#and makes him just enough of a punching bag for the universe that I get to enjoy both the whump and the redemption guilt-free!!!

[pucksandpower]

The Interview

Max Verstappen x journalism student!Reader

Summary: when you are given an assignment to interview someone, you can’t resist asking your boyfriend to be the subject … it’s just a shame that your professor doesn’t believe the interview actually happened

The classroom smells faintly of old books and freshly printed handouts as you sit in your usual spot, third row from the front, slightly to the left. The room is slowly emptying out, the hum of post-class chatter gradually fading as students make their way out into the hallway. You’re gathering your things, sliding your notebook into your bag, when you hear Professor Carter clear his throat.

“Y/N,” he says, his tone firm but not loud. “Could you stay behind for a moment?”

You pause, your hand gripping the strap of your bag. His voice isn’t one that invites argument, and you’re already running through the possibilities of what this could be about. Your mind flickers to your most recent assignment — the interview with Max. The nerves you’ve been trying to suppress all week twist in your stomach.

You watch as the last few students shuffle out, closing the door behind them. Professor Carter leans back in his chair, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he flips through a stack of papers. His desk is a mess, as usual — books stacked haphazardly, coffee stains on nearly every surface, but his eyes are sharp when they finally meet yours.

“So,” he begins, tapping a finger on the paper in front of him. “Your latest assignment. The interview.”

You nod slowly, trying to gauge his mood. “Yes, sir.”

He holds up the paper, and you can see your neat handwriting sprawled across the page. “You interviewed Max Verstappen.”

It’s not a question, but you nod again anyway. “Yes.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Tell me, Y/N, how exactly did you manage that?”

Your heart skips a beat. You knew this might happen — knew that choosing Max, of all people, might raise some eyebrows. But you hadn’t expected it to be this ... confrontational. You take a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Well, I’ve known Max for a while,” you say, carefully choosing your words. “I asked him if he’d be willing to help me with the assignment, and he agreed.”

Professor Carter leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Known him for a while, you say?”

“Yes,” you reply, trying not to sound defensive. “We’ve been ... friends.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Friends.”

There’s something in his tone that makes you stiffen. You know what he’s implying — he doesn’t believe you. You fight the urge to fidget under his gaze, forcing yourself to stay calm.

“Professor,” you start, choosing your words carefully, “I understand that it might seem unlikely, but I assure you, the interview was real. I can-”

He holds up a hand, cutting you off. “Y/N, let’s be honest here. You’re a student at the University of Sheffield. Not exactly the kind of place where one casually befriends a Formula 1 driver.”

Your stomach twists tighter. “I’m not lying,” you say, a little more forcefully than you intended. “Max and I-”

“Enough,” he says, his voice rising slightly. He sets your paper down on the desk, his fingers drumming against the wood. “If you’re going to fabricate an interview, at least make it believable. I’ve seen this kind of thing before, you know. Students who get desperate, who think that stretching the truth — or outright inventing it — will get them the grade they want.”

You stare at him, disbelief coursing through you. “I didn’t fabricate anything,” you insist. “I really interviewed him.”

Professor Carter’s expression doesn’t change. “Then prove it.”

You blink. “Prove it?”

“Yes,” he says simply. “Show me some kind of proof that this interview actually happened. Otherwise, I’m going to have to give you a zero for academic dishonesty.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. A zero. That would tank your grade — maybe even your entire semester. But the worst part is that he’s asking for proof you can’t provide, not without exposing the relationship you’ve been so careful to keep private.

You hesitate, your mind racing. What do you do? Do you tell him the truth? Risk everything to save your grade? But the thought of Max — his need for privacy, the way you’ve both agreed to keep things quiet for now — weighs heavily on you. You can’t just throw that away. Not for this.

You swallow hard. “I ... I can’t.”

Professor Carter’s eyes narrow. “You can’t?”

“I mean, I can’t give you proof,” you clarify, your voice wavering slightly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m lying.”

He sighs, shaking his head. “Y/N, you’re a smart student. You should know that in journalism, credibility is everything. Without proof, your story doesn’t hold up.”

You bite your lip, frustration bubbling up inside you. “I’m telling you the truth. I did interview him. Just because I can’t show you proof doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“And just because you say it did happen doesn’t mean it did,” he counters, his tone cool. He taps the paper again, a final, dismissive gesture. “I’m sorry, but unless you can provide evidence, I have no choice but to give you a zero.”

You’re stunned into silence, your mind reeling. You can’t believe this is happening. It feels unfair, like you’re being backed into a corner with no way out.

“Professor Carter,” you try again, your voice quieter now, almost pleading. “Please. I’m not lying. I wouldn’t risk my grade like this if it wasn’t true.”

He regards you for a moment, and for a split second, you think he might relent. But then he shakes his head, resolute. “I’m sorry, Y/N. My decision stands.”

The weight of his words presses down on you, and you feel a sharp sting behind your eyes. You blink rapidly, determined not to let him see you cry. This is supposed to be a professional conversation, and you won’t let your emotions get the better of you.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I understand,” you say, though your voice is tight. “Thank you for your time.”

He nods curtly, already turning his attention back to the stack of papers on his desk, dismissing you without another word. You force yourself to walk out of the classroom with your head held high, even though every step feels heavier than the last.

When you finally make it out into the hallway, the reality of the situation hits you full force. You lean against the wall, your bag slipping off your shoulder as you press the heels of your hands to your eyes, willing yourself to keep it together. You can’t believe this is happening. A zero. All because you refused to betray Max’s trust.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you pull it out with trembling fingers. It’s a message from Max.

Hey, just finished training. Want to grab dinner later?

You stare at the screen, a lump forming in your throat. How do you even begin to explain this to him? Do you tell him everything? Or do you keep it to yourself, like you’ve been doing for the past year?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, the words you want to say tangled up in your mind. Finally, you type a simple response.

Yeah. Let’s meet at our usual spot.

As you hit send, you take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. You’ll figure this out. Somehow. You have to.

***

The restaurant is quieter than usual, the low hum of conversation and clinking silverware blending into a muted backdrop. You sit across from Max in your usual booth by the window, the warm glow of candlelight casting soft shadows on his face.

He’s already ordered for both of you, the way he always does when he gets here before you. It’s a small thing, but it makes you smile — a reminder of how well he knows you, your likes and dislikes, the little details that make up your routine.

But tonight, the smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You can feel the weight of what happened earlier pressing down on you, a knot of tension in your chest that you can’t seem to shake. Max is talking about his day — something about the latest adjustments they’ve made to the car — but the words are barely registering. You nod along, trying to focus, but your mind keeps drifting back to the conversation with Professor Carter, the way he looked at you, the disbelief in his voice.

“Hey,” Max’s voice cuts through your thoughts, gentle but insistent. “You okay?”

You blink, realizing you’ve been staring at your untouched glass of water for the past minute. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just ... tired.”

Max studies you for a moment, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. He’s not convinced, you can tell. But he doesn’t push, not yet. Instead, he leans back in his seat, taking a sip of his drink. “Long day, huh?”

“Something like that,” you murmur, picking up your fork and poking at the salad in front of you. You’re not really hungry, but you force yourself to take a bite, if only to keep your hands busy. The last thing you want is for Max to start asking questions. You know him too well — he’ll find a way to make this his fault, even though it’s not. And you can’t handle that right now, not on top of everything else.

Max is still watching you, though, and you can feel the weight of his gaze. He’s always been able to read you like a book, and tonight is no different. After a few more moments of silence, he sets his glass down with a soft clink.

“You’re doing that thing,” he says, his voice carefully neutral.

You glance up at him, confused. “What thing?”

“That thing where you say you’re fine, but you’re not.” His tone is gentle, but there’s a firmness underneath it. He’s not going to let this go. “Come on, what’s going on? Did something happen today?”

Your heart skips a beat, and you quickly drop your gaze back to your plate. “No, nothing happened,” you lie, trying to sound casual. “It’s just been a long week, that’s all.”

“Right.” He doesn’t sound convinced, and you can feel his eyes on you, searching for cracks in the facade. “Because you’re always this quiet when nothing’s wrong.”

You sigh, pushing the lettuce around your plate. “Max, I’m fine. Really.”

There’s a pause, and then you hear him exhale softly, like he’s trying to be patient. “You know, you’re a terrible liar.”

Your stomach twists at his words, but you keep your eyes on your plate. You know he’s right — you’ve never been good at hiding things from him. But this ... this is different. You can’t just blurt it out, can’t just tell him what happened without worrying about how he’ll react. He’ll get upset, maybe even angry, and he’ll blame himself for something that isn’t his fault.

“Just ... drop it, okay?” You say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Max’s expression softens, but the concern doesn’t leave his eyes. “Y/N,” he says gently, leaning forward. “If something’s bothering you, I want to help. You don’t have to deal with it on your own.”

You shake your head, still not meeting his gaze. “It’s nothing you can help with.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Max’s hand is on yours, warm and solid, grounding you in the moment. “Let me decide that,” he says quietly. “Please.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks you, but you bite down on the words that are clawing at the back of your throat. You can’t do this, not here, not now. So instead, you pull your hand away gently, offering him a small smile.

“Really, Max, it’s fine,” you say, trying to sound reassuring. “Let’s just enjoy dinner, okay?”

He hesitates, clearly torn between wanting to respect your wishes and wanting to press for answers. But eventually, he nods, though the worry doesn’t leave his eyes. “Okay. But if you change your mind ...”

“I know,” you say softly. “Thank you.”

You both lapse into silence after that, the conversation stilted and awkward. You try to focus on the food, on the comfortable routine you’ve built together, but the knot in your chest only tightens with every passing minute. You hate this — hate that you’re keeping something from him, hate that you’re letting it affect your time together. But you don’t know what else to do.

It’s Max who finally breaks the silence, setting his fork down with a sigh. “You know, I’m not very good at this.”

You look up at him, frowning. “At what?”

He gestures between the two of you. “At ... whatever this is. The whole ‘let’s pretend nothing’s wrong’ thing. It’s not really my style.”

You can’t help but smile at that, despite everything. “I know.”

“So why are we doing it?” He asks, his tone gentle but probing. “Why are you pretending that everything’s fine when it’s clearly not?”

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. “Because ... I don’t want to ruin dinner?”

Max’s lips quirk into a half-smile, but there’s no humor in his eyes. “Dinner’s already ruined if you’re not happy.”

The words hang between you, heavy and honest, and you feel the walls you’ve been trying to keep up start to crumble. You take a deep breath, feeling the tightness in your chest loosen just a fraction. Maybe ... maybe it’s time to tell him. Maybe he deserves to know.

“Okay,” you say quietly, setting your fork down. “But ... promise me you won’t get mad.”

Max raises an eyebrow. “Mad? Why would I get mad?”

“Just promise.”

He sighs, nodding. “Okay. I promise.”

You take another deep breath, steeling yourself. “It’s about my journalism assignment. The one where I interviewed you.”

Max nods slowly, waiting for you to continue.

“So ... my professor — Professor Carter — he, um ... he thinks I faked it.”

Max’s expression darkens immediately, his brows knitting together in confusion. “What? Why would he think that?”

You shrug, trying to keep your voice steady. “Because ... well, because he doesn’t believe that I actually know you. He thinks I made the whole thing up to get a good grade.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Max says, his voice rising slightly in disbelief. “Why would he assume that?”

“Because I’m just a student at Sheffield,” you explain, your words tumbling out faster now. “And you’re ... well, you. He doesn’t think someone like me could actually know someone like you.”

Max’s jaw clenches, and you can see the anger simmering beneath the surface. “That’s-” He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. “What did he say?”

“He said ... he said he’s giving me a zero for academic dishonesty unless I can prove that the interview was real.”

Max’s eyes widen in shock. “A zero?”

You nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

Max sits back in his seat, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “That’s insane. You shouldn’t be penalized for telling the truth. Did you explain to him that we’re ... you know ...”

You shake your head quickly. “No, I didn’t tell him about us. I didn’t want to ... I mean, we’ve been keeping things private for a reason, right? I didn’t want to drag you into this.”

Max frowns, his frustration evident. “Y/N, you shouldn’t have to choose between protecting our privacy and your education. That’s not fair.”

“I know,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I didn’t want you to feel guilty. I know you would have found a way to blame yourself for this.”

Max looks at you, his expression softening. “I don’t want you to suffer because of me,” he says quietly. “I’d rather the whole world knew about us than have you lose out on your grades.”

You shake your head. “It’s not your fault, Max. I made the decision to keep things quiet, too. I don’t regret it.”

“But now you’re paying the price,” he mutters, frustration lacing his tone.

You reach across the table, taking his hand in yours. “We both knew there would be challenges. We’ll figure this out.”

He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just hate that this is happening to you. If I could talk to your professor-”

“No,” you cut in firmly. “I don’t want you getting involved. That would just make things worse.”

Max frowns, clearly unhappy with your decision, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he looks down at your joined hands, his thumb still tracing soft circles over your skin. “But what are you going to do?” He asks quietly.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe I can talk to him again, try to convince him without bringing you into it.”

Max shakes his head, clearly frustrated. “It’s not right, Y/N. You shouldn’t have to prove yourself like this.”

“I know,” you say, your voice soft but resolute. “But I don’t want to drag you into it. We’ve worked so hard to keep our relationship private, and I don’t want this to be the thing that changes that.”

Max looks at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours. Finally, he sighs, squeezing your hand one last time before letting go. “Okay. I’ll respect your decision. But if it gets worse, if he keeps pushing ...”

“I’ll let you know,” you promise, trying to offer him a reassuring smile. “But for now, let’s just try to enjoy dinner, okay?”

Max nods, though the tension in his shoulders doesn’t quite ease. “Okay,” he agrees, though there’s a note of reluctance in his voice.

You both lapse into a more comfortable silence after that, the conversation slowly returning to more familiar, lighter topics. But even as you talk about other things, you can feel the weight of the situation lingering between you. Max’s concern is palpable, and you know he’s still thinking about it, even if he’s trying not to show it.

But for now, you’re both doing your best to push it aside, to focus on the time you have together. You know you’ll have to deal with the situation with Professor Carter eventually, but for tonight, you’re content to just be here with Max, to enjoy the quiet moments that are yours alone.

No matter what happens, you’ll figure it out together.

***

Professor Carter’s classroom is as stifling as ever, the air thick with the scent of old books and the faint smell of chalk dust. You’re sitting in your usual spot near the back, trying to focus on the lecture. But it’s impossible to concentrate. Every time Professor Carter glances in your direction, your stomach twists with anxiety. The weight of his accusation still hangs over you, and you can’t shake the feeling that everyone in the room knows what happened, that they’re all silently judging you.

Your notebook lies open in front of you, but the words on the page blur together. You can barely pay attention to the lecture, your mind constantly drifting back to the conversation with Max. You told him you’d handle this on your own, but now, sitting here under Professor Carter’s scrutinizing gaze, you’re starting to doubt yourself. What if you can’t convince him? What if you really do end up with a zero on the assignment?

As if sensing your distress, Professor Carter pauses mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing as he looks in your direction. “Miss Y/L/N, is there something you’d like to share with the class?” He asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You snap out of your thoughts, your heart racing. “No, sir,” you mumble, trying to shrink into your seat.

He arches an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied with your response. “Then I suggest you pay attention. This material will be on the final exam, and I’d hate for you to miss out on any more important details.”

There’s a smattering of laughter from your classmates, and you feel your face flush with embarrassment. You nod quickly, your fingers tightening around your pen. “Yes, sir,” you say quietly.

Professor Carter smirks, clearly pleased with himself, and turns back to the board. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. But just as you’re about to refocus on the lecture, the door to the classroom swings open.

Every head in the room turns to look at the sudden interruption, and you feel your heart stop when you see who’s standing in the doorway.

Max.

He’s dressed casually, in a black T-shirt and jeans, but there’s no mistaking who he is. The entire room goes silent, the air thick with shock and disbelief. You can see the recognition in your classmates’ eyes, the way they start whispering to each other, nudging each other and pointing in his direction.

Max strides into the room with the kind of confidence that only he possesses, his gaze scanning the room until it lands on you. His expression softens for a moment when he sees you, but then he turns his attention to Professor Carter, who is staring at him with a mixture of surprise and confusion.

“Can I help you?” Professor Carter asks, his voice sharp, though there’s a note of uncertainty beneath it.

Max doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, actually, you can,” he says, his tone polite but firm. “I’m here about Y/N’s assignment.”

Professor Carter’s eyes widen slightly, and you can see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to piece together what’s happening. “I’m sorry, but this is a private class,” he says, his tone regaining its usual authority. “If you have concerns about a student’s work, you can schedule a meeting during my office hours.”

Max crosses his arms over his chest, unfazed. “I think we can sort this out right here.”

You feel a mix of panic and gratitude welling up inside you. You didn’t want Max to get involved, but now that he’s here, you can’t deny the relief that floods through you. He’s taking a stand for you, and you can see that he’s not going to back down.

Professor Carter, on the other hand, looks like he’s trying to maintain his composure, but there’s a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Max Verstappen, I presume?” He says, his tone clipped.

Max nods. “That’s right. And I’m here to prove that Y/N didn’t fake her interview with me.”

There’s a collective gasp from the students, and you can feel the tension in the room spike. All eyes are on Max now, and you can see the shock on your classmates’ faces as they realize what’s happening. Professor Carter, however, doesn’t seem impressed.

“I see,” he says slowly, his gaze flicking to you for a moment before returning to Max. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

Max’s expression hardens, and you can see the determination in his eyes. “Simple. I’m here, aren’t I? She couldn’t have faked an interview with me if I’m standing right here.”

The room falls silent again, and you can feel your heart pounding in your chest. Professor Carter opens his mouth to respond, but for a moment, no words come out. It’s clear that he wasn’t expecting this. He was so sure of himself, so confident that you couldn’t possibly know someone like Max Verstappen. And now, here Max is, standing in front of him, making him eat his words.

“I ... appreciate your enthusiasm,” Professor Carter finally says, though his voice lacks its usual bite. “But this doesn’t prove anything. For all I know, you could be here out of some misguided attempt to protect her.”

Max’s jaw clenches, and you can see the frustration building in his eyes. “You think I would waste my time lying for someone? If she didn’t do the interview, I wouldn’t be here.”

Professor Carter’s gaze shifts to you, and you can see the doubt still lingering in his eyes. “Miss Y/L/N, I told you that if you could provide proof, I would reconsider your grade. But this ...” He gestures to Max. “This isn’t exactly the kind of proof I had in mind.”

You feel a surge of anger rising within you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re standing up, your voice trembling but firm. “What more proof do you need? He’s here, in front of the entire class. He’s telling you the interview was real. What else do I have to do to make you believe me?”

The room falls silent again, and you can see the shock on your classmates’ faces as they watch you stand up to Professor Carter. He looks taken aback, his usual smug expression faltering as he stares at you.

For a moment, no one speaks. Then, Max steps forward, his voice calm but filled with conviction. “Look, Professor, I get that this might be hard to believe. But Y/N isn’t lying. She interviewed me, and she did a damn good job, too. If you don’t believe me, you can check with my team. They’ll confirm it.”

Professor Carter hesitates, clearly torn between maintaining his authority and acknowledging the reality in front of him. He glances around the room, seeing the way his students are hanging on every word, waiting to see what he’ll do next.

Finally, he exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I’ll take your word for it, Mr. Verstappen. But I expect Miss Y/L/N to submit any additional documentation that can verify this interview. Understood?”

You nod quickly, relief flooding through you. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Professor Carter waves his hand dismissively, clearly eager to move on. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to continue with the lesson.”

Max glances at you, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips. “I’ll wait outside,” he murmurs, and with one last look at Professor Carter, he turns and walks out of the classroom.

As the door closes behind him, you sink back into your seat, your heart still racing. The tension in the room starts to dissipate, and you can feel the curious stares of your classmates on you, but for the first time since this whole ordeal began, you feel a sense of calm. Max believed in you enough to do this, to stand up for you, and that’s all that matters.

Professor Carter clears his throat, trying to regain control of the room. “Alright, everyone, back to the lesson. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

You open your notebook again, but this time, the words on the page seem clearer, more focused. You can do this. You’ve got this. And no matter what happens next, you know you’re not alone.

***

When you step out of the building, the late afternoon sun is warm on your face, but you barely notice it. The adrenaline from the confrontation in class is still coursing through your veins, and all you can think about is getting out of here, away from the stares and whispers that followed you as you left the room.

You spot him immediately.

Max is leaning against his car, casually checking his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world. But you can see the way his shoulders tense when he catches sight of you, the way his eyes soften when they meet yours.

The sleek black car gleams in the sunlight, and you can’t help but notice the way people are staring, some pointing, others whispering to each other. Max Verstappen waiting outside a university lecture hall is not something anyone expected to see today.

You make your way over to him, trying to ignore the attention and the pounding of your heart. You had told him not to do this, told him you’d handle it on your own. And yet, here he is, right in the middle of everything, like he promised he wouldn’t be.

“Hey,” Max says casually, slipping his phone into his pocket as you approach. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, like he’s waiting for your reaction.

You stop in front of him, crossing your arms over your chest. “You promised me you wouldn’t get involved,” you say, your voice tight.

Max raises an eyebrow, looking entirely too calm for your liking. “I said I’d respect your decision. And I did — until I realized your professor is a jerk who needed to be put in his place.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to maintain your anger, but it’s difficult when he’s standing there looking so smug, so unbothered by the situation. “That’s not the point, Max. You went behind my back.”

He tilts his head, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Did I, though? Because I seem to remember you didn’t explicitly tell me not to.”

You huff in frustration, knowing he’s right but refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Max shrugs, unbothered by your accusation. “Maybe. But I’m also right.”

You want to stay mad. You really do. But the way he’s looking at you, with that infuriating mix of confidence and affection, makes it impossible. You try to hold on to your irritation, try to keep the scowl on your face, but you can feel it slipping away.

Max must see it, too, because he steps closer, his voice dropping to a soft murmur. “You’re not really mad at me, are you?”

You hesitate, biting your lip. “Maybe a little.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and familiar. “No, you’re not.”

You look away, trying to maintain your resolve, but Max reaches out, gently turning your face back to him. His thumb brushes over your cheek, and you can’t help but lean into his touch, your anger melting away as quickly as it came.

“Stop trying to be cute,” you mumble, though your voice lacks any real bite.

Max grins, clearly enjoying this. “I can’t help it. It’s just who I am.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile that tugs at your lips betrays you. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you still love me,” Max counters, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can say anything, Max leans down and presses his lips to yours, effectively cutting off any protest you might have had. The kiss is soft, gentle, but there’s an undeniable intensity behind it, a promise that he’ll always be there, even when you tell him not to be.

For a moment, you forget where you are, forget about the stares and the whispers, the anxiety that had been gnawing at you all day. All that matters is the feel of Max’s lips on yours, the way his hand cradles the back of your head, anchoring you to him.

When he finally pulls back, you’re breathless, your heart racing for a completely different reason now. Max looks down at you, his eyes dark with affection, and you can’t help but smile up at him, any remnants of anger long gone.

“Okay, fine,” you admit, still slightly dazed from the kiss. “Maybe I’m not that mad.”

Max chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before pulling back completely. “I knew it.”

You shake your head, but there’s no real frustration behind it anymore. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He grins, clearly pleased with himself. “I know.”

You glance around, noticing the continued stares from the students passing by. You sigh, knowing this moment of privacy is short-lived. “We should probably get out of here before someone decides to take a picture.”

Max follows your gaze, nodding in agreement. “Good idea. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

He opens the passenger door for you, and you slide into the car, trying to ignore the curious eyes still on you. Max walks around to the driver’s side, getting in and starting the engine. As the car purrs to life, he reaches over, taking your hand in his again.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asks, his tone more serious now, the teasing edge gone.

You nod, squeezing his hand. “Yeah. I’m okay. Thanks for being there, even if I didn’t ask for it.”

Max smiles softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You don’t have to ask. I’ll always be there for you.”

And just like that, the tension that had been weighing on you all day finally eases. You know things aren’t completely resolved with Professor Carter, but right now, with Max beside you, it doesn’t seem as daunting. You’ll figure it out — together.

***

The classroom buzzes with the usual energy as students shuffle into their seats, chatting with friends or tapping away on their phones. It’s a typical day, but there’s a different kind of tension in the air. Today, Professor Carter is returning the results of the investigative journalism assignments, and no one is quite sure what to expect.

You settle into your usual spot near the back, trying to shake off the nerves. It’s been a few months since the whole incident with Max interrupting your class, and while things have calmed down somewhat, Professor Carter’s stern demeanor hasn’t wavered. You still catch him eyeing you from time to time, as if he’s waiting for you to slip up.

The door slams shut as Professor Carter strides in, a stack of papers in hand. The chatter in the room dies down instantly. He’s never been one for small talk or pleasantries, and today is no different. He doesn’t bother with a greeting, just dives straight into it.

“Good afternoon,” he says curtly, his voice slicing through the silence. “As you know, today I’ll be discussing the assignments you all turned in. Some of you excelled, others … less so.”

You swallow hard, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of your notebook. You did everything you could to make your article stand out, but now that the moment of judgment is here, doubt begins to creep in.

Professor Carter begins pacing the front of the room, flipping through the stack of papers as he speaks. “Several of you chose topics that were predictable but handled them with enough depth to warrant commendation. For example, Miss Klein tackled the opioid crisis in rural England — an important and underreported subject.” He glances up at a blonde girl in the front row, who nods in acknowledgment, her cheeks flushing slightly at the attention.

“Then we have Mr. Patel,” Professor Carter continues, stopping briefly to peer down at a lanky guy two rows in front of you. “Your examination of government surveillance policies in urban areas was thorough, albeit a bit heavy on the technical jargon. But it’s clear you put in the work.”

You watch as Professor Carter moves on to the next paper, calling out names and offering critiques with the same detached professionalism. The topics range from environmental justice issues to the economic implications of Brexit — serious, weighty subjects that demand rigorous analysis. The longer he speaks, the more you feel the sinking sensation in your stomach. Your topic, in comparison, feels like a joke. An entertaining joke, sure, but still …

And then he pauses.

Professor Carter reaches the last paper in the stack, and his expression falters for a moment before he collects himself. He clears his throat and addresses the room, his voice taking on a more formal tone.

“And then we come to one particular assignment,” he begins, his gaze sweeping across the room before landing squarely on you. You freeze, every nerve ending on high alert. “An assignment that, while unconventional in its subject matter, demonstrated an impressive level of dedication and — dare I say — ingenuity.”

A ripple of whispers spreads through the room. You feel the heat of a dozen eyes on you but keep your gaze firmly on Professor Carter. His words are oddly measured, as if he’s trying to make sense of them himself.

He raises the paper in his hand slightly, glancing at it before looking back at the class. “Miss Y/L/N,” he addresses you directly, causing all the whispers to stop. “Your decision to investigate whether or not Toto Wolff, the team principal of Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula 1 Team, dyes his hair … was certainly unexpected.”

You hear a few muffled snickers, but you keep your face neutral, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“However,” Professor Carter continues, raising his voice slightly to silence the snickers, “the lengths you went to in pursuit of the truth were nothing short of remarkable. Going through Mercedes' trash? That shows initiative. Questionable ethics, perhaps, but initiative nonetheless.”

There’s a stunned silence in the room. You feel the urge to either laugh or shrink under your desk. You aren’t sure which. Instead, you nod slightly, acknowledging his words without letting the grin you’re fighting show.

Professor Carter takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself for what he’s about to say next. “In a field where skepticism is necessary, and where finding the truth often requires unorthodox methods, your work stood out. So much so that I found myself contemplating the absurdity of the situation. Here I am, reading about a billionaire’s grooming habits as though it were a matter of national importance.”

This time, the laughter from the class isn’t stifled. It rings out freely, and you feel your own lips twitch despite yourself.

“But,” Professor Carter interjects, silencing the room once more, “that is precisely the point of investigative journalism, isn’t it? To find the story others overlook, to dig deeper, even when the subject seems trivial. Miss Y/L/N, your article was, in its own way, insightful. You followed the evidence, and you made your case with conviction.”

He pauses, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks at you. “Though I must say, I’m not entirely convinced that your methods were ... strictly ethical. Dumpster diving isn’t exactly taught in this classroom.”

You finally allow yourself a small, nervous laugh, shrugging lightly in response. “All in the name of journalism, right?”

Professor Carter lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “I suppose so. Regardless, your paper has made an impact — certainly more than I anticipated.”

He drops your paper onto his desk and addresses the class one last time. “Let this be a lesson to all of you. Journalism isn’t always about the grand topics. Sometimes, the most interesting stories come from the strangest places. I encourage you all to think outside the box.”

With that, he begins handing back the assignments, and the classroom slowly returns to its usual rhythm. Conversations pick up again, but this time, they’re punctuated by curious glances and nods in your direction. You try to focus on the papers being passed down your row, but your thoughts are still stuck on Professor Carter’s words.

When your paper finally lands in front of you, you can’t resist flipping through it. There, scrawled in red ink at the top of the page, is your grade — a solid A. Next to it, Professor Carter has written a brief note: Keep pushing boundaries, but remember — ethics matter.

You smile to yourself, feeling a mix of relief and pride. The assignment had been a gamble, but it paid off in the end. And while the ethical considerations may have been a little murky, you can’t deny that the thrill of the chase had been worth it.

As class ends and students begin to file out, a few stop by your desk, offering congratulations or asking for details about how you managed to pull it off. You answer their questions with a grin, reliving the absurdity of your investigative methods. And though it feels surreal, you can’t help but feel a sense of validation.

As you gather your things and prepare to leave, Professor Carter catches your eye and nods in your direction, a rare hint of approval in his usually stern expression. You nod back, acknowledging the unspoken understanding between the two of you.

Stepping out of the classroom, you feel lighter than you have in weeks. The whispers and glances no longer bother you. Instead, they serve as a reminder that you’ve proven yourself, in your own way.

And as you walk through the corridors of the university, you can’t help but think about what Max will say when you tell him about today. Knowing him, he’ll probably tease you about your methods, but you also know he’ll be proud — just as you are.

Because sometimes, in journalism and in life, it’s the unconventional stories that make the biggest impact.

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 7 : Sweet Strawberry

Summary: You're not a soldier, you're just an omega. You shouldn't have to remind them of that, yet you find yourself needing to. Price makes it up to you in the best way possible.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, military inaccuracies, language, angst, panic, fluff, suggestive content, terrible flirting

A/N: Not entirely happy with it but it's done and I can move on from this one. I struggled so much with this chapter omg. Also, I just wanted to make it clear that I am not from the UK, I've never been to the UK, I'm simply going off of prior knowledge and what Google can tell me. So, if there's any inaccuracies, I am so sorry.

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You’re expecting the knock when it comes. You’d been standing in front of your door for almost five minutes, and you get it open almost before he’s finished, hand still raised. He gives no sign that betrays his surprise, if he feels any at all, instead he simply looks you over before turning on his heel and marching towards the door. 

You close your door behind you, slipping down the hallway after him. It’s raining again, though you had prepared for that, flipping the hood of your jacket up as you hurry after Ghost. He threatens to disappear in the darkness of morning, slipping between the street lamps like a specter. It’s not often you get to see the true danger in them, the threats that they pose, the things that make them good at their job. You can imagine how many on his opposing side have been caught unawares by the way he seems to flow with the darkness around him. 

You are significantly less graceful and quiet, feet slapping the wet pavement as you speed walk to keep up with the giant alpha. You can almost imagine the look on his face as you plod along behind him. If your lives depended on your silence at this moment, well, it wouldn’t entirely have been your fault. If he didn’t walk so fucking fast...

He’s at least courteous enough to hold the door open for you, though perhaps that was simply something that was deeply ingrained in him. Manners that become unconscious practice, even when you despise the person you’re with. He leads you down the hall towards the practice room again, unlocking it and flipping on the lights. He empties his pockets and removes his shoes and sweatshirt, before moving to one of the punching bags. 

You can already predict what your lesson today will entail. Your knuckles have almost completely healed since your little fit a week ago. You quickly strip off your jacket and toe off your wet shoes, moving to join him without having to be told. 

“Do you know how to wrap your hands?” He asks, holding out two rolls of hand wraps. 

“No.” You shake your head. It’s not entirely true. They had shown you once while you were with the CIA, but that had been weeks ago and you’re sure you’ve forgotten the right way to do it. Even if you tried, he’d likely sigh and do it himself anyway. 

He lets out a breath, pocketing one of the wraps before grabbing your right wrist. His hands are just as rough as you remember them being the day you punched Corporal Allen, calluses dragging against your skin as he meticulously wraps the fabric around your fingers. You watch him, trying to memorize how to do it in hopes that maybe, eventually, you’ll surprise him and manage it yourself. 

He finishes your hands quickly before wrapping his own. You flex your hands, trying to get used to the feeling of the wraps. They’re not too tight, shockingly. You had half expected him to choke your fingers until they’re purple just because. But, you also know Price will be looking for any mark or sign of injury as soon as he sees you at breakfast. The thought of him laying into Ghost for even a bruise as your stomach twisting, and not in a bad way. 

“Make a fist.” Ghost says, crossing his arms as he stands in front of you. 

You stare at his bulging muscles for a second too long, quickly curling your fingers as your face warms. 

He takes hold of your hand, inspecting your fist. “Not bad.” 

“I did grow up with brothers.” You murmur. 

“Did they ever hit you?” He asks as he turns you to face the boxing bag. 

“Only playfully.” You say, missing the subtle edge to his voice. “Dad would have caved their heads in if they ever tried.” 

You can’t see the way he’s staring at you as he stands slightly behind you, but you can feel his gaze as it lingers for just a second longer than you expected it to. You’re not sure if maybe he doesn’t believe you, or maybe he knows there’s more to the story. You’ve hardly spoken about your family since your arrival, but they seemed to accept the fact that they haven’t been your family for years now as a valid reason.

“Get into your fighting stance.” He finally says, moving around you as you take the stance you had perfected last training session. “Good.” He says, looking you over. “Now throw a punch at the bag.” 

You squeeze your fists, imagining Corporal Allen’s face on the bag before you throw a punch, barely managing to move the bag. 

“Punches like that are what will get you hurt.” Ghost says, extending your arm. “You can throw your weight, which is good. That’s why you were able to throw Allen off his feet. You’re asking for a broken arm, though. Keep your arm flat and facing downwards through the entire punch. Aim with the knuckles and twist your lower body for support.” 

He throws a punch at the bag, the sound of his fist hitting it loud, and you watch the bag swing back and forth violently. He could probably punch through you if he wanted to. Your pitiful punch wouldn’t even stun him. 

He stops the bag from swinging, having you throw repeated punches at it. He fixes your form and technique as you go, teaching you different kinds of punches. Your arms quickly get tired, and you know you’re going to be sore again. Maybe you should take up some weight lifting or something. You could ask Soap to help you. 

You go until your arms feel like they're going to fall off, your shoulders burning. “I can't anymore.” You whine, breathing heavily from the exertion of throwing punches for 30 minutes. 

“You have to learn to push through the pain.” He says, looming over you. “You think in a fight, everyone will just stop because your arms are tired? Or you're a little sore?”

He has a point. 

You take half a step back as he invades your space, leaning down close to you. “If they're out for blood, they won't even stop even as you're bleeding out in front of them.” His eyes are dark, biting into you, speaking volumes of his knowledge and experience. You wonder how many times he's been in that situation, how many times he's had to fight quite literally for his life. He steps away from you, moving towards the center of the mat. “Come on. I'll teach you some combinations.” 

You don't want to follow him. You want to curl up in a corner and nap for the next four hours. You don't doubt he'll find a way to force you, though, so you move to the center of the mat with a sigh. 

He teaches you different combinations, working through them over and over. You're sloppy, mixing up which punch is which, which move means what. It only gets worse as you get more and more tired, but Ghost is relentless. 

Finally after almost an hour and a half of training, he calls it. Your legs are shaking and you can barely lift your arms to unravel the wraps from around your hands. You sink onto the floor, laying out flat on the padding as you try to catch your breath. 

“Come on.” Ghost says, lacing up his shoes. “You'll have time to shower before breakfast if we get back now.”

“Wait. Just gimme a minute.” You breathe, not even sure you have the willpower to get up from the floor, much less the muscle power. 

He lets out a sigh before approaching you, bending down to slip his hands under your arms. “On your feet, soldier.”

He lifts you easily, far too easily. Your legs shake, nearly giving out as you're forced onto them. You pout, ignoring the ache in your bones as you're forced upright. 

“‘M not a soldier.” You murmur. 

“In here with me, you are. You want to learn to fight, you get treated just like everyone else I've taught.” He says, glowering down at you. “Now get your shoes on and let's go.”

Your brows pull into a frown, but you do as he says, slipping your shoes back on and your jacket. You had hoped perhaps he would have a little mercy, given your status and inexperience, but it seems you're not even being awarded that. You know part of it is his revenge for you invading his protective circle around Soap, for kissing Soap in front of him. 

The frown doesn't leave your face as you follow him back to the barracks, having to almost run to keep up with him. 

“You look tired.”

“I am. I had training with Ghost again this morning.” 

“How is that going?”

“It's hard.” You admit, sinking back in your chair. “He's hard on me. He sees me as a soldier, not an omega.”

“Have you brought this up to him?” Dr. Keller asks, crossing her feet as she relaxes on the couch across from you.

You nod. “Yeah. He said I have to push through it, because if I wind up in a real fight, they won't go easy on me.”

“Well, I can’t say he’s wrong about that. But, that’s still no excuse.” Dr. Keller tilts her head at you. “You could bring it up to Captain Price. He is your pack alpha, and he’s also Lieutenant Riley’s. I don’t doubt he’d bring it up to him on your behalf.” 

He would, but you don’t really want to stir the pot in that way. The last thing you need to do is become a tattle-tail. It’s quiet between you for a few moments, Dr. Keller shuffling her papers as you mark a clear end to that conversation. 

“How did you do on your assignment? I see you’re wearing a different sweatshirt this morning.” She says, eyeing you. 

You’re wearing Price’s sweatshirt, the one he gifted you. You’ve been wearing it almost every day, his scent still clinging to the fabric. Your face warms as she stares at you, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, but...I didn’t ask for this one. Price gave it to me after I told him about where my other one came from. I uh...I kissed Soap. And Gaz.” 

“Oh?” Her brows raise, and she writes something down on the paper. Your face warms even more as you watch her pen move with every letter. You can only imagine what she’s putting down. “Is that something you wanted? I know we talked briefly about it last time.” She says.

You nod. “Yes. I did want it. I...I also...kneeled...with Price...Did a couple times actually...” 

Dr. Keller’s mouth opens in surprise, her eyes shining as she looks at you. “You did? That’s huge! That’s an incredible development! Did you initiate, or did he?” 

“I did.” You say bashfully, sinking back further into the chair. “Both times.” 

Dr. Keller smiles at you, looking almost proud. “This is a big step in the right direction. How did it go? Were you able to relax?” 

You nod. “Yeah. It was nice. He was...gentle. He did it right.” 

“Good. How did you do coming down from it? I know it can be intense and difficult for some omegas.” She asks. 

You shrug. “Fine. I felt it a bit the morning after, but it wasn’t too bad. I fell asleep on him both times.” 

“Oh?” She lifts an eyebrow. “Did you stay with him?” 

You shake your head. “No, Gaz took me to my room both times.” 

“Good. That’s good practice, for when your heat comes. Shows how much trust they have in each other.”

You hadn’t really thought of that. There was a lot of trust involved in omega’s heats. Omegas have to trust their alphas to take care of them while they’re blind with insatiable need, but both alpha and omega have to trust a beta to keep them alive. Your heat will trigger Price’s rut and make him lose control for a while, and it will be up to Gaz to keep you both fed and hydrated. He’ll be the one to help you both afterwards as well.

“Have you started nesting yet?” Dr. Keller asks. 

You shake your head. “No. Don’t feel any drive to either.” 

Dr. Keller hums as she writes something down. “Well, it has only been two weeks. Though, perhaps if you can manage to ask for some things to make your space more comfortable, that might help ease you into it.” 

You chew on your lip, tugging at the sleeves of your sweatshirt. You know she’s right. Until you’re comfortable and feel safe enough, you won’t feel the drive to nest. You’ll need to nest before your heat arrives. Otherwise, it’ll cause issues for both you and Price. 

“When...when should I be worried?” You ask. 

“Hmm...” Dr. Keller looks at her calendar. “If you’re not feeling any sort of drive to nest by our next appointment, then I’d say we may need to consider using some exercises to help jump start it.” 

“Exercises?” You ask warily. 

“All easy things.” She reassures you. “Things like scent introductions, tactile explorations, and some bonding exercises might be helpful as well.” She writes something down on a sticky note. “I’ll explain everything in detail and you’ll get to choose whether you want to do any of it or not. No one’s going to force you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, alright?” 

Tears prick your eyes at her words, and you furiously blink them back. It’s a little late for that kind of sentiment. Your presence here alone was thanks to a long line of people forcing you to do things you’re not comfortable with. It was easy to get lost in the excitement and the emotions of bonding with a pack, easy to forget that you would never have chosen this place had you ever been given the option to choose. 

You would have gone far from the military, far from this kind of life. It’s your duty to bond with an alpha, but what if you don’t want to? What if it’s all a front, and as soon as you’re claimed the curtains rise and suddenly everything is different? What if Price isn’t as kind as you’ve come to believe him? Just one squeeze too tightly around the back of your neck while you’re kneeling and everything would change. 

How easily he could take everything from you. 

“You want to talk about what’s going on in your head right now?” Dr. Keller asks, breaking the silence between you two.

You hadn’t even noticed you’d been staring off into space, lost in your thoughts. Of course she knows something’s changed. She’s spent years learning the ins and outs of omegas and all the secrets you can only imagine. She’s probably just as in tune with subtle changes as the four well trained soldiers that make up your new pack. Maybe even more in tune with them. 

You shake your head, keeping your gaze on the floor. 

“Remember nothing shared in this room leaves this room. It’ll always only be between us.” She says softly. 

You’re panicking. You can feel the pressure rising within you. You’re like a grenade and someone is about to pull the pin. You’re afraid you’ll spill everything to her, afraid you’ll let out things you’ve successfully kept buried for years and years. Things you’ve left behind, things you’ve had to move on from. Things you can’t afford to let out now. 

“I’d like to be done now.” You silently curse the way your voice shakes. 

Dr. Keller’s brows pull into a frown but she nods. “Okay.” She slips her papers into her notebook before standing. “Let me grab my keys.” 

You stand as she moves to her desk, grabbing her keys from the drawer. She leads you from her office, thankfully staying quiet as you walk through the rain towards the barracks. You’re still panicking, the turmoil inside you probably projecting the sour scent across the entire courtyard but you don’t care. You can’t. 

“Remember, if you ever need anything, I’m usually in my office.” Dr. Keller says as she drops you off at the door. 

You feel guilty as you hurry to your room, shoes squeaking on the tile. You feel bad for cutting the appointment off early, you feel bad for feeling the way you do. Later you’ll be grateful for Dr. Keller respecting your boundaries and not pushing, for following through with her promise and letting you be in control of the appointment. 

Right now you don’t care. Right now you can’t care. You’re too lost in your turmoil, the bitter scent of your distress seeping out from under the locked door. 

“...can ye talk tae me, hen? Let me know yer alright?” 

The soft voice coming through the closed door pulls you out from your burrow under the thin blanket. You blink blearily at your phone, trying to see the time. It’s just a little past the normal time you go to lunch with them. How long have they been knocking on the door? 

“Come on, lass.” Soap’s voice comes through the door again. “I dinnae want tae have tae kick in the door.” 

You force yourself out from under the blanket, pocketing your phone before quickly moving to your door. You throw it open, Soap’s eyes immediately scanning you as you rub tiredly at your eyes. You don’t doubt he’d kick in your door if he felt he had to. 

“Sorry,” You yawn. “I was asleep.” 

His eyebrows raise as he stares down at you. “Ye were asleep? Ye weren’t kidding about bein’ a heavy sleeper.” He leads you from the barracks, crossing the courtyard towards the mess.

“One time, when I was about two or three, my dad took us to some demonstration on base.” You say as you begin walking to the mess with him. “I fell asleep about halfway through and slept through a howitzer going off.” 

Soap lets out a laugh so loud it echoes in the courtyard. “Ye slept through a howitzer?” 

You nod. “Yup. My dad never let me live it down. I heard it all the time. ‘You’ll have to try hard to wake her, she slept through a howitzer once.’” 

Soap chuckles, leading you into the mess. “Ye are a deep sleeper.” 

You shrug. “I did say so. My phone will wake me up though. Alarms, calls.” 

“I’ll keep tha’ in mind.” He says as he guides you through the line, making your tray for you. 

You sit between Price and Gaz as usual, feeling a bit on edge still despite your nap after your appointment. You hadn’t gotten to sleep for very long, not nearly long enough to clear your head completely. You know they can tell, Gaz slowly shifting closer and closer to you, Price’s gaze flickering to you out of the corner of his eye every so often. Even Ghost’s eyes pass over you every so often as they sweep across the mess. 

You wonder if he feels responsible. 

You hope he does. 

Soap walks you back to the barracks after lunch and you spend the afternoon burrowed under your blanket again. You’re exhausted and sore after a long morning of training and your appointment. You wish you could sink back into sleep, let the emotions pass without you having to feel them, but you’re too awake now. Too aware of them as they prickle in the back of your mind. 

Dinner passes without incident, but you can’t ignore the feelings still stirring within you. You feel agitated and on edge, not even pacing your room helping you. You let out a breath before you put your slippers on, slipping out of your door. You make your way down the hallway, turning right instead of left like you would if you were heading for the rec room. The door is cracked open and you pause just before you reach it, suddenly feeling nervous. You shouldn’t really. There was no reason to be nervous, yet you can’t help the urge in the back of your mind to turn tail and race back down the hallway to the safety of your room. 

“You can come in, unless you’d prefer standing in the hallway all evening.” A voice calls from inside the office. 

Your face warms a bit at getting caught, but he could probably hear you coming down the hallway. He could probably smell you too. 

You push open the door, slipping inside before closing it behind you. Price stares at you from his desk as you stand there, shifting nervously on your feet. You feel agitated, on edge still. You’re worked up, and you don’t quite know why. 

“Everything alright?” Price asks, likely picking up on your nervous energy. 

Yes. You want to say, but then you’d have to come up with a reason as to why you sought him out, why you feel so worked up. You could just kneel for him. It’s what you should do, let yourself be eased into a peaceful state of mind. Let him take care of you. 

 “I don’t know.” 

The words are hardly more than a whisper, your voice trembling just as much as you are. Your chest feels tight, your breaths becoming shallow. You're not sure when he got up, when he even moved. His scent wraps around you, warmth encompassing your being as your face is pushed against his chest. 

“I need you to breathe for me.” Price says, pressing your ear against his chest. You can hear the steady thump of his heart, the air flowing in and out of his lungs. 

You close your eyes, trying to match your breaths to his. It's hard, your body fighting your attempt to regulate it. You close your eyes, focusing on the soft fabric of Price's shirt against your cheek, the warmth of his hand on your head as he keeps you pinned against his chest. It's not constricting or suffocating. It's grounding, keeping you from drowning in your own thoughts. 

He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to as he holds you there, letting you calm down. You begin to slowly relax, your arms wrapping around his waist, fingers gripping the back of his shirt. 

“Want to tell me what’s going on?” He murmurs, lips brushing the top of your head. 

“I don’t know.” You whisper, still clinging to his shirt. “I’m just...I feel off. Ghost was being hard on me this morning and then I got upset during my appointment and I’ve just felt on edge all day and I can’t relax because I can’t get comfortable!” 

Price tightens his grip around you just slightly. “What do you mean?” 

You huff out a breath, squeezing your eyes closed so the tears don’t escape as the words leave you in a flood before you can stop them. “The blankets aren’t soft enough and the pillows are too thin and it’s too dark and I’m tired of smelling like bland soap!” 

Price hums quietly, squeezing you gently as a tear slides down your cheek. “Then we should do something to fix that.” 

“But I shouldn’t need it!” You cry, trying to push away from him, but he keeps you tight against his chest. “I’m supposed to be a good omega and adapt and learn to be comfortable where I am.” 

“That might be what you were taught,” He says, letting you push away from his chest, but he wraps his hands around your arms, keeping you in front of him. “But things don’t have to be that way. We should have taken care of something like this sooner. I’m sorry I didn’t even think of it. You shouldn’t have had to ask for it.” 

You blink up at him, genuinely surprised by his words. “I...what?” 

“We all have our own little comforts that we keep. Soap sleeps with a stuffed bear. Don’t tell him I told you that.” 

A small smile tugs at your lips at the mental image of Soap snuggling up with a teddy bear. 

“You deserve some comfort too.” He says, squeezing your arms.

“But, it’s not...regulation.” You say. 

“Doesn’t have to be.” He says. “You’re not a soldier. Even then, the only ones going in there are us. The only thing I can’t approve of is painting the walls. Unfortunately the prison grey has to stay.” 

You can’t help but laugh, wiping the tear from your cheek. “I suppose that’s alright. Just...as long as it’s not as dark and maybe a soft blanket or something. That’s really all I need.” 

He hums, staring down at you. You can’t quite figure out the look on his face, something shining in his eyes. “We’ll get it figured out.” He says, squeezing your arms again. 

“Get some shoes on. We’re going on a trip.” 

You look up from your book, staring at Price as he stands in the rec room. He’s dressed in civilian clothes, arms crossed as he stares down at you on the couch. You mark your place in your book, pushing yourself up to sit. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and unlike last week they had the day off, which means you do as well. 

“Are you going to make me hike through the woods for two hours again, sir?” You ask, pushing yourself up to stand. 

“No. We’re going into town.” He says. 

You blink at him. You haven’t been off base since you arrived, and you figured you probably wouldn’t be getting that opportunity any time soon. “Can I ask why, sir?” 

“We’ve got some shopping to do.” He says simply, turning and leaving the rec room. 

You stand there shocked for a moment before you’re following after him, slipping into your room to put comfortable shoes on and grab your phone and a jacket. You don’t even have a wallet to carry around to make yourself feel better. 

Price is waiting by the door for you, a car parked outside. You’re slow to approach him, suddenly feeling a mix of emotions. He’s doing this for you. He’d really taken your conversation last night to heart and now he’s going to go spend money on you that he doesn’t need to. 

“What’s that look for sweetheart?” He asks, standing in front of the door. 

“You don’t have to do this.” You say, staring up at him. He seems so tall like this, so...imposing. 

“Course I do.” He says, his gaze softening just slightly. “Should have done it sooner. You deserve to be comfortable too.” He says, turning to open the door. 

You follow him out, climbing into the car when he opens the door for you. He gets in the driver’s seat, the car rumbling to life. He drives to the front gate, passing off two ID cards to the guards. He passes one to you when the guard hands them back, the gate in front of you opening. 

“That’s your ID card. Gets you on and off base.” He explains as he drives away from the gate. “I doubt you’ll be leaving on your own, but just in case.” 

“Thank you, sir.” You say, slipping the card under your phone case for the time being. 

He glances at you, a small smile on his lips. “You can call me John, if you'd like. You don't need to be formal when we're in private.” 

“Yes, sir.” You make a face, biting your lip at your automatic response. “Sorry. Old habits.” 

“From the institute?” He asks. 

You shake your head. “My dad, actually. He was a firm believer in respecting authority figures. All ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ by the time we were old enough to know the difference.” 

“Sounds like my father.” He says, staring out at the road ahead. “Old grizzled military man.” 

“Do you still have contact with him?” You ask curiously. You don’t know much of anything about their families, their backgrounds.

“Not really. Beyond holidays, neither of us really make an effort to talk to the other. After mum passed, there wasn’t much to talk about.” He says. 

“She was the glue.” You say, watching the trees pass by the car. 

“Yeah.” He huffs out a laugh. “As betas usually are.”

“Do you have any siblings?” You ask, curiosity getting the better of you. You know next to nothing about them, while they likely know your entire life story. 

“No,” He shakes his head. “Just me. You have a lot of siblings.” 

You nod. “Seven at the time I left for the institute. Could be more now.” 

“They never tried to keep contact with you?” He asks. 

“Nope.” You turn to look out the window. “The institute didn’t really encourage it either, because we were being prepared to join new packs. That’s hard to do when you still have bonds with your old ones. I think they might have forcibly ended some. I know there were some omegas that tried to keep contact, but it became less and less until eventually it just stopped.” 

Price’s hands tighten around the steering wheel just slightly. You wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been paying attention. Silence settles in the car as he drives, farmlands passing until the houses start getting closer and closer together. You stare at the buildings as he drives through town, a blend of historical and modern. 

“It’s beautiful here.” You say, watching people and cars pass by. 

“I suppose so.” He says, glancing at you. “I grew up in this area.” 

You turn to look at him. “You did? I didn’t know that. Then again, I don’t know much about any of you.” 

“You can ask us, you know.” He says. “We don’t have to be that secretive with you. At least not about ourselves.” 

He pulls into a parking lot, opening your door for you and helping you out of the car. You slip your hand into his, holding it as you cross the parking lot. You stare up at the store. ASDA. You’ve never heard of it before, though you suppose the stores would be different here too. 

Price drops your hand to grab a cart, the store bustling with people. You hang onto the edge of the cart, staying close to Price’s side. “We’re here for you.” He says, guiding you through the aisles. “Get whatever you want.” 

He’s led you to the homegoods section, your eyes widening at the entire aisle of blankets and bedding in front of you. You try to take it all in, but you feel a bit overwhelmed. There’s so many choices, so many options. 

“Pick out as many as you want. Don’t worry about the price.” He says, before you can protest. “We get paid decently, but don’t have many chances to use it. Let me do this for you.” 

You stare up into his eyes, the sincerity in them, before you nod, turning back to the wall of blankets before you. You study them, running your hand along them to find the softest ones, doing as he says and ignoring the price tags. You settle on a couple soft ones, grabbing a throw blanket as well that you can pack around to the rec room if you want to. He takes you to the pillow aisle, and you settle on a pair of fluffy pillows, as well as a couple decorative ones as well. 

“Here.” He slips a big plush strawberry into your arms before you leave the aisle, your cheeks warming as you look at it. “Makes me think of you.” 

You preen at his words, holding onto the strawberry as you make for the lamps and nightlights, settling on a cat shaped one that will sit on your desk and changes colors. You pick up a few other items before heading for the toiletries, finally setting the strawberry in the cart as you zero in on the soaps and body washes. You smell all the strawberry scented ones, trying to find the perfect one. 

“Why strawberry?” Price asks as you put a strawberries and cream scented body wash in the cart. 

“Compliments my scent.” You explain as he leads you to the shampoo and conditioner. “We had a scent specialist come to the institute one time as an activity. We all figured out what our scents smell like and what notes compliment them the best.” 

An arm wraps around your waist before you can look at the shampoo, pulling you back against a broad chest. Price’s nose presses into your neck and he inhales deeply. He lets out a content hum, his beard tickling the sensitive skin of your neck. “I think you’re right.” 

Your face burns hot as he presses a gentle kiss against the side of your neck before releasing you. You stand there for a moment, trying to calm the heat rushing through your body and focus on the shampoo. You hear him chuckle as you shuffle forward, your face still burning as you smell the shampoo bottles. 

You settle on one, holding onto Price’s arm as you continue around the store, picking up a few other items and a couple for himself as well before heading to the checkout. 

You hold on to Price’s arm as you leave the store, sticking close to him as he loads the bags into the trunk. You can feel the slight tension in his body, the way his eyes scan the parking lot every few seconds. You can’t even begin to imagine how hard it must be for him to relax, especially out in public. How fast his mind has to be running, how alert he is to everyone and everything. A threat could come out of nowhere, could come from anyone. 

It must be exhausting. 

“Hungry, sweetheart?” He asks as he buckles his seatbelt. 

“Always.” You answer, leaning on the center console.

He smiles. “What are you in the mood for?” 

You blink at him. Most of the restaurants you know probably don’t exist in England. “Fish and chips?” You offer, pulling up the one British food you’re confident in naming. 

“Fish and chips it is.” He says, turning on the car. 

“I have yet to have real fish and chips.” You say, settling into the passenger seat. 

“Well, I know the perfect place.” He says, pulling out of the parking lot. 

You don’t have to go far before he’s parking on the street and helping you out of the car. His hand settles on your lower back, guiding you down the street to a fish and chips shop. 

It's too early for the dinner rush, the shop mostly empty and quiet. Price orders for you before guiding you to a table, and you let him sit facing the door and front window. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. They seem so relaxed on base, though you suppose that's the place they feel the most comfortable. You can't even imagine the kinds of things they've seen, the horrors they've been subjected to. 

You don't want to think about the things they've done. 

Your eyes snap downwards as Price's hand slides across the table, closing around yours. You don't want to think about the things he's done with those hands. The lives he's taken, the people he's tortured. Will he ever turn those hands on you? 

They've given you no reason to fear them yet. They've all been kind, polite. Even Ghost hasn't truly given you a reason to fear him, despite his obvious disapproval and hard exterior. 

You know nothing about them. 

You've known them for just over two weeks. You can't possibly have any understanding of who they are, how they express their emotions. What if they get upset? What happens when they get angry? What if you anger them?

“I know this hasn’t been easy for you. Any of it.” Price says, drawing you from your worried thoughts. “I know you were taught to expect this, perhaps not this exact situation, but something like this. Being sent off to some strange alpha to join their pack, bonding with complete strangers. None of us were expecting this either. It’s been an adjustment in a lot of ways, but I want you to know that we’ll take care of you. You need anything, you tell us. You want anything, we’ll do our best to make it happen. We’ll keep you safe.” He lifts your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “I promise you that.” 

You want to believe him. You really do. They haven’t given you any reason to not believe it. 

It’s only been two weeks. 

You continue to talk with him as you eat, making light conversation, getting to know him a bit more. Despite the trickling uncertainty in the back of your mind, it feels good. It feels like a date, something you had dreamed of before you presented, something you had imagined happening when you finally got old enough to start looking for potential mates and packs. 

Of course, back then, you had thought you’d be an alpha. 

It had been expected of you. 

Price has his arm wrapped around you as you walk back to the car, his hand on your hip. It’s possessive almost, and it makes your stomach flutter. Price is the only one you haven’t kissed yet, well, besides Ghost, but you’re certain you’d wind up through a wall if you even thought of trying. It’s almost ironic that Price would be the last, considering he’s going to be the one claiming you, the one you spend your heat with. 

You stare out the window as the buildings fade into farmlands again. The sun is setting, painting the world in oranges and reds. You still feel a bit warm from Price’s possessive hold on you, his teasing in the store. You can still feel the tickle of his beard on your skin, his lips pressing against your neck. 

You jump when rough fingers trail down your arm, pulling it from where it had been resting in your lap. 

“You were right.” Price says as he lifts your hand to his face, pressing his nose against your wrist and inhaling for a moment. “Strawberries are the strongest note in your scent.” He lowers your hand again, lacing your fingers together. “What’s got you all worked up over there.” 

You stare at him, your face getting warm again. Of course he can smell it. You can smell the muskiness beginning to form around the edges of his scent. Desire. “You haven’t kissed me yet.” You say, moving his hand into your lap. “You're the only one that hasn't...well, besides Ghost.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “You sound disappointed.” 

You untangle your fingers with his, letting his hand rest on your thigh. “What if I am?”

His fingers flex against your leg, the muskiness of his scent strengthening. “Then maybe we should fix that.” 

The cocktail of scents in the car is intoxicating, and you feel bad for the poor beta soldier at the gate when Price rolls down the window to hand off your IDs. 

Price is out of the car as soon as it's parked, moving around to your side to open the door. He pins you against the side of the car as soon as you're out, caging you in with his arms. 

You stare up at him, head swimming with the musk laced in his scent. You can see his eyes shining in the light next to the door of the barracks. He looks like a hungry wolf, the back of your neck prickling with excitement. 

He leans down, breath fanning your face as he gets closer and closer to you. You press yourself against him, hands gripping his shoulders as he presses his lips to yours. His lips are surprisingly soft, his beard tickling your face. He growls quietly against your lips, pushing you harder against the side of the car. 

You let out a quiet sound in response, hands gripping his jacket. His hands slide from the car to your sides, sliding down to grip your hips. You can feel the muscle hidden beneath his jacket and shirt, the strength that he possesses. He may not be purebred like Ghost, but he’s still every inch an alpha. 

You let out another quiet sound as he pulls away, pressing a caste kiss to the corner of your lips. “Bloody hell, now I know what those boys were on about.” He breathes, leaning his forehead against yours. 

“They were talking about me?” You ask, pulling back slightly. 

“Only good things.” Price grins, leaning down to kiss you again. “Sweet as sugar.” He breathes, kissing you again. “And just as addicting.” He pulls away from you, his hands resting on your waist. “We should get your stuff inside so you can get it all set up. Want me to fetch one of the boys to help?” 

You bite your lip. “Or you could just do it.” 

He stares down at you, something flashing across his face but you can’t quite make it out in the low light. “You’re sure?” His voice is quiet, taking on that soft tone it often does when he speaks to you. 

“You’ll have to eventually.” You shrug. “Might as well start now.” 

He leans down, kissing you again before pulling away, opening up the trunk. He grabs most of the bags, only leaving the pillows for you to grab before he leads the way into the barracks. You open your door, stepping in first before he follows. You dump your pillows on the bed, and he sets the rest of the bags on your desk. 

“Blankets in the wash.” You say, digging them out of the bags, pulling the tags off. 

“I’ll take them.” He says, fishing out his stuff from the bags before taking the blankets from you. 

You switch out your pillows for the softer ones, organizing the decorative ones just the way you want. You squish the strawberry to your chest again, a smile forming on your face before you flop back onto the bed, sinking into the soft pillows. It’s almost perfect, you think. 

“Comfortable?” Price’s voice rumbles in the doorway, a smile on his face as he stares at you. 

“Much better.” You say, sitting up and placing the strawberry in its place. 

The two of you finish taking everything out of the bags, decorating the rest of your room. The posters on the walls, and the nightlight on your desk. It feels far more homey already, and you know you’re going to sleep well tonight once the blankets are out of the wash. 

“Thank you.” You say, looking up at Price. “This really means a lot.” 

“All in a day’s work, love.” He says, pulling you into his arms again. 

You lean against his chest, resting your head over his heart, listening to it beat steadily against your ear. 

You wake up suddenly, yet you’re not quite sure why. There’s no one in your room, your new nightlight easily showing you that. Your mouth is dry, but there’s a line of wetness down your chin. You reach across your nightstand, your phone illuminating the time. 

Just past one a.m. 

You smack your lips, feeling thirsty after the excitement of the day. You’d forgotten to grab water when you left the rec room and you huff out a sigh. You don’t want to get up, but now that you’re aware you’re thirsty, there’s no stopping those thoughts. 

You don’t even bother with slippers as you pad to the door, opening it up. You leave it cracked as you sleepily shuffle towards the rec room, the barracks almost dead quiet this late. You grab a bottle from the fridge, unscrewing the top before drinking a few gulps. It’s cold and tastes divine, soothing the dryness of your mouth. You screw the top back on, closing the fridge before heading back towards your room. 

You turn the corner, still half asleep, nearly yelping as you slam into a chest. You stumble back a couple steps, staring up at the covered face looming over you. You gulp, holding the bottle to your chest. 

“S-Sorry.” You stutter. 

“You’re out of bed.” He says quietly, voice rumbling in the silence. 

“Thirsty.” It’s all you can manage as you hold up the bottle. 

He stares at you for a long moment, eyes flickering all over your face. His chest is heaving, almost as if he had been running before you ran into him. His hands are closed into fists at his sides, knuckles almost white with how tense he is. You think for a moment he might be mad, but you can’t catch any whiff of ozone in the air. Your nose prickles at the scent, but it’s not anger. 

Your tired brain can’t make sense of it, yearning to sink back into the softness of your bed again. You slowly shuffle around him, taking cautious steps, waiting for him to reach out and stop you, but he doesn’t. He simply watches you go, standing there in the hallway as you slip back into your room, not moving until he hears the click of your lock slipping into place. 

NEXT ->

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[janiehellion]

Troublemaker

ONESHOT

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Daryl Dixon knew better than to challenge you, yet the thrill of breaking the rules was too tempting to resist. He let you play your game—by his own rules—because certain forbidden lessons in trouble were just meant to be learned.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: TEACHER!DARYL DIXON X FEM!STUDENT READER

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SMUT / LANGUAGE / BLOWJOB / CUNNILINGUS / TEASING / ROUGH SEX / TABOO

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5.350

ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ: PRE-APOCALYPSE—ALTERNATE UNIVERSE

ʀᴇǫᴜᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ: @mikes-babygirl

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ's ɴᴏᴛᴇ: A quick heads-up—I changed the setting from a typical school to college, and made Daryl a younger substitute professor, instead of a regular and much older teacher on purpose. I just wanted the story to feel more comfortable and kinda more mature overall. Even though it’s fiction, I don't want to cross certain lines. But I do hope that I've still done the request justice, after all...

MASTERLIST & REQUEST GUIDELINES

You walked into the room, already preparing yourself for another boring day at college. It wasn’t that you hated college exactly—it was just more of the same, day after day. You threw your bag next to your desk and sat down in your seat, scrolling through your phone while the other college students started to get ready for class.

But then you looked over to the door.

Of all people to be teaching today—it was him. Mr. Dixon. Just your luck. You’d always had a problem with this guy. Sure, he was good-looking—annoyingly good-looking, actually—but that just made it worse. Someone that hot shouldn’t have the right to be such a pain in the ass. And the constant lecturing like he knew everything? He had that whole "I’m smarter than you!" attitude, and it drove you crazy.

He hadn’t done anything yet, but just the sight of him was enough to piss you off.

And as soon as he started the lesson, talking and gesturing around, you immediately zoned out.

It just didn’t matter.

You were more focused on how he stood there, acting like he had everything under control and looking all arrogant. You hated that. And there was no way you were just going to sit through this class quietly.

So you raised your hand slowly.

"Yeah?" Mr. Dixon turned to you, raising an eyebrow in that way that made you want to punch his face.

You shrugged, leaning back casually. "Just wondering... what’s the point of all this? I mean, history? It’s not like we need this for our major. This has nothing to do with what we're actually studying."

He looked irritated but kept his cool. Of course he did. "It’s 'bout understandin' why the world works the way it does—no matter what field you’re in."

You rolled your eyes. "Yeah, right. Like learning this bullshit is gonna pay my bills."

A few students laughed, but Mr. Dixon's expression didn’t change. "The point of learning history is to understand how people like ya keep makin' the same mistakes—and why they're still broke."

"Sounds like a waste of time," you muttered loud enough for him to hear.

He paused, staring at you for a moment longer than necessary, so you leaned forward, looking into his eyes as if daring him to say something else. He wouldn’t. He knew better.

Daryl sighed loudly and continued with the lesson, but you weren’t done. Throughout the class, you kept at it—making comments or sighing dramatically in annoyance every time he explained something.

At one point, you put your feet up on the desk, pushing your chair back lazily. "Seriously, Dixon, can we speed this up? Some of us have better things to do."

His eyes looked toward your legs, then back to your face, but he didn’t say anything. He was trying hard to keep his cool.

With a yawn, you stretched your arms over your head, and as time went on, you decided to continue.

"So, Dixon," you said loudly, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Ever thought about getting a real job instead of just playing teacher?"

This time, he paused. Really paused.

You knew you’d provoke him eventually, but that’s exactly what you wanted. You wanted him to react.

But instead, he just gave you a small, almost unnoticeable smirk. "Careful, ya might just find out I’m more qualified than ya think."

Your heart skipped a beat. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

In one way or another, you spent the rest of class barely paying attention, since something about that smirk he gave you before had pissed you off more than usual.

As soon as the bell for the break rang, you waited near the classroom door, pretending to chat with a few friends until he left the room as well. Once the hallway was empty and everyone was out of sight, you slipped back in.

First, you walked up to his desk, staring at the pile of papers he's left there. It was all so organized, so... proper. You hated it. With one quick move, you knocked the papers to the floor, scattering them all over the place.

Your eyes then landed on his bag on the chair behind the front desk. Without thinking twice, you grabbed it and looked through it. There were a few personal items still inside—a notebook, some other papers, and a lighter.

"A smoker, huh?"

You then looked through the notebook. There were random notes, lesson plans, and other things you didn’t even care about, but something about it being his made you want to ruin it. Without hesitating, you ripped out the pages, tearing them apart.

"Not enough..."

You grabbed the lighter, turning it on, before you held it to some of the torn-out pages, watching it burn for a few more seconds before dropping it onto the pile of papers on the floor, while making sure the windows were open to avoid triggering the smoke alarm.

Anything to piss him off.

And just as you were about to leave, your eyes landed on his coffee mug, which he's left behind. That stupid mug he always carried around. Without thinking twice, you grabbed it, throwing it against the wall, and before anyone could catch you, you slipped back out of the room, blending in with the crowd of other college students outside, acting like nothing had happened.

Soon, the break was almost over, but the classroom was still empty. Mr. Dixon walked in first, and the second he saw the mess, his eyes widened—papers torn and burned, the broken coffee mug on the floor... He didn’t say anything; he just stood there, taking it all in.

"Ugh… Really?" He mumbled to himself. "Yer testing me, huh? Alright then."

He walked around the room slowly, closing the open windows and getting rid of the chaos you'd left behind.

"Ya want my attention?" He said quietly, almost like he was talking to you even though you weren’t there. "Ya sure as hell got it."

He should’ve been pissed, but there was something that made him more curious than angry.

Now, he quickly straightened up as he heard footsteps approaching from the hallway. He watched the door, waiting for you to walk back in, knowing full well what you’d done.

The college students soon began walking back into the room, and you were one of the last to come in, casually late, throwing yourself into your chair while your eyes looked to Mr. Dixon, standing at the front, but... with no hint of anger.

His eyes soon met yours for a second—just long enough to make your heart race—but then he looked away again.

"Alright," he began, "we’re gonna continue with something different now."

He walked to the front of his desk, grabbing a stack of books he'd brought with him to the classroom—Divided Loyalties. He held one up, flipping through the pages and then passing them out. As you grabbed your copy, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. American Revolution? Really?

"This play's 'bout a family torn apart by their opposing views," he explained, walking slowly in front of the board. "Patriots, loyalists, people choosing sides. The family in this play has to decide where their loyalty lies—what side of history they wanna be on. Some of 'em follow, others... they go with what’s expected. Either way, their choices split 'em apart."

He didn’t say it outright, but you felt it. He picked this damn play on purpose.

You tapped your fingers on your copy of the book, half-listening to him, half-lost in your thoughts. It was like he was waiting for you to make a move. But what move exactly?

"The point of this," he said, moving around again, "is that sometimes we get pulled in two directions. Loyalties get tested. But what matters is whether or not ya own yer choices."

That last line felt like it was meant just for you. There it was again—that feeling. Unspoken, electric. Like you both knew exactly what was happening between the two of you, but neither of you wanted to admit it.

He stepped away, continuing with his explanation about the play.

"Ya know," he continued, leaning back against his desk, arms crossed again. "A lotta people thought on either side they were just troublemakers. Pissin' off each other, causin' problems... all 'cause they couldn’t keep their mouths shut." His eyes looked to yours again, almost like a challenge.

You bit your lip, trying to focus on the book, but his voice, his presence—it was all too distracting somehow. He knew exactly what he was doing. And it was working.

One of the students sitting a couple of rows over raised their hand. "Mr. Dixon, did you ever have to deal with that? Like, divided loyalties? You seem like you know what that feels like."

He paused, smirking a bit, but didn’t answer right away. Instead, he was looking almost amused. "What makes ya say that?"

The student shrugged. "I dunno, just the way you talk about it. It’s like you’ve been through some stuff and things yourself."

"Let’s just say I’ve seen my share of... divided loyalties." He glanced at the board. "But that ain't the point of the lesson."

Another student chimed in. "What did you do before teaching, anyway? You weren’t always here. You don’t seem like... a regular teacher."

He laughed, shaking his head slightly. "That’s because I’m not. Jus' a substitute, fillin' in until I finish my graduate program. I’m workin' toward my Master’s in Education. Right now, I'm here until the regular prof returns. Ya don’t have to worry; I ain't stickin' 'round forever."

Your curiosity was growing, though you’d never admit it. He didn’t fit the type of a normal professor at all, and now it was obvious why. He wasn’t one. Well… Not really.

"Now, back to the lesson," he continued. "Troublemakers…" He said the word slowly, like he was testing it out. "Sometimes, trouble’s what shakes things up. Forces people to finally pay attention."

Your heart was racing faster and faster. He was toying with you, and you knew it. He was playing a game, and you hated how much it was getting under your skin. But part of you... part of you liked it. The push, the pull, the challenge between the two of you. He wasn’t like the other teachers who'd have scolded you by now. No, he was letting you come at him, daring you to make your next move and to fuck up.

And you couldn’t help but play along.

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms with a bored look on your face. "It's just another pointless play to rot our brains with bullshit that we don't even need for our future."

He gave you a quick glare, but he was still rather unimpressed with your attitude. "If ya think it’s pointless, maybe ya ain't puttin' enough effort into understanding it."

"Effort?" You snorted and smirked. "The only effort I see is you trying to make us suffer with bullshit no one even gives a fuck about."

He narrowed his eyes at you, but he was still in control. "Perhaps if ya paid more attention, ya’d understand why this bullshit is still relevant."

"Relevant? Don’t make me shit myself," you snapped back, now leaning forward to rest your elbows on your desk.

The room was quiet, all eyes looking between you and Mr. Dixon, but no one else dared to say anything.

Daryl sighed, clearly fed up somewhere deep inside. "That’s quite a way to talk to a teacher."

"Yeah? But you aren't a real teacher, nor will you ever become a professor, so what are you going to do about it?" You shot back. "Get me suspended? From college? As if any prof would even do that! Or how about you give me detention? Oh wait, you’re already doing that with your shitty lessons."

He stepped closer to you, smirking as well. "Watch ya damn mouth an' shut it."

"Or what?" You taunted. "Are you going to make me?"

His eyes were burning into yours, and for a moment, it felt like there was something else there in them—something else than simple irritation and annoyance.

"Is that what ya want?" He asked, putting his hands into his pockets. "For me to give ya what yer askin' for?"

"Oh, please! Like that’s going to make any difference!" You laughed back at him, waving one hand in dismissal.

"Yer testing my patience," he answered, his voice still calm. "And yer 'bout to find out how far I’m willin' to go to get ya suspended, if that's what ya really want. Or maybe expelled. Even if this is college."

The room was dead silent, the other students watching with wide eyes and whispering to each other. But you didn’t care.

"Expelled, huh? Those are some serious words for someone who’s barely even qualified to be teaching," you smiled.

Daryl didn't respond immediately; he just stared at you with that still calm expression. Like he was holding back.

Finally, he took a step back. "Ya think this is a joke?"

You shrugged, yawning and smirking at him. "Well, I’m not exactly learning anything here, so yeah, it really is kinda funny."

But the smirk on your face faded the second he slammed his hands down loudly on your desk, making you jump.

"Enough!" He said, his voice only a growl.

You opened your mouth to snap back once more, but he cut you off before you could even speak.

"Detention," he continued. "After school. We’ll see how ya will act when there’s no one else 'round to laugh.”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back, trying to seem unimpressed. "Fine. But I’m not scared of you, Dixon."

He walked back to the front desk, giving you one final look. "Ya will be."

The bell rang soon enough, and everyone else went to walk out of the room. You stood up slowly as well, watching Daryl write notes down on a paper at his desk like nothing had happened.

But that last glare? That look in his eyes? You couldn't think about anything else as the hours passed.

And now you had detention with him. Alone.

Detention had seemed more appealing than getting suspended or expelled, of course, especially from college by a substitute teacher who still didn't graduate himself yet, but it wasn’t exactly what you’d hoped for in one way or another. Mr. Dixon had made it clear you’d be staying after the lessons, and now here you were, sitting at the front of the room, waiting for him to show up.

The minutes ticked by until Mr. Dixon walked in, his face looking as neutral as ever.

"Well, well, well," he started as he stood near the door, closing it slowly. "I didn't think I'd actually be seein' ya here." He crossed his arms over his chest. "But here we are."

"Guess I just wanted to make it all a little more exciting for myself," you shot back.

He stepped closer, not invading your personal space but close enough. "Excitin', huh? Or just plain stupid?"

"Depends on who you ask," you replied, crossing your arms. "What’s next, more boring lectures? Another dumb play?"

"Maybe... or maybe I’ll find another way to keep your attention," he said, taking another step closer.

You smirked, rolling your eyes. "Yeah, right. As if you could keep me interested. You don’t scare me, Dixon; I've said it before, and I'll always say it again. Why? Wanna try me? I dare you to try."

Before you knew it, he grabbed your wrist, the move sending adrenaline straight through your body in an instant. "Careful what ya wish for."

His eyes moved down to your lips, and for a short moment, you thought he might actually kiss you. But as fast as that thought came into your mind, you quickly pushed it away again.

"Maybe ya wanna find out how far I’ll go to teach ya a lesson," he challenged, his breath smelling like cigarettes.

"Maybe I do," you replied. "Or maybe I don't."

He let go of your wrist and walked back to the front desk, but the distance between you still felt nonexistent.

"And I don't care," he answered, setting the book from all those hours before down on the desk. "Yer going to reread Divided Loyalties again. I want ya to pay close attention this time. Maybe ya will finally learn, or at least shut up."

You raised an eyebrow, trying to suppress a laugh. "Like learning how to deal with your bullshit?"

He ignored the comment. "Start readin'. I’ll be gradin' some papers in the meantime."

You shrugged, picking up the book. But as you looked through the pages, an idea started forming in your mind. If Mr. Dixon wanted you to take this seriously, you were going to make it interesting—by your own rules.

You looked over at him, already busy with his grading. Perfect. You began to read aloud, but not in the way he might have hoped, interpreting the text in your own way and playing around with the words.

"Forsooth, thou hast a long and sturdy lance," you read, your voice now louder on purpose. "I’d wager it could penetrate any barrier with ease."

His head moved up and his eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing, choosing to let you continue.

You pressed on as you read. "Verily, thy bedchamber is most inviting. I am most eager to partake in its pleasures."

You leaned back in your chair, watching him closely as you continued. "Our loyalty lies not just in our words, but in the way we... entertain each other behind closed doors."

His eyes looked at you again, and you could see the struggle on his face to keep his calm. It was clear you were getting under his skin, and you loved it.

You let out a rather quiet laugh, closing the book and stretching yourself. "You know, Mr. Dixon, I think I’m starting to understand the ‘divided loyalties’ part. Sometimes, it’s hard to stay loyal to something when there are so many... distractions."

Daryl raised an eyebrow with a small yet almost unnoticable smirk. "Okay, enough," he said. "Let me tell ya somethin'. In this room, I'm in charge. Ya will do as I say as long as I am yer teacher."

"Fine," you answered him through clenched teeth, glaring at him. "But let me tell you something as well, Dixon. In this room, I'm not going to just sit here and do shit! And I want something in return. Deal?"

Daryl leaned against the desk, crossing his arms over his muscular chest. "And what exactly would that be?" He asked, his blue eyes looking at you with a frown.

"I want..." Your voice trailed off as you tried to find the right words. "I want... you," you finally said, the words surprising even yourself.

Daryl just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded slowly. "Alright," he said. "If ya wanna play that kinda game, then I'll play along. But only if ya agree to my terms."

You swallowed hard, feeling your heart racing in your chest. This just got too real, even for your taste, but what were you expecting? You didn't know. But part of you wanted this as much as you tried to deny it. "Wait… What? What terms exactly? What…"

"First, this stays between us. No one can know about our... arrangement. Second, ya will do whatever I say, both in and outta this room. And third, ya will keep up with yer damn work from now on and calm down with yer shitty behavior."

You nodded slowly, feeling your pulse racing at the thought of what you're about to agree to. "Fine," you answered. "I accept your terms."

Daryl then moved towards you again. "Good," he said, reaching out to cup your chin with his hand. Then it happened. He leaned in closer once more. Your breathing stopped for a moment as his lips brushed against yours, teasing you with a hint of a kiss.

"Dixon," you breathed, half a protest and half a plea. "Don't you fucking dare."

"Shut up," he murmured against your lips before kissing them fully, his hands framing your face.

The kiss was intoxicating—all heat and urgency. You melted into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as you deepened the kiss, feeling the world around you fade away while tasting nicotine on your tongue… and you wanted more.

"Yer gonna do everythin' I tell ya to do," he mumbled, his lips brushing lightly against your ear after he broke the kiss. "And if ya disobey me, there will be consequences. But I think ya know that by now, don't ya?"

You gasped as one of his hands moved away from your chin, along the side of your neck, before slipping beneath the collar of your shirt, grabbing it, and pulling you out of the chair toward the front desk.

"Yes," you whispered, feeling yourself already getting wetter with every passing second. "I know and I understand."

Daryl's grip on your neck tightened ever so slightly, and you let out a small moan. "Good," he said, smirking a little. "Now, ya better be gettin' down on yer knees."

You hesitated for just a moment before slowly sinking down onto the floor of the room, watching as Daryl undid the button of his pants. "Take it out," he commanded.

You reached out with trembling hands, fumbling around as you pulled his thick, hard cock out.

"Now, put it in yer mouth," Daryl said. "And don't ya dare bite down on it."

You smirked and leaned forward, wrapping your lips around the head of Daryl's cock and sucking gently while looking up at him. He let out a groan, his fingers holding your head and playing with your hair as he began to guide you and move his hips.

"That's it," he murmured. "Jus' like that. Suck it harder. Show me how much ya wanna be good again."

You obeyed his command, applying more pressure with your lips as you worked your way further down his swelling shaft. His breathing got more uneven, and you could tell just how much he was enjoying this already.

"Yeah, jus' like that," he said breathlessly, his hips beginning to thrust forward a little harder. "Oh fuck, yer so good at this."

You felt yourself getting even more turned on by his words and reached down between your legs, sliding your fingers inside your pants and beneath your panties, stroking gently at your swollen, aching clit.

Daryl must've sensed the change in your behavior because he suddenly pulled away from you, his cock slipping out from between your lips. "That's enough for now."

He reached down, helping you to your feet before leading you over towards the desk at the front of the room. He bent you over it, your tits and stomach pressed against the surface.

"Now, get those pants off and spread yer legs for me," he said. "I wanna see how wet ya are."

You obeyed his command again, parting your legs as wide as they'd go after pulling down your pants and panties. Daryl let out a growl as he took in the sight of your wet pussy, his fingers sliding over your wet folds.

"Oh shit, jus' look at how fuckin' wet ya are," he mumbled. "Ya really wan' it, don't ya? Since when, huh?"

You let out a gasp as Daryl's fingers found your clit. "Who knows?" You moaned quietly. "Maybe I did want you to fuck me all along."

Daryl didn't respond right away; instead, he continued to tease you with his fingers. "Good t'know," he finally said. "First, I wanna taste ya. I wanna feel that sweet lil' pussy against my tongue. But don't ya worry. I promise it'll be worth the risk."

With that, Daryl got onto his knees, with his head between your legs, his tongue moving out to make contact with your swollen, aching clit from behind, licking it and sucking at your folds, his tongue moving slowly on purpose.

"Oh fuck, Dixon," you moaned quietly again, your legs starting to tremble a little. "Right there. Yes..."

"Fuck, ya look so sexy like this," Daryl said and kept licking and sucking before sliding two fingers deep inside to pump them in and out of you a few times. "Ya taste so fuckin' good," he continued. "Could eat ya out all day an' night. But I wanna feel ya cum all over my cock next. Hell, I love how yer pussy looks when 's all wet an' ready for me," he mumbled, sliding his fingers out of you again.

You gasped softly, your hips bucking back, trying to meet his hand and face once more. "Hell, just... I need more," you pleaded, your voice shaking while you tried not to tremble too hard.

"Jus' wanted to make sure that yer wet an' ready for me 'fore I give ya what ya want," he said, gripping and stroking his hard, leaking cock.

"Dixon," you begged with a whimper. "Just fuck me already, okay?"

Daryl smirked, clearly unable to resist your begging any longer. "Alright, sweetheart," he answered, positioning himself between your legs before slowly pushing his cock inside you from behind. "I'm gonna make ya feel so fuckin' good, girl."

You let out a gasp again as his cock pressed up against your dripping wet pussy, tormenting you with the tip for several long moments, then sliding the thick, hard shaft of it back and forth over your wet folds, before he filled you up completely, his thickness stretching your pussy walls deliciously. "Jus' take it. Take every single inch of my cock deep inside ya."

You obliged eagerly, pushing back and pulling him even deeper inside you with each passing thrust, trying not to groan out loud at the feeling of being stretched and stuffed so deeply.

"Oh fuck, ya feel so damn good," he said, his fingers digging into your hips as he started to pound away at your pussy with a little bit more force. "Shit, I could fuck ya all the damn time an' never get tired of it."

"Oh, fuck yes!" You groaned in response as Daryl continued to thrust in and out of you.

As he soon fucked you harder and deeper, you could feel your orgasm building up inside you, threatening you to make you scream out loud.

"I'm so fucking close already," you panted as you held onto the edges of the front desk for dear life. "Please... don't stop! Don't fucking stop!"

"Oh shit," you moaned and whimpered as he continued to fuck you. "Harder, please, harder."

And Daryl didn't disappoint you. He fucked you hard, his cock pounding in and out of your pussy in quick, rapid thrusts.

"Ya wanted this, didn't ya?" He growled out. "Ya wanted me to fuck ya like this."

You nodded eagerly. "Yeah, shit, I did… I do!"

"Ain't gonna stop until I've made ya cum all over my cock, sweetheart," he said, increasing the speed, which immediately brought you to the edge like you've never experienced before.

"I'm cumming! Oh fuck, I'm cumming!" You whimpered, your entire body tensing up, and just as you thought, your orgasm exploded through you like a bomb, your pussy clenching around him, gripping his cock as if not wanting to let go. But Daryl didn't stop, even after you've finished.

And just as you were coming down from your orgasm, he suddenly pulled out, his breathing ragged. "I’m 'bout to cum," he groaned, wanting to finish himself off, and started to stroke his cock, ready to let go, but then you acted on instinct. You couldn't just let him finish without you, not like this.

Quickly, you dropped to your knees and took his cock back into your mouth, sucking him hard just as he began to cum, brushing your teeth ever so lightly over the throbbing shaft. Daryl let out a deep moan, surprise and shock written all over his face as he found himself clearly unable to resist.

You sucked his cock hard, moving your tongue around the tip before taking him as deep as you could. His hands immediately found your hair, urging you on, and you responded by increasing the pressure of your lips. "Oh fuck, jus' like that," he groaned, losing himself in the feeling of your mouth.

"Jus' a lil' more," he urged, his voice trembling, but you wanted to draw it out. You picked up your pace, pulling back fast just to tease him before taking him deep into your mouth again. You could feel his cock throb and pulse against your tongue, and you knew he couldn't hold back any longer.

Finally, he lost it. "I can’t—oh fuck!" He tried to keep his groans quiet as he began to cum, his warm load filling your mouth as you swallowed down every drop, refusing to simply let him cum all over you like he'd wanted to.

Once he was finished, you pulled away, but not before licking his shaft from the base to the tip once more and looking up at him with a smirk.

"Shit, ya really are one hell of a distraction," he mumbled, catching his breath and slipping his cock back into his pants with trembling hands.

You stood up, pulling your clothes back on as you caught Daryl’s eye. He suddenly seemed different now—annoyed, maybe? But you couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of it all.

Daryl cleared his throat, straightening up and sitting down on the desk with a serious look on his slightly red face, while also trying to adjust his still half-hard cock in his pants. "This was a one-time thing. Got it?"

"Sure, just a one-time thing, Mr. Dixon," you replied innocently, but you couldn’t resist adding, "I mean, it’s not like I’ll ever forget a one-time lesson like this while having something as ridiculous as detention... but I bet reading Divided Loyalties won't be a one-time thing, isn't that right?"

He narrowed his eyes at you. "Yer such a damn troublemaker." Daryl shot back, crossing his arms over his chest as if he could shield himself.

You sat down on the edge of the front desk as well, pushing your luck further. "Maybe I really am. How else could I have gotten you to break the rules?" You bit your lip, watching the way his jaw tightened.

"Ain't 'bout that. Ya really need to get yer shit together, or I’ll have to start disciplinin' ya for real," he warned, but the look in his eyes betrayed him, showing you he was still fighting with the thoughts about what you both just did.

You couldn’t help but laugh all over again, rolling your eyes playfully. "You disciplining me? That’d just make me want to misbehave more. Besides, who would ever believe you? The hot substitute who gives other collegians detention and an extra special lesson? Sounds like something you only find in certain writings, if you ask me. So, don't shit your pants about it."

"This ain't a joke. I may not be a real teacher yet, but I have to follow the damn rules."

"Sure, but isn’t it fun to break the rules once in a while?" You asked to provoke him and leaned in. "Let’s be honest, Dixon. This was way more exciting than any discussion about Divided Loyalties."

His breath hitched, and for a short moment you could see the real man beneath again. But then he straightened up, shoving any emotions aside. "Get outta here. We’re done now."

"Sure… We’ll see about that." You grabbed your bag, trying to hold back a smile as you turned to leave. But just before closing the door, you glanced back over your shoulder at him. "Do not be fooled; I am but a mere troublemaker in thy class, yet my mischief will find thee again—so prepare thyself."

TAG-LIST: @itwasntaphasema

[1d1195]

Ding - Round 2

Read Ding here | ~6.2 k words

WARNING/spoiler there's a scummy guy in this part that tries to be forceful with our MC to go with him back to his place when she doesn't want to. Nothing will happen and nothing will be described in detail but be kind to your mind and heart ♥, trauma, anxiety, pining, and fluff.

From me: I actually know VERY little about boxing and even less about throwing a punch. I do however feel I'm well-versed in sprinkles so do with that what you will. Some parts of this got a little away from me again. I hope you like it 💕

Summary: Harry and Cupcake are both really busy and haven't seen each other in two months. But when Cupcake gets into trouble, she has no choice but to run into Harry.

Harry learned to fight when he was ten years old. He didn’t have his dad around much to teach him. Mum and Gemma may as well have been pacifists and as such, they weren’t much help when it came to defending himself. Harry watched his little girl friends get teased by boys. The same boys that told him he was weird for liking girls when they had cooties. Even if he didn’t (always) like them like that and was just merely defending them. Mum and Gemma may have been pacifists, but they taught Harry to be a respectful young boy. Especially toward girls.

One too many mouthfuls of sand at recess was enough to make him finally do something about it. He was angry. Angry because the girls didn’t like him because he was a boy (although they tolerated him since he was protecting them). Angry none of the boys in his class wanted to be friends with him because he was being nice to girls filled with cooties. Angry that he didn’t have a dad to teach him how to be a boy’s boy.

For a ten-year-old, he was really angry.

Mum took him to a gym—an introductory class to kickboxing. Just to get some of his anger out in an appropriate manner (and so he wouldn’t be sent to the principal’s office during recess again). Harry took a liking to the punching bag. He cried the first time he used it with the help of an older kid who was helping him learn to punch the right way. The poor teen watching him get so frustrated that his punches and kicks weren’t landing right—even though it was his very first time throwing a punch—saw something in him. Alerted his boss, encouraged Harry, worked with Harry every time he came in. He was a great mentor and even though he left only a couple years after meeting Harry to go to university and all that, Harry was forever grateful.

His first amateur match was at fifteen. Then there were only ten rounds at most, and he won by a landslide in five. By then he met Louis—someone who saw the same thing that teen kid saw in him and offered to be his manager. It wasn’t anything serious at the time. Harry was still in school and only using his time after school to get better at boxing. Louis was only a few years ahead but knew enough to help him be great.

By the time he turned eighteen, he had won three state-titles and people were watching him. At least in a way that those who cared about boxing did. Throughout university he trained and got better and won more and more.

Now Harry was twenty-five. He had to be nearing at least a hundred thousand punches since he was ten—eitherthrowing them at someone or at least in training against the punching bag he loved so much. Maybe more. He couldn’t even begin to think or count how he would figure out that number. Harry’s whole life was training, working, and fighting.

The only joys he had outside of boxing were his car and the sweet little niece that Gemma had kindly brought into his life—but that was only a recent change.

Only one other very recent change had left him a bit tongue-tied and flustered. Harry didn’t get flustered. Not since he was ten and knew he could beat the crap out of someone. There was no ringing bell to prepare him to make eye contact with a complete stranger and just feel like he had never ever felt before.

Was it love? Who could say, really. Harry had never loved anyone in his life that wasn’t his family or his friends. It made his stomach flutter like the first time he fought in a ring for something other than a trophy. A mere two hundred dollars on the line, all to get punched a whole bunch of times. Now he was still getting punched a few times over for a decent amount of money, but the thought of that pretty girl and her sprinkles made him unbelievably excited. Knowing she was there really made him feel different.

He knew next to nothing about her, but he was certain he was going to fall for her given half a chance. Even if she gave him a half a chance—a quarter!—he would do everything he could to have her in his life. If anyone else had damaged his car, he might have lost his shit, but there was something about her kind face, her doe-eyed expression in the rainy lamplight that made him rethink his entire life in the span of twenty seconds.

But whatever it was that he felt for her, he knew it started with her ringside. Beside his best friend waiting for the end of the fight that never seemed to end.

Normally, Harry’s matches finished in an average of nine rounds. But he was seated in the corner, sipping water like a hamster from the bottle, while Louis put Vaseline on his face where the cut on his eyebrow split between the tenth and the eleventh. “How you doing?”

“Is she impressed?” He asked.

“Who?”

“Cupcake. She’s sitting next t’Niall,” he was breathing heavy. Good as he was, it took a lot of energy to punch someone for a half hour as it was.

“Who?” Louis repeated, then thought better of it. He shook his head in frustration. “Can you focus on what you’re doing, Harold?!”

Louis didn’t get it. Harry rolled his eyes and sighed. To be fair, she was probably the reason it was taking longer than normal. Not that he minded. As long as she was impressed by the end, of course. Harry was on his feet, shadowboxing briefly with Louis, that boyish smile on his face. “What the fuck is your issue?” Louis hissed at him. “You’re acting like a lunatic!”

It seemed like a cliché to say he was in love, so he refrained from doing so. He felt it spared Louis further frustration as well. Cupcake, Cupcake, Cupcake. It was the only thing his brain could think. Fortunately, the bell rang, signaling the beginning of the next round and knocked a bit of the sense back in his head that had floated away from him on the thoughts of the pretty girl nearby.

His opponent was just as tired (although Harry believed his opponent was more so) as himself. He could see the exhaustion setting in as he held his gloves up near his face blocking a few jabs Harry threw to get the excitement of the new round going. He was waiting, searching, nearly taunting for a window of opportunity. Right as his opponent swung aiming for his face, Harry dodged his punch; smirking as he did. A blinding weak spot, his guard was down for only a fraction of a second but that was all Harry needed.

Poor guy didn’t stand a chance.

Ding.

*

Harry looked like he was going to fall asleep sitting there in the bakery kitchen. He was a bit cut up; his eyebrow, the corner of his mouth, and his cheekbone had little cuts. Soothed with Vaseline, but it didn’t seem to bother him. His eyes were droopy. “Is Niall still around to drive you home?” She asked.

He shook his head. “I can drive,” he murmured.

He wasn’t really looking at her, but her look and tone screamed skeptical. “You look too tired to drive.”

“Mm,” he hummed. She was busy bustling back and forth through the kitchen. Cupcakes were in the oven. She only made a dozen, but Harry didn’t seem to notice it was a small amount. He was sitting at the big table in the middle of the kitchen. A seat dragged in from the office. She had her laptop open in her office running the report she needed while Harry held his head propped in one hand. She busied herself with prepping dough for scones and pastries while Harry tried not to loll off to sleep. She smirked at him.

“I could call you an Uber if you wanted,” she offered. “You don’t need to stay with me.”

His eyes were hardly open. “I’ll get a second wind in a minute,” he yawned. “S’jus’ the adrenaline wearing off,” he explained.

“Does that hurt?” She asked gesturing to the cuts on his (otherwise really perfect) face.

He shook his head. “Stings a little.”

“Will you be sore tomorrow?”

“A little. Stiff really... Why y’want t’give me a massage, kitten?” He smiled flirtatiously. Maybe she should have felt uncomfortable, alone with a man she only just met. But honestly, she thought Niall might be her new best friend and if Niall could vouch for Harry, then she wasn’t all that worried about him. Regardless of him knocking out his opponent with one punch. Truthfully, it was nice of her to walk her to the bakery. It was later than she expected and while the town they lived in was pretty safe, the college safety tips of never walking alone flooded her mind each time she did walk alone. She blushed at his forward assumption, but fortunately she was prepping something and stuffing it in the fridge, so he didn’t get to see. Plus, his exhaustion probably made him even flirtier.

“Thanks for being m’good luck charm, Cupcake,” he murmured sleepily.

“I didn’t know you didn’t need one.”

“Can never have too much luck.”

She smiled, continuing her prepping quietly. Harry watched her for a while. Eventually, his arm dropped to the table, and he rested his head on it. After another moment, a soft snore escaped his lips, and she smiled a little brighter. Only for herself, really, since Harry was asleep. She continued working. She was used to late nights. Maybe he really was going to get a second wind—honestly, she couldn’t imagine boxing and punching someone for almost forty-five minutes with only one-minute breaks in between rounds. Sometimes while she was baking, she would try to do other tasks while the timer counted down to take the treats out of the oven. It always surprised her how long and how short a minute could feel in the same breath.

But while she worked, she was mindful to not make too many loud noises. Harry needed sleep it seemed. She prepped for nearly an hour while waiting for the cupcakes to cool long enough to scoop out the middle and fed the sugary raspberry filling into the empty space. Frosting a dozen cupcakes took all but ten minutes then she packaged them in two half-dozen plastic containers with A Pinch of Sprinkles label taping it shut. Gently, she put her hand on his upper arm, and she really shouldn’t have been so surprised by how taut his bicep was beneath her hand, but she was. He was unbelievably strong, and she was in slight awe and shock of touching him—and he wasn’t even flexing. But rather than be creepy, she gave him a gentle shake. “Hey, Harry... Uh...it’s late. I’m gonna get going,” her voice was soft.

Harry startled almost jumping out of his seat and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Sorry, sorry. Wow,” he turned his neck to the left and then right. “M’sorry I dozed off there.”

She shrugged. “Probably needed it,” she assured him with a gentle smile. She pushed the dozen cupcakes forward, across the table. “For you.”

He blinked then looked up at her. “Did you make these for—”

“Well, yes, I made them. You were unbelievably kind to me even though I dented Clay. Plus, you won so it’s like a job well done, you know?”

“You made me cupcakes,” he repeated, his gaze unmoving from her face.

“We really need to work out this whole repeating what the other one says thing,” she felt her cheeks warm as he stared at her, but she smiled, only feeling slightly awkward.

He turned his attention to the two plastic boxes and tilted his head at them. They were identical. His fascination with her precision was immense. “What kind are they?”

“The raspberry filled ones. You said you liked them.”

His gaze went right back to her, and he felt hungry, but not for cupcakes.

Well, at least not the baked good kind of cupcake.

“Thank you, Cupcake. That was sweet of you. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

Her smile seemed to transcend to a feeling of relief. “Not even a little...um... I just have to grab a couple things. Would you... mind walking me to my car? Unless you need to leave right now. I know it’s crazy late. I’ll be okay. I walk to my car on my own usually but it’s always a little creepy. But I feel bad I made you—”

“’Course m’gonna walk you t’your car,” he rolled his eyes. “Besides I don’t want you t’ding Clay again,” he winked to ensure she knew he was kidding. Because yes, he loved his car.

But rapidly, when it came to her, the car didn’t matter in the slightest.

*

She hadn’t seen Harry in two months.

It wasn’t like she was avoiding him. Part of her knew he was a mere social media friend request away. In fact, she was trying her hardest to not stare at the pictures of him on social media, the PR plug for his matches, and all the things that she saw Niall, Louis, and all his other friends shared. But she didn’t want to come off too forward. It seemed weird to be so into a man she only talked to for no longer than ten minutes total.

Besides...she had her routines. Work, family, and more work.

Also, if Harry was really infatuated with her the way Niall alluded to, he knew where her bakery was—he easily could come and find her here. But she did notice there was a tag to her shop on Instagram with raspberry filled cupcakes in the picture. (All it would take is for her to press the Follow button and wait.) While she didn’t know Harry all that well, she assumed he was probably just as busy. Her brief cyber-stalking showed that Harry was often at the gym—although she wasn’t sure which one. He was also an amazing uncle. That much was clear. It warmed her heart, and she would never want to tear Harry away from that kind of time. Family was extremely important to her. She wholeheartedly understood how much his free time was probably monopolized by the little baby.

But it was so strange that she didn’t know him yet there was some part of her that wanted to see him. It was bizarre. She never got all up and arms about a guy. There was work and there was her family. That was it. That was all she could afford to balance. She didn’t need a guy to mess with her routines or upset the balance of her life.

However, every time she walked alone to her car at night now, she wished that Harry was with her to assure her safety—even though she had done it hundreds of times before. The night they met, he walked her in silence, opened her door and made sure she was safely tucked inside. “Good night, Cupcake,” he smiled almost dreamily.

“Good night, Harry. Congratulations,” she responded with a smile too.

Harry’s smile grew and he looked away briefly before patted the top of her car and turned to Clay, put his cupcakes on the passenger seat and moved to the driver’s side. He gave her a wave and pulled out of his parking spot.

It was two months ago.

But after just one month, it was hard to deny she didn’t miss him.

That had to mean something. Just one brief night—not even a date. Most of that night was spent with Harry in the ring or asleep at her kitchen table. Hell, she got to know Niall more that night. But it was Harry’s smile that plagued her thought—crooked and perfect. The way his eyes glittered as he convinced her to follow him with a picture of his niece.

“Are you baking something in here or burning in here?” Maeve asked.

Maeve was her best employee—her right hand nearly every day. More importantly, her best friend. Shaking her head of the thoughts surrounding Harry, she sighed and turned to the oven where her fudge brownies were surely overdone. “Shit,” she whispered.

“I don’t think you’ve ever burned anything. Are you okay?” Maeve asked gently. It was a loaded question. It took a lot of time to dig the answer out of her friend, but Maeve did. She knew asking if she was okay was probably the wrong thing to say.

But if it was, she didn’t mind. Of course she didn’t. Her very best friend was sweeter than all the treats in the display case. “Just a little distracted,” she mumbled grabbing the tray and setting it in the sink to cool off (and hopefully so she didn’t have to scrape the bottom of the tray later).

“Harry on your brain?” Maeve giggled.

She rolled her eyes but felt the way her cheeks warmed at Maeve’s (correct) assumption. Maeve was shocked to learn that her strong-willed friend was convinced by a stranger to go see a boxing match. She couldn’t believe it. Granted, once she saw the picture of Harry, she couldn’t disagree. I think I would let him punch me in the face if he wanted to.

She decided keeping Maeve as far away from Harry as possible was probably necessary.

Rarely did she and Maeve work together. As her best employee and best friend, it was like asking her to hold her child when Maeve was on shift. There was no one she trusted more. So, when Maeve wasn’t there, she often was and vice versa. But every so often, usually at the shift change, Maeve got to see her best friend in her element. “Well, the good news is, you can go think of him at home,” she winked at her.

She didn’t even look at her. “You’re disgusting,” she deadpanned.

Maeve snorted. “That’s not even what I was insinuating. Your mind went directly to the gutter. Good for you. I bet he thinks about you while he’s doing it too.”

“Jesus Christ,” she was blushing brightly now. “I just want to fix the display case and then I’ll go.”

“Any fun plans for tonight?”

She hesitated briefly. “Uh yeah...actually. I have a date,” she mumbled.

“Oh!” It was silent for a long beat. Rarely did she go on dates. There were only a few since she moved into town three years ago. Mostly because the bakery took up so much of her free time. The remaining bit of time she had and didn’t go on dates was because of the guilt she felt. Maeve’s surprise was palpable. It made her cheeks turn pink and she bit the inside of her cheek. “Good,” Maeve smiled encouragingly. “Online?” She asked.

She nodded. “We’ve been messaging back and forth for like...” she shrugged. “Two weeks.”

“Are you excited?”

No. “Yes,” she sighed softly. “Been a while,” she smirked. There was a huge part of her brain that told her she didn’t want to go because it wasn’t Harry. It was like a neon sign had been posted in her frontal lobe reminding her that it was pointless to even consider this date. She should have just requested to follow Harry and be done with it—he would probably drop everything if she asked him on a date. “Just...nervous.”

“It’ll be good!” Maeve said reassuringly. “Share your location with me and text me when you get to where you’re sleeping,” she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“I will be sleeping at home,” she promised snorting through her laugh at her best friend.

Maeve smiled heading to the front and leaving her to finish with her burned brownies.

*

The front of the bakery was dark in color; she was aiming for warmth. The floors and baseboards were dark walnut brown. It contrasted sharply with the wall she wall-papered by hand with a white and brown marble pattern behind the display cases. It made the black chalkboard menus with the same walnut brown frames stand out. The lights were always set to dim when they were on. Her goal was to recreate the feeling of her childhood home—particularly the den where her father set up the most beautiful Christmases. The bakery lacked a fireplace (she joked with Maeve that it was an oven or a fireplace, and the oven did a better job at cooking croissants evenly).

The front of the bakery wasn’t massive. There were five little tables to sit and enjoy their treats if people wanted but it was really a grab and go kind of place. The back had more treats stored so the main room didn’t look overwhelming. The front display cases still contained more treats than anyone could think of eating. I wish I could buy one of everything was heard frequently from the line. Eventually she wanted to invest in coffee but for the time being she liked just her treats and was happy to recommend the coffee place down the road. If she ever got a hold of more space, then she would consider buying all the machines for coffee.

The bakery was honestly warmest when it was rainy. Which was frequent. She was reorganizing the main cupcake display, a tower of three tiers with one of each type of cupcake she made. The raspberry filled cupcake was the one that had been on top for the last two months. Each time it was bought, she replaced it with another. While people raved about her brownies, cakes, and even the croissants, it was the cupcakes that people came for; and so, she took care of the display as much as possible.

“Which one do you recommend?” She turned to the voice and saw a mom and little girl waiting patiently. She smiled fondly.

“Raspberry filled,” she pulled it from the top tier and handed it over. “Try it,” she offered.

“Oh, we don’t want to get you in trouble,” the mom said quickly while her daughter grabbed for it almost immediately.

She laughed. “Don’t worry, I know the owner,” she promised. “Maeve! I’m leaving!” She called but was delighted by the little girl’s approval. Silence, cake and filling on her cheeks immediately, and a delightful look in her eye.

“Have fun!” She called back.

“Enjoy the cupcakes. I also like the lemon vanilla ones.”

“I think raspberry filled is the winner,” the mom smiled.

She nodded, unable to keep herself from grinning back. “A fan favorite.”

*

She should have stayed home. The bad weather should have been an omen. But maybe it wouldn’t have been because she met Harry in bad weather, and everything was fine that night. It soured her mood and made her feel infinitely worse to think about the comparison.

I’m home. Not a great date. I’ll tell you later. She wished she had gone to Maeve’s. Maybe she would have doted on her. But she didn’t want to fall apart the way she planned on in front of her.

:( sorry babe. Sleep tight. Talk to you tomorrow :(

She locked her apartment door and checked at least fifty times that it was truly locked before she moved to her bathroom. Her heart was still in her throat and her eyes felt raw with tears. Maybe she was overreacting.

No.

The rational part of her brain reasoned against her handwaving casualness. She had good instincts. Obviously. If this same situation happened with Harry, then maybe she would have considered it her own poor judgment. It was more reason that someone as terrifying as Harry could have be sweet as her cupcakes that it was her good judgment that helped her get out of there tonight.

She hurried to get out of her clothes. Part of her considered throwing them away. She didn’t want them any longer. She wasn’t sure she would ever wear them again. She turned the shower on as hot as she could stand it and pushed it a little further.

He didn’t hurt her physically. He tried. It was obvious his intent was to force her into the car... or worse. Which was disgusting in its own right. Until that moment in the dark, rainy parking lot, it was almost identical to her moment with Harry. But it wasn’t. Harry didn’t make her feel unsafe. Harry didn’t make her feel threatened. Harry gave her an out even though he wanted to hang out with her. She knew she could leave at any moment and Harry wouldn’t have blamed her.

She rubbed her arm so hard with her loofa in the shower stream it burned for a new reason. Tears blurred her vision and she felt so stupid. So completely idiotic. How could she let it get that far? That was so dangerous. So close she could have been hurt in so many ways that she didn’t want to think about, ever again. She closed her eyes and let the water wash the night away, feeling completely alone and dreadful.

She never wanted to date again.

*

She finished her shower, sniffles plaguing her, and she got into her comfiest pajamas. Her heart was still beating too fast as she crawled under the covers. She felt so ashamed. It felt like her fault. All of it.

There was a tiny rattling in her brain that Harry could have prevented it all. She should have just requested Harry on social media when she met him. If she had, she would have had his number by then. He would have helped her for sure.

Without thinking, she scrolled on her apps, and clicked on the various follow buttons. Every platform she could think of to request his social media friendship—looking like a lunatic be damned. Almost everything had a phone call button now, she could use it as backup if she needed. For good measure she requested Niall too. It was nearing midnight, and she couldn’t bring herself to care. She was scared. Nervous. Heartbroken.

Yet, within moments, Harry returned the request along with a direct message in her inbox.

Thinking of me at midnight, hmm?  😉

She snorted despite her uneasiness. One sentence and she melted. But she couldn’t let him know that. 🙄 it was nice while it lasted. Just going to unfollow you...

Aw, c’mon Cupcake 🙁

Oh alright... No, not really... just can’t sleep. Popped up on my people you may know while scrolling. It wasn’t a complete lie, and she was glad she wasn’t having a phone call. He would have heard her sniffles and then she wasn’t sure she would have been able to stop herself from inviting a total stranger over. Right now, she didn’t trust her judgment fully.

Been dying to press that Follow button, Cupcake. Didn’t want to come on too strong after that first night.

She couldn’t help but smile. The contrast between the night she met Harry, and her present night made her sad but relieved at the same time. I see you enjoyed the cupcakes.

Louis made me run laps for two hours because of you. I ate all twelve in less than 72 hours. Do you put drugs in those? They’re addicting.

Lol, no drugs. Well... sugar. So, pick your poison I guess, right? 😇

Well, thank you, Cupcake. That was delicious. I hope you liked the match too. We didn’t get to talk much. I know I fell asleep 🤦‍♂️ I was really happy you were there.

Her heart felt so warm already. Despite how much she didn’t want it to. Thank you for inviting me. Because she was nothing if not polite. It was really exciting! I don’t know much about boxing. But it’s obvious you’re very good—not that you need me to tell you that. Were you really going to make me look like an idiot and not tell me you were undefeated?

You’ll make me blush, Cupcake. Didn’t think you’d come with me if you knew.

Sneaky... 👀

Just... wanted you there, kitten. I promise. Nothing more... I know I came off a little too strong and I know I was a little...pushy. I would have let you go to your store if you really wanted to... But...

The three dots on his message disappeared and reappeared a few times over.It was cute to imagine him holding his phone thinking about what to type, erasing it, typing it again.

I can’t explain it, Cupcake. I’ve been going CRAZY these last two months. Niall’s calling me a stalker and I haven’t even SEEN you. The sentiment doesn’t give her any bad feelings. Because despite how much she wanted to be guarded, especially after her evening, she couldn’t help but believe him. Trust him, implicitly.

I swear something in the universe pulled me to you... I woke up just in time to see you blowing up my phone tonight 😍😍

She snorted and felt her body warm with his kindness, his gentle adoration through her phone no less. You’re insane, Harry Styles.

About you 😍

Oh my God... Now she really was blushing, but she couldn’t help but notice she felt so much better chatting with him. Well... we can talk tomorrow if you want.

Oh?

I’m assuming you’re tired and I’ve already hogged more than enough of your time at midnight, as you pointed out.

Oh, no.

No way, Cupcake. I’ll stay up all night to talk with you ❤

Her heart felt so heavy. It was unfair. How could she be so stupid? Her dad would have killed her for being so naïve. It was his worst fear while she was growing up. It was everything he always talked her through when she was going through puberty and telling her about boys teasing her. Her dad reminded her constantly that a man has no right to make her feel scared or fragile.

But she could feel his grip on her arm trying to coerce her back into his car. She shook her head of the thoughts, refusing to let him poison any more of her time than he had. She was talking to Harry. She was okay. It was alright. It didn’t happen. She got in an Uber, and she’ll never see him again.

Harry was talking to her. Harry made her feel safe. Harry didn’t make her stomach unsettled with a bad gut feeling. Here’s my phone number if you want it.

Within moments, she had a new text message alert. This is better than an undefeated record 😍

*

The following morning, she felt less terrible about herself and her stupidity, but she never wanted to feel that way again. She was also so tired from texting with Harry for hours. It was nearly three in the morning catching up on all the things he did in the past two months before she wished him a good night. There wasn’t much to report about their lives. They both seemed to be workaholics, but he did offer her some really cute baby pictures of his niece (and a pretty cute picture of Niall falling asleep on Harry’s couch after an intense workout).

While she sipped her coffee—staving off the sleepiness, she Googled self-defense classes. Her dad would have approved. He wanted her to do it back when she was in college, but she refused for whatever reason. She regretted that too.

It was telling that she debated whether she was overreacting for several minutes. If she was overreacting, she would have brushed off the idea of self-defense classes like she did in college. But this wasn’t something to overreact about, right? Before she could overthink it any longer, she paid for the class. Honestly, in that parking lot she was smart to do this. Worst case scenario, for one reason or another, it was the smart decision.

She cycled through the next stage of grief feeling angry and bitter that he made her feel this way. She was incredibly lucky it was raining and slippery and she managed to get away from him in the chilly spring air. He left her so rattled. She was defenseless, so a class was needed.

God, she missed her dad.

Fuck, she missed Harry.

She never wanted to feel that helpless again.

With the class paid for, she put an apron around her waist and headed to the front of A Pinch of Sprinkles and turned the closed sign to open.

*

The following Monday, after a full day of flour, sugar, and plenty of customers, she headed to the gym.

It felt awkward. She hadn’t been to a gym since her college days, and she was already frustrated from her horrific night out. She and Maeve told each other they would go together but they were terrible influences on one another and opted for shopping trips with the promise they would pretend their shopping bags were dumbbells.

When she arrived, she headed to the front desk and introduced herself. She even admitted she felt awkward and the woman behind the desk smiled encouragingly. “I’m Sarah. Let me show you around,” she came from behind the desk and headed toward the side room. “It’s safe here,” she assured her, like she knew. The assurance made her throat tight with emotion and she nodded stoically. “This is the locker room; you can change in here and you can leave your stuff locked up or in the front cubbies and I can watch it. Whatever makes you more comfortable,” she smiled kindly and glanced her up and down briefly. “Do you own that bakery downtown?”

She smiled and nodded, looking at the flour handprint on the thigh of her pants. “Thought I got all the flour off,” she brushed at it with a chuckle. “Yes, I do.”

“My husband is going to think I met a celebrity today,” she laughed. “We love your blueberry scones. They taste like heaven.”

“Aw, thank you so much, that’s so kind. I’ll bring some next time,” she promised.

“Oh stop, I’ll divorce him,” she laughed and headed back for the front desk.

She quickly changed, feeling safe and relieved once more. She brought her belongings to the front and sat in one of the seats across from Sarah’s desk. “Kickboxing is just wrapping up and your instructors will be right over,” there was a group of several other women milling about. Obviously, they at least knew how to be in a gym by themselves. A few came as a small group. Maybe she should have brought Maeve.

While waiting, she scrolled through emails from her landlord, her college alma mater group, and all the coupons she had ever subscribed to. “I have got to unsubscribe,” she murmured to herself. She scrolled through photos of the beautiful little area she lived in now, and as sad as it was to get here, it was nice. Her shop was nice. Despite how scared she was over the weekend, things were good.

The only thing that wasn’t nice was that stupid, awful man.

“Holy shit, he’s hot,” she heard someone whisper. It was peripheral. She didn’t even register it really because she was sending Maeve a picture of the sale that was happening at their favorite clothing store on Thursday. If she paid attention, she might have noticed sooner.

“Ladies, self-defense class, this way please!” The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Maeve sent about ten heart eyes to her, and she smiled, stuffed her phone in her bag, and waved to Sarah.

“Blueberry scones,” she repeated with a firm nod and followed the line of women. She sipped from her water taking in the banners around the gym and realized too late why Louis’ voice sounded so familiar.

He stood at the front of the room, along with another familiar face.

“Oh shit,” she whispered to herself and turned immediately back toward the desk.

She bumped into another woman who steadied her and kindly looked her over. “Sorry—are you alright?” she was nearly motherly in her demeanor and her head felt woozy. She couldn’t do this. Harry would know.

Why was Harry attending her self-defense class?

“Yes, yes, sorry,” she shook her head. “Wrong—”

“Hey,” Harry’s voice was right there. She stepped out of the room trying to get more air to her lungs and head.He wasn’t attending. He was teaching. This was his gym. The boxing rings in the main room should have been a clue. The sound of Louis’ voice. Oh, you stupid idiot, her brain scolded.

“Cupcake?” Her head responded to the nickname instinctively. Harry’s suspicious green eyes gazed back at her. “What are you doing here?”

--

general taglist: @justlemmeadoreyou @daydreamingofmatilda @sunshinemoonsposts @tiredinwinter @loving-hazz @likeapplejuicenpeach @straightontilmornin @freedomfireflies @littlenatilda @kathb59 @babegoals @angel-upon @lilfreakjez @mleestiles @ameliaalvarez06 @canyonmoondreams @summertime-pills @daphnesutton @l4rrysh0use @perfectywrong @foreverxholland @lovrave @st-ev-ie @pandeebearstyles @toosarcastic03 @luvonstyles @tenaciousperfectionunknown @classychalamet @love-letters-to-uranus @emmaawbr @crossyourpeter @kissitnhekitchen @kittenhere @stylesfever @harryscherri @indierockgirrl @michellekstyles

I'm sorry if I missed anyone in the taglist. Please let me know if you'd like to join, if it didn't work, if you no longer want to be included, etc. :)

If you like this, check out my masterlist here

[thegnomelord]

you have me thinking about pregnant sex with gaz 🥵🫶🏼

Fuuuck dude your Kirby looking ass is unlocking kinks I didn't even know I had

CW:NSFW, MDNI FTM Gaz/domtop Mreader, pregnant sex, quick and rough.

Gaz loves you with all his heart. You're the love of his life, his lighthouse and his anchor, the father of the children growing inside him (yes, children, a healthy pair of twins Gaz feels is the universe's apology for him not getting pregnant the first time)

But by god he's ready to kill you in a hundred different ways.

Ever since his bump started to show you've been treating him like he's made of glass. Which, in of itself, isn't a bad thing — he loves it when you spoil him like he's your king, preening under every praise and leaning into your soft touches, the soft and loving kisses he rewards you with enough for you to continue to feed his gluttonous need for you as you roll your hips to push your cock into him in long even strokes, spooning him from behind so your hands can rub and caress his growing stomach, making love to him like you have all the time in the world.

But he's so god damn horny! There's always a lick of heat burning under his skin and the slow and careful way you fuck him just doesn't scratch his itch. He talks to you about it, but you're still hesitant to be rough with him, especially as he enters his second trimester and his stomach continues to grow to the point he doesn't fit into his pants anymore and Price forces him to desk duty.

It's the lack of action that wears down his quickly dwindling patience. He tries to distract himself with exercise but that's hard to do when there's two tiny humans using his organs as punching bags and making him go to the bathroom every 5 minutes.

So he nearly pounces on you when you return to your shared room in the evening, but you're faster than him, unknowingly calming his nerves with your warm embrace and kisses. "Hello papa." You hum into his neck, your hands naturally falling to massage his bump. "Did you lot miss me?" And that loving look you give him reignites his need.

"Do you even have to ask?" Gaz growls and pulls you down by the collar into a demanding kiss. Using your distraction he pushes you until you tumble down onto the bed, quickly taking his position in your lap. "You-" Kyle grins down at you wolfishly, his hands on your shoulders keeping you laying down, "- are going to let me do this an' anything you say will be used against you."

"Sir," You say, breathless, your eyes just as dark and dilated as his, "I just got really hard."

"Good man." Gaz purrs and kisses you. It doesn't take much to get you two out of your clothes, your sweat slick skins rubbing together as he rides you. The position is a little awkward as he uses your bent knees to balance himself, his stomach pressing against your abdomen as he rides you. He's huffing and puffing like a racehorse, already losing steam even as his cunt flutters around your cock.

"Come on daddy," He moans and rocks his hips, "Put another one in me," He urges you on, and you don't know what comes over you but you grip his hips firmly and thrust up the next time he lowers himself onto your cock, forcing the most beautiful sounds out of his throat.

"Oh- fuck, yes, yes, yes!" He groans, gripping your knees in a white knuckled grip as he bounces on your cock. He looks so handsome like this, eyes closed and mouth open to moan freely as his belly gently bounces with your thrusts. You can't keep your hands off it, something about seeing him heavy with your young has you harder than you've ever been.

Your kiss is just as desperate as his had been when you finally push him into an orgasm, the clenching of his hole pulling you down into your own orgasm. "God, that was so good lovie." He whispers against your lips, his eyes going wide when you don't stop and buck your hips into him again.

"Said you wanted me to put another one in you." Is all you say as you roll your hips, your cock somehow still hard. His cunt flutters around you, wet and sloppy with his slick and your cum mixing between you two.

You really are the love of his life.

Taglist: @dead-end-stuff

[cherry-leclerc]

red diamond ☆ cs55

genre: humor, fluff, arthistory!reader

word count: 2.8k

The story of when you and Carlos met and how the mutual connection of art takes you two on a pleasing journey that will leave you realizing a thing or two.

req!... i did a bit of touch ups from the request i got but i hope that anon doesn't mind AHH. hope you guys like it :)

“No, no, no! Ritorno! Per favore!” 

Gasping for air, you curl over as you groan in frustration. Punching your bag, you watch lamely as the cab drives away. It was your own fault - you had overslept - but you seriously thought you would make it on time. You moved to Italy a few months ago to study Art History in one of the most prestigious universities. But along with that, there were lots of things being asked from you; volunteering in museums, endless essays, and ridiculous research that even had you second guessing your choices. 

“Stai bene?” 

Spinning around, you make eye contact with a tall man who secretly made your blood run cold. You shiver as you nod, hoping it would be enough and that he would just leave you alone. But he doesn’t budge, he only digs a single hand into his pocket. Your stomach drops.

“Am I about to get mugged?”

“What?” 

Chewing on your bottom lip, you point out his all black outfit and how creepily he kept his hand hidden from plain sight. Bright pink colors his cheeks as he instantly raises his arms up in defense. God no! Oh sh- I’m sorry, he squeaks as he winces. You let out a breath of relief as you rub your arms to help keep warm. 

“Do I look like a thief or something?”

Scanning the empty road, you squint as you try your best to find another ride. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea you’ve had to go to the Sistine Chapel at night. “Or something.” He softly laughs. Shimming out of his sweater, he shyly hands it over. “That’s very nice of you, but it’s okay. You’ll get cold.”

“I won’t. Plus, you’re shivering so much that I can hear your teeth chattering. Seriously, take it.” Instead of telling him no, you decide against it since you were two seconds away from getting frostbite. Grazie, you whisper as you tug the sweater over your head. He looks away as soon as your arms swing up and allows him to get a good glimpse of your white lingerie. “What are you doing out alone so late at night?”

Warming your hands deep inside the hoodies pockets, you respond, “I was trying to get a lift to the museum. I have to take some notes for a lecture I have tomorrow morning. I was supposed to go a whole lot earlier, but my nap was longer than I had intended.” He glances at you for a moment before jingling his keys up. You raise a brow.

“Can’t reassure you that the museum will still be open at a time like this, but I could offer you a ride back home.”

Agreeing turned out to be the best thing you could have ever done. Turns out Carlos drove for a living - whatever that means; he had been suspiciously blunt with it - but long before, he had actually studied Art History himself back in Spain. Ever so kindly, he had helped you research about The Creation of Adam. You were extremely impressed when he kept naming facts from the top of his head.

Shutting your notebook, you sheepishly shake your head. “You just saved me from embarrassment in front of my professor. She could be a bit mean when we don’t get our stuff done. Typical Italians.”

“Not all Italians are like that.”

“Sure.” Pause. “But she is.” He nods as he points towards your main entrance. Clapping your hands, you leap up from your couch. “Thanks again for all the help. I really appreciate it. I also appreciate that you didn’t turn out to be some murderer.” He squints his eyes teasingly.

“Thief or murderer, which one is it?” 

“Preferably neither.” You open the door slowly as he steps out. “See you around, Carlos.”

“Of course.”

-

A few weeks later, you’re in a complete hurry. You had overslept, again, and it was looking as if you weren’t going to make it to class on time. You mumble a line of curses at the clear image of Professor Clara lecturing you for the thousandth time. It didn’t help either the way your key got jammed at your quick attempt to lock the door. 

“For fucks sake-”

“Need help?”

“Merda!” You drop your coffee as you spin around with a hand over your stomach from the sudden shock. The familiar brunette cringes as he bends down to pick up your thermo. 

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” He carefully takes your bag from your arm. “I just thought-”

“It’s okay,” you cut him off as you share a tight lipped smile. “It’s nice to see you, but I don’t have time for this. I’m late as it is.”

“Typical Italians.”

Your mouth drops open as you snatch your things back from him. “For your information, I am not Italian. Also, what are you doing here?” He beams.

“I have a favor to ask.”

Straightening your posture, you chirp as you take him by the hand towards his car. “Me too. Can I have a ride?”

You knew he’d agree. What you didn’t know was how excited he was to be near your presence. From the moment he first saw you he felt a sort of attraction that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Yes, you were breathtakingly beautiful but there was something about your aura. Everything about you made him crave more. He felt so stupid that it took him this long to see you again.

“Sooo. What do you need?”

“Right.” Turning on his blinker, he quickly glances at the GPS. “Are you free later?”

“Way to make a girl feel special.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “It’s just that there’s this painting…” When he notices your lost expression, he taps his finger desperately against the wheel. “Doni Tondo. Ever heard of it?” The mention has you buzzing as you nod excitedly. “Of course you do. Anyways, they’re holding an auction up for it. I need you.” 

“You do know I’m a broke college student who lives off of pizza and pasta, right? If you’re looking for money then I’m just going to let you down-”

“Money’s not the issue.” Flashy, you hiss as he smiles. “I have the money, but I need you. I need a date.” Why? He makes a left turn. “Do you know the meaning behind the painting?” You shake your head. “It depicts the importance of family. A healthy marriage.”

“I’m not following…”

The Spaniard becomes distressed as he sees you’re getting closer to your destination. He presses down on the brake a bit. “They want couples. Wealthy couples. Someone who they know that if they buy this piece of art then it’s going to be in good hands. That it’s going to continue serving its purpose.” He turns to you as he cocks his head a bit. “I need it as a birthday present for my mother. She’s been wanting it for ages and…Please.”

Putting the car in park right in front of the university entrance, he hopes to find an answer in your face as you keep it blank. Instead, you gather your things as you step out of his car. A delicate hand waves for him to roll the shiny window down.

“Pick me up at 8.”

-

“This is coconuts! I’ve never been inside of the Uffizi Gallery,” you whisper-shout as you cling onto his arm. He smiles down at you as he leads you to the small group of potential buyers. There were six in total - making it more intimate and scary. You were scared. His warm hand makes its way to cradle your face as he leans down to kiss your temple. You physically melt.

“It only costs a couple of euros.”

“You’re killing the vibe,” you groan as you pinch his cheek. He shrugs as he hushes you. Enzo, the coordinator, does a quick introduction with a cheerful voice. Everyone else seems to be listening just to listen, but you and Carlos were picking up on all of it like a sponge. “He’s a genius.” You stare in awe. The brunette stifles a laugh. He’s not the one who created these paintings, you know that, right? You throw a deadpanned glare. “You’re killing it,” you remind him. He pokes his tongue out.

“Why don’t we get started, shall we?” 

The rich are animals - you come up with that conclusion quick enough. The sum that flies past their lips has you gawking as you hide behind the Spaniards tall figure. €50,000, a man yells with a blonde clinging onto his arm with a wide grin. You choke. 

“Anyone willing to go for more than €50,000?”

“€100,000.”

Spinning your head to face Carlos, you have to stop yourself from calling it off. It wasn’t like it was your money anyways. Mrs. BotchedUpBoobsButThinksItsNormal grows red as she whispers to the bald man. He nods. €150,000! 

“€240,000.”

“What?” Distangling your arm from his, you freeze as you feel your fake ring fly off your ring finger. Carlos had slipped in on you - he wore a matching one - as a way to make you both look more of a real couple. A nervous laugh bubbles out of you as you clumsily run over to where it lies. “My apologies!” Enzo bends down before handing it to you. Mio Dio! What a diamond! Red and rare!

Walking over to you both, Carlos takes it from him as he slips it back onto your hand. “Good eye.” But Enzo is basically drooling as he takes your hand to analyze it. 

“I’ve never seen one so up close and personal! Very exquisite! You must feel extremely lucky, tesoro!” 

“Very,” you cheer as you pull your hand away. “How about we get back to it? Excuse my interruption-”

“So, where did he propose?”

“Sistine Chapel.”

Your cheeks burn up from his words. That was where you were trying to get to the first night you two met. To take notes of Michelangelo’s, The Creation of Adam. Much like now, you two were on a mission to retreat Michelangelo's, Doni Tondo. Enzo swoons as he shakes the Spaniards hand.

“Stravagante! What a love story! I could tell - feel - the chemistry between you two. It’s real.”

“Oh, we’re not-”

“Not used to getting such high compliments from someone like you!” Carlos cuts you off as he tugs you closer, large hand laying over your hip. You shiver. He points to the painting. “What do you say?”

“Sold to Mr. and Mrs. Sainz!”

-

A whole crew follows in black SUV’s as they carry the painting to Carlos’s home, after Enzo had insisted it should be done that same day. Extending your hand out, you admire the ring. “You said it was fake.”

“Did I? I must have forgotten.”

Turning your body to face him, you place a hand on his upper thigh. His body stiffens as he clenches his jaw and squeezes his hands tight against the steering wheel. You let out a cough as you shyly pull away. 

“You should have told me. I would have been more careful. Especially since it belongs to your mother.”

“Except it doesn’t anymore.”

Your brows pull in together as your bottom lip starts to wobble. “Did she die?” Taking in your glossy eyes, he shakes his head as he laughs. 

“She’s fine.” He doesn’t say much after that as he pulls into a fancy driveway. Jesus, you squeal. He unclicks your seat belt. “My parents are over for the holidays. They’re taking the painting with them when they leave back to Spain. Come meet them.”

You must be in some sort of trance because you let him take you by your hand as he leads you towards the mansion. You wonder why, but when you remember there’s people still around with the painting, you wrap your fingers tighter against his.

“Perfect. Grazie.” The 29 year old admires as he takes a step back to take in the painting. It was gorgeous. You were starting to get jealous that it belonged to someone else. The group of men share a quick exchange of goodbyes before scurrying out the door. Walking back to you, he taps his shoe against your heel. “What do you think?” You scrunch your nose.

“Meh.”

He spins to face you. “You’re crazy. It’s beautiful.” He looks at you as you stare up at the wall where Doni Tondo hangs. He shudders. Tickling your waist he says, “Admit it. Say you love it.” You shake your head as you giggle. I’ve seen better. He gapes. “Liar!”

“I’m not lying.”

He books it to you as you squeal and try to not trip over your dress as you run away. Grabbing you by the waist, he spins you. Admit it! “No,” you wheeze as you grow dizzy and yet don’t want the moment to end. You pull on his bow that matches with the rest of his expensive tux. “I’m going to throw up if you don’t let go!”

“¿Estamos interrumpiendo?” 

Pushing Carlos off harshly, the ring flies off your finger for the second time that night. You swallow a curse as you look up to an older couple. They smile fondly. Though you haven't met them before, you are able to quickly identify them as the Spaniards parents. Blood rushes to your face. 

“It’s so nice to meet you.” You take a step towards them as you extend your hand. They both shake it as they bring you in for a hug. You let out a small umph. Once they pull away, you pick up the ring from the floor. “I am so sorry about dropping your ring! I know it belongs to you. Carlos told me it was fake and if I had known, then I wouldn’t have flung my hand-”

“Don’t you worry, cariño - it doesn’t belong to me anymore.” Told you, Carlos interrupts. You scowl at him before handing it back to Reyes. She shakes her head as she covers your hands with hers. “Keep it.”

“But that wouldn’t be the right thing to do.” You twirl around as you hand it to Carlos. “Somebody take it, please.” He stares back blankly and you could tell he’s about to say the same thing, but his mother’s words make him take it from you. It’s okay, Carlos. Hesitantly, he obeys. You let out a breath of relief. 

Forcing himself to shake off the bitter feeling, he points up at the painting. “Lo hice. ¿Les gusta?” Reyes and Carlos Sr. nod as they hug each other. Nos encanta. She directs her attention back to you.

“What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful.” 

And it was. It was the true depiction of a family. Carlos frowns. “You said it was okay.” Discreetly, you pinch his hip. He yelps. 

“I was only joking, you should know that.” A beat. “I think it's one of the prettiest paintings I’ve ever laid my eyes on. I’m so jealous that you two get to keep it,” you joke as they laugh. Carlos Sr. wags his finger.

“It’s not ours.” What? You and Carlos slump as you look at each other with as much confusion as shock. The older couple laughs. “It was never going to be ours, but we needed a good enough reason for Carlos to pull the trigger. He’s been talking about this painting for as long as we can remember. Isn’t that right?” Reyes nods.

“I knew that if I said I wanted it then he would get it. Either way, if he didn’t buy it then we would have bought it for him.” She walks up closer to you both. “This painting is not just a pretty sight - it’s also the raw interpretation of love. When two people fall in love, things become so crystal clear that it almost has you wondering if you’ve lost your mind. You start to learn that a family is one of the most important things and what better way than to form that with your other half. Marriage is a sacred thing - and sure, it's scary - but it’s very well worth it. You’ll see.”

Her words make your stomach twist as you catch Carlos’ reaction through your peripheral vision. It sort of looked as if he was having some sort of epiphany as he nodded attentively at his parents. For some odd reason, the image of him starting a family of his own with some random woman makes your head hurt. 

“ A few adjustments may be needed, but I have a feeling this ring will find its way to the right girl. Don’t you think, Carlitos?”

Carlos’ eyes flicker to yours as you look back at him. The connection had always been there, but something felt different. Scarily secure. Neither of you were brave enough to ask if this was something you were both feeling. Not yet, at least.

“I think it will.”

[finniestoncrane]

Gotta be honest with you, I need to hear every single Digger headcanon you have because they 2 you've shared are just so good.

General Headcanons

KTJL!Boomer Headcanons yippee!!! woohoo!!! someone wants to listen to my bullshit!! i am so happy to write down more of my headcanons by the way, but for anyone wanting any make sure to let me know what you want the 💙 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: mentions of nsfw things, it's fuckin boomer so of course, there's a whole load of nsfw headcanons and i mention piss because duh

General Headcanons

this is a sort of universal belief i suppose but i do think he lives in his van and i will live and die by my faith. he likes having everything he needs with him at all times. he will spout some bullshit rhetoric about living a "buddhist" existence with few material goods. and he's half right in that he has two pairs of underwear, and a collection of empty (or maybe not completely empty) beer cans rattling around back there

he's passed out twice while getting tattoos and he will yell and scream and argue that it was because his blood sugar was super low and not because he's a total wuss

he smells amazing. not like... good, don't get me wrong i don't think he smells nice. BUT he smells fuckin great. he has a natural deep musk that just hits the receptors nicely, the kind of smell that's laden with all the right pheromones to engage your caveman brain and have you swooning over him

bad habits (which i count as a bonus tbh) include: picking things: ears, skin, nose, anything. drinking to excess and then never learning a single lesson. masking all of his emotions until he's certain you won't make fun of him for having feelings. pretending to hate people that he loves because he can't be seen getting hurt. leaving his clothes lying around and relying on the smell test to get him through the process of getting dressed. kissing you in the morning before he has brushed his teeth. having no concept of personal space: he will steal blankets, he will curl around you in bed, he will sit too close to you on the sofa, he will hang off your body, he will hug you from behind and not let go, he will stand beside you all the time. refusing to take things seriously until he really has no other option. bad temper, and then defusing the situation by kicking something

yes, he has great tits and strong arms, but in my heart of hearts i know his stomach is not flat and in my head he has the sweetest lil beer gut to ever exist. it gets worse once he's just finished eating or drinking, and he cradles it and makes jokes about it being a girl or a boy. and while they might not have added it into the game, they did add in his sweet lovehandles on those hips, and he likes being grabbed by them and pulled into a hug. reminds him that when he's no longer big buff boomer, you'll still be super into his hot body

i think he's 45 years old fuck you. i think youngest he's 40, there's no way he's near me in age. we can consider sun damage to an extent but he has wrinkles, he's a dad, he's got big ol bags under his eyes and a slightly receding hairline

he's competitive, but not in an aggressive way, more in an annoying way. like you play a board game with him, and he'll do everything in his power to distract you, or use the rules against you. and if he loses, he doesn't go in a big strop, maybe a tiny huff with a few whines. who can refuse him a pity win when he's looking up at you all sad with those big green eyes and batting those silly eyelashes?

if there is something about you that he can mercilessly tease you for (without making you cry) he will harp on about it constantly. it's his way of showing that he's comfortable around you, enough that he can make you want to punch him in the throat. he can give but he can't take though, so remember that before you point out that he is in fact ginger, or that his freckles make him look so cutie-patootie, or that his tattoos are kinda dumb

you have to laugh at his jokes and puns, it's a requirement and he'd be tempted to make you sign a contract saying you will adhere to this rule. it gives him a boost, makes him feel proud. plus he is genuinely very funny, and the dorky nature behind his silly jokes is so endearing

Relationship Headcanons

when he falls for someone, he falls first and he falls hard. he also falls pretty easily, and he's no stranger to heartbreak, but he has his terrible coping methods to keep him going

he finds it easy to find something about everyone that he likes, because he's just prone to liking people. he thinks everything and anything is sexy, and he can find your good traits like a pig sniffing out truffles

he regularly brings home gifts for his partner, stolen or otherwise. no one needs to know how you aquired such an expensive piece of jewellery or that really nice original looking bit of art. maybe you just happen to save a lot of money by living in the back of his van with him!!

gifts are just one of the ways he is surprisingly thoughtful for a boy with no thoughts behind his eyes! dates are another thing he's fuckin stellar at!! wherever you're going and whatever you're doing you are guaranteed to have fun, that's just how he is. he makes everything tolerable, and he can turn a shit day into a great one

he's desperate for friendship, far more than he is for anything romantic or sexual, although if the two could go hand in hand that'd be an ideal scenario. he might claim to be chill and looking for a quick root, but he's far more interested in finding a partner who can be his buddy as well as his lover

there's never going to be a moment when he's not touching his partner by the way, like that is just something you are going to have to put up with

hand on your shoulder, hand in your hand, hand on your waist, hand on your thigh, hand on your back, hands around you as he hugs you from behind, hands around you as he hugs you from the front, hands around you as he hugs you from the side, hand on your butt, hand on your chest, hand on your stomach, hand on your cheek. the man has borderline separation anxiety

holding hands is his favourite though, especially when paired with his habit of loudly announcing your status to anyone within earshot. "oh this is my partner!" "yeah i'm their boyfriend!" "i'm fucking that beautiful bit of arse over there, thanks for asking!" like thank you, digger

he's surprisingly emotional, and surprisingly open once you get past his protective exterior layer. he's still always joking around and trying not to take things seriously, but the minute you or he needs some serious feeling time he is down for it

i don't think he would ever choose a sexuality. personally, i feel like he's bisexual or pansexual, but digger would say he's just sexual. he'll go for anything with a pulse who was happy to see him. there's a bit of digger for anyone (or anything...)

he'd be quick to take things to the next level with a partner he really loved. like he comes to pick you up one day in the boomer-van and he's like "tah-dah" and in the bacl there's a plastic storage box duct taped to the wall with your name written on it. this is how he would ask you to move in with him. you might need to get rid of a lot of your posessions but he wouldn't be adverse to you cleaning up the van or making it your own though!! i bet he'd love to have fairylights on the ceiling and some rugs on the floor

NSFW Headcanons

he has a piss kink. i know that is not a thing for most people, but i have evidence backing this up. it's barely a headcanon at this point, it's just straight up fuckin canonical fact lmao!! anyway i don't think it's a goes both ways thing most of the time. he likes to be the one pissing, it's where he refuses to be a switch and will only be the dominant one, usually

speaking of being the dominant one, it's what he's most comfortable with since he's a loud, brash, bold and heroic villainous boy, but he really doesn't mind switching things up. he can be a gentle dom, a bratty sub, and any combination in between. really, he is up for literally any activity or kink or fetish or position you can throw at him

he gets very vocal during sex. he spouts all kind of filth at you, confirming what he's doing, what he wants to do, and what he's going to do to you. his preferred terms are surprisingly gentle though, calling you kitten or pup, princess or prince, love, babe, baby. a combination of them all. aside from that, he is loud. volume is not something he can control when he's deep in the heat of the moment and he is the literal definition of animalistic. he growls while he fucks you, and he howls when he cums, and he has referred to himself as a dingo before...

of course, if you're getting particualrly nasty, or he's in a far more feral mood, he'll be growling low into your ear, calling you a dirty, nasty little cunt while he grabs your body and keeps you close

he's into any kink, sort of believing in trying anything once (or twice... or three times...) but there's a few he just LOVES. ones that if you mention them, you run the risk of having him cumming in his pants or rutting up against your leg like a desperate, badly behaved puppy

obviously, previously mentioned piss kink, but specifically if it involves some level of servitude or worship. like you on your knees holding his cock for him while he goes to the toilet, you offering to lick him clean, or letting him piss on you because you're so beneath him and he's yours to mark and claim. begging for a taste of him or pleading for him to use you gets him going too when you combine it with this

body worship or worship in general gets him going too. he's so desperate to be loved and wanted and adored and needed, so having someone beg for him, tell him they want him, they need his cock, his fingers, his hands, his saliva, his drool, his cum, anything he's willing to give them. top that off by calling him captain and he'll melt into a sticky little puddle

he's also way behind on comfort, so a little bit of gentle love mixed with kink is a great way to help him relax. feed him a tit or a hard cock, let him suck until he's soothed himself. hold him on your lap and stroke his hair while you tell him he's amazing, and so good at everything he does

cowboy digger is reporting for duty at the breeding ranch! get you some horns, a teeny tiny cowprint outfit, a tail and a bell and he'll either milk you dry until you're crying from overstimulation, or he'll ride you until he's pumped every last bit of cum into you, making sure you're ready for him to be the daddy

he'll fuck with the hat on. he's a socks on kinda guy too. he just gets way too into it way too quickly and forgets anything else but rutting and grunting

this could have been soft, if it wasn't george, but he loves when you fall asleep on him, like your head resting on his chest or his stomach or his lap or his shoulder. he'll be sweet, of course, and place a little kiss on the top of your head. but then he will try and sneak a look down your top or at your ass or to see if you have a visible bulge he can ogle

[jeankirsteinsgrlfrnd]

trost has a blizzard

pairing: jean kirstein x f!reader

word count: 1.3k

cw: fluff :)

summary: today’s shitty but luckily for you, trost university decided to cut its’ students some slack by giving them the day off. you had the blizzard to thank for spending an entire snow day with jean.

sasha, connie and you had decided to spend the previous night at jean’s house. his parents weren’t home, not that they’d care anyway, and it was a perfect opportunity for the four of you to spend some time goofing off. sasha lived right next door but you, however, did not. you lived about a fifteen-minute drive away- not too far but impossible to drive in this sort of condition. they had the luxury of walking next door to their home, given connie is mr. and mrs. braus’s honorary child, and escaping jean’s moodiness.

sasha and connie were gone before you’d even woken up. all that remains of them was a mess of bundled up blankets on the kirstein’s living room floor. the sun was beating down hard through the windows, reflecting off the white snow. it was blinding, considering you’d just woken up. jean lays on the couch, an arm thrown above his head in a deep sleep.

quietly, you untangled yourself from the old quilt blankets. jean’s grandmom had made them a while ago. they were itchy but they kept you warm. you head over to the window on your tiptoes. outside, it’s a white wonderland. you groan under your breath as you see it had snowed enough to cover up more than half of your tires.

you didn’t mind jean. truthfully, he was a pain in the ass. he annoyed the hell out of you but sometimes, he was nice to be around. truthfully, you found his grumpiness cute. other times, you wanted to punch him in that thick skull of his.

as you curse sasha for leaving you here with him, you turn around to head back to your spot on the floor. jean’s awake, his hair pulled every which direction, and watching you. a black tshirt adorns his torso with a matching pair of plaid pajama pants. there’re bags under his eyes with a confused expression.

“where’d they go this early?” jean yawns and pulls himself up into a sitting position.

“home, jean. it’s almost 11:30.” you point to the clock hanging above the flatscreen.

“and you’re still here?” he asks, tilting his head. he’s confused but more importantly, he’s surprised that you’d want to spend time with him without the company of your best friend.

“don’t get too excited. my car’s not going anywhere like that.” you sigh and jerk your head towards the window.

jean uses two hands to push himself up off the couch. his absence leaves a perfect indent of his body. he chuckles as he looks out the window, “you better get to shoveling cause i’m not helping you with that shit.” with that, he turns around and heads into the other room.

deciding that maybe you should get to work, you hesitantly oblige jean’s orders. not because you can’t handle some snow shoveling, no, because you hate listening to jean. it makes you feel like you lost.

you bundle up as best as you can with the clothes you brought. not blizzard appropriate, but hopefully enough to keep you somewhat warm as you dig out your car.

the wind meets you with a slap in the face. it whistles loudly in your ears as you tuck your chin into your neck for a bit of extra warmth as you head over to your car, but not before grabbing a shovel leaning against the garage door.

a few minutes into your labor, you hear the front door close. out comes jean, wearing the correct attire. a thick black winter jacket with the hood pulled up. it’s fur lined, bits of it poking out around his face. his hands are shoved into the pockets as he heads over to you with his snow boots leaving size 10 shoe prints along the way.

it’s cold but the adorable sight of jean makes an unfathomable heat rush to your face. he looked adorable and you couldn’t deny it. it was pissing you off.

“i can do it, jean. go back in.” you raise your voice a bit as he just smiles at you.

“i’m not that much of a dick.” he grabs the spare shovel and heads over to you. reluctantly, you accept his help even though you really don’t want to. but for the sight of his cheeks and nose turning red with windburn, you’ll tolerate it.

after spending fifteen minutes or so digging out your tires and the driveway, jean pauses and says he’s going to get you some warmer clothes. you don’t object to this, the snow was starting to seep into your shoes. he’s gone for about thirty seconds before your head jolts forward as something smacks the back of it.

“jean.” you growl without turning around. he doesn’t answer you. “i swear to god, if you-“ you threaten as you spin yourself to face him.

smack.

a cold, hard white ball of snow strikes you in the center of your face. you gasp at the iciness feeling left on your face being amplified by the wind.

jean stands a few feet away from you, grinning from ear to ear. “what are you gonna do?” he taunts as he bends down to scoop up some more.

“i’m not playing this game. help me dig, please.” you say annoyedly. he tosses another at you, hitting you just above your belly button. “jean. you are so fucking childish.” you groan but take a quick second to grab your own supply of snow.

you’re faster than he is. your throw lands right against his left cheek and he looks flabbergasted. bewildered by your accuracy, you get a chance to land another one on the opposite cheek. now, he just looks grumpy. he looks entirely grumpy with rosy cheeks and a fur lined hood.

“you’re in for it, (y/n.)” he threatens, pointing a finger at you. he starts trudging towards you, prompting you to run in hopes he doesn’t catch you. you think heading for the door is a good option; there’s no snow to throw in there.

with frozen fingers, you grab onto the doorknob but before you can push it open, two strong arms wrap around you. they lift you off the ground and away from the safety of the indoors. “you asked for this.” he struggles to get his words out as he carries you back towards the yard, you kicking and flailing the entire time, demanding he put you down. “fine, i’ll put you down.” jean drops you face first in the snow.

you shriek as jean does as he said. landing belly-down, you push yourself as hard as you can up away from the cold earth. jean stands above you, looking all too smug. you were going to get him for this. you shoot your hands out and grab his pants, just above the knees, and yank him downwards to the snow. you calculated a bit too wrong- jean leans directly on top of you, knocking your back right back down into the snow. he barely catches himself with his two gloved hands.

“oh…uh…” jean stammers as he hovers over you. your heart is beating too fast for your own liking. why were you looking at him like this? and why was he looking at you like that? you can't say anything, you just swallow your own spit. peering up at him through snow-riddled eyelashes, he gives speaking another attempt. “sorry…” his voice is slow and confused. a direct contradiction, he leans down and presses his lips to yours. surprisingly, they’re warm. you’ve forgotten all about your wet clothes as you feel his heat.

“that’s okay.” you whisper, your lips grazing against his.

“yo, what the fuck?” you look to your right and see a traumatized looking connie springer.

click here to read my jean fic !!

inspired by @brave-and-gentle’s fic 🤍

[transforming]

For those requesting to see my stories from my previous tumblr account as reference for commissions, I'll be posting them here now!

To start off, here's one of my favorite stories of mine, which I wrote for Thanksgiving three years ago...

The House on Oak Street

There’s been some rumors spreading about the old grey house at the end of Oak Street. Built in the Victorian style of architecture, it’s been left in ruins for, say, 50 years? The deed to the house was never given up by the family who used to live in there, though the house has been for sale for some time. Apparently, it couldn’t be sold to anyone after what had happened to their friends, relatives, even the robbers or strangers that ever set foot inside…

Finn was tired. He’s at his breaking point. University is stressful enough, but add jocks and frats into it made it even worse. He was just walking home from class with his friends Peter and Ned, the three of them happen sharing an apartment far from campus since they couldn’t afford to stay in the dorms.They all shared the same interests - their studies, D&D, and architecture, all of them studying in the field.

The trio of friends were trying to avoid the Pi Kappa Alpha house, which was on the route they frequently took, when they passed by Oak Street that fateful day. As they passed by the line of houses, Finn stopped at one - an abandoned Victorian.

“Guys, look!” Finn said, pointing towards the empty house, intrigued.

“Finneas, it’s just an abandoned house,” Peter responded painfully, looking down at his shiny black school shoes.

“Not just any abandoned house Peter, it’s the Creepy Vic of Oak Street,” Ned added as he adjusted his thick glasses.

The three eighteen-year-olds looked at each other. According to urban legend, this very house on Oak Street had a reputation of endless trespassers, all of whom never reappeared once they entered the front door, some say having been pulled into another dimension or being eaten alive by a monster. 

“But those are just silly rumors, right? Does anyone actually believe that?” Finn asked as he took a step towards the porch.

“I do, Finneas. Do you want to disappear? And it’s just basic morals to never trespass someone else’s property,” Ned asked concerned.

Finneas nodded, and followed his friends, but something caught his eye, something he didn’t notice there before. A FOR SALE sign posted at the front of the yard. Finneas felt a connection with the house, but he couldn’t place a finger on it, so he quickly took a picture of the sign, making sure to get the realtor’s number, and sped towards Ned and Pete.

From the corner of the street, the trio could hear the speeding vroom of a sports car. 

“Yo, ‘Lex, Chad! it’s the poor faggy nerd trio!” Leo jeered from the driver’s seat.

“Park the car, dude!” Alex said grinning, getting off and standing toe-to-toe with Finn.

“What do you want, Alex?” Ned replied angrily.

Chad pushed him to the ground. “No one talks to us like that that, lil’ pussy ass dweeb. Why’re you here, anyway? Didn’t wanna get your asses kicked?”

Peter helped Ned up and pulled Finn close to them.

“Leave us alone, don’t you guys have trainings to go to?” Peter retorted.

The jocks chuckled as they harrassed the three students, punching their faces and breaking Peter’s glasses.

“I’m bored, bro, let’s just go, they got nothing today,” Leo chuckled. The three frat jocks jumped into the Maserati and sped away, while the three nerds trudged home. They dropped their bags and headed for the kitchen, starving. Ned took out a box of corn flakes and poured milk into a bowl first.

“Milk first, Ned?” Peter asked, shocked.

“What? I’m hungry,” he replied frustrated.

“I know, but that’s just weird!”

As they argued over how to eat cereal, Finn opened his phone and stared at the picture of the sign. A weird feeling of need came over him and he felt like the house was calling to him, though obviously a house has no such power. He typed up the number of the realtor, and pressed call.

“Mike Philipps for Century 21, how may I help?”

“Uh– hi, I… I wanted to inquire about the house for sale on Oak Street?”

“1324 Oak Street, the old Victorian?” Mike asked.

“Y-yes… it says it’s for sale?”

“Well, yes… but the family hasn’t been cooperative with our previous interested buyers.”

“How come?”

“Some weird rumors spreading about it, nothing of substance, really. How would you like to arrange an appointment to see the place?”

“Sure, sir! H-how’s…” Finn fumbled as he checked his calendar and schedule. “How’s tomorrow, Mr. Philipps?”

“Perfect. I’ll inform Mr. Thomas of your interest in the place.”

——–

After a few weeks of negotiating, and talking it out with Ned and Pete, the three friends somehow managed to buy the place at a real low price. Mr. Thomas was an odd man, for sure, and seemed interested in the boys. As the boys headed out of the tour, Alex, Leo and Chad harrassed them again, and Mr. Thomas watched silently. He may not have wanted what happened to the people in this house, but these three kids needed it.

Ned’s dad and his brother Colin came over to help renovate the place. New walls needed to be installed, new windows, new pipes (which Pete took care of with his uncle’s plumbing company), new roofing, all being supervised by Finn, who among the three was the best architect. The three painted the house and about a few months later, they moved in. 

“Can’t believe we got this place cheap,” Ned laughed as he carried his stash of comic books in. 

“Mind you, this being the Creepy Old Vic, it’s not so creepy now!” Pete added, starting the fire.

“Yeah, guys. We have a place now,” Finn said. 

Outside, the three douchebag jocks peered into the window. They’ve made some messes before, but this was gonna be the biggest prank they’ve pulled. Alex ran and switched off the house’s power. All the lights went out. The TV died. Silence and darkness, save the fire.

“Finn, what happened? I thought the electrical stuff was dealt with,” Peter shouted.

“They were-”

“Yo nerds! Need help?” shouted a voice, the sound of smug laughter coming from outside the front door.

“FUCK, it was them!” Ned whispered.

Finn cautiously unlocked and opened the door. Alex pushed him to the ground. 

“’Sup, nerd?” Alex grinned, “We wanna play!”

Ned and Pete hid, but they were pulled by the back of their t-shirts, their skinny frames revealed.

“LET US GO!” Peter screamed, trying to break free from Chad.

“What have WE ever done to YOU?” Ned squirmed in Leo’s arms.

“Oh, nothing,” Alex snapped, “Just being nerds is enough.”

As the trio of athletes tied and gagged the three trapped friends, the front door banged shut and locked itself.

“The fuck?” Chad said, running over and trying to open the door.

“We can go through the back bro,” Leo replied. He walked through the kitchen and tried to open the door as well, but it was bolted. 

“Bolted here as well?” he asked, as the curtains suddenly moved and closed. Pete spat out the cloth in his mouth.

“It’s the Creepy Old Vic. What did I tell you, Finn?!” he cried.

Finn’s eyes welled up, frightened. Ned was still moving about restlessly. As the three realized they could lose their lives, the fire died out, keeping them all in darkness. Suddenly, Chad felt a punch to the face as he fell to the floor, suddenly getting absorbed into the hardwood as if it were deep water. Leo heard Chad’s fall and ran towards the door, his phone’s torch on.

“Chad? Bro, where you…” his voice trailed off as he saw Chad’s hand sinking into the floor. Alex gasped in horror.

“Chad?”

“Alex–” Leo replied, but he was cut off. He felt the wall grab him, pulling him in, hands gagging his mouth as they dragged him in. The four college students could only stare as Chad’s eyes drowned in the blue concrete. Alex ran and pulled out a knife from the kitchen. 

“I’m not afraid of this house!” he shouted as he walked towards the living room, only to find the nerds he tied up missing, the rope and gags strewn around the room. 

Alex looked up and saw two green eyes. He was petrified.

“NO!” he screamed as the eyes formed a mouth and swallowed him whole, the three jocks never to be seen again.

——–

The next morning, Ned woke up lying on the floor, in front of the front door. His body ached.

Meanwhile, Peter was in the attic experiencing the same as Ned. Muscles everywhere. 

“Woah,” he chuckled, pinching himself as if he was dreaming, but nothing. The muscle didn’t fade. 

“I’m a handsome muscular guy?” he mumbled in his… super sexy voice. He stepped out of the tub and admired himself in the mirror. He looked so different, as if he was mixed with Leo. He certainly felt different, and was surprised when he looked down and saw his new, way heftier package.

He grinned.

The bathroom door opened, and two other handsome, well-built guys stood, hands on their hips.

“N-Ned? Peter?”

“Dude, what happened to us?” Pete flexed his arms, smirking and posing the handsome devil he was.

“I dunno, bro, Ned?” Finn replied, and realized he just said bro as if he always said it.

“I told ya it’s the house!” Ned’s voice boomed. “Didn’t you guys see when Chad and Leo were just… absorbed by the house?”

The lights turned back on. The three boys, well, men now, felt a sharp pain in their heads as knowledge of sports, fitness, working out and eating healthily, along with some knowledge of sex and a boost of confidence, filled into their minds, not completely altering who they were, but adapting them to their new physiques.

As they looked at each other, grinning with their new confidence, screams came from the basement. Pete ran down to check what was going on, when he saw a hooded figure surrounding three skinny boys, who were crying for help until the hood transformed into a blanket and covered the trio, the blanket absorbing them into the ground below.

Chad and Finn watched from behind Pete, as he closed the door.

——–

a few days later…

“What now?” Pete asked

“We’re still the same… somewhat. Inside, at least,” Ned responed as he made his pecs dance.

“And our families and classmates?” Pete added.

Ned had an idea. “We need to change names.”

“True,” Pete replied, smiling. “I’m… now Alex.”

“And I’m guessing Ned’s now Chad?” Finn asked, smirking.

Ned nodded.

“Cool, bro, then I’m Leo now,” Finn chuckled. 

It felt weird, but it also felt right. Like this was their destiny. Finn’s connection to the house finally made sense, but he had another idea come into his mind too.

“Why don’t we… start our own frat?” Leo beamed.

“A frat?” the two studs looked surprised.

“I mean, why not? We’re hot now, and plus, the house helped us become this,” he smiled as he demonstrated with their bodies. “We could help others just like us.”

Alex nodded, “You’ve got a point, but what would we be called?”

Chad pondered for a moment, thinking through the Greek alphabet. “How about Delta Beta Alpha?”

“Delta Beta Alpha,” Leo repeated. “The change of betas, like who we were, into Alpha men, like who we are now?”

Chad smirked and nodded.

Leo and Alex grinned as well. The house was gonna make some more changes to others like them.

Mr Thomas would be pleased if he ever knew.

[silence-burns]

A Snack of Mine

Fandom: Spider-Man universe 

smut 18+

The smashing noises coming from what Miguel called “the control room” sounded expensive. You may not have been an expert in all things technical, but you were pretty sure the room was in the process of a violent remodeling. 

“Right,” you said. “And you expect me to do what exactly?” 

“How am I supposed to know? It's not me who's usually had to restrain him in this kind of state. It's not my fault no one wants to get close to him. They kinda have a point, though.” Lyla flew around your head, ethereal as ever.

A crash louder than the previous ones came from behind The Door To Miguel's Lair. 

“You do realize he's just ripped a monitor off the wall?”

“You do realize I have no physical presence to do anything about it?” 

Point taken. It didn't make you feel any better and Lyla’s constant spinning didn't exactly help you get your bearings.

You waved your hand through her before the colorful but pixelated display of her panic blinded you completely. If it was an option, you would've gladly allowed anyone else to take your place. Sadly, none of the currently available Peters had a chance of getting to Miguel through his fury.

And hunger.

You sighed before moving towards The Door of Doom. 

"Miguel, I come in peace!" 

The kind of snarling that came from the other side was not something a human throat should've been able to handle. 

"Be a good, nonlethal boy for 10 minutes and you'll get a snack. Maybe even McDonald's!"

The silence that followed was heavy enough to imply precisely where you could shove all the burgers in the worlds, but it was better than blinding rage; you were already making progress! You shoved the door open, quickly closing it behind your back. You clicked the lock into place.

It wasn't sturdy enough to keep any of the Spidermen out, but it served as a symbol. You walked into his lair, and now you had to deal with the consequences.

Miguel was meticulous in his fury. The room used to serve him as both a personal space and one of his less official offices, where he spent time thinking and planning without anyone bothering him. He was the head of the squad meant for suppressing the threats to the entire multiverse, so he had to deal with a never ending stream of things to take care of. A little bit of private space was a healthy solution.

Unfortunately, due to the circumstances called Miles Morales Versus Bad Decision Making, the otherwise pleasant, calming space was now in pieces. Literally—half the furniture lay in ruin spread across the floor like rubble after an explosion.

"I think you missed a few." You kicked away a rather big part of what used to be a desk. "You gotta be more thorough, man."

As much as you wished to feel even half as confident as you sounded, it was a rather difficult task when the only part of Miguel you could see were his eyes, glowing bright red and piercing you through, unblinking. The only source of light was dim and came from behind the broken furniture. The outline of Miguel's body was hardly discernible from the darkness of the room, but you swore he was towering over you more than usual.

And completely still.

"I really hope you aren't too sentimental, because there's no way anything here is savable. You gotta invest in a proper punching bag, or maybe two just in case—..."

"You think this is a joke?"

His voice was low and on the verge of growling. The situation with Miles definitely got under his skin.

"Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to face my problems with a healthy dose of humor rather than destruction of my belongings. You've got claw marks on your walls, Miguel, come on. Don't you think it’s a bit too dramatic?"

Before you could blink, he was on you. Your back hit the wall just inches from the mentioned claw marks—deep, sharp, and clearly torn through with a lot of force. Looking up into Miguel's glowing eyes and the barely hidden fangs, you knew how capable he was of using said force.

Miguel leaned closer to you, his hand holding you still by the shoulder. Pressed between him and the wall, you could feel your pulse rising, and it was only partially thanks to the heat emanating from Miguel's body.

"The structure of the whole multiverse could be destroyed because of one person."

His voice was so low you could barely understand the words growled from his clenched jaw. Miguel's eyes burned to the point where you could no longer turn your head away. It was hypnotizing and a part of you didn't want to fight it.

"He's a child, Miguel. He's fifteen and his whole world just came crashing down on him."

"It doesn't give him the right to destroy everyone else's."

"No, but he's scared. Scared children need supportive adults, not claws in their faces."

Miguel's eyes dipped down over your lips for a split second, but something shifted through his posture. Still tense, his voice got quieter and lost the aggression. You were so close together that he was almost whispering in your ear, and yet you couldn't hear anything around but him.

"And what would you prefer me to do?" he purred.

"Everyone is already looking for Miles, so let his friends talk to him first once he's found. He has nowhere in the multiverse to hide forever."

Miguel's hand moved from your shoulder to the side of your neck. The claws retracted and now his touch was almost gentle. You missed it, just as you missed the kind of heat that was rising up behind the flaming red of his eyes, different from what most people ever got to see. Something reserved for you.

You turned your face to the side, letting his fingers caress your cheek. Miguel froze, entranced by the way his thumb rested over your lip and how your smile seemed to widen when you noticed too.

"I prefer you like this," you said, making your voice come out as barely a whisper. In his state, Miguel would've heard you from another room. 

You didn't notice when it happened, but he was closer now, imprisoning you between himself and the wall. You both inhaled at the same time, chests pressing together a moment. His whole body was tense and wrapped tight around you. His thighs crushed yours and you wouldn't be able to move away even if you wanted to. 

"I know what you're doing and… this really isn't a good time."

"You say it with such a scary look on your face, and yet you do nothing to stop me."

Miguel's nostrils flared when you put your teeth over your bottom lip.

And pushed.

Miguel's hand wrapped around your jaw, holding your face up towards him. His fingers dug into your skin, the gentle caress long gone. There was only a firm hold and a predator that smelled blood.

His pupils narrowed in a split second and the breath he took was shaky, as if he wanted to smell every bit of blood rising from the tiny cut.

"You've been on that artificial shit for a long time now," you cooed. "But we both know it can never be quite the same as the real thing."

You could see him trying to say something, but nothing came out of his mouth. You stood on the tips of toes and brushed his lips with yours.

It was as if an electric shock struck his body. Miguel growled as he forced your mouth open, and then again when his warm tongue licked the blood smeared over you. He forced you back down with one push of his hips and you could feel him growing harder despite his spider suit. 

He sucked on your lip, hungry for more, just as his other hand found its way onto your hip and held it firmly against his own.

Miguel's open-mouthed kisses were growing sloppier as he followed your jawline and down the side of your neck. You couldn't help but push your fingers into his curls, marveling over how soft they felt and how perfect they were for grabbing his head and moving it just to the spot you wanted him at. 

Despite the urgency of his need and all of his senses blurry, Miguel let you guide him, breathing in your scent. There were no words to explain how much he missed it every time you had to go back to your own universe and leave him thinking, wanting and alone.

Miguel loved the way your nails sank into his hair and tugged harder every time he scratched your skin with his fangs. He couldn't help himself when he heard the softest of moans leave your throat and felt the way you kept grinding yourself over his cock. Miguel bit your shoulder hard when your hand wandered to his still clothed shaft and lightly scratched over the thin, bulging fabric.

"You're really testing my patience," he breathed into your skin.

"I hope you earn a good grade."

Miguel's hand moved from your hip to the bracelet controlling the features of his suit, but you slapped it away before he could take it off. You pressed harder over his erection, stretching the suit more.

"Who said I'm gonna let you rush so much?"

"I really don't think we have the—..."

A loud knock on the closed door made you both jump. 

"They found traces of Miles' signature!"

Miguel pushed his head into the crook of your swollen, tender neck, cursing with passion in Spanish. You may not have known the language well, but some things were truly universal.

You kissed his temple and brushed his wide shoulders. "You've got this."

Miguel took a slow, deep breath of your scent, noting all the various changes in it. But he did not budge.

"Prepare the team," he finally shouted back. "I'll be there in five minutes."

He caught your eyes widening and smiled ominously. The flaming red was shining through his own eyes again. 

"I have something to take care of first."

[jooniperbonsai]

Penalty Shot (pjm) | Part 1

Pairing: professionalhockeyplayer!jimin x minorleagueplayer!reader (afab)

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 22,512

Release Date: December 24, 2024

Genre: Smut, holiday romance fluff, angst, hockeyau, holidayau, comedy, slight rivals to lovers

Summary: He's the worst hockey player on the worst team in the national league, with an awful attitude to go with it. You're the best player in the local chapter, but turned down your chance to go pro. After a scandal benches him for part of the season, he recruits your help to get him ice ready by the New Year.

Warnings: mentions of threesome, Jimin is bi, probably inaccurate ideas about hockey, Jimin is an asshole, swearing, misogyny in sports, slightly homophobic comments, hometown trauma, arranged marriage, corny Christmas references, holiday party stress, mentioned death of minor characters, teen pregnancy, abortion and discussions of abortion processes, emotions, and characteristics of shame angst, misunderstandings, Y/N is a self sacrificial person, fighting and threatening violence, alcohol, sexual innuendos, omg look it's Shinee's Minho as the role of bff, mention of random kpop artists on y/ns team, groping, oral (f receiving), hand jobs, unprotected sex, creampie, rivals but not, friends but not? Who knows, Christmas is all around and the cheer is in the air idk

a/n: It's here! I mean, kind of! Here's part 1 of what has become a monster of a fanfic. I just have 1. Learned so much about hockey it's ridiculous, and I feel like I need more time with these characters. To all who celebrate, Merry Christmas. I hope everyone enjoys this fic. Be easy on me with the proofing errors. I rushed the proof a bit to get it out on time.

“That’s it, babygirl; Cum on my cock. That’s it. Fuckkk.”

“No no no, what did I say? Did I say you could ride me? No. On your knees. Mouth open. Just your mouth, not your hands. Be a good boy or you won’t get my cum. There we go. Open. I said open. Do you want my cock or not? There we go. Ah-ah, swallow. That’s a good boy.”

“Fuck, Jimin, my turn, please please please.” 

“What did I say about begging? There’s plenty to go around.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Close the damn laptop. I’ve seen enough.” 

The sharp, wet slapping sounds and deep, guttural moans echoing through the conference room cuts off as the laptop is snapped shut. As if rehearsed, all bodies in the room turn toward the subject of the scandal, expectedly awaiting a very different response from the one they’re given.

“What? Everyone has sex, it’s not new,”  Jimin says. 

“Yes, everyone has sex. But not everyone is filming a sex tape, much less an orgy, and putting it out onto the internet,” Sophia, the public relations manager says. 

“I didn’t put it on the internet. I’m not that stupid. And, it was a threesome, not an orgy.”

“Well, clearly you are stupid, if you thought attending, much less filming, your not-so-private sexual exploits wouldn’t come back to haunt you. And yet, shocker, they have, and we are swiftly becoming the top headline in every tabloid magazine on the planet. You seriously thought none of these participants would want to brag about how they bedded the bad boy of the UHL?” 

“Park, you finished off last season being one of the most famous people in the Universal Hockey League, and not in a good way. Need I remind you that we just spent the whole summer trying to implement a marketing campaign to improve sales of your jerseys since manufacturers don’t even want to make them? That after ‘Park the Park’ became a trending hashtag on every social media site, you suddenly caught attention as the ‘Hottest But Worst Player in Professional Sports’?” Coach sighs heavily into his hands, clenching his fists as if he needs to punch something. 

It’s very much the Coach way. It’s not unheard of for him to be taking swings at the punching bag during gym training days. Clearly this is how he releases steam. 

Only the problem is, the steam is channeled directly at Jimin. 

“I thought any press is considered good press.” 

Sophia snorts and rolls her eyes. “That is a load of bullshit that PR reps say to make shitheads like you feel better. But I’m not here to soothe your ego. I think it’s been stroked enough, based on what we all just saw.” She clears her throat, shaking her head. “The point is, JImin, you’ve cost this team a lot, and at this point, I can’t advise the staff enough to let you go. You’ve caused fights on the ice that almost turned lethal, you have the worst stats, and the highest lien we’ve had to take out after you damaged the rink in LA and caused them to end their season early. In any other job, you’d be fired by now.” 

Sophia scoops her laptop up off the table and places it in her bag. She stands, hastily collecting her other things. Her assistant-slash-lackey, some nameless, anxious young woman, follows suit, clattering her impressive collection of color-coded pens across the conference table. She bows in apology, shakily attempting to collect her things. No one, including Sophia, moves to help. 

“I have to go, because I need to figure out some way to spin this story now that we are receiving hundreds of requests for interviews, quotes, and extra footage.” She fake gags, as if Jimin and the debauching act on the screen is repulsive to her. “Stay off social media. Do not make a single claim unless advised by your lawyers. We are petitioning the website to take the video down. I know it’s out there forever, but I think if we act fast we can reduce views and hopefully end its virality quickly. Once I hear back from the firm I’ll send you an update.” 

The door shuts behind them slowly, but once the final click ensures that no one outside can hear what’s being discussed, Jimin turns to see the deep set frown of Coach and Assistant Coach Jay sharply aimed toward him. 

“Do you. Have. Any fucking idea. How bad this looks?” Coach’s voice is clipped, fury piercing through his staccatoed breath. Gone is the negotiator, the collected cool that he’d worn while Sophia was here. Instead is the same anger and resentment that Jimin has gotten used to experiencing in the locker room before and after every game, as well as his many meetings as of late. 

“It only looks bad because people take shit way too seriously. If this was a threesome with two women, I’m sure it wouldn’t be blowing up right now. But add a man into the mix and all the homophobes come with their torches and pitchforks. This’ll all blow over in a few weeks, or days even depending on what new scandal the tabloids decide will get the most clicks. Really, Coach, it’ll be okay.” 

A vein protrudes from Coach’s neck, and he huffs a heavy sigh. “You’re missing the point, Park. It’s bad because it’s gay or bisexual or pansexual or whatever the hell your generation is calling things now. But that’s only part of it. All those celebrity gossip pages have been reporting on you for months as is, detailing your explicit sexual appetite and partying with celebrities. You’ve built a reputation for yourself as a playboy, and they’re eating that shit up. And maybe that would all be fine and fun and you could be the next Travis Kelce of the world toting around your celebrity fuck buddies, but there’s one thing Kelce’s got that you don’t.” 

“…Taylor Swift? Whiteness? A mustache?” 

“No you dumbass, talent. Travis Kelce is good at his sport, Jimin, and you fucking suck at yours.” Jay interjects. He reaches into his padfolio, pulling out a complex spreadsheet. “We’ve pulled the totals of all the stats. In the Universal Hockey League, you have the lowest stats out of every active player. Minor players are doing better than you. A hell of a lot better.” 

Jimin reaches out and takes the page, scanning it, brows furrowed. “Okay, so I need to clean up my game a little bit. I don’t see how those two things are connected.” 

“Then let me explain it to you, son.” Coach leans back in his chair, revealing the lower portion of his suit coat, stained from the bit of pasta sauce that dribbled down during his lunch. Jimin finds himself staring at it for so long that it takes Coach three tries before his attempts at calling Jimin’s attention actually works. 

“Focus, Park.” 

“Sorry,” he responds reflexively. 

“Basically, what Sophia said in the meeting is true. I have been advised by her as the official Public Relations Director to fire you. You’ve caused significant risk in various ways. And what I didn’t tell her is that the manager of the Bells and team owner both called me this morning worrying about the integrity of the team. Your little bullshit behaviors have been adding up. Not only are you impossible to market to Bells fans, you’re untradeable and undesirable to any other team. No one wants the Scarlet A you’ve tainted the team with.” 

Jimin raises an eyebrow. He didn’t know Coach was so familiar with classic literature.

“The point is, investors are backing out. Brand deals are falling through. The capital gains of our team are dwindling because we have a shitty player with an even shittier attitude.” 

It feels like a brick has been launched at Jimin’s chest. A hot, crumpling feeling washes over him, and the very cool and collected nature he’s kept fresh this whole meeting has now taken the backseat. 

“I don’t know what happened to you, Park, but you weren’t always this way. When I scouted you and signed you onto the Bells, you were just this young kid with a dream. You loved the game more than you loved the fame. I miss that guy. That’s the one who I wanted. I wanted the fresh energy of early morning practices led by a player with eagerness and potential. And you were that for a while. 

“But all I’ve seen in the last two seasons is someone who cares about hair gel and being an A-lister for afterparties. When you’re supposed to be driving the net, you’re getting flanked. You can’t control your mouth so you start chirpin’ and hand every opposing team at least one power play, usually in the third period and leaving your team to handle the mess you created as you sit in the box.”

Heat floods Jimin’s cheeks. “Am I supposed to just let all those guys walk all over me? I’m one of the shorter players in the league, and they love to talk shit.” 

“Of course they love to talk shit when you’re such an easy target! It's a practical strategy! If you target the hothead, they’ll take themselves out of the game! They don’t even need to be good to do that!” 

“Isn’t that allegedly your strategy anyway?” Jay says, raising an eyebrow. “Doesn’t seem like a very good one.” 

“Shut up, Jay,” Jimin retorts, blowing air sharply out of his nose. 

“Don’t you two get started on me now,” Coach says, snapping his fingers. Jimin refocuses his gaze. 

“So, what does that mean for me then? Am I fired? Just like that?” He folds his arms over his chest defensively.

Coach rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know, son. It depends on what you want from this.”

This shocks Jimin. Is he seriously being asked if he wants to be fired? Isn’t the answer obvious? He opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by Coach. 

“What I mean, is that now is a good time to think about your goals. Do you just want to be a celebrity or do you want to be a player? A good one, one who makes his team proud.” 

His chest twists with sadness. For nearly ten years, Jimin has been with the Bells. He’d been scouted by Coach himself at the age of 19, having just completed high school and graduating from his own league. During the try-out period, he’d been one of the best, and after a summer of ups and downs, he was offered a contract to be the rookie starter of the season.

 “I want to play. You know that. You know how much this means to me!” His voice trembles as the pain in his chest spring tears into his eyes. 

Coach gives him a sympathetic smile, nodding. “I do. At least, I used to. But now, I need you to prove it to me. To all of us. Which is why I think this break will be good for you to do so.” 

He knits his eyebrows, counting how many days of break he’ll have over the holidays. Then he nods. “Sure. It’s not much, I know, since we have a game between Christmas and the New Year, and one next week, but I’ll come to the arena every day, morning ‘til night. I’ll do explosion drills and I’ll rework my stickhandling. Shit, I’ll even do one better. I know we’ve been struggling to get the puck out of our zone, so I’ll focus on drills that shift us into neutral position. I know Zelensky was complaining about that last game and–”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down kid. I’m glad to hear you’re taking this matter seriously, but it’s not going to correct itself in a matter of days. It’s going to have to be a change in attitude. You need to learn how to not let every little thing trigger you on and off the ice. That’s going to take some time. Therapy, maybe.” 

“I’ll get a therapist. Right after this, I’ll call my friend Yoongi who can recommend me to someone and…” But already they’ve moved on, Jimin’s promise hanging in the air. 

Coach opens the folder he has in front of him before digging into the pocket of his jacket to fish around for something. He produces a glasses case, and then pulls out his reading glasses, placing them on the bridge of his nose. “Let’s see here. What are you thinking, Jay?” 

Jay careens his body to glance over at the schedule Coach has unfolded and laid before them. “Well, you already know what I think.” 

Jimin and Jay haven’t always had such a sour relationship. They were friends once, before Jay was hired as the Assistant Coach. Before there was a significant power imbalance between them. Most days, they can get by without making snarky remarks. Some days, Jimin even likes the guy still. Jay is a good AC. He looks at problems with a square eye, knows usually before anyone else what strategy the opposing team is laying out. He protects and vouches for all his players in press meetings, including Jimin. But when he doesn’t have to be doing his job, Jay is ready to cut down anyone and everyone who gets in his way of going home early. 

Jimin sighs, looking around the conference room. A framed poster from the 2000 season Choice Cup championship stares back at him. It’s faded, but he can see the beaming face of his favorite player: Lee Wonhyuk. 

Wonhyuk is seen as a hockey legend, having more hat tricks than anyone in Bells’ history. Always a balanced player, he led his team to the 2000 Choice Cup Playoffs. Jimin was just a kid then, but that was what started his love for hockey. 

“Hmm, well, then I think this is going to be the only option. Park, you’re suspended until late January.”

Jimin freezes. “What?”

“Suspension. I don’t want to see you on the bench in your jersey until the 23rd.” Coach marks the calendar with a thick black marker and nods. “That’ll give you enough time to start getting your shit together and maybe we will have cleared the air from this scandal long enough to recover some of our team’s reputation.”

Coach stands, gathering his folder and heading toward the door. 

“B-but I said I was going to fix this! Did you not hear me promise I’d get a therapist?” 

“We heard you, Jimin. That doesn’t suddenly erase everything you’ve done. How can we even be sure you’ll take it seriously? It doesn’t seem like you’ve taken much of your career seriously for a while now. You’re just lucky you’re not being fired,” Jay knocks his knuckles on the table, almost like a gavel from a judge. 

“Don’t take this thing too much to heart, kid. A suspension is kind of like a break. A vacation even! Go enjoy Christmas with your folks and enjoy some eggnog. Watch one of those ridiculous Hallmark movies about the magic of Christmas making some uptight lawyer into a farm girl because of the hot ranch hand or whatever it is. Take a crash course in anger management, I don’t know. Either way, stay away from the team or else you might not be part of it for much longer.” Coach idles in the open doorway, wafting his hand for Jimin to leave. “Either way, let’s go, we need to go. Our time is up with the conference room and I gotta get home to the Mrs. to help make enough cookies to feed an army.” 

Jimin deflates, grabbing his bag and shuffling out of the building and into the mild winter air swirling around him. 

Christmas with his folks sounds like a nightmare. He hasn’t talked to them since the scandal leaked, despite the worried calls from his mother and the less-than-enthused follow-ups from his father who began calling on behalf of his mother. 

He wasn’t planning on going home for the holidays. The excuse of his work schedule would keep him away another year, and he also suspects that the invite to attend Christmas is one that has no real urgency behind it. He hasn’t been home since his first year going pro. He was just a kid then, trying to balance this new life with the one he left and heal a broken heart. He had hopped on a plane home, only to have to turn around just after the Christmas dinner was finished. The entire flight he was nauseated from overeating. 

The idea of coming home now, while being the biggest loser in the UHL just sounds like another way to rub salt in his wounds. 

He drives home, calling Yoongi and getting a number for a therapist, only to realize that they would be closed until the new year. Of course they will. He turns the key to his apartment, he can’t help but feel like the place looks completely different even though it’s exactly as he left it a handful of hours ago: blinds drawn, warm-lit sconces on his display shelves in his living room giving everything a soft glow. Everything is pristine. Jimin values tidiness and control of his home. Of his life.

Which is why standing here with nothing to guide him for the next 30 days suddenly feels paralyzing. How is he supposed to become another person in a month? He’s not allowed at the arena for practice, and god, he knows everyone will recognize him at the next closest community one, though who knows if he’ll even be allowed in after how “inappropriate” his type of fame now is. 

And it’s too warm here to skate outdoors. He checks the weather app on his phone. No snow is forecasted for the next two weeks. It’s looking to be a warm Christmas this year. Meanwhile, he knows from the location settings that his hometown he’s saved into his favorites is reporting frigid temperatures and at least a foot of snow by the end of the week. Which means the pond he spent so many winters on with his father learning the rules of hockey and practicing on will be frozen solid. A safe place to anonymously practice. 

“Fuck.” He knows what he has to do. And as the phone rings one full time before an answer, Jimin tries not to feel the heat that floods to his cheeks in humiliation. “Hi, Mom. It’s me.” 

“Okay, now drive through! Tighter, tighter! That’s it Y/N! Go! Go! GO!” 

You weave through the blur of jerseys, somehow avoiding a tripping maneuver that would have had you crashing head-first into the wall. Well, barely. Maybe you’d be easier to trip if you hadn’t calculated their positioning early enough in the quarter. 

You drive forward, just as you’re told, scanning. Where’s the weakest link in the defensive lineup? Ah, there he is. Number 55. The taller one who has already spent half of the game tailing you as if he’s an offensive player. The one that said shit on socials about your pussy being so tight because of how much you enjoyed being anal. 

As if that made any sense. Encountering an entitled, hot-headed loser in the minor leagues is about as unique as a tiny, crusty white dog being named Bella. They exist in abundance. Lucky for you, these are always the worst players on the team, and it became immediately obvious to you who was going to be your target for the rest of the game. 

As you redirect your position toward his direction, 55 seems to have plenty to say. 

“Hey Baby, why don’t you leave the big game to the big boys?” he coos, clumsily regripping his stick as he glides toward you. 

“Mm, if this is a game for the big boys, then why are you here?” you say with a smile, cutting the puck around his right skate before tapping your stick against his. It clatters to the ground. 

“You fucking bitch!” he yells, but you’re already well past him, leaving just the rookie goalie between you and the goal. 

He tightens up when he sees you barreling toward him, the puck guarded tightly behind your stick as you weave it, turning slightly to your side to make it seem like you’re going in for a slapshot on the left side of the goal post. 

Naturally, the goalie floats to the left, creating a huge gap on the right side. 

Suddenly, you pivot, shooting the puck to the right, where your teammate, Minho, has stationed himself perfectly to receive and slide the puck neatly into the net. 

Easy. As the buzzer sounds at the end of the game, you high five Minho, solidifying the hottest win streak the Griffins have had to date. The teams line up, a slur of “good games” parroting from the mouths of each team member as you go down the line tapping sticks. That is until you reach 55, whose expression has soured significantly. 

“Fuckin’ slut,” he mutters under his breath. You pause, turning to him. 

“But I thought my pussy was so tight since I’m so anal? Now I’m a slut? Wow, I really got around fast,” you laugh, rolling your eyes. “Leave it to the worst player on the team to have the most unoriginal, misogynistic insults. Maybe if you practiced holding your stick properly instead of trying to craft an insult, you would have one less thing to suck at. I’m sure not knowing how to handle your stick isn’t just a problem on the ice either. Yikes.” 

You feel a nudge on your back, knowing your team captain, Christopher, is bringing up the rear. 

“Easy there, Y/N, don’t make the guy pop a blood vessel when the season’s barely started,” he says and you chuckle. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t tolerate the sexist machismo you’re carting around. You’re lucky you didn’t lose some teeth this game. If I hear you chirping more bullshit on the ice next time, I’ll personally make sure you have a dentist on speed dial, we clear?” 

Christopher smiles with shiny white teeth, making his threat all the more menacing despite his usual golden retriever energy. 

55 deflates, giving you one more loathsome glare before spinning on the ice and skating away. 

“Bang, Y/N, hustle! We have a party to get to!” Your coach, Bee, curls one gloved finger in, her impatience apparent on her face as she waits at the end of the rink. 

You and Christopher shrug at each other before racing across the ice, the high of the victory still swirling in your head. 

“Oh, bullshit! You know for a fact that if given the chance he would rather be cameoing in some D list movie in LA than getting his shit together. I get that he was your idol, Chris, but times have changed.” 

Jihyo takes a swig of her beer, jabbing a tipsy finger in Christopher’s direction. 

“So he’s gotten a little big-headed with his team. It happens to the best of us. Jimin still remains a hometown hero and we should be grateful he put us on the map!” 

“What map? No one has come here to scout talent since Y/N was being considered for the UHL. I still don’t get why you turned that down. Fucking moron.” Wonpil scoffs as he bites down into his pizza, effectively silencing Christopher, and well, the rest of the room. 

“Ah yes, the awkward silence about me missing out on my once chance,” you snort, glancing around the room as the remaining members of your team devour the last of the team holiday dinner. Bee left not long after the party started, getting some phone call that appeared urgent. Slowly, your families and friends made their way home, leaving only a handful of you behind in the old bar. 

Taeyon, one of the servers you’ve known forever, smirks at you as you gather some plates together to make cleanup easier. 

“Why did you turn it down?” Soobin, the youngest and shyest member of the team asks. 

Everyone in the room turns to you. Everyone in the room besides Soobin knows why. 

“Uh, well, a lot was going on in my life at the time. I had a scholarship to go to college, but then I’d heard that some coaches were coming to scout for the UHL during the summer so I deferred the fall semester, just in case. I was up for consideration and offered a spot with the Bells, but um…I was…sick. And he only had room for one person on his team. While he’d told me I was his first pick, I don’t know, I was…sick, and the other player deserved it. He had a future in it, a need to get out of this place more than I can say I had. So I declined the offer and made plans to use my scholarship and go to school.” 

“I didn’t know you went to college,” Soobin says, eyes wide. 

“She didn’t. Finish the story, Y/N.” Minho says before shoving a tree shaped cookie into his mouth. 

You click your tongue. “Honestly. It was no big deal. It turns out my deferment voided my scholarship, so I didn’t go.” 

“So you gave up on both the major leagues and college? Who’s the other player?” 

You wince at the question, knowing the storm that Soobin has just unknowingly unleashed. 

“What do you mean who’s the other player? Who do you think? She’s talking about Park Jimin, dumbass. He’s the only pro hockey player from here.” Christopher says, delivering a light punch to the maknae. 

“Oh, right,” Soobin says, blushing in embarrassment. 

“And look at what he did. He’s fucking up his chance in this after everything Y/N went through. He knows how to rub it in.” Wonpil downs the rest of his beer. “Honestly, Y/N. If I were you, I’d want to beat that guy to a pulp for being such a loser when you were the one who was rooting for him the most, it seems. Bastard. Good thing he doesn’t come around here much.” 

“Yeah, ha, well. He’s probably off somewhere warm and sunny and not thinking about anyone but himself anyway. It’s for the best, probably.” 

“I never knew you were sick,” Minho says later that evening as you two gather the empty bottles of soju and beer and place them on the counter for the barkeeper to collect. “Bummer that was aligning at the same time that you were about to make it big.” 

“Yeah, it was. Um, hey, my mom wants to know if you’re going to the caroling party,” you say, hoping to change the subject. 

“Oh, uh, no sorry I can’t make it. I have a date.” 

“A victory and a hot date? Well, Minho, look at you! Looks like you’re growing up.” 

He rolls his eyes, chucking a wadded up napkin at you. “Shut up. She’s nice. We are going to that Thai place downtown.” 

“Well, it sounds like we need to get you out of here so you can get your ass downtown. Are you even going to be hungry? You ate like, a half a package of those cookies by yourself.” 

“I’m a growing boy! I need my calories! And yes, I’ll be fine, Mom. And I’ll remember to wear my coat and hat too.” 

“Well, good. It’s supposed to be sub zero tonight. Not the night to be outside without the proper gear.” 

You grab your purse, doing one last run of the room before you shove Minho out the door to prepare for his date.

“Fuck, I thought you said it wasn’t too cold, Mom!” Jimin climbs into the passenger seat of his mother’s car, his luggage practically owning the backseat. 

“It isn’t! It’s just a cold snap! I thought you’d be used to it from spending so much time in the cold.” She clicks the turn signal, pulling them away from the curb while Jimin fidgets with the heat settings. A thin stream of hot air puffs out of the ancient sedan. 

“I usually have tons of padding on me and am moving so much I’m sweating. That’s different from whatever tundra this is.” The heat finally kicks in. “Where’s the Kia I got you for Christmas last year? Don’t tell me you traded it in for the cash or something.” 

His mother scoffs, merging into the freeway. “No, we didn’t trade it in. It’s in the driveway. You can drive it while you’re here.” 

“Why aren’t you driving it?” Her annoyance is annoying him. 

“Because it’s too complicated. Touch screen and Bluetooth and heated seats and cameras. I don’t need that. I just need to go from one place to another place!” 

The old car roars as if it is in agreement. Jimin rolls his eyes. 

“You could have told me you wanted something simpler. I would have at least gotten you a car from this decade. This piece of junk’s falling apart.” 

“It does what I need it to. It’s fine. I didn’t ask for a car anyway.” The lights of the bigger city begin to fade. With a metropolitan city so close to where he grew up, it’s shocking how much Jimin’s mother is clinging to the outdated ideas of small town life.

The strained conversation dies out as his mother turns up the volume of the radio. As the final commercial clears the airwaves, the car is flooded with Christmas carols. 

“It’s good to have you home, my little star.” 

Jimin’s chest wrenches with guilt as he hears the term of endearment. His mother always called him that when he was a child. For a long time, he really lived up to it. Lately though…

I’m more like a fallen star. A star on its way to burning out. 

He lets the music do the talking for the remainder of the drive, and as his hometown comes into view, he’s surprised by how little has changed in the time he’s been gone. Everything is just more worn, older than it used to look. The faded sign of the main grocery store still has the same design. 

The bar where Jimin drank his first beer is still open, and he watches as two people leave through the door, a tall, handsome guy who is laughing and smiling while a woman with her hood up hits him with her purse, also laughing. 

For some reason, his stomach churns at the sight. God, what a miserable place to be stuck in. How can anyone still want to live here? How can anyone smile about the idea of being outside in that frigid air? 

He grumbles to himself and folds his arms, hoping to trap some of the heat back in his body while his mother drives confidently to the sounds of jingling bells. 

In the near decade since Jimin has last been home (he doesn’t count the quick stop-ins during longer layovers at the airport or his grandfather’s funeral), his childhood home has gone through enough renovations to disorient him but still create the same pang of nostalgia.

He goes to hang his coat up in the front hall closet and finds that there no longer is one. Instead, it’s an inset wall with a set of drawers tucked away. His parents have a new dog, Bada, who isn’t even all that new. He’s five now, a full fledged member of the family. Bada growls when Jimin walks through the door, but barely lifts his head off the couch cushion to do so before falling back asleep. 

“Are you hungry?” his mother asks as Jimin pads into the kitchen. 

“I ate on the plane,” he replies. His mother turns to him, her face twisted in disgust. 

“Ugh, that’s not food they serve on those things. It’s cardboard! Here, come sit down; I have some rice and mackerel from lunch leftover. And soup. You’re so skinny. It’s time we plump you up.” 

“I’m not skinny. I have a very specific diet and exercise regimen in order to stay light and fast on my feet while on the ice.” 

But his mother has already left to duck into the kitchen, the sounds of the rice cooker turning on making Jimin wonder if she really had leftovers at all. 

When she reappears about twenty minutes later, she comes with an entire filet of hot fish, black beans, radish kimchi, a mountain of rice, some clear broth soup, and cut up pears. 

“Eat! Eat my son!” she orders, and Jimin obeys, his full stomach betraying him over the promise of home cooked food. 

He is about to ask his mother where his father is when he hears the door open, his father bundled up tight with a dusting of snow on his coat. 

“Storm blew in earlier than I thought.” 

“Oh, honey. Come sit. Give me your coat, I'll hang it to dry.” 

With a grunt from his father, he settles next to where his mother was sitting before, casting his eyes across the table. 

“So you finally made it home to see your parents, huh? When’s the last time we saw you in person again?” 

“Uh, I think last summer. When you guys came to visit.” 

A year and a half. That was the last time they’d been partially together as a family. His brother comes home much more frequently, though this Christmas he’s in Hawaii with his girlfriend. 

Lucky bastard. 

“Well, it’s good to see you. How was the flight?” 

“Fine,” Jimin responds awkwardly. 

He and his father haven’t been close since he moved, and he’s gotten used to vague and scripted questions his father often asks. 

His father nods, slurping his soup from his bowl. 

“So did they fire you for being a porn star or is something else bringing you home.” 

His cheeks flood with heat. Of course his father would bring this up. 

“Um no, just suspended for a bit. And I'm not a porn star.” 

His father shrugs and continues eating. “Hey if it’s what you want to do I’m not here to judge. Just wondering what brought you back home after years of trying to convince you. Your mother was so happy to hear from you that she deep cleaned the house.”

A heavy weight of guilt settles in Jimin’s gut. He’s been gone for so long. And while he knows his parents will never wish for anything to be different for him and his career—well, up to this point— the fact still remains that Jimin has been distant and detached since he moved away. He looks over to the curio cabinet that has been filled with his sports memorabilia. A photo of Jimin when he was on his first team, the bulldogs, sits in the back, Jimin’s two front teeth missing as he gives a gummy smile to the camera. 

“It looks great, Eomma,” Jimin says to his mother when she returns, not even blinking an eye to the fact that his father took her spot. 

“Well, thank you. Now eat up, before it gets cold.” 

As the dinner carries on, Jimin learns that his mother has agreed to go to some neighborhood caroling event tonight. 

“Do you even know who is hosting it?” he asks when his mother fails to name anyone associated with the event besides her friend. 

“I’m sure she told me her name but I’ve forgotten. Names are hard to remember when your friend of a friend invites you. Even harder to say no.” 

“But isn’t there a storm happening?” He glances out the window, confirming the heavier sheet of snow blowing around outside. 

“Sure, but that’s no problem. It’ll make it more festive. Walking in a winter wonderland and all that.” 

“We’re already in one. There’s like, a foot of snow out there.” 

Jimin looks to his father, who has since abandoned the conversation for a sudoku puzzle. 

“Well, I need the exercise. If you’re so concerned, you can always come.” 

No. Absolutely not. The idea of caroling in a blizzard sounds like the bottom of the list of his favorite things. That’s just above dying. 

But as he watches his mother bundle up for the snow and move to grab the keys to her dying sedan, something prompts him to snag the keys for the Kia off the hook, and after a few minutes of painfully shoving his body into his former winter wear his mother kept all those years, he walks out into the snow, insisting to his mother that he drive. 

“Hot chocolate has arrived!” you sing, carrying a large steaming carton to the drove of community members who have shown up to bring “Christmas cheer to all”, as your mother has claimed. 

It’s freezing. You have heat packs shoved into just about every nook and cranny of your body. Even as you pour the warm, sweet liquid into cups to be passed around, you have to fight the urge to shiver. 

“Don’t worry, everyone! Once we get our bodies singing and moving, we’ll be warm in no time!” 

“I thought you said there would be a heat shelter we can go to!” someone says among the crowd. 

“Well, not exactly. It’ll be my house! I have my husband getting the snacks prepared now. And a warm, crackling fireplace. So let’s get this carolfest started!” Your mother beams, unfazed by the sour mood that has fallen upon the group.

With a deflated woo, the carolers set off on foot from the parking lot. 

You have been specifically instructed to wait ten minutes past start time in case anyone else shows up. But given how fast the clouds have rolled in to dump more snow on you, you don’t foresee anyone else coming. 

Still, you abide by your mother’s wishes, pulling your hood over your hat and rewrapping your scarf over your nose, hoping that will encourage less heat to escape. 

Just as your timer buzzes for you to ditch the greeter position and catch up to the crowd, you see a Kia pull into the parking lot, two people shuffling out toward you. 

“Did I miss it? Is it over?!” the woman says, panicked. 

“No, no, they just got started. They’re just down here.” You pull out your mother’s hand-drawn map she passed out to all participants at the start, and point to the one block your mother marked with a star for newcomers. “We will be able to catch up to them easily.” 

“Ah, thank you! Thank you! My son is visiting from out of town, so I was a little late.” 

“It’s no issue, really, this is a volunteer activity. I’m just glad you made it in this snowstorm. Would either of you like some hot cocoa? Or hand warmers? I have some extra.” 

“Oh, you’re so sweet. Nothing for me, really, but maybe my son would like some.” The woman pivots her body toward her son, who is still idling by the car, bundled up from head to toe and appears to be staring at you. “Jimin! Come here!” 

The second you hear the name, you freeze. 

No. There’s no way he’s here. Because he never comes home for Christmas. He’s always playing hockey around the holidays. But then you remember. He’s suspended. So where would he be able to hide and wait for his scandal to blow over. Where else could he hide but here?

Slowly, the bundle moves, shuffling his way toward you. You’re prepared for an awkward conversation, for some unenthused hey to leave his lips, but instead he says nothing, just looks at his mother. 

“What?” he asks. His voice is velvety and soft, just like you remember. Even annoyed, it’s a powerless annoyance, one without much heft to sting. 

“Hand warmers. Hot cocoa.” His mother gestures, forcing his gaze to follow her hands and over to you. 

“No thanks,” he says flatly. When his eyes meet yours, they’re empty, and something about how impersonal it is sours your stomach.

Jimin’s mother sighs before turning to you and smiling. “Is this the way we go?” she asks. You cock your head, confused. 

Before you can ask what she’s talking about, Jimin interjects. “Yes, Eomma, it’s this way. Come on. Let’s get this holiday bullshit over with.” 

His mother trudges forward and for a moment you’re too shocked to move. You stand there as the snow continues to float down onto your coat and bare hands, until Jimin speaks again. 

“Uh, hey. You comin’ or…?” 

You blink up at him, still seeing no recognition in his face, no anger, nothing. 

“Oh, uh yeah,” you say, quickly depositing the leftover hot z cocoa and maps into your car and matching your pace to Jimin’s. “So, um, how have you been?” 

You don’t risk looking at him, insteading focusing on placing your feet carefully into the snow. 

“Fuck, it’s cold,” he says, not quite answering your question. 

“Oh. Yeah, it is.” You pull a heat warmer out of your pocket. “Here, take this.” 

He eyes it for a moment, then relents, taking the heat pack from your warm palm. “Thanks.” 

The crunch of snow under you sounds loud, an occasional crack as you step on a patch of ice fills the silence. 

“So, you’re home for the holidays?” you ask lightly. 

He snorts. “Something like that. Although you’ve probably heard everything on the news already.” 

“Something like that,” you parrot, turning the corner of the parking lot to head down the side street you know the carolers will be on. Mrs. Park has outpaced the both of you, already joining the cluster of people on the far end of the block. 

“Are you home for the holidays too?” he asks and you frown, clearing your throat. 

“Oh, um, not really. I live here. Well not here, here, but in town.” 

“Right. Hm. Well…cool. And you grew up here?” 

You stop dead in your tracks, turning toward him. 

“What?” he asks, facing you. His plump lips look even more rosy in the cold, and his nose has gotten red to match. 

“Don’t do this. Don’t pretend you don’t know me.” 

His eyes flick across your face and he furrows his brow. “Why?.” 

“What do you mean why? You know damn well why.” 

He kicks at the snow under his foot. “Well, I mean we were good at pretending we didn’t know each other for so long, Y/N,” he says sharply. “So you’ll have to forgive me if that’s an old habit.”

Your heart sinks, and you shove your tongue into your cheek. “Right. Forget the fact that you were the one who initiated it. But the truth is that I do know you, Jimin. Your mom seems nice, by the way.” 

His head snaps up and he glares at you. “Are we just going to pick up on the same argument from a decade ago? I might have initiated but you’re the one who shut me out and never let me know what was going on. I think then, maybe it makes sense to say I don’t know you. And you may have read everything the tabloids have said about me, but let’s make one thing clear. You don’t know me, anymore, Y/N. You know nothing about me at all. So don’t start acting like you do.” 

His voice is cold, this time a true seething annoyance and anger leaking out of his words. 

You blow air through your lips. “Wow, yeah I guess I don’t. The Jimin I used to know wouldn’t jump down my throat the second that I ask him if he’s home for the holidays. Some hot headed macho temper you’ve got there.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Y/N.” 

He begins to stomp off toward the crowd, but clearly thinks better of it as he waits for you to catch up. 

“Temper tantrum over?” you say sarcastically, and he grumbles under his breath. “What was that?” 

“I said it wasn’t a temper tantrum. You’d be pissed too if your hockey career was pulled away from you because someone couldn’t keep shit to themselves.” 

Your mouth drops open, and while your stomach churns, all you can do is laugh, your laughter forcing you to misstep in the snow and land right on your ass, which only leads to more laughter. 

“What is wrong with you?” Jimin says, his eyes cast down on you judgingly. 

“Oof, man, I haven’t had a laugh like that in forever. A good joke coming from you of all people.” 

You pull yourself up from the snow, ignoring his outstretched hand in front of you. 

“I don’t think it’s all that funny.” 

“Yeah, well, you really should learn to lighten up,” you say, dusting the clods of snow from your legs. ”And work on that temper of yours.” 

“You sound like my coach,” he says, lifting his eyebrow. “Did he send you to watch me?” 

You squint your eyes at him. “Huh?”

“Forget it. Let’s get this shit over with so I can go dethaw in the comfort of my own home.” 

“Oh yes, heaven forbid Mr. Heatmeiser is out in the snow for any longer.”

Jimin is pretty sure that he’s a lost cause when it comes to redeeming himself as a somewhat decent person. 

He’s not sure what compelled him to lie and pretend he didn’t know you. Maybe it’s because when he stepped out of the Kia and he realized it was you, his throat dried up. Over the last decade, he’s distracted himself from thoughts about you and what happened when he left home. How much it destroyed him when you stood in front of him during one of the last days of warm weather and called it all off. 

He was so in love with you. So in love even though you were his biggest competition. Someone who had just as much of a chance at going pro as him. Maybe even more so. And while your town was too big to know everyone, but too small to not recognize people, Jimin had always known you. Had watched you on the rink practicing for your figure lessons while he waited for junior hockey practice. And how slowly your movements became less dainty and more powerful, less whimsical and more fierce as you dashed around the ice to be faster than everyone else. 

One day you were tossed into hockey with him, but as you both grew older and your bodies shaped themselves around different figures of puberty, it led to the eventual discontinuation of co-eds. 

His mother wouldn’t remember you. Because Jimin never told his strict parents that he was breaking the rules and went to your home games when his schedule allowed it in high school. That in the spring of his senior year, he finally got the guts to ask you out after he heard you’d broken up with your shitty boyfriend. That nearly every night after the first date he spent sneaking in through your bedroom window or driving you around in his car with the windows down. 

When he said he was going to practice, you always were in the parking lot waiting for him, your skates and gear ready for you two to practice drills and place bets on who could win in a shoot-out, only for him to buy you a blue raspberry slushie an hour later as you glowed from your victory, poking your stained tongue out at him to tease him. 

He loved that flavor when he tasted it on you. How many of those sweet kisses had turned hot and filthy, leading to your little whimpers and cute little sighs as he thrust into you in his back seat when everyone had left for the night? 

You told him you hadn’t told anyone you were together either. Not because your family wouldn’t understand, but because if word got out in this town, the chances of someone telling Jimin’s parents would mean the end of your relationship. It was easy, you said, to let things be private and just for you. 

Which is why the breakup felt like an unexpected death sentence when it happened. You’d both been scouted by Coach, and Jimin was certain you were going to be the one signed to the Bells. 

But then you’d both gone to a grad party for a classmate in August. And much like every other social event, you’d agreed to not be too friendly together, to not rock the boat of parental expectations or be a part of the town gossip. So you went to the party with your separate friend groups, danced around each other but never with each other. When one of the girls drunkenly stuck her tongue down Jimin’s throat, you watched without jealousy. And when Jimin begged on the walk to his car for you to forgive him, you’d laughed and said easily that there was nothing to forgive because he didn’t consent to the kiss.

But after that night, after you showered him with plenty of kisses in many places he did consent to and closed the door to his car, everything shifted. 

Suddenly, you were absent from try-outs and had texted Jimin saying you were sick. When he offered to come over, you replied that he needed to stay away for a bit. He’d tried to talk to you, but you often left his texts on read. After two weeks of pseudo ghosting, he had finally had enough.  

This wasn’t what you did. Something was clearly wrong. And after hearing that day that he’d officially been selected to contract with the Bells, he needed answers. He drove over to your house and snuck into your bedroom when your light was on. 

You were sitting on your bed, hair neat and dressed comfortably, with no signs of ailment despite what you’d said before. 

“So you’re feeling better I see. You don’t look very sick,” he said, bewildered at how normal you seemed. 

“It wasn’t that kind of sickness,” you’d replied, teeth gritted as you turned down the volume of your TV. 

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lie to me?” His anger had started building, lifting the volume of his voice to above the whisper-level policy that you’d both implemented. 

“Shhh, my parents will hear you.” 

“Fuck it! Let them hear me! It’s stupid to keep this shit a secret anymore!” 

Your jaw had dropped. You had looked at him with venom. “I was only keeping it a secret for you!” 

“Why? Why then was that a secret you could keep between us but you couldn’t even tell me what’s been going on! Are you mad about the party? About that kiss?” 

By that point, both of you were talking loudly, and Jimin had heard your parents call up to ask you who was in your room. 

“Don’t worry about it!” you called back, returning to your argument. “I can’t believe you think I’m mad about that when I told you it was fine!” 

“What do you expect me to think when that’s the last time I saw you? The last time things were normal between us, Y/N?” 

“Nothing between us has ever been normal, Jimin.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“We’re rivals. Competition for each other. You really think that this would hold up if either of us went pro? How would that work? The sore loser just carts themselves behind the other and sits on the sidelines despite their dream being crushed?”

“What? Baby, that’s crazy. Is that how you would feel if I was signed?” 

“Maybe, but maybe you’d feel that way.” 

“Y/N, I wouldn’t. I would be so happy for you. And maybe I would still have my chance too. To get signed for another team or–” 

“And then be on opposite schedules in different places? Really? You think that would work out?”

“It could! Why are you being this way? Did you fake being sick because you’ve been rotting in here thinking about things that haven’t even happened yet?” 

You shook your head. “No, I was sick but it’s whatever now. Anyway, I know you were signed today. Coach called me.” 

An early fall breeze blew through the open window, settling the heat between you. 

“I haven’t signed yet,” he said quietly.

“You will.” 

“Maybe I won’t!” 

“Oh be serious for one fucking second, Jimin. All summer you’ve talked about this. This is your dream. This has always been your dream.” 

“Yeah well that was before you! Before this.” 

“What is this?” 

“Love! I’m in love with you. I want to spend every day of my life with you, don’t you know that? Since we were kids on the ice, when you were a failed ice skater because you were too gruff. Don’t you love me?” 

Tears had welled up in your eyes, but you didn’t move from your bed. 

“You can’t give up on hockey Jimin.” 

“I’m not going to, Y/N. Now tell me, do you love me, too?” 

He sat down on the edge of your bed, looking over at you sadly. He wanted so badly to hold you, to wipe away your tears, but he knew if he moved any closer, you’d be sure to kick him out. He sat anxiously as you silently looked at him, more tears spilling forward. 

“You need to leave.”

“Then tell me you don’t love me. If you say that, I’ll climb through that window and I promise I will never bother you again.” 

“Stop it. Please, just go home.” 

“What is wrong? What happened? I don’t understand. We were fine. Please, tell me.” 

The desperation in Jimin’s voice cracked him open, tears falling down his face too. 

“It’s over, Jimin. I’m breaking up with you.” You didn’t look him in the eye as you said it. Instead your eyes were fixed on your shelf above your dresser, decorated with trophies, team photos, and medals from your years of hockey. Noticeably gone from that shelf was the stuffed purple whale he’d gotten you from an arcade that summer. 

When he looked around, that’s when he noticed every trace of him was gone from your bedroom. The little things you’d put there as symbols of your relationship like postcards he’d written love letters to you on the back of, a small picture you kept by your bedside of your reflections in the water, and the dried flowers from the field off the highway he’d picked for you the day his car stalled on your way into the city. Almost like every trace of him was gone.

“Y/N? I’m coming in.” The sound of your father opening your door pulled Jimin off your bed, wiping his tears as he turned toward the window. 

When your father saw him –and as Jimin assumed, you– he cleared his throat. “I think it’s time for you to go, son.” 

With one glance back, Jimin looked at you, pleading for you to return his gaze. And as he for the first and last time walked out of your bedroom door, you looked up at him. Your eyes were filled with an agonizing sadness. One that answered every question he asked that night. You loved him. But that somehow, didn’t mean anything. 

Now, as he stands in the deep snow looking out across the frozen pond in his parents’ backyard, Jimin can taste the memory on his tongue. Not just of you, even though since he’s gotten home from caroling with his mother he’s been obsessively replaying the memories he thought he put to rest. But he also is remembering his first time skating on the pond. 

Back then, it felt like it stretched on for miles, but back then Jimin was also about half his height and terrified the ice was too thin. Over time, he’s learned how to get a better idea of the ice’s thickness and safety, but even if he fell in, the water in the pond is only 4 feet deep. 

Carefully, he takes the shovel to the surface, trying to scrape away at the layer of snow that has caked over the ice. He knows by tomorrow the snow will just be another layer of thicker ice to reinforce itself, but he can’t wait. 

After shoveling, he returns to the bank and props himself on the old log bench his father put on the edge of the water, replacing his boots with his skates. It feels so natural and right to lace himself back into them, though the missing bulk and weight of his padding feels out of balance. Still, he pulls himself up, shuffling over to the pond and shifting his weight forward to feel it out. 

It takes a moment to get used to the rougher ice. It reminds him of the time the zamboni driver was on paternity leave and the roughed up edges from practice after practice made it harder to glide across. Yet this is the pond he first learned to skate on. He knows its bends, how to steady himself among it. And once he feels the ice glide easier under him, it feels like a giant weight has been lifted off his shoulders. 

“Do you think they’ll want wreath cookies or tea cakes? Or those ones with the snowmen cutouts! Ooh, we should get those while we’re here, too, just in case.” 

Your mother has been leading you down aisle after aisle of the grocery store, nervously questioning every decision she’s made for her Christmas party. After the lackluster turnout post- caroling, she decided she wanted to try again, and for some reason has decided that the selection of cookies was the reason for low turnout, not the record-breaking snowstorm occurring during it. 

Unlike yesterday, when you were forced to carol alone, you managed to lie to Minho about needing to get a few things from the store and wanting to hear about his date, waiting until he got in the car to inform him that you would be meeting your mother at the store. 

You sigh as you turn the heavy cart around, back in the direction of the dairy section from where you just came. “They’ll be back here. I’ll go get them.” 

But her attention is focused more on the list in front of her, so you wheel the heavy load through the masses of shoppers, Minho grumbling behind you about how much he hates you. 

“Listen, now that we’re away from my mother, you can give me all the juicy details. How was the Thai food? How was downtown? Did you kiss?”

“I don’t think you deserve to know,” he pouts, pretending to stall at the discounted advent calendars.

“Look, I have stuff to tell you too, so let this be an equal exchange of tea.” 

“Y/N, I don’t want to hear about whatever some loser said to you on a dating app about hat trick record holders.” 

You arrive at the section with the pre-cut cookie dough. Minho snags two boxes and holds them up, trying to make you pick between the Rudolphs and the Christmas trees. After a second deliberating, he puts both in the cart, knowing your mother will be pleased with his decision making. 

“It’s not about dating apps. It’s about Park Ji-”

“Hi!” A bright voice chirps close by, and you jump, focusing on the source. You whirl around to see Mrs. Park waving with a tree shaped butter mold in her hands. Standing behind her at the handle of the cart is Jimin. 

“Oh, hi Mrs.Park,” you say, your voice strained. “How are you?”

Mrs. Park smiles at the question. “Good! Please tell your mom I had a fun time yesterday. Lots of good singing! Especially you. Are you a professional?” 

Minho snorts behind you, causing you to elbow him in the stomach. 

“No no. I’m really not good. I’m not a professional by any means.” 

“Oh, I see. Well, what do you do for work then? Is this your husband? He’s very handsome.”

Your eyes widen in horror as you realize she’s talking about Minho. 

You try not to look at Jimin, but you do, and he still wears the same blank expression from yesterday, only his jaw is set and the tips of his ears are red. He looks back and forth between you and Minho, almost like he’s trying to imagine you two together. 

“Oh, you’re really sweet, but, no. I’m not her husband. Neither of us are married.” Minho pipes up, his hand gently rubbing up and down your back. Somehow, you know he has pieced what you were about to say together, and the comfort of his touch makes you feel a little less like running at full speed out of the store. 

Jimin’s blank expression has turned into a glare. 

You clear your throat, not only drawing his gaze up to you but also his mother’s. 

“I, um, I own the ice arena. So I am usually there, sorting out bills and repairs. Or driving the zamboni. When I have downtime I play offense in our hockey league.” 

This seems to draw Jimin’s attention. “You own the arena?” 

“Yeah, the Lee family who owned it? Both of them passed away a few years ago. None of their children wanted it, so I bought it from them about two years ago.” 

Jimin frowned. “Oh no, that’s so sad. They always gave me extra time to practice and always had those licorice laces at the food counter. Remember the time we–”

His mouth snaps shut as he realizes his mistake. His eyes flash to his mother, who is looking between the two of you. “Oh! Then you must know each other!” she says ecstatically. 

You raise your eyebrows at Jimin expectantly. What narrative is he going to choose?

“Yes, Eomma. Y/N and I went to high school together. And we saw each other a lot.”

“Yeah, something like that,” you say, quietly challenging him even now to say the whole truth. He responds with a shake of his head. His mother doesn’t notice. 

“Oh, how nice! Such a shame my son never mentioned knowing you before. He could be the one shopping with you now if he had gotten you sooner instead of your husband! But, my son was always so focused on sports. Do you know the UHL? He’s on a team there!” 

Something twinges in you at the mention of the truth. You know Jimin never mentioned you, as that was part of your arrangement. But the thing his mother says about getting you sooner really throws you. 

“She knows, Eomma. She of all people will know about the UHL. She had tried out during the same trials as me.” 

“Is that so? Well, a pity that he beat you then. He’s always been so talented. I guess fate really made things work out for both of you then.” 

You find yourself folding your lips into a thin line, trying to avoid spilling the details about her son’s talent. But just as you wrap your hands around the cart rails until your knuckles pop, you feel MInho reach over you, loosening the cart from your grasp. 

“Hey, uh, you know, your mom is probably looking for us,” he says, introducing the bait that you can take to escape the increasingly painful conversation. 

As if summoned, your mother appears, rambling on about how long it has taken before she recognizes who is standing in front of her.

“Oh, well hello there! It’s great to see you again. Thank you for attending yesterday, it was wonderful having you. Too bad you missed the post-caroling cookies!” 

You sigh, knowing that your mother is sounding passive aggressive to anyone within earshot. 

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry we couldn’t attend. My son had just flown in earlier in the day, so we went home after so he could rest.” 

Your mother’s smile falls a little, no doubt from the guilt. 

“Of course! Well, no harm done. In fact, I’m having a soirée on Christmas Eve, and you should attend! Bring the whole family!” 

You glance back at Minho, whose mouth is pursed to hold back a laugh, much like yours. A soirée. Sure.

“I don’t know Eomma, we still have–” 

“It sounds amazing!” Mrs. Park interrupts, shooting a harsh look at her son. “We would love to attend, thank you.” 

“Perfect, I’ll email you the details then. Well, we should get going. These cookies won’t bake themselves!” 

As you peel yourself away from the Parks, you take a deep breath. 

“Well,” Minho says, “I don’t think I need to hear your story anymore.” 

“Well, there’s something more I need to tell you, but not here.” 

When you first met Jimin, you were seven, though you don’t remember him. While he once claimed he’s known you for forever, it wasn’t until you were both teenagers before you actually remembered him. 

In high school, you’d laid low, avoiding just about every social event that you possibly could. Your focus was on academics and the ice, with 5am wake times to get to the arena to practice, and late nights doing extra cram school sessions to keep your grades in shape despite your busy schedule. You had friends, but they were ones who lived in different cities, most of them commuting to your traveling team. Because co-ed hockey wasn’t an option and your high school had only invested in boys’ leagues, Park Jimin wasn’t someone on your radar. 

Until you’d learned that you were on his. 

It started in the early spring. Rumor had it that major league coaches were scouting for new recruits. Of all genders. There was a special trial process, and the trials would happen during the summer, with a potential for newly contracted players to begin their rookie season as soon as the fall. 

You’d tried not to get too excited. With an early decision college acceptance under your belt, your future was already looking bright. There was even an athletic scholarship attached. You could play on the women's team. But the potential of playing for the UHL, to be scouted and live out your dream to play hockey professionally was still filling your stomach with butterflies. 

So you kept yourself chill until the rumor became official, and marched into the arena you knew so well with your head high, ready to take on the other recruits. 

It was then that you and Jimin officially met. 

He was a bit scrawny looking then, his mop of black hair almost shadowing his face. It was hard to believe that this kid was the one you knew to be the MVP of the boy’s hockey team at your school. 

But once you saw him move, you understood why. Jimin had the form and movement almost of a dancer, with his build keeping him strong but light on his feet to race forward and snake around even the most complex of defense measures. He instinctively knew how to bend his body and stick away from a targeted maneuver, and cut swiftly enough to throw off the goalie and score. He would have made a great figure skater. 

You, however, were different. From the start, the grace of figure skating wasn’t with you, with your skates sloppily digging into the ice so you could chase after the object of your affection. A little brutish, you were also cunning, and the strategy of hockey and the game board that laid before you made it all the more satisfying. Your patience and ability to unfold a game play before it fully manifested often led to your team’s win. 

It also made playing against Jimin all the more intriguing. 

Because during each scrimmage, shoot-out, and obstacle you faced for the try-outs, Jimin was often neck-in-neck with you, somehow knowing your own plan of attack, and sliding the puck out of your hold as if he was plucking a feather from a pillow. It appeared so effortless, like he’d studied you for so long and knew your every movement. When he would shrug and give you an angelic smile during his wins over you, it made you all the more angry. 

One day after a scrimmage, you were stressed and hormonal and pissed. Some of the other players had gotten under your skin, shit-talking you for being the only woman on the team. 

“You sure you aren’t on some steroids or some shit? Performance enhancement can happen to everyone.” 

“I’m sure your daddy taught you quite a bit when you played on your little ponds, sweetheart. But this is the big leagues. There’s guys out there three times your size who will ruin that pretty little face.” 

“Are you sure you’re cut out for this? The position of Puck Bunny is open. If you want to experience hockey with the pros, might as well be safely bouncing on my cock to do so.” 

The sexism was rampant in hockey, and you knew it. But that was a day where it was too much. With graduation on the near horizon, just breaking up with your boyfriend, and the scouting day schedule being released soon, your nerves were as tired as your body. 

When Jimin found you crying in your car outside of the arena, he’d gently knocked on your window, a light smile warming his face as he held up a protein shake and a Kit Kat. 

You’d let him in, and from there, your whole world shifted. 

The days grew longer, the sun warming parts of your life you’d forgotten winter took away. Jimin was there to listen, to sit and strategize plays with you, to eat Subway sandwiches after practice and walk you to your car after school. 

“Hey, so, there’s this movie coming out. It’s a documentary, actually, about my favorite player, Lee Wonhyuk? Would you, uh, like to see it with me?” 

You knew that was his favorite player. He mentioned Wonhyuk nearly every day, and wore his jersey when he wasn’t in his own padding. You also had learned other things about Jimin during this time, like how the tips of his ears would turn red when he was embarrassed, and that his parents had a no dating policy because he was supposed to have an arranged marriage some day. He dreamed of leaving the town you both grew up in, wanting more for himself and hoping the distance from his family would allow for him to be more himself than simply fulfilling the dreams of his parents. 

He wanted it so badly he repeated it like a mantra to you often, it sometimes sounding like a plea to the heavens as tears fell from his eyes. 

He had a tooth that was a little crooked, and sometimes when he was tired, his voice would lisp a little. When he laughed, it was often with his full body, a cute giggle that scrunched up his face and folded him nearly in half with joy. He was allergic to cats but loved them. He had a brother. He learned to skate on the pond in his backyard. 

But he never bragged. Never let his anger get him on the ice. Was respectful to you and held open doors or carried your equipment bag when your shoulder hurt. 

So of course you said yes to the date. Of course you let him tuck your hair behind your ear and kiss you in the warm night, his breathy finally he sighed when your lips broke apart ensuring you’d made the right call about him. 

“So you were seeing each other in secret,” Minho says, drinking his Americano smoothly, like it isn’t a pile of caffeinated sludge. 

“Yes,” you respond, the cinnamon on top of your gingerbread latte making you cough slightly. 

The café’s window is foggy, but you can still make out the figures of bustling shoppers. For the sake of discretion, you agreed to Minho’s suggestion to go into the big city for “decent coffee and the ability to be strangers in a larger public”. 

He was right. Everyone is either deep in their own discussions or blocking out the world with headphones as they work on their laptops. The soft jazz Christmas music makes it feel safer to speak your secrets into the air. 

“Well, then what happened? What led to you breaking up? It sounds like you two were in love.” 

“We were…I think” you say, correcting yourself immediately after. 

“You think?” 

“Can you be in love when you’re nineteen?” 

“Uh, yes? Nineteen is young, but have you seen the teens these days? I think they have emotional maturity.” 

“Well, I didn’t, I guess. Because that summer was so intense. We graduated, but we were already together. And then we were hanging out with our own friend groups and trying to balance things. But we saw each other just about every day. And then it was almost like an obsession. We were unable to go a singular day without each other. He would sneak into my room to be with me at night and then leave before either of us had to get up to go to practice. We didn’t want to get caught, so we would makeout behind the movie theater in his car or drive to a more secluded part of the woods so we could…you know.” 

“Have sex? Come on, Y/N, don’t get all shy on me now when I know you were eating up the details about me taking my date the other night and eating her out while she–” 

“Shh!” You look around, but if anything, your shushing is the thing that drew attention. 

“You’re such a prude,” Minho laughs. “Anyway, go on. So you would sneak around, make love, and spend every hour with each other possible. Sounds like you were being nineteen.” 

“Well, it was intense. And once the coaches came it was rigorous and terrifying. Jimin was getting better and stronger, but I was constantly getting slower and I felt weaker. At first I thought I was just tired, like I’d overworked myself, but then I was getting more anxious and nauseous. So I just assumed that it was nerves. But I was playing pretty good and I was drawing attention from the coaches in a great way. Well, one in particular. The coach for the Bells. He was the only one who seemed to be interested in signing a woman.” 

“Well, yeah, because we live in a hellish and misogynistic society and you kick ass!” Minho says enthusiastically, pounding his hand onto the table. 

A woman carrying her tiny Pomerainian in her purse whips her head over. “Do you mind? Snowball is trying to get her beauty sleep.” 

“Sorry,” you both say in unison. 

“Anyway, yeah, I was so excited about the opportunity. And so was Jimin. He kept going on and on about playing on the same team as his idol. But Coach approached me one day after practice and told me that despite there being another three weeks in the trial period, he’d already made his decision. He wanted to sign me on for the fall season. And he would see through the process to be fair, but he had already contacted the legal team to begin drawing up my contract.

“And I had to keep it a secret. While it’s kind of known that coaches do this, they usually keep it to themselves. But Coach said that he hadn’t seen the strategy his team needed in their play execution for quite some time and I would be a huge asset to the team. I’d asked about Jimin, too, out of curiosity but he kind of skirted around the details, saying that there would only be one recruit for the team from this area.” 

“Oh my god, that’s incredible! So why didn’t you go through with it? What did Jimin say when you told him?” 

“I didn’t,” you shake your head, fiddling with the cupsleeve of your latte. “I couldn’t. Not only was I sworn to secrecy basically, but how was I supposed to tell the person who adored the Bells that he wasn’t going to play for them? How could I crush his dreams like that? He needed this. Not only because he wanted it, but he was good at it. As much as I hated to admit my shitty opponents were right, I physically was going to be one third of the size of my competitors sometimes and there is a danger in hockey.” 

“Okay, but it’s not like Jimin is some massive dude.” 

“No, but you’ve seen how graceful he is. He slips out of the hold of the other team fairly easily. I’ve only seen him get body checked recently, when he got whatever that temper is he now is known for. He wasn’t like that at all when we were younger.” 

“Did he find out? Is that how things ended?” 

You shook your head. “I never told Jimin about this meeting. Maybe he knows now and that’s why he’s always pissed whenever he sees me, I don’t know. But there’s multiple reasons why I didn’t sign on, and yes there’s that part I just told you about, but there was more to it than that.” 

Minho sips his coffee, gesturing for you to continue. 

“So, as the week went on, my stomach was hurting more and more. And with all the stress and nerves but all the crazy workouts, I’d been skipping my period for a few months. Jimin and I had been safe for the most part, but not always. Sometimes we were too hot and heavy and we’d do the pull-out method instead. But I didn’t ever make the connection. A lot of the time, female athletes who are super physically conditioned have lighter or missed periods. It had happened before, but that was before I was sexually active. Stress, too, can sometimes make you miss periods. So one night Jimin and I went out to this party. Nothing really important happened but some girl threw herself at Jimin and he was worried I’d be upset. I wasn’t, but all-too conveniently I was super sick the next day. I missed practice. And that’s when I started putting the dots together and bought a test that was clearly positive.” 

“Oh my god, Y/N. What?” 

“Yeah,” you chuckled, taking a deeper sip of your drink. “Pregnant. And for a little while actually. When I got into the clinic and they took the blood tests and ultrasound, they suspected I was about 8 weeks along. Which means I had been drinking, getting body checked, and all sorts of shit during that time. But, they said it was still viable.” 

“Did you want it to be viable? I mean, how did you feel? Scared, I can imagine.” 

Your lips curve into a soft smile. “I don’t think I really gave myself much time to decide how I felt besides that I was terrified and that this was happening at the worst possible time. I asked for an abortion right then and there. So they sent me home with the pills, and I just waited. It takes a few days, and god, honestly it was awful to experience alone. I didn’t tell anyone, because if I told my parents I was afraid they would ask whose it was, and I didn’t want that to get back to Jimin’s parents. So, I just spent about a week at home, saying I had a really heavy period this time, experiencing heavy cramps and crying and letting it pass. The following week I had to go back in and make sure it worked, but in that time I just laid low and didn’t talk to anyone. 

“My parents didn’t suspect much, but Jimin was freaking out, thinking I had some infectious disease and threatening to come over every five minutes with soup or a Hazmat suit. I didn’t want him to be there, though. If he knew I was pregnant, I knew it would throw him off. He’d be worried about me even more and start thinking about us having babies together and getting old and staying in this town.” 

“I can understand why you didn’t tell him, I do. But I do wonder what’s so wrong about letting him think about those things too.” Minho reaches his hand out gently, stroking his fingers on the back of your hand. “I’m not saying what you did is wrong in any way, Y/N. It’s your body and always your choice matters the most. But based on how you described him to me before, do you think he would have thrown it all away or tried to make you keep the baby? Do you think that your decision and his wouldn’t be aligned in that way?” 

You think for a minute. “No, I think he would have been on my side. He was really adamant on letting me be independent and pursuing what was best for myself. I just couldn't give him the option at the time. I was too focused on making sure things went right for him.” 

Minho smiles softly and nods. “I just hate that you went through that alone.” 

“I do too. But I’m glad I can finally talk about it. I did end up telling my parents, about a year or so later, that I had an abortion. I didn’t say whose it was, but my mom cried for like three days because she was so sad for me that I went through it alone.” 

“Is that why you turned down the offer, then? Were you okay after?” Minho furrows his brow with concern. 

“Oh, I was fine after about two weeks. I felt completely back to normal. And it wasn’t really that reason that I turned the offer down. I mean, it was a part of it, obviously, but mostly when I was having the abortion and was alone at home I was thinking about how fucked up life is. I was a normal teenager and then shit I was pregnant. I was in love with someone but oh god we were almost parents. We were breaking rules despite being adults. We were living in secret and baby or no baby, life was going to change for us and soon. If I was signed to the Bells, I would be leaving home, but what about Jimin? Would he come with me, stay back? Would he get other offers and we’d play on opposing teams? If I said no and he said yes, would he seriously be okay coming back and seeing me or trying to figure things out while I was away at school? 

“Keep in mind, at that time, I didn’t realize my deferment was me rescinding my scholarship. I just suddenly felt like the world was so, so big and the tiny, romantic solitude we’d coveted was not going to work out. So I made up my mind. I turned down the offer for the Bells. I told Coach the world wasn’t ready for a woman in professional hockey and told him about Jimin and his drive and passion and dreams. I told him to sign him instead. Or at least I hoped I told him. I was really laying it on thick,” you laugh. 

“And then you broke things off with Jimin,” Minho finishes. You frown softly. 

“Yeah. And it was awful. He begged me not to. He didn’t know where all this was coming from. He told me he’d only leave if I told him I didn’t love him, but I couldn’t do that. Eventually my dad busted into my room and sent him away. And that was it. That was the last time we talked or saw each other.” 

“Until now.” 

“Until now,” you confirm. 

‘Well fuck, Y/N, that’s one hell of a story.”

“I’ll say.” 

Your head pivots to the Pomeranian lady, who is turned toward you and Minho, sipping her coffee indulgently. 

“You were eavesdropping that entire time?” you ask. 

“Well, it’s not like you were being discreet. Either way, honey, these kinds of places absorb everyone’s biggest secrets. That’s what makes the coffee so good.” 

When Minho dropped you off at your house, you felt like a huge weight had been lifted off your chest. After years of holding onto something that wasn’t necessarily shameful but still heavy, someone else knowing the full story was relieving. 

However, one question he asked before leaving has been popping around in your head, taking up a residence that you weren’t quite expecting, even as you unlock the doors to the ice arena the next morning.

“Are you going to tell him?” 

Had Jimin not been only mere miles away from you at this very moment, you would say no. There’s no point in bringing up the past if it’s never around to haunt you. But it seems like Jimin is determined to make your small town feel even smaller. 

When he walks through the doors behind Bee, you can’t help but feel like you manifested him. 

“So, Y/N, here’s the deal.” Bee always tells you news this way. A deal, a situation. This is her way of telling you she’s made a decision and you’re probably not going to like it.

“I got a call the other day from the Head Coach of the Bells. I don’t know how, probably Jay gave it to him since he’s the AC but whatever.” Bee suddenly admitting that her long distance boyfriend, Jay–the Jay she has baby talked to multiple times after a game loss– is the Assistant Coach for the Bells is shocking. But not as shocking as what next comes out of her mouth. “He wants us to rehab Park. Drill him, get him back to his roots and all that shit. He’s hoping some time on a familiar rink will help him shape up. So starting today, he’s going to be training with you.” 

You blink silently at Bee, wishing you could communicate “I want to strangle you” through the pattern. 

“What?” Jimin says incredulously. “I thought I was just going to be training with the space, not with her specifically.” 

Bee cocks her head at Jimin. “You got a problem training with women, Park? Because if so, I would be happy to call Jay and let him know you’re not complying.” She smiles viciously. 

Jimin sighs in resignation. “No, ma’am.” 

“Bee,” you say. “That’s not fair. If he doesn’t want to train with us, he doesn’t have to. I have some opening slots since the junior teams and figure skating lessons are on hold until after the new year. He can just come do drills during those times if he wants to.” 

Bee flicks her gaze between you and Jimin, raising an eyebrow. “What’s with you, Y/N? You’ve never disagreed with my plans before. Are you guys ex lovers or something?” 

You suck in a breath, ready to deny the accusation, but Jimin beats you to it. 

“Yeah, actually. We dated in high school.” He says it calmly, with no malice or venom. It actually shocks you a bit. 

“Oh. Well...do you think you two can make it through the holidays without killing each other?” 

Jimin laughs lightly. “I don’t know, you’ve seen her slapshots. I think you know how lethal she can be.” 

Bee smirks, nodding. “Fair.” 

You knit your brows together. Jimin making light jokes to Bee? What reality do you live in? 

“So, Y/N? Can you not enact Kill Jimin at this time?” 

Despite yourself, you find yourself smiling, allowing a light laugh to fall from your lips. 

“Yes, I promise I won’t kill Jimin.” 

Practicing with you feels like a weird dream Jimin is walking through. Familiar because the arena looks about the exact same as it did back when you were teenagers. Only now, you are both older, and when Jimin gets a good look at you without a giant winter parka over your body, he can’t help but notice how good you look. 

Your body has filled in, with wider hips and strong legs that lunge forward with ease, carrying you as you slam the puck into the goal post, chiming in the air before it pivots in. Your ass has gotten bigger, too, and it looks perfect in your leggings you’ve chosen to wear for practice. He can’t see much of your arms due to the bulky hoodie you’ve chosen, but he can tell by the way you bodycheck one of your teammates that they are far from weak. 

It’s almost enough to get him hard. Until he hears you laugh, and then he remembers how long it’s been since he’s experienced your laughter, and the empty ache of his past drags his sulky mood back up. 

Being home sucks. Seeing his parents is great, but he’s been coddled since he got here, being sent off with homemade lunches from his mother and warnings from his father not to stay out too late. He’s almost thirty and he feels sixteen. This morning his mother woke up even before him just so she could corner him in the kitchen and ask if he’d reviewed any of the potential matches she sent him so he can also go on a date while he’s home. 

He’d said not yet, but what he wanted to say was “No, Eomma, because marriage couldn’t be the furthest thing from my mind right now when my career is dying in front of me.” 

Now, witnessing you be still so much of yourself after nearly ten years, Jimin can’t help but feel even worse about himself. 

“Park, you’re up.” Coach Bee whistles for Jimin to begin his drill, handling the puck quicking between a set of cones. It’s a familiar drill he’s done hundreds of times with the UHL, but this time there’s a twist: he must avoid the agitator, a player who will skate behind him tightly, not only trying to intercept the puck, but also piss him off. 

Naturally, you’re the agitator. 

“Before we do this, no low blows,” he says as you glide up to him. “Treat me with the same knowledge any other player would have. Nothing too personal.” 

“Oh, uh, I wasn’t going to, but sure,” you say softly. 

When Coach Bee blows her whistle, he begins, curving his body along the cones, with you right behind him. 

“Pussy,” you say, which catches Jimin off guard immediately, throwing him into a laughing fit and knocking a bunch of cones down.” 

Coach blows her whistle. “Reset! Come on Park, Y/N, be serious.” 

“I am being serious!” you shout back, but Jimin is still laughing hard. 

“Oh come on! Pussy? You’re kidding me!” Jimin wheezes. Your lips twitch. 

“Okay, fine, I haven’t gone into my zone yet. Give me a break.” 

“I know you can be mean,” he says. Your face falls. 

“I don’t want to be mean.” 

“Well that’s your job right now isn’t it? To agitate me? So just suck it up and do it. Or are you a pussy?” He raises an eyebrow. You clench your jaw. 

This is how he knows he’s got you. All it ever used to take was a little bit of a challenge to rile you up. And Jimin knows just what buttons to push. 

“Reset your shit and let’s go,” you say. 

He smirks. 

This time when Coach Bee blows her whistle, you’re practically on top of Jimin, careening your body so your stick is just millimeters away from his. 

“You know, you used to be hard to crack. What’s wrong? All that fame get to your head? Or was it the fake orgasms you gave that girl in your little sex tape?” 

“Oh, baby, you of all people should know those orgasms were real.” 

“Hmm, I don’t know. You were going awfully hard on the poor girl with your needle dicking. Does being shitty at hockey now amount to being shitty at sex these days?” You smack his hockey stick, causing it to rattle uneasily in Jimin’s grasp. 

He chokes up on the handle, reshaping the curve of his arm so the puck tucks behind the stick when you go in for another slap. 

“Aw you’re asking about sex? Has no one fucked you since me or are you just having awful sex?” he retorts. You scoff. With a twist, Jimin begins the second set of cones, this time with a more fluid movement that feels natural to his body. 

“So interested in my pussy, aren’t you. If you were maybe more attentive to the other people you fuck, you wouldn’t be the worst player in the major league.” 

“As opposed to what? The best player in the minor league? I’m not the one stuck at home.” 

He feels your skate sliding between his legs, the force of your body checking, almost knocking him to the ground. He steadies, glaring at you as you coast behind him gracefully. 

“Oops, sorry. Did I almost trip you?” 

“You always played dirty,” he spits. “Come on, babygirl, give me your worst.” 

You roll your eyes and fall into position as he passes the puck back and forth between his stick. 

“Being awfully quiet back there. What’s wrong, big boys got your ego down?” 

“Hardly. I think you’ve got enough ego for the whole fucking town.” 

“And how did I get it, hmm? It didn’t come from sucking, Y/N, it came from talent. Something you didn’t try hard enough for.” 

“And you did? I’m sure Coach really loves to tell you all about your talent.” 

“He does, he said I had drive and passion and that’s why I needed to come back here. To show how far I’ve come from this shithole. How skilled I am and how much I deserve to be there instead of here.” 

“Well lucky for you to have been the top contender.” Your voice drips with anger, and Jimin peers back to see your eyes piercing through him. You drop your stick, shifting to Coach Bee. 

“Bee, I’m done. Send in someone else to agitate.” You skate off the ice, whispering angrily to her as you jab your finger in Jimin’s direction. She nods, blowing her whistle. 

“Alright, reset! Let’s get this show on the road. Wonpil, you’re with Jimin. Minho, go take goalie position. Hustle! It’s Christmas Eve, we all want to get home!” 

Everyone resets, and the player named Wonpil pulls up behind Jimin. As the fellow players begin their drills, Wonpil immediately jumps in where you left off. 

“God, I can’t believe they let an asshole like you in here,” he says, leering over Jimin’s shoulder. 

Jimin snorts, focusing on his positioning. 

“Seriously, you’re the scum of the entire UHL and you really think you’re the shit? Embarrassing.” 

“Well, at least I have a contract. How's a dinky rink going for you, bud?” 

“You know you only have that contract because Y/N turned it down, right?” 

Jimin grips his stick harder. “Nice lie, you almost got me with it.”

Wonpil laughs, empty and cruel. “Oh you don’t know do you? Your coach scouted her for the Bells. She only turned it down because she was sick and felt bad for you.” 

“You’re lying,” Jimin said, teeth gritting. 

“Sure I am. Keep telling yourself that. But facts are facts, Jimin. You playing like a piece of shit is a disgrace to not just yourself, but everything she built for you too.” 

“Stop. Lying.” Heat flares through Jimin’s body, and he pivots on the ice, slamming his body into Wonpil. 

“Oh, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” Wonpil says, teeth sharp as he smiles at Jimin. “Someone really needs to put you in your place, and I’m more than happy to do it.” 

Jimin grabs Wonpil’s shoulders, jerking him into the barrier. “Go for it, bud. Show me how cool you think you are.” 

Wonpil jerks his arm up to bring his elbow down onto Jimin's face, but something stops him. A hand squeezes his forearm, and as Jimin follows the limb, he sees you.

“Stop it, Wonpil. That’s enough.” Your voice is soft but ragged, and Jimin realizes you’ve been crying.

Somewhere in the background, the whistle is screaming through the arena, and the entire team of the Griffins are streaming forward to break up the fight. But it’s your touch, your voice that seems to break Jimin from his fury. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, but the question confuses you, and you stand there staring at him, your body only looped through one arm of the hoodie, your skates untied. 

You don’t answer, instead skating back off the rink, grabbing your equipment bag and disappearing behind a door marked for employees. 

Jimin doesn’t see you until closing time. While practice ended hours ago, he stayed, doing drills, eating a hot dog from concessions, and most of all, waiting for you. 

Your hair is messy, eyes puffy and red, but when your eyes land on Jimin, you don’t look fazed by his presence. 

“I saw you on the security camera,” you say softly. 

“Ah,” he responds. Your arms are crossed, the long sleeves of your shirt confirming the muscle definition he suspected before. 

“I assume you wanted to talk to me?” you ask. 

Jimin clears his throat, nodding awkwardly. “Um, yeah. Your teammate, Wonpil. What’s his deal?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Does he have it out for me or something?” 

You shrug. “I’m not sure what you mean. Besides you trying to beat the shit out of him. Did something happen?” 

“Well, I didn’t try to beat the shit out of him for nothing. The guy has a screw loose or something. He was saying all sorts of shit.” 

“Didn’t you tell me that this is what the agitator does? Of course he’s going to say shit. Come on, follow me. I need to lock up.” You lead him through the various lobbies and areas around the arena, checking bathrooms and corners for anyone who might be loitering. Jimin saw the last people leave about an hour ago, but he doesn’t say so. 

“Yeah, but this was crazy stuff.” You duck your head into the women’s bathroom. 

“Mhm.” 

“He said that the only reason I’m contracted with the Bells is because you turned it down. Isn’t that nuts?” 

You freeze, your hand on the key that turns off the lights to the south side of the arena. 

“Oh.”

Jimin watches you. Your voice sounds shaken, and when you turn to him, you don’t meet his gaze. 

“Y/N,” Jimin says. 

“Yeah.” 

“Look at me.” You obey. “Is that true? Did you get a contract for the Bells?” 

“I did,” you say. 

Jimin’s chest clenches but he forces a deep breath through it anyway. 

“And did you turn it down so I could go?” 

“Yes,” you say. Tears well up in your eyes. Jimin blinks in disbelief. 

“Why? Why the fuck would you do that? It was your dream and you just threw it away!” Anger pulses through him again, making him flushed and hot. “Why didn’t you tell me? What the fuck, Y/N?” 

“You wanted it more than I did, Jimin! You needed it more than me. What was I supposed to do? Leave you behind?”

“You were supposed to tell me! You were supposed to be honest so I could figure things out for myself! If I wasn’t the first pick, I deserved to know! Now I know I was the pity pick? All this time I was thinking I was chosen because I was wanted, but I wasn’t even good enough for that?” 

He rubs his eyes with his hands, trying to stamp out the burning he feels in them. Despite himself, his throat tightens, and the hot lick of tears begins to fall in mirror to your face. 

“Of course you were good enough! Why else would you have been contracted! He saw in you what I saw!” you yell, a ragged cry leaving your chest. 

“So that’s why you dumped me all those years ago? Was it guilt for what you did?”

“No! No, it was because I couldn’t be the one dragging you down, Jimin. You spent that whole summer telling me how badly you needed to escape. You talked about your dreams, everything. If I went and played for the Bells, would you have been happy for me? Would you have been okay with letting your dream go?” 

“Of course I wouldn’t Y/N! Because you were my dream. You never seemed to get that! All along you were playing with my future like I was your puppet on strings. Did I live up to your expectations? Hm? Is watching me fuck strangers in a threesome that has since ruined my life been a dream for you? Has watching me become the loser that I am been satisfying for your sick idea of reality?” 

“No, it isn’t. It’s been sad, Jimin. It has been absolutely awful to watch! And keep in mind, there’s no way for me to be a puppeteer if I’m not around to pull the strings. You became who you are now by your own hand. Not mine. Yeah, it was wrong of me not to tell you, I know that now. I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair to you. But I’m not responsible for your career failing. That’s all you.” 

You turn the key to the set of lights, shutting the arena down into darkness. 

“Now, excuse me. I have a Christmas Eve party to get to.”

You manage to get the swelling of your eyelids to go down with some cold spoons your mother shoves into the freezer when she sees you arrive at the party. 

You know you’ll have to face Jimin again tonight, but some resolve has washed over you in the time since you left the arena earlier this afternoon. You’ve had time for a shower, and thrown on some makeup so no one can ask you why you’ve been crying. 

With Minho here, things are feeling a little less stifling, as he instinctively knows how to assemble a killer charcuterie board while also wearing a dashing smile on his face when your aunts ask him if he’s single. He’s good for the distraction, giving you more time to mentally prepare for when Jimin walks through the door with his parents, wearing a white button-up shirt and open suitcoat. 

He looks good. Put together, unlike earlier when he and you were crying and screaming at each other. Composed in only the way a celebrity with PR training could. 

“Oh, hello Y/N!” his mother says as you greet them at the door, taking her pea coat into your hands. 

“Hello, thank you for coming. My mom will be happy you’re here.” 

“Thank you, dear. It’s our pleasure to be here. Jimin, help Y/N with our coats while we go put the tapenade on the table.” 

Mechanically, he obliges, taking his and his father’s snow-dusted coats and following you to the spare bedroom down the hall that has become the coat room. 

“You look nice,” he says, nodding in your direction. You chose to wear a sparkly black dress with shooting stars on it. It was one of the few things in your closet you could deem festive enough without being tacky. The only downside is that it’s shrunk in the wash, making your breasts spill over and your ass practically falls out the back when it rides up. 

“Thank you,” you say, trying not to notice too much that his eyes are glued to your chest. You feel a light jolt of warmth in your stomach. “You do too.” 

Jimin flushes, looking down shyly. “Thanks.” 

Without much effort, you turn toward the door, falling back into the warmth of the party. Your mother clinks her glass, drawing the attention of others. 

“Thank you all for attending this party at the last minute,” your mother beams, clearly pleased with the turnout. 

“That being said, we have lots of games at the ready, song sheets with lyrics, and plenty of eggnog and mistletoe to help you feel some holiday cheer.” She looks at you and winks. “So, enjoy! And cheers!” 

The partygoers cheer, and some swingy, festive rendition of “Deck the Halls” kicks on. You retreat to the designated bar table, where Minho is pouring a heavy glass of something. 

“What’s ailing you?” he asks. 

“Jimin,” you scoff, gesturing for him to pour you a shot of vodka. He goes to top it with cranberry juice, but you shake your head. 

“You sure you want to get wasted?” 

“Absolutely. I can’t imagine getting through any of this sober,” you grimace. Minho laughs. 

“Fair point. Cheers.” 

You clink your shot glasses, downing the alcohol quickly. The burn pulls down through your chest, warming you instantly. 

For the next two hours, you and Minho take turns pouring each other drinks before jumping into games like Christmas Pictionary, where your father draws the worst reindeer you’ve ever seen in your life, looking more like a group of sausages on a grill. 

Jimin hovers around, refusing to partake in the fun, and his Grinchy attitude is still weighing on you too. 

When your mother passes out her caroling sheets and your father shoves someone over to the piano, you find yourself stuffed into the corner with him. 

“Having fun yet?” you ask, the alcohol giving you the guts to feel daring enough to speak to him. 

“Is this supposed to be?”

You frown. “God, you’re such a grump. You better be careful, or you’ll be visited by the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future tonight.” 

“I’d say that I’m already experiencing it,” he says, gesturing toward you. “You get to be all three it would seem.” 

You roll your eyes, putting some distance between the two of you. 

At some point, you’re stuck together again. This time near the snack table and you try to pad your stomach with something other than alcohol. As you load your plate with salami roses and lots of different cheeses and vegetables, Jimin reaches over you, grabbing the bag of potato chips and depositing some of his plate. 

“Here,” he says, when he sees you struggle to balance your stash, and he carries it into the kitchen so you can eat against the counter in peace. 

“Um, thank you,” you say, and pop a tomato into your mouth. 

“About earlier,” he says. Something in his voice sounds less tense than before, and it prompts you to look at him, taking in the softness of his face. 

“Yeah?”

“I was being an asshole,” he finishes. “I’m sorry. I just…it was a shock is all. And a bit disappointing.” 

“It’s okay to be upset,” you say, dusting your hands off on a napkin. “And I’m sorry, too. It wasn’t right of me. I know it’s not an excuse, but I was really young at the time and I was scared.” 

“I was scared too,” Jimin says, lifting his eyes to look at you. “God, leaving here was terrifying.” 

The room is warm from all the crockpots still heating the various delights your parents have encouraged others to serve. Jimin’s face is rosy, and he looks almost like a teenager again.

You nod. “I can only imagine. A new place to start from scratch. Trying to get a hang of everything and be independent. You were practically a kid.” 

“I was,” he smirks. “We both were.” 

“Yeah,” you smile. 

“I do have another question, if that’s okay,” he says quietly. 

“Sure.” You bite down on a piece of cheese, chewing softly.

“When you broke up with me, you said something about how if you got the contract you were worried that I would be miserable. Was that why you did it? Didn’t take it.” 

You sigh. “It was more complicated than that.” 

“How so?” 

In the living room someone whoops as the partygoers sing along to “Jingle Bell Rock”. 

“Not here, let’s go somewhere more private.” 

He follows you into the guest room where you left your coats earlier. The room feels colder than the rest of the house, since the door has been closed despite the groups of people warming the living room. 

You sit. Jimin sits, too, though on the far side of the bed. 

“Well, I guess that me worrying about you was part of it. But I think looking back, I was also worried about myself. We had such a hot and heavy summer and this contract felt like a huge question mark over both of our futures. And we’d never talked about it. While I was at home, I just kept twirling the idea of how things would work out over and over in my head.” 

“Did you skip trials because of it? I had no idea you were so anxious. When I saw you and you didn’t look sick, I thought you’d lied. I never considered that you would have made yourself sick with all of that.” 

“Um, well that wasn’t fully it.” His composure takes you by surprise. “The week of the party. The one you assumed I got mad at you for? I was kept after practice by your coach. He said that while the try-outs weren’t done, he had made his choice. He picked me. And I had to keep it a secret from everyone. Including you.” 

Jimin folds his lips into a line. “Ah, I see.” 

“But, I also had been feeling really shitty. Nausea, heightened anxiety, stress related stuff. Missing periods and stuff, which I know I told you some about. But the day after the party, I felt really bad. And then I finally realized what was wrong. Um…I was pregnant.” 

Jimin’s eyes flare wide. “What?” 

“Yeah. Turns out a lot of my symptoms were signs of pregnancy. And you and I weren’t exactly careful a lot of the time.” 

Heat floods to Jimin’s face, and you watch as his ears turn pink. “No, we weren’t.” 

“I knew I couldn’t have a baby. I wasn’t really thinking what you would want in that but–” 

“What I would have wanted doesn’t matter.” 

You smile, some warmth spreading to your chest over your instinct being right. “Well, thanks. I got an abortion. And then I turned down the contract. I was going to go to school but I guess my deferment resulted in me losing my scholarship.” 

Jimin stares at you, unmoving. 

“You okay? I’m not shocking you too much?” 

“It’s not that it’s just. Holy shit, Y/N.”

“People keep saying that,” you chuckle. 

“Because it’s a holy shit situation. Were you okay? Did your parents take you?” 

“No, I just did it alone.” 

“Fuck, god. And I was just off dicking around on a rink while you were going through that”

“Which is what I wanted you to be doing, Jimin. I didn’t want you worrying about me. You had to focus!” 

Jimin rolls his eyes. “God, you are ridiculous. You were all alone having an abortion by yourself, going through that pain by yourself. Something of which I caused and you were still thinking about me instead of yourself?” 

Your mouth opens to speak, but no words come out. You never thought of it like that. 

“I’m not mad you didn’t tell me, just so you know. I don’t think I really have a right to be mad because it’s not my body that had to go through it. I just…I would have wanted to be there for you through it. More than anything. You were my world, Y/N.” 

“But I couldn’t be. I needed you to be your own world. I needed you to go make something of yourself that wasn’t just because of me.” 

He snorts. “But it was because of you that I made something of myself. I got contracted because of you. I played hard to not think about you. I kept myself busy for nearly a decade with my career so I could forget about you.” 

“Well, did you get close?” you ask carefully. The alcohol has made your head feel a little fuzzy, but the conversation has sobered you up. 

He picks up a throw pillow and tosses it at you. You laugh. “No, of course I didn’t. It’s you, for fuck’s sake. You were my every wet dream of my teenage years, do you think I would just forget you like that?”

“Well, you tried to pretend you didn’t remember me.” 

“God,” he runs a hand over his face. “I think I was just shocked, honestly. I thought you would have left here. Gone away to college and got your sports physiology degree and I would run into you one day in LA after a bad injury and I could convince you to fall in love with me again.” 

You scoff. “Oh is that the dream?” 

“Well it was. I really didn’t think I’d see you ever again, actually.” 

“I hope it’s not too much of a disappointment.” 

“Well, we’ll see…it wasn’t because you were pregnant that you broke up with me, was it?”

“Oh my god, no. You’re obsessed with this like there’s a singular reason but there wasn’t. It was a culmination of everything. Besides, I’d had the abortion during the time I was home. When you showed up, I had just gotten clearance from my doctor that it was a success.” 

Jimin frowns. “Were you sad about it? The abortion? Not that you had to be.” 

“I was sad that I was alone. I was sad that I felt like I couldn’t tell you. I was worried that if I did, I would be the reason for you not getting contracted. It was a lot of worrying for you. But also for myself. I worried I wouldn’t be okay. And I worried I would regret it somehow, that I would wake up one day wondering what could have been.” 

“Did you?”

You look down at your hands. “No, I mean, not really. I have since, I guess, but it’s less wondering what life would have been like without an abortion and more what life would have been like if I didn’t call everything off. That decision hurt me. And it never felt completely right. But my fear of things ending kind of ruled over me. I was so in love with you that I couldn’t imagine a lifetime where things would work out. Not when you had an arranged marriage you’d someday have to fulfill, or one of us would go pro and have to figure out how to make both our dreams work.” 

Jimin nods. “Well, thank you for telling me. I’m glad you made the decision that was best for you at the time. It gives me some closure.” He scoots closer to you before reaching over and squeezing your hand. “And I hope that if you ever go through something like that again, you have someone by your side so you feel less alone.” 

“Thank you,” you say. 

The warmth of his hand comforts you both as you sit in the room. Your mother squeals in the other room, shouting at your father for allegedly grabbing her ass. 

“Come on, babe! It’s Christmas!” he replies. 

You and Jimin burst into laughter. 

“You know,” Jimin says behind gasps of air. “I don’t think I hate being here as much as I thought I would. Sure, it sucks being under my parents’ roof again, but god, the sound of a holiday party is a welcome change from a bunch of locker room groans.” 

“You smell better too,” you add. You sniff the air between you too. “I always liked that cologne on you.” 

He smirks. “Remember when I ran out and you drove your car, broken A/C and all, into the city to get me a replacement?” 

You groan. “God, my car was truly an oven that day. When I finally got home I thought I was melting like an ice cream cone.”

“I remember that.” 

“I have a question for you now,” you say. Jimin blinks a bit, taken aback by your abruptness. 

“Oh, sure.” 

“Why are you home? Why didn’t you stay at your place and just see your celebrity friends? Why come back here which is clearly full of bad memories and feelings and experience all of this?” You gesture around you. 

He takes a sharp breath. “Well, it felt like something that I had to do. First of all, I’ve been instructed by our PR team not to be seen out with any of my celebrity friends. I’m not supposed to be seen anywhere near Bells Arena, so practicing locally was out. And with it being too warm there to skate on a natural body of water, it seemed like home was the only option.”

“That sucks,” you blurt. “I mean–”

Jimin laughs. “Yeah, it does suck. But home isn’t the worst place to be, and I feel like there hasn’t been a lot tying me to anything lately. The last few years have been rough. Threesome notwithstanding, but my life hasn’t been exactly private for a while. And I guess that kind of presses you to become someone else.” 

“Like a prick?” 

“Am I really that much of an asshole?”

“Uh, yeah. You lost your drive because you’re too busy chirping on the ice and not focusing on the game.” 

“You’re sounding like Coach again.” 

“Well, he had a good point. Do you have your gear with you by chance?”

“It’s in the car, why?”

“Go grab it and meet me out back.” 

“Why?”

“Just do it,” you roll your eyes and stand up, smoothing your dress. When you turn to face Jimin, his gaze moves from your ass. 

You pretend not to notice. 

“You have a rink in your backyard?”

“Yep, Dad built it back when we were trying out for the pros, thinking that during my break times I could come home and practice.”

Now knowing the truth, Jimin can’t help but feel an ache in his chest for you and the dream you left behind. 

“It’s incredible. But are you sure that you’re not too drunk to skate?” 

You balk at the question, laughing. “You think I haven’t skated absolutely wasted? Come on now.” Fair point. “Besides,” you add, “I feel fine now. The fresh air is nice.” 

You’ve traded your tiny little dress he was admiring in the bedroom for a more sensible outfit. “Now, lace up your skates, Park. Let’s get to drills.” 

An hour later, Jimin is sweating through his button down. He didn’t have an extra outfit with him in the Kia, just his skates, so he’s been sweltering in the stiff button down. A little perspiration is beading your forehead, but you still have a healthy glow to you, and are not nearly as out of breath as he is.

“You’ve gotten sloppy with your passing,” you say nonchalantly. 

A lick of heat prompts Jimin to argue, but he shoves it down. He’s supposed to be working on that, after all. 

“Just a tiny bit,” he says. 

“You’ve got a long way to go if you’re going to be ready to hit the ice in less than a month.”

He pouts a bit, despite himself. 

“Oh come on, you used to love the challenge of beating me on the rink. Did time change that much?” 

“Well, there was a pretty good incentive for winning. Like seeing you naked.” 

“Is not being kicked off your dream team not enough incentive?”

“I mean I’m a guy, Y/N. Of course my career is important, but I’m just saying, sex was always my best motivator. And if I remember correctly, yours too.”

You look away from him for a moment, thinking. 

“Well, then, fine, let’s give you an incentive then. If you beat me in a shootout, I’ll let you see my ass.” 

Jimin stalls. “What?” 

“I know you’ve been checking me out like, all day. It’s obvious. So, you beat me in a shootout, I’ll show it to you.” 

Jimin chuckles. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Y/N, I’ve seen your ass. And while I’m absolutely sure it’s even better than I imagined, I hardly consider that a motivator.”

“Fine, then what do you propose? What is it that you would like to do?”

Heat pools into his stomach. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Jimin can’t ignore the intense attraction he still has for you. It’s like 10 years hasn’t changed much about his body chemistry. 

He skates up to you, putting his hand on your waist, testing the limits of what in his desires he truly is allowed to ask for. As his hand works up your side toward your breast, you let out a small gasp. And that’s when he sees it in your eyes: arousal. Unmistakable, just as easy for him to spot as it was all those years ago.

“Do you remember that time we went to the beach? And you got vanilla ice cream all over your bikini because it melted before you could even eat it?”

You cocked your head to the side. “Yeah?”

“And so I licked every inch of you? That’s what I want.” 

“Jimin!” you gasp, but as his other hand loops around your back, you don’t fight his touch.

“You tasted so sweet,” he whispers, his mouth hovering over your neck. 

“Stop.” But it’s a weak gesture, mechanical. 

“You fucking loved it, didn’t you?” 

Your heart beats a little faster. “I did.” 

“What else did you like, hm? When I fucked you that summer.” 

Jimin’s voice lowers, a deeper, seductive tone replacing his usual, cheerful one. It’s the same one he used to use on you, and the pressure building in your core tells you that it’s having the same effect. A hand finds its way to the curve of your ass, and you melt into his body.

“Jimin,” you rasp. 

“Yeah?” 

“Fuck.” 

“Tell me,” he whispers. “What used to make you come so hard that I had you screaming?” 

“God.” 

“Do you think about that as much as I do? Do you think about the little whimpers you made when you came all over my lap that day? Do you think about how hard my cock was for you? How desperate you were for it after I told you you’d have to wait?” 

“You’re such an asshole,” you heave. 

“I know. But if I win, I want you under me again. I want to lick every inch of you until all you can think about is me.” 

He pulls away, ignoring the hardening of his cock, rasping a deep breath. You blink at him, confused, before taking in his form as he sails the puck into the net. 

“That’s one, babygirl. Now show me what you’re made of.” 

Sex, it turns out, is Jimin’s greatest motivator. Which is why after he wins in the shootout up to ten, you end up naked in the guest bedroom. 

“Your nipples are so hard,” he says, sucking one into your mouth. “That’s how I always knew how needy you were. How badly you needed to be fucked.” 

A moan escapes you. He squeezes your thigh again, his other hand roaming up your side. 

“You were always so sensitive there. I’m glad to see that hasn’t changed.”

Your hands lurch forward, digging into the open ends of his jacket, pulling him closer. 

“When was the last time someone fucked you good, Y/N?” he asks, and your brain searches through your list of ex lovers, turning up empty handed 

“I don’t know,” you groan, hissing when you feel his other hand land on your breast. 

He clicks his tongue. “You poor thing. Tell me, what do you need, hmm?” 

“I don’t know,” you say again. Your thoughts are jumbled, how you got here, stripped naked while he still hovers over you fully clothed, your focus faltering as you clench your thighs. Jimin pulls away, grinning down at you. . 

“I bet you’re just as sweet as I remember,” he says. “I bet you still get so wet that when you get fucked the nastiest little sounds come out of you.” 

“Fuck, Jimin, god.” 

“I told you I would like every inch of you. Do you think I was joking?” 

“We can’t,” you say, your eyes flitting to the door. 

“Does the door lock?” he asks. 

“Yes, but–”

“Then lock the fucking door and come sit on my face.” 

Heaven. Jimin has died and gone to heaven. As he laps at your clit again, he can’t believe this is really happening. 

“Fuck, harder,” you order, and he finds himself grinning, sucking your bud into his mouth hard. Your legs immediately squeeze around his face, and he reaches up, forcing your thighs down harder, pressing himself deeper into you. 

You really shouldn’t be doing this. He has no idea how long you’ve both been away, but all he knows is that they’ve finished singing the entire “12 Days of Christmas” and someone has been getting your friend Minho to do a rendition of “Santa Baby” that hopefully everyone is too drunk to remember. But he can’t help himself. Couldn’t help the electric feeling when he squeezed your hand, couldn’t ignore how your tits spilling out of your dress had him rock hard the second you gave him a knowing look. 

And now, knowing what Jimin knows about you, about your past and why things ended, he can’t be mad. While yes, he’s frustrated by your positioning of him as the priority in your life, even seemingly now, he isn’t mad. And whatever happens after tonight, he hopes you’ll both be able to talk about it so you can reframe the future. 

Until then, he really, really wants you to come on his face. 

His fingers leave your thighs. You lift off of his face, gasping as you look down at him. 

“Do you have a death wish?” 

“Yes, now smother me with your pussy.” 

You roll your eyes, lowering yourself back down onto him. He laps at you again, this time flicking your clit with his fingers before rubbing them through your slick folds. “Fucking missed this pussy. Do you know how many times I think about this? How much cum have I spilled thinking about this?” 

“God, you’re such a perv,” you say. But he can hear the lightness in your voice, knowing that despite the slight embarrassment, you’re also flattered. 

“How tight is it, hmm? Do you ever fuck your toys thinking about me?” 

“Not often,” you tease before you wail as he bites your ass. 

“Liar.” 

“Ugh, fine. I think about your cock a lot, okay?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes, now are you going to make me come or not?” 

“You know, I could, but now I can’t stop thinking about you thinking about my cock and fuck, I’m so hard.” 

Jimin feels you leaning forward, your hand roving down his toned chest until you reach the tent in his pants. 

“Please, babygirl, don’t tease me too much,” he warns and you chuckle, tugging at the zipper and clasp and reaching into his pants. 

Your hand dips into his briefs, tugging the elastic and pants down his hips to free his throbbing cock. 

“Fuck,” you say, sliding your hand up and down his leaking shaft. “Were you always this big?” 

Jimin groans, sliding a finger into you. You moan. “Shit.” 

“You used to take this cock like such a good girl,” he says, sliding a second finger in. “Though I’m not sure how with such a tight little cunt you have. I think I need to fuck it open.” 

“Oh.” 

“You like that, baby? My fingers fucking you open so you can take my cock? You’re so wet, god, listen to you.” 

The room fills with the wet sounds of his fingers fucking into you, his tongue returning to your clit and sucking hard. 

“Shit, shit, we need to change positions or I’m going to collapse on your face.” 

He obliges, pulling his fingers out so you can lie on your back. You watch as he sucks your juices from his fingers, your mouth slightly parting as he moans. 

“So sweet.” 

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, your eyes once more turning toward the door. “We gotta hurry. Once we get to the cookie shots, it’s only a matter of time before my dad makes us do round two of competitive games, and they’ll be looking for me.” 

 “Aw, but I was just getting started,” he whines.

You roll your eyes. “You can fulfill your fantasy later. Skip the foreplay and fuck me already.” 

“I don’t know if you’re warmed up enough for that–”

“Jimin, I promise you the second I feel your cock slide into me, I will be ten seconds from cumming because of how good it feels. Now you can take your time with me later, but if you don’t fuck me right now, I might lose my goddamn mind.”

He feels precum dribble from the tip, and he looks at you. “Shit, okay. Well, um, I don’t have a condom.” 

“IUD. I’m clean. Please,” Your voice cants into a whine, which makes Jimin feel delirious. 

“Okay, lie back down baby, I’ll take care of you.” 

Despite your desperation, he moves slowly, sucking your nipples back his mouth, giving a little bite to one that makes you whimper. 

“Please, Jimin,” you beg again. He reaches down, taking his cock in his hand and rubbing it through your slick entrance. As the head of his cock dips in, your eyes meet his, and a sigh leaves your throat. 

“Yes,” you say when he seats himself to the hilt. You pulse around him, and Jimin hisses at the tightness. 

“Shit, watch it babygirl or I’ll come right now.” 

“Just feels, so good, fuck,” you pant, your body convulsing around him once more. 

He pulls out slightly and thrusts back in, his cock tapping your cervix. Your whole body quakes and you moan loudly. 

“Shh, do you want to get caught?” 

“Kiss me, then,” you say and Jimin being the fool that he is, he does. 

Your lips meet, and you taste like a peppermint candy cane. He licks along your lip, trying to get more of the taste in his mouth. Your lips part, welcoming in, his tongue tangling with yours as he thrusts fully into you. 

You moan into his mouth, silencing yourself as his pace increases, sharp snaps of his hips making you curl and clench around him, your wetness coating his pelvis and balls as it drips down your thighs. 

On a particularly hard thrust, you come, your body shivering and pussy spasming around him. Your nails dig into his back as you seat him deeper into you, riding out the aftershocks. 

“Holy shit,” you whisper. 

“Mm, feel good baby?” 

“Yes. You’re so big; It feels so good.” 

He kisses your nose.”Well, I want to make you come one more time before I do, so hold on.”

He rolls you over, propping you up on your knees. 

“When I saw you earlier at practice in those leggings, I was imagining this moment. My cock deep in you while I watch your ass bounce on me. Do you think you can show me that, Y/N?”

You moan a yes, thrusting yourself back onto him as he pounds into you. The flesh of your ass bounces against him, and Jimin is hypnotized by it, his hands repeatedly slapping to spank your cheeks as you fuck yourself on him. With each slap, you clench harder, and as he places his hands firmly on your hips and bucks into you with speed and precision, it’s only a matter of time before you’re face down in the pile of coats, moaning freely as he thrusts into you. With one final gasp, you come, legs shaking violently as you succumb to your orgasm. Jimin follows behind, is cock pumping a heavy load of cum into you. You sigh satisfied, holding your hand under yourself to catch it while Jimin watches it leak out. 

“Jesus, Y/N. That’s so hot.” 

“Well, hot and practical. I’m not spilling your cum onto all my guests’ clothes. Now go get tissue from that bathroom over there. I need to clean up.” 

Despite Jimin fucking you within an inch of your life, you manage to make your reappearance with your guests fairly easy, a glass of some concoction your mother has named Jingle Juice in hand. 

“So,” Minho whispers after your father divides up the room into teams. “Are you creaming of a white Christmas with Jimin?” 

“Ew, Minho! No! That’s disgusting!” You slap him on the arm. “How did you know?” 

“Well, first I saw you two go out back and grope each other on the ice. And then you practically ran into the guest bedroom. After about thirty minutes of not seeing you, I figured I’d come check. But then I heard you and that confirmed my suspicions.” 

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Were we loud? Oh god, does everyone know?” 

“I think everyone was too busy drinking or eating or singing to notice. But to answer your question, my god, Y/N, you’re so loud. He should put a muzzle on your or something.” 

“Shut up. Besides, this is no big deal. A little Christmas stress relief. A one time thing.” 

“Sure it is. Well may Santa bring you more stress relief very soon because you’re glowing from the orgasm he gave you.” 

“Two.”  

“Huh?” 

“Two orgasms. With the promise of a third later if I meet up with him."

Minho looks at you uneasy. “I want to be happy for you, but I’m honestly not sure what to think. I thought you hated him. Or at least wouldn’t fuck him at your parents’ house.” 

Heat floods your cheeks as the reality of your decision begins to set in. 

“Yeah, uh, I don’t know.”

Minho takes a final sip of his drink, grimacing as he sets it down. “Well Merry Christmas to you, Y/N. Maybe you can fuck him into a better attitude while you’re at it. Because you’ve only got a few weeks before his suspension ends and if he isn’t ready by then, he can kiss his professional career goodbye.” 

“I think he can do it. We have plenty of time.”

“I hope you’re right. Not to ruin your post-fuck glow, but be careful. People don’t change overnight. While I’m glad you two had a fun little reunion romp, there’s still a lot of work to be done with Park Jimin.” 

©2024 by jooniperbonsai

[aettuddae]

hole in one — chapter 100.

⌕ synopsis: at one of the most prestigious universities in the country, where everyone is battling to be the center of attention, yu jimin is just a regular. people want her because of her beauty, but all she cares about is sharing her freaky stuff with her friends and passing her subjects. although there's one thing that might push her out of her comfort zone, revenge. when nakamura kazuha, one of the richest and most well-known students of NCU, starts to spread gossip about her for thousands of followers to see, jimin decides to get back by taking away the thing kazuha cares about the most: her perfect girlfriend, the young golf star, kwon haru.

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[written chapter]

[warning: suggestive]

"good luck with him!" haru's voice filled the entire hotel hallway where the rooms the lordland team players were staying in were located.

"give him lots of water." recommended karina in a loud volume so that seungkwan, who was entering his room carrying a severely inebriated minhyuk, could hear.

the boy was so busy trying to keep his partner on his feet that he only responded to them with a thumbs up as he continued to push the taller one, until finally disappearing from sight. the sound of the door closing was heard.

"poor kwan, he's in for a rough night." took pity the older girl, making the other laugh.

"well, that's the boy he wanted." reminded this one teasingly.

"do you have our key?" asked haru, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall as she waited for her room to be unlocked.

"of course i have it." jimin picked up her bag and opened it to start rummaging through the things inside, looking for the card to open with.

"i told you not to lose it." the golfer complained, standing upright and approaching the girl somewhat annoyed, looking inside the accessory, but not touching.

"i didn't lose it!" she defended herself. "don't touch." she softly slapped the girl's hand which went through her belongings with the intention of speeding up the search.

"hey, does this dress look weird on me?" questioned kwon as she looked down at her clothes.

"haru, you asked the same question all night, we already told you that you look amazing." she replied as she kept trying to find the item.

"i guess this isn't my color." she continued with a listless attitude. "you lost it!" she accused jimin again as she covered her face with her hands in frustration.

"i told you i didn't lose it." she scoffed as she held up the small plastic between her fingers, victorious, and then proceeded to stick out her tongue to tease haru. "and you look beautiful, enough doubting." she pointed the card at her defiantly.

"whatever, either way, the night's over." she dismissed. "open up." she pointed her head in the direction of the door.

"haru, you seriously look great." she took a few steps towards the door, but instead of opening it, she blocked it. "look, i'll even give you compliments so you'll understand how great you look through my eyes."

"no, jimin, open the door!" she asked as she laughed at her friend's sudden proposal.

"are you a water hazard?" she blurted out with the smuggest smile possible as she held the older girl's waist to keep her from moving.

"is that the only flirt line you know?"

"you never let me finish it!"

"i already know the punch line, it's bad." she grumbled, reaching for the door key. "open!"

"how do you know the answer, who used it on you?" jimin hid the card behind her back and feigned annoyance.

"hey, i want to go to sleep." haru pleaded, with an amused expression on her face, bringing her hands to hold the younger girl's cheeks between them, as if it would make it easier for her to understand her words.

"who else told my haru that she has them soaking wet?" she pouted her lips and spoke in a higher pitch to sound cuter, which only caused haru to burst into laughter.

"friends, people who have tried to flirt with me, i don't know. i just know they've told me that one before." she rambled nonchalantly.

"and why do you let them throw that line at you? are they more important than me?" she brought a hand to her chest dramatically. "wasn't i your princess?"

"yes, you are my princess, jimin." she grabbed the opposite's shoulder, reassuring her. "now, please let me into the room."

"if i am your princess then you should deal with me first." she took a step forward, standing only inches away from each other, and rested her touch on haru's neck.

"what does that mean?" she scoffed, holding karina's waist to support her so she wouldn't lose her balance.

"please me." she commanded in a whisper, which, given the closeness, haru could hear clearly.

the older one kept quiet for a moment, her gaze static on jimin, contemplating her, -her or what she should do after that statement-. but she just let go of her body, raised her arm to reach for the key that was on the girl's grip and walked away.

"you're drunk." she accused as she finally opened the door and stepped into the room, tossing her belongings around, and removing her shoes.

"i'm not, you know i'm not." she whined as she followed her inside.

karina set her purse down on a small glass table by the entrance, then moved around to the other side to place the card in a slot in the wall, which made the room light up.

she never expected that with the light, would also come haru's body aggressively wrapping around hers and pushing her, guiding her again towards the gateway of the room, crashing her against the now closed door. and as animals, when she had her locked against that piece of wood, she captured her. trapping her mouth with her own, tasting her cherry lipstick, biting her lips as if trying to tear the skin that covered them off.

karina threw her arms around haru's neck and inflicted force to draw her even closer. the emotions overflowing her body were satisfying, she could tell she was happy at that moment, though not for sure because of how clouded her mind felt by the raw human urges her body was having, but she wanted more. reasoned that the closer haru was, the better she would feel. so all her limbs were working to hold her friend as if they were trying to become one with her.

her leg clung to haru's and slid upwards as if she was about to wrap herself around her opponent's waist, but she never succeeded, for it was just another part of her body seeking contact and warmth. still, kwon's palm twisted around it and caressed it, rising up to her thigh, lifting her dress a little, before the younger girl lost her balance and leaned it back to the ground.

yet with their lips entwined to each other's, them wandering over their bodies, and their arms holding themselves, they began to move around the place, in search of the bed positioned in the middle, right behind haru.

jimin took advantage of haru's grip on her torso and lifted one of her legs into the air, then stretched her arm back and removed with some effort her shoe. she dropped her now bare foot again, and moved into action to take off the other, but haru, who hadn't realized what the girl was doing, kept walking. because of this, the blackhaired girl, who had one foot suspended, lost her balance and fell to the floor.

"shit!" she exclaimed upon landing, as she rolled over to sit up and began rubbing the knee she had fallen over.

"what are you doing?" questioned haru exaltedly watching her with wide eyes in surprise.

"what do you mean what am i doing? i fell." she gave her a frowning look.

"are you okay?" she bent down to help her withdraw her remaining heel.

"yes, i'm fine." she affirmed tossing the shoe away. "please don't let this stop you from thinking i'm sexy." she joked, causing them both to let out a laugh.

the golfer grasped her and helped her up, then they both stood looking at each other in silence, the fall having interrupted and calmed the intense moment they were in. she lovingly arranged the younger girl's hair, who brought her lips close to hers to kiss her again. but haru didn't move, didn't reject her, but didn't reciprocate either.

"are you okay?" karina examined her sweetly, to which the girl nodded. "haru, if you regret this and don't want to do it, we can stop now. we'll go to sleep and tomorrow we'll pretend it never happened. i won't get mad, just say the word." she tried to soothe her after seeing her sudden change of attitude.

karina knew it was her first time being with a new person after so many years, and that it might be hard for her to assimilate what she felt.

"do you want me?" she murmured in a thread of voice so fragile that all desire in jimin's body was forgotten, and replaced by the vehement need to hold her and take care of her forever.

"of course i want you, haru." she wrapped the girl in a warm embrace. "you have no idea how much i want you." she assured in her ear.

the girl's chin rested on the opposite's shoulder, their cheeks rubbing together. jimin lowered her mouth just below her ear and left a delicate kiss there, physically reinforcing her words. haru looked to her side, making eye contact, and the two slowly moved closer until they kissed again.

that contact was much more tender than the previous one, it was a sign of affection rather than need. in the way they caressed and rocked with each other, there was a pact of security and trust.

"i like you a lot, haru." she confessed midway through that kiss, after having felt that way for so long.

"i like you too, jimin." she requited, accepting those emotions that had lived with her for quite some time, but to which she had never given a name.

haru inclined slightly, touching the back of the girl's thighs with her fingertips, giving her the signal for her to mildly jump, which the older one took advantage of to hold her and lift her up, getting jimin to wrap her legs around her waist.

they met again in another kiss, as the golfer walked towards the bed.

"are you sure?" karina wondered again once they were at the edge of the mattress.

"sure." she repeated then leaned her back against the sheets and hovered over her to connect their lips again.

(!)

— taglist: @runawaymazola @chaenniefirst @livelaughchoerry @rinapomu @jeindall777 @petruchiosstuff @winieter @sewiouslyz @minjeongswife @yvesismywife

[mandos-mind-trick]

The Video - Part 2

Summary: You and Cody race to do damage control after his mistake.

Pairing: Commander Cody x reader

Warnings: Lots of mentions of a sex tape, excessive use of the word ass, men being gross (not clones though they're gentlemen...well...most of them), may give you secondhand embarrassment, fluff, a tiny bit of angst, feelings, okay it's mostly a crackfic more than anything else

A/N: Whatever aligned in the universe that allowed me to pump out 4k words today after a week of nothing, bless you. The long awaited sequel. I decided not to add in smut since it didn't really feel right. It's kinda serious with lots of jokes thrown in to lighten it up. Also a few hints at some...things, so...if you can figure those out then cookies for you!!

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You hit him with surprising strength. Maybe it was the anger burning through you, or perhaps it was the shock he had to be feeling that left him so vulnerable and allowed for you to force him into the supply closet rather easily. 

“What the fuck did you do?” You hiss at him under your breath as soon as the door closes. 

He’s standing there, wide eyed and lips parted as he tries to process what he had just seen. You’re angry. Beyond angry. It burns through you red hot, heating your entire body so much you feel like you’re standing next to an open fire. Shame also burns through you, fueling the fire. The entire GAR has seen parts of you that were meant to be kept private. Though it would be impossible for anyone to figure out it was you, the knowledge that likely even GAR command and the Generals have seen you naked by this point is enough to send you spiraling. 

“How the fuck did this happen, Cody?” You breathe, trying to calm yourself enough that you don’t punch the Marshal Commander standing in front of you. 

“I-I don’t know.” He says, running a hand through his hair, brows furrowing in stress. “I swear I dropped it into my private files.” 

“Well, you obviously didn’t!” You snap, not even feeling guilty when he flinches. “Now my bare ass is all over the GAR network.” 

“It’s a nice ass.” He shrugs. 

He nearly folds under your glare. You could probably scare the General with a look like that. 

“Fix this.” You grit out from between your teeth. 

He nods slowly, brain trying to get over the shock of what had happened and formulate a plan at the same time. “Right. I can access the GAR servers and delete the video. That will prevent anyone from accessing it and downloading it. Of course, if it’s already been downloaded, then that’s going to pose an issue.” 

“Yeah? Figure that out too.” You take a deep breath, holding it for a moment before you let it out. “I’m going to go do my job and when I’m done, that video better be history.” You command. 

He has half a mind to salute you, but you might actually hit him. 

***

You hate it. Every person you pass, clone or civilian, on the way from the barracks to the hangar is a reminder of what happened. They’ve likely all seen the video. You wouldn’t be surprised if it made it past the confines of the GAR and onto the holoweb for anyone in the galaxy to see.

You can just imagine the title it’s been bestowed with. 

“Hot chick bangs clone trooper.” 

“Human girl takes huge clone dick.” 

“Barrack bunny commands clone trooper in bed.” 

“Sexy civilian fucks the brain right out of a Marshal Commander causing him to accidentally upload their sex tape onto the GAR server.” 

You want to scream. You had screamed into your pillow before exiting the barracks. You could scream again. You could scream until you have no voice left. 

You curse hyperspace as you make your way into the hangar. If the ship had still been docked on Coruscant, you might have just packed your bag and deserted the army. Hidden out in the underworld until it was safe for you to emerge. If you emerged at all. Instead you’re stuck on this floating prison hurtling at light speed through hyperspace to its next battle with all of its inhabitants replaying your sex tape over and over. 

You really want to scream as you spot your fellow civilian mechanics all huddled around a datapad. You don’t have to approach to know what they’re watching. Everyone was watching it.

“Hey, have you seen the video?” One of your coworkers asks as you grab a different datapad. 

You fight the inner panic rising. You have to play this cool. Any strange behavior or answer might make them suspicious. “Yeah.” You answer, not looking up. “Who hasn’t?” 

“Kriff, I wish that were me.” Another one says. “She’s so hot!” 

Your hands tighten just a little around the datapad. Being forced into a room of people watching the video was hard enough. The commentary is going to make you snap. 

“Who do you think it is?” Your coworker asks as he leans his arm on your shoulder. 

“Don’t know.” You duck out from under him, nearly making him fall over. “All I’ve heard is it’s probably some barrack bunny.” Saying it nearly has your cheeks burning again. 

“Whoever she is, I’d like to know so I can hit her up, if you know what I mean.” He wiggles his eyebrows, the others all laughing. 

“We have work to do.” You snap, holding up the datapad in your hand. “We have inspections to do and not a lot of time to do them.” 

They all grumble, but they know you’re right. If you can’t get the inspection report to the Admiral in time, you’ll all have hell to pay. 

“You’re awful tense this morning.” Your coworker says as he follows you to the nearest gunship. 

“We have a lot to do before the boys can ship out.” You say. “And you’re sitting around watching porn.” 

“We’re just having fun.” He shrugs. 

“Have fun on shore leave.” You push the datapad into his chest a little too hard. “You’re on duty as soon as you step on this ship.” 

“Obviously not everyone agrees with that.” Another coworker says as he passes by, making everyone laugh. 

You’re fuming. You had thought you could play it cool, but you should have known better. You’re one of the few women on this ship, the others all being medics. Of course they wouldn’t care about some poor girl being broadcast across the GAR for anyone to see, regardless of who it was. 

You should have gone to medical school. 

“Aww man. It’s gone.” Someone complains. 

You step around a gunship out of sight, leaning against the side. You let out a quiet sigh of relief, the tenseness of your shoulders easing. At least Cody had managed that bit. 

“Don’t worry, I downloaded it.” 

The relief is gone.

***

“I know the food’s bad, but I don’t think glaring at it is going to change anything.” 

You nearly jump as a tray is placed next to yours. You look stressed, you know you do. You had barely managed to get through half of the day between your coworkers comments and the video constantly being replayed around you despite it being removed from the server. 

Waxer and Boil seat themselves on either side of you. Two clone troopers you were hoping to avoid. It wasn’t that you didn’t like them. You love Waxer and Boil. They never cease to make you laugh and you consider them your friends. But you know they’re going to want to talk about the video. The last thing you want to do right now is talk about the video. You’re at your limit, and you might do something stupid. 

“The General is calling a meeting later.” Waxer says. “I bet it’s about the video.” 

“I overheard Cody saying all the Legions are holding meetings to talk about it.” Boil says. “Probably gonna come up with some kind of punishment for watching it on duty.” 

Good. You think. At least that way you could avoid it during the work day. Of course, you’ll have to avoid common areas for a while.

“We’ve got a plan, though.” Boil continues. 

Your breath catches in your lungs. Your hand tightens around your fork, the lumps of “food” on your tray looking even less appetizing than they had moments ago. 

“We’re going to figure out who it is.” Waxer says, leaning in close. “We’ve already got some headway in our quest.” 

You take a sip of your drink, wishing it was something much stronger. “Like what?” You ask, cursing the way your voice shakes. 

Boil pulls out a datapad, setting it up right in front of you so all three of you can see. You wish you could be anywhere but here right now he pulls up screenshots of the video. Thankfully they’re zoomed in, any shots of your body, or Cody’s are unrecognizable and blurry. 

Boil flips through screenshot after screenshot. “It’s definitely a commander, whoever it was.” He says. “These are commander's quarters on a starship. And it’s definitely a clone.” He says, flipping through very zoomed in shots of Cody’s lower body. 

“Too bad she’s human. Would have been really easy to figure out who it was if she wasn’t.” Waxer says, wiggling his brows. 

You know what they’re implying. They probably deserve a reprimand for even suggesting it, for speaking about a General and a commander in that way, but you don’t have it in you to scold them. Besides, it’s not exactly a secret that rumors float around about the 327th. 

You can’t say much, you’re fucking a Marshal Commander of the GAR. Well, you were. 

Cody will be lucky if you let him within breathing distance of you ever again. 

“We’re looking at any possible identifying marks on either of them.” Waxer says. “We may be clones, but we do have subtle differences.” 

“Besides, I’m not likely to forget a body like that.” Boil says, whistling lowly as he flips to a screenshot of you on your stomach, the curves of your body very visible from the angle.

You wore your loosest fitting uniform today for that very reason. One less chance of someone staring at you just a little too hard, in the video and in person. 

You just hope Waxer and Boil don’t have that kind of intimate knowledge of Cody’s anatomy. 

“So, what do you say?” Boil asks, pulling you from your thoughts. “You in?” 

You blink at him for a moment. “Oh, uh, I’m kind of busy right now. Inspections and stuff, you know.” You stand, not having touched your food but you haven’t had much of an appetite all day. “But, uh, let me know if you do figure it out?” 

You’d know if they did really figure it out regardless. 

***

You want to cry. You feel like you might as you enter your barracks. The medics are on break, their last moment to get some rest before the guys ship out tomorrow and they begin a long stretch of treating injuries. 

Naturally, they’re all discussing the video. 

Sitting through the meeting with the entirety of the population on The Negotiator had almost been unbearable. You had been squished between Waxer and Boil and their quiet discussion of their investigation hadn’t helped any. They weren’t much closer to figuring out who it was in the video, but they were determined. 

You’re not sure you’ve seen them so determined about anything since the last prank they pulled on Cody. 

You had been able to see Cody from where you were sitting. He had been cool and collected as always, nothing to give any hint at his involvement in the situation. Nothing to hint he was the reason they were having it in the first place. 

You wished you could have that much composure. 

Listening to the General and the Admiral discuss the situation and the video had felt almost demeaning. The shame that had coursed through you was enough to send your head spinning. You had feigned exhaustion, glad it was Boil next to you as you leaned against him for support. 

At least they had banned it from being played on duty or in any common areas. 

The GAR was calling for all datapads to be wiped as well, to remove any downloads or copies of the video that might slip through the cracks. That would have to wait until after the campaign, though. 

You silently thank Cody. As mad as you were at him, he was at least trying to rectify this. You’re not sure you’ll be able to forgive him, or trust him with something like this again, but he was trying. 

“It’s demeaning, just standing around watching things like that.” One of the medics says as you sink down on your thin mattress. It’s far from comfortable, but right now, you’d take anything. 

You’re exhausted from the stress of the day. It feels like it’s been a week, not a few hours since Cody’s mistake. It almost feels surreal now that your homemade sex tape found its way onto the GAR server for anyone to see. For all of the GAR to see. They had seen, even the higher ups. Even the Jedi. 

You lay yourself out, covering your face with the pillow. You wish you could disappear, that some portal might open under your bed and swallow you whole. 

“I can only imagine how your day went.” Your bunk mate says, squeezing your leg. “Alone with all those men in the hangar.” 

“It was nonstop.” You say, lifting the pillow just enough that your words are audible. “All day. Playing it, talking about it.” 

“At least they’re banning it from work spaces.” She says, climbing onto the bunk. “If I have to hear it one more time I’m going to smash all the datapads on this ship.” 

“Whoever she is, she’s one lucky girl.” Someone else says. 

Calls of agreement ring out around the barracks. 

“What I wouldn’t give to bag just one of them, and there’s some lucky lady out there with a commander totally in love with her.” She sighs, dropping dramatically on her bed. 

“How do you know they’re in love?” You ask, removing the pillow from your face. 

“Just by the way they interact.” The girl on the bunk beside yours says. “The way he touches her, the way he moves. He’s down bad for her.” 

You try to keep your cheeks from warming once again. Is Cody in love with you? You had never teased the idea. What you two had was purely physical, good fun and stress release. Nothing more. Or...was it? Even in your roughest, most desperate moments there was a tenderness to Cody when it came to you. You should feel at least a little proud that you made the pinnacle of control that was Marshal Commander Cody so pussy drunk he messed up in the worst way possible, but was there more to it? 

Is Cody in love with you? 

***

You’re half asleep at breakfast. The campaign will begin in a matter of hours. It will be quiet for a while for you at the start before the calls start coming in. Ships coming back for emergency servicing, requests for more ammo, more supplies, more ships, more troops. You’d be in the heat of it in the hangar, and the chances you’d get to rest over the next few weeks were going to be few and far between. 

So were your chances to see Cody. 

You jump as trays hit the table next to you, blinking away the bleariness as you glance between Waxer and Boil. They’re both grinning, mischievous glints in your eyes. You’ve gone the whole two hours you’ve been up without thinking about the video, too tired to put much thought into it, but now...now you’re worried. 

Had they figured it out somehow? 

Waxer sets a datapad in a familiar spot in front of you at the table. He pulls up a screenshot from the video, obviously not deterred by the new rules about having the video in common areas. 

“Look.” Waxer says, pointing to a very blurry, zoomed in screenshot of the side of Cody’s ass. “There’s a mark right there.” 

You squint at the blurry dark spot. You wipe the screen to make sure it’s not something stuck, but it’s not. There is, in fact, a small dark spot on Cody’s ass. You’ve never noticed it before. 

“Okay?” You say, staring at the screen still. 

“I don’t have one of those.” Waxer says. 

“Neither do I. We checked.” Boil continues. “We checked with a few others too. So whoever this is, has a unique spot right on his ass.” 

“And...what do you plan to do with this information?” You ask, looking between them. “Ask every clone commander in the GAR to pull down his pants so you can check for a spot on his ass cheek?” 

Waxer rests his chin on his hand, brows furrowing. “That is going to be a complication.” 

“Besides, how can you be sure it was a commander?” You continue, desperate to get them off the case before either they figured it out, or got in trouble for still having the video and many, many screenshots of it. “How do you know it’s not someone else using the commander’s quarters for more privacy. I wouldn’t want to film in the barracks if it were me.” 

They share a look over your head. “You’re right. This is going to be harder than we thought.” 

You pat their shoulders as you stand, an idea beginning to form in your mind. “Worry about the battle right now. You can do this when you get back.” 

You give them both a smile before you head towards the hangar, your stomach fluttering nervously. You hadn't slept much last night, your thoughts racing, replaying and analyzing every interaction you’ve had with Cody, both private and public. Things you might have overlooked, hidden signs that he harbors more for you than just lust.

You had also come up with a plan, a plan you were determined to enact before he shipped off to the planet where he’d spend what was going to likely be weeks in the heat of battle. He’d be planetside the entire fight, doing his job as commander. 

You nervously rock on your toes as you wait for Cody. You hadn’t warned him you were waiting, hadn’t told him you were going to confront him. He probably had so much to think about, so much to worry about the last thing he needs is an ambush by you, but you have to know. You have to know before you’re stuck worrying for weeks whether or not you’ll ever get to know. 

You all but ram into him, sending him stumbling into a closet as he walks by. It’s nothing but fate that you were alone in the hallway, that no one was walking by or walking with him to prevent this from happening. 

He rights himself as the closet door closes, staring at you with wide eyes. His gaze softens, an almost guilty look crossing his face as he recognizes you. He says your name quietly, the guilt prevalent in his tone. 

“I’m so sorry.” He says, avoiding looking at you. “I should have been more careful. I put us both at risk and then everyone was talking about it all day and I can’t imagine how horrible it was for you to have to listen to that nonstop.” 

“Yeah, it was pretty awful.” You say, swallowing the lump in your throat. 

“I wouldn’t blame you if you never forgive me. I wouldn’t blame you if you said you never wanