassmen clapped loudly to grab everyone’s attention. “Alright, freshmen! Everyone, listen up!”

Dave turned toward the voice, and you used the moment to pocket your phone, staying close as the upperclassman explained what would happen next.

“Now that you’ve all been properly christened, it’s time for the fun part of initiation. Everyone is going to form a line, holding hands, and we’re going to walk from here to the main engineering building over there,” he pointed to a building about a 15-minute walk away, “leaving a trail of paint behind us. Along the way, we’re going to throw paint at you. A lot of paint. And just so you know: if any of you freshmen try to fight back, you’ll get an extra soaking. Got it?”

The freshmen murmured their agreement, some chuckling nervously. Beside you, Dave seemed amused, his easy smile firmly in place. That was when you realized your role was about to begin: as an upperclassman, your job wasn’t just to watch—it was to dive into the colorful chaos and make sure no one got out unscathed.

You turned to him, a playful glint in your eye. “You know, Dave, I think you should take your glasses off.”

He blinked, surprised. “Take my glasses off? Why?”

“Trust me,” you said, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “The paint will get everywhere, and you don’t want to ruin the lenses.”

He hesitated, clearly unconvinced. Then, with a sigh, he slowly removed his glasses and handed them to you. “Fine. But if I trip over someone, it’s your fault.”

You laughed, holding the glasses carefully. “I’ll guide you, don’t worry. Can you still see anything?” Your voice came out softer than you intended, almost with genuine concern.

Dave tilted his head, that small smile appearing again. “I think I can... enough to know you’re still there.”

Your laugh was a bit nervous, but you covered it by glancing away. “Well, that’s enough.”

He laughed too, that light sound contagious. And before you could respond, the upperclassmen started moving, organizing the freshmen into a line. “Take good care of those,” he said, pointing to his glasses. “I’m trusting you.”

“You can trust me,” you replied, waving the glasses before stepping away.

Dave joined the line of freshmen, falling into place among them. You watched as he took the hands of two other students, looking both relaxed and a little eager. The upperclassmen began circling the group, armed with bottles and squirt guns filled with colorful paint.

“Alright, everyone!” one of the upperclassmen yelled, a mischievous grin on his face. “No mercy!”

You grabbed your improvised weapon—a bottle filled with vibrant blue paint—and walked alongside the freshmen, your eyes inevitably searching for him in the crowd. It wasn’t hard to find him; it was as if your eyes were drawn to him naturally. His smile was still there, as if he was genuinely enjoying the impending chaos.

Music started playing—something upbeat and lively from a portable speaker someone had brought. It was the perfect soundtrack for the moment, and you couldn’t help but laugh as the energetic rhythm set the tone.

As the group began to move, the upperclassmen launched their attack. Paint flew in every direction, splattering onto laughing freshmen who tried—and failed—to dodge the colorful assault. You aimed for Dave, squeezing your bottle and hitting him square on the shoulder. He stopped, pretending to look offended as he laughed.

“You did that on purpose!” he accused, pointing at you, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Of course I did!” you shot back, unable to stop laughing. “What, you thought I’d spare you?”

He shook his head, still grinning, and kept walking. But you weren’t done yet. At every opportunity, you squirted more paint at him, streaking blue and green across his arms and back. Other upperclassmen joined in, but you got the sense that he was far more aware of your attacks than anyone else’s.

The soundtrack kept playing as the group moved forward slowly, everyone fully immersed in the fun. Dave, now almost unrecognizable with the amount of paint covering his hair and clothes, still seemed to be having more fun than anyone else. But amidst the chaos of colors and laughter, something glimmered in his eyes—a kind of challenge. Before you could prepare yourself, he took two quick steps toward you, his paint-covered hand reaching straight for your arm.

"Dave!" you exclaimed, trying to step back, but it was already too late.

His fingers left a streak of green paint across the light fabric of your shirt, staining it mercilessly. You froze, staring at the mark with a skeptical expression, then at him, who was unsuccessfully trying to hide his mischievous grin.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," you said, disbelief dripping from your voice. "I loved this shirt."

"Oops," he replied, with the most insincere tone of regret you’d ever heard, raising his hands in a gesture that didn’t convince anyone. "But hey, I think green suits you, too."

You narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms as you glared at him. "Are you serious, Dave?"

Before he could answer, a nearby upperclassman noticed what had happened and raised their voice, laughing. "Hey, everyone! Looks like we’ve got a bold one here!"

That was enough to grab the attention of all the other upperclassmen around. In seconds, it seemed like everyone had stopped what they were doing to look at Dave, who now seemed a little less confident—but surprisingly, no less amused.

"Retaliation, huh?" someone shouted, already starting to fill a bucket with a deadly mix of paints. "This won’t go unpunished!"

You took a step back, watching the scene unfold. Dave opened his mouth to protest but didn’t have time. The first splash of paint came from the left, hitting him square on the shoulder. Then, it was as if the heavens had opened, but instead of rain, there were buckets, bottles, and tubes of paint being thrown at him from every direction. Red, blue, yellow, pink, green, purple—a whirlwind of colors determined to turn him into a walking masterpiece.

You stood there with your arms crossed, watching as the upperclassmen laughed and shouted, the background music amplifying the chaos. Dave, however, seemed… completely unfazed. He raised his hands in surrender, but the grin was still there—a wide, bright smile as if he was having way too much fun.

When an entire bucket of blue paint was dumped straight over his head, he shook his hair, sending splatters everywhere—including onto you. "Seriously, Dave?!" you complained, but the laughter in your voice betrayed the fact that you weren’t really upset.

He wiped the excess paint dripping down his forehead and looked at you through the chaos. His smile was different now, a little softer but just as captivating as before. "Worth it," he said simply, as if the storm of paint had been a small price to pay.

You sighed, rolling your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that slipped through. "You’re impossible."

He shrugged, finally extending his hands to the sides, as if accepting defeat with dignity. "Maybe. But at least I’m not the only one covered in paint now."

The group, a walking rainbow, finally reached the other building, still laughing and making comments about their utterly destroyed—but hilarious—appearances. Clothes that had once been normal were now completely unrecognizable, and many people’s hair dripped paint like oversized brushes. You couldn’t help but laugh as you noticed how Dave seemed to lead the pack of the most wrecked ones, completely covered from head to toe.

"I look like an exploded paint can," someone commented, eliciting even more laughter from the group.

The upperclassmen began organizing everyone for a group photo. "Come on, everyone! I want to see everyone squeezed in here!" one of them shouted, waving a red paint tube like a microphone.

Dave laughed beside you, leaning in to whisper, "I think there’s still time to escape."

"You’re the last person who can say that," you shot back, glancing sideways at him. He was drenched in paint, but his eyes sparkled brighter than ever, and something about the way he smiled made your stomach flip in that uncomfortable—but addicting—way.

The freshmen started lining up, bumping into each other and trying to find space in the tight group. You ended up being pushed to the front, practically pressed against Dave as he positioned himself behind you. "Looks like this is going to be pretty snug," he remarked.

"That’s the spirit of teamwork," you replied, trying to maintain your composure, though you were very aware of how close he was.

"Teamwork, huh?" he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice without even looking.

Just as the photographer positioned themselves, you felt movement right behind you, and before you could process it, Dave’s arm slid around your waist. It was a gentle touch, almost casual, but the way he did it—firm yet hesitant, as if waiting for your reaction—made your heart race.

You looked at him, surprised. “Dave…” you began, but your voice got lost amidst the chaos around you. He looked back at you, the smile still on his face, but now there was something different—an intensity in his eyes, a glimmer that seemed to say more than any words could.

“Just to make room for everyone,” he murmured, his voice rough and low. You weren’t sure if it was because of the noise or the way he seemed to look directly at you, ignoring the rest of the world entirely.

You tried to think of anything relevant to say, but your mind was a complete blur, the words tangling together as he stayed so close. The touch of his arm around your waist was a constant reminder, a warm pressure that sent shivers through your skin, even under the layer of paint covering you both.

Someone shouted, “Smile!” and you forced a grin for the camera, even though your thoughts were far from where they should be. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Dave lean slightly forward, and his closeness was overwhelming. He smelled faintly of paint mixed with something uniquely him, and it was ridiculous that you were noticing that at such a moment.

When the photo was finally taken, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Dave, still with his arm around your waist, looked at you with a satisfied smile. “I think this will be a photo to remember,” he said, his voice low, and the way he looked at you almost made your knees buckle.

“I hope you’re right,” you replied, trying to sound nonchalant, but the weakness in your voice gave everything away.

As the photo group began to break apart, the laughter faded. A few freshmen tried unsuccessfully to scrub the paint out of their hair and clothes, while others seemed resigned to heading home in their messy state. You watched the scene unfold, the sound of footsteps and chatter echoing through the space. The energetic buzz of the event still lingered, but exhaustion was beginning to creep in.

Dave stood near you, a mix of tiredness and contentment on his face. He ran a hand through his hair, now stiff from the paint, and let out a soft laugh. “I think it’s going to take me two weeks in the shower to get all of this off.”

You laughed, reaching for your bag and unzipping it. “I think you’ll need more than that. But luckily, I came prepared.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued, as you pulled out a small packet of wet wipes. “It’s not going to fix this entire disaster,” you said, holding it up for him, “but it’ll help with the basics. Here.”

He looked at you, his smile widening. “Are you always this prepared, or is this just for me?”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips. “You’re full of jokes today, huh?”

He chuckled but didn’t take the wipes from your hand. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, as if challenging you. “So, are you going to help me, or are you just going to stand there holding that?”

You hesitated for a moment, your heart racing at the way he was looking at you—direct, playful, but with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Fine, but stay still and cooperate.”

He took a small step closer, closing the already narrow gap between you. Dave lowered his head slightly, making it easier for you to reach his face. Your hands were steady as you pulled out a wipe, but the same couldn’t be said for your heartbeat, which pounded wildly as you leaned in.

The first touch was light, almost hesitant, but soon you were carefully wiping away the streaks of paint from his forehead. His skin was warm under the wipe, and you could feel every tiny movement as he stayed still, his eyes fixed on you.

“Does this hurt?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

“No,” he replied, his tone rough, sending a shiver down your spine. “If anything, it’s the opposite.”

You tried to ignore the weight of his words, but it was impossible. Each second seemed to stretch the space between you. Your fingers, holding the wipe, brushed lightly against the side of his face, and he took a deep breath, as if steadying himself.

His eyes never left yours, and there was something about the vibrant blue that made you feel lost, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. “You’re all cleaned up now,” you murmured, but you didn’t step away.

“Am I?” he asked, a small smile playing on his lips, as if he knew more than he was letting on. “Because I think there’s a spot here…” He pointed to his cheek, though it felt more like an excuse to keep you close.

You laughed softly but obliged, wiping the spot he indicated. “There. Happy?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and when you finally found the courage to look at him again, the smile had disappeared, replaced by something deeper. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was filled with everything that wasn’t being said.

His hand rose for a moment, almost as if it were going to touch yours, but then stopped halfway, falling back to his side. “I am. Quite a bit.”

You felt the weight of his words, the raw honesty hanging in the air like a thick, tangible cloud. That I am seemed to hold more than he was willing to say out loud. His breath was heavy, not from the physical effort of the day, but from the tension that seemed to pulse between you like a rope about to snap.

Without thinking much, as if your fingers had a life of their own, you brought a hand to his face again. His hair was messy and still wet with paint, some strands stuck to his forehead, others falling to the side, blocking your view of his eyes. “Stay still,” you murmured, almost apologetically, as you brushed the wet strands back carefully.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if the simple touch of your fingers was enough to disarm him. When he opened his eyes again, there was something different in them, something more intense, more vulnerable.

You took a deep breath, and before you could hesitate, you began to clean the paint still staining his jawline, your fingers gliding along the strong line of his jaw. The texture of his skin under the wet wipe, warm and slightly rough, made your stomach twist in ways you couldn’t control.

“Do you have any idea how much you got dirty today?” you tried to say, but your voice came out weaker than you intended.

“Maybe,” he replied, and the hoarseness in his voice made you feel the impact in your chest, like a muffled thunder. “But you seemed to be having fun.”

You chuckled softly, trying to relieve the growing tension, but it was a useless effort. Your fingers slid from his jaw to near his lips, and you hesitated for a fraction of a second before gently passing the wipe over the corner of his lips.

His eyes followed every movement of yours, and when you looked back, his gaze seemed to beg for something he didn’t have the courage to ask for. His mouth was slightly open, and his breath brushed against your fingers so tangibly that you almost felt the heat on your own skin.

“All done,” you said, but your voice sounded different now, as if it carried everything you didn’t want to admit.

“You’re not done yet,” he murmured, and the smile that played on his lips was as soft as it was dangerous.

“I am,” you replied, but your hand didn’t move. It was still there, dangerously close to his mouth, as if it were impossible to pull away.

“Are you sure?” he teased, his tone barely audible, and you knew he wasn’t talking about the paint anymore.

The silence that followed was deafening. The proximity between you was almost painful now, each inch filled with electricity that had your whole body on high alert. His eyes dropped for a moment to your mouth, and when they returned to yours, there was something there that made your heart beat so fast you thought he could hear it.

Your hand, still near his mouth, wavered for a second, and it was all he needed to take a step forward, closing the distance between you even more. His breath mixed with yours, and you knew, you knew you were on the edge of completely losing yourselves.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he confessed, his voice a little firmer now, but still low enough for only you to hear. “And I’m tired of pretending I can.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with raw honesty that seemed to steal all the air around you. Your throat went dry, and you could feel the conflict building inside you, fighting against what already seemed inevitable.

He was younger. A freshman. And you knew you should have some sense here, some logic screaming for you to pull back, to remember the differences, the line that separated you two. But your hands were still on him, your fingers still brushing the paint-stained skin of his warm face, and you just couldn’t let go.

“Dave…” Your voice came out in a trembling whisper, carrying all that you were trying to hold back — the hesitation, the disbelief, and above all, the desire you had been trying to bury since the moment he looked at you that way, completely enchanted, for the first time.

He leaned in imperceptibly closer, his eyebrows furrowed, the intensity in his blue gaze fixed on you. “Tell me what’s holding you back,” he asked, almost pleading, but his tone was still soft, patient, as if he was trying to find his way to you.

You opened your mouth, but the words seemed to dissolve before you could even form a sentence. He waited, his proximity a temptation, and you felt as if you were being pulled toward him, against all the logic you thought you had.

“You’re…” you started, but hesitated, then took a deep breath. “You’re younger. A freshman. That…”

He laughed, low and hoarse, and shook his head slightly. "You think that matters to me?" He tilted his head, his eyes darkening with the intensity of his gaze. "I don’t care if you're older. Do you think when I look at you, that’s what I see? Because I don’t. I only see you. You, with that habit of looking at me like you’re trying to push me away, but you can’t."

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away. He looked so vulnerable and so certain at the same time, and that made something inside you tremble.

"I don’t know if I can do this..." you murmured, the hesitation weighing heavily in each word.

"I know you can," he shot back, his voice firmer now, but still low, almost reverent. "Because if you didn’t want to, you would have already walked away. And you’re still here."

His words hit you like a punch, because he was right. You were still here. Your hands were still on him, and the closeness between you was so small that any movement could close it.

His fingers slowly moved until they lightly brushed your wrist. It was such a subtle touch, but it electrified everything around you, as if the world had stopped to observe that moment.

"Tell me you don’t want this," he said, his voice barely a whisper, as if speaking any louder would be dangerous. "Tell me you don’t feel this too, and I’ll stop now."

But you couldn’t say it. You couldn’t pull your hands away, couldn’t ignore the way he looked at you, as if you were something he didn’t know he needed until the moment he saw you.

"You don’t know what you’re asking, Dave," you murmured, but your voice came out weak, with no conviction.

"I know exactly what I’m asking," he retorted, his eyes fixed on yours, as if each word was a promise. "I’m asking for you. And I know you’re trying to find a reason for this not to happen, but there isn’t one."

And in that moment, you knew he was right. That it didn’t matter the logic, or the differences, or the doubts you were trying to hold on to. He was here, and you wanted him. God, how you wanted him.

Your gaze fell to his lips, then rose back to his eyes. He was so close that you could feel his breath, and there was something so vulnerable in his expression, so open, so surrendered, that you simply couldn’t hold back.

Without thinking any further, you closed the distance between you, your hands moving to his face as your lips met his. He responded immediately, his arms wrapping around you as if he’d been waiting for this since the moment he saw you. And maybe he had. Maybe you had too.

His lips were warm against yours, firm yet hesitant, as if he feared that it could all disappear in the blink of an eye. You felt his arms tighten around your waist, pulling you closer, his body pressed to yours in a way that made the whole world disappear.

His touch was both reverent and desperate, as if he didn’t know if it was real, but was determined to imprint every detail in his memory. His hands slid over the curve of your back, stopping at the base of your waist, before moving up again, his fingers brushing the exposed skin that the light fabric of your blouse didn’t protect. It was electrifying, each touch, each movement, and you felt your heart beating so hard it seemed to echo in every cell of your body.

He pulled away just enough to catch his breath, his eyes meeting yours as if searching for some kind of certainty. "Is this... real?" he murmured, his voice hoarse, cut off. He seemed lost, his blue eyes shining amidst the remnants of lilac and green paint on his face, as if you were the only thing he could see.

You laughed softly, breathless, but didn’t pull away an inch. "Yes," you answered, your voice soft but full of something you couldn’t hide anymore. "It’s real, Dave."

He let out a shaky laugh, a mixture of relief and disbelief, and then his lips were on yours again, this time more certain, hungrier. His hands moved up to your shoulders, then slowly slid down your arms, his fingers tracing the path as if he wanted to memorize every detail, every curve, every inch of skin.

"You have no idea..." he murmured against your lips, his breath hot on your face. He stopped, just enough to find your eyes again. "How much I’ve dreamed of this. Of you."

You felt the weight of his words, the intensity of his gaze, and something inside you broke and rebuilt itself all at once. "Dave..." you started, but he shook his head, interrupting.

“No,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I need you to know. From the first day. From the moment you spoke to me, from the moment you smiled at me… I knew. I knew it was you.”

Your breath faltered, and you felt his hands rise again, this time stopping at the sides of your face, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw until they brushed the corner of your lips. He seemed so sure, so lost in you, and at the same time so fragile, as if this moment could be taken from him at any second.

“Dave…” you repeated, his name coming out as a whisper, almost a secret. You held his wrists, your fingers gently tightening against his skin. “You have no idea…”

“Tell me,” he insisted, his voice still hoarse, but laden with something so raw, so real, that it made the air around you feel heavier.

You swallowed hard but didn’t look away. “That I thought about it too. That I wanted this too. You. From the beginning.”

The words hit him like a blow, and he let out a short laugh, almost disbelieving, as he pressed his forehead against yours. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he needed that instant to collect himself, then whispered, “You’re messing with me, right?”

“You think I’d do that now?” you replied, the teasing in your voice mixed with the weight of the truth.

He opened his eyes, and there was something almost glowing in them, something that made you lose yourself completely. “God, you’re gonna kill me,” he murmured before pulling you in again, the kiss more intense, more urgent this time.

His hands slid down your back, tracing the curve of your hips before stopping at their base, as if he needed to hold you there, as if he feared you might slip away. You pressed even closer to him, feeling his heat, the smell of paint mixed with his scent, and nothing had ever felt so right.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, he gave a small smile, his lips still red from the kiss. “So… is this it?” he asked, his voice soft but playful. “Can I stop torturing myself now?”

You laughed, your fingers still tangled in his shirt, and shook your head. “I don’t know. Maybe I like seeing you like this,” you replied, the teasing clear, but your eyes still filled with everything you were feeling.

He tilted his head to the side, a crooked, utterly charming smile playing on his lips as he looked at you. “If that means I can kiss you again, then torture me as much as you want.”

You laughed, short, still breathless, and pushed lightly against his chest, but not enough to create any real distance. His hands stayed firmly on your waist, and it was impossible to ignore the streaks of paint he’d left there—a deep blue staining the pale pink of your blouse. His fingers had drawn an impromptu map on your skin and the fabric, and you knew that, even without a mirror, it was visible.

“Look at what you’ve done,” you commented, trying to sound indignant as you looked down at your blouse, but it was impossible not to smile. “My blouse is ruined.”

Dave laughed softly, his thumbs sliding along the curve of your waist before tracing their way back, as if he wanted to emphasize the mess. “You should’ve walked away while you could.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, sure, because you would’ve let me go, right?”

He smiled wider now, his face still covered in paint, but somehow it only made him more irresistible. “Not for a second,” he confessed, with a tone that was both light and serious, like everything he did.

You shook your head, but couldn’t help the laugh, even as you tugged at the fabric of your blouse to examine the stains more closely. “And what do I do with this now? This is beyond saving, you know?”

Dave let out a dramatic sigh, pulling away just enough to look at you properly, but his hands remained firmly on your waist, as if he couldn’t help it. “Okay, I’ll admit it was a fashion crime,” he began, his eyes dropping to the stained fabric before rising back to your face. He looked so carefree and yet so intensely focused on you at the same time, it was almost unsettling. “But, look, you could… I don’t know, keep it as a keepsake.”

You raised an eyebrow again, his mischievous look signaling he had more to say. “A keepsake?”

“Yeah,” he continued, his smile growing. He raised one of his hands, covered in paint, and his thumb lightly brushed against the strap of your blouse, where a small paint stain was already printed. The touch was casual, but you felt a shiver run through you as if he had done it on purpose. “Every time you look at it, you’ll remember today. Me.”

You tried to roll your eyes, but it was impossible to hide the heat rising in your cheeks. “Oh, sure, because I’d want a ruined blouse to remember you by,” you teased, but your voice came out quieter than expected.

He tilted his face a little closer, his fingers still idly playing with the strap of your blouse, as if he were testing his own limits. “You will,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but with that sweet tone that made your heart race. “Because I know you won’t forget me, with or without the blouse.”

You let out a short laugh, trying to hide the effect his words had on you, but it was useless. “You’re really confident for a guy who’s covered in paint,” you commented, pointing to his face.

Dave laughed again, tilting his head to the side as he ran one hand across his own face, spreading even more paint without realizing. “Oh, seriously?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “And who was it that left me like this, huh?”

“You weren’t exactly trying to avoid it,” you replied, crossing your arms, but it was impossible to keep up the defensive posture with him so close, so absurdly adorable.

He took a step back, pretending to examine himself, before letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, it’s pretty bad,” he admitted, pointing to the stains on his face, neck, and arms. But then he looked at you, a mischievous smile returning to his lips. “But, you know what? Totally worth it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but the smile on your face betrayed any attempt to seem serious. “Really worth it?”

“Totally,” he said, giving that half-smile that seemed dangerous and irresistible at the same time. He took a step forward again, closing the distance, tilting his face until it was only inches from yours. “Wanna know why?”

You barely had time to respond before he continued, his voice low and heavy with something that made your breath falter. “Because now, I know what it’s like to kiss you.”

And with that, he smiled, so completely satisfied, so completely in love, that it was impossible to say anything. And you knew he was right: you’d never forget this. Or him.

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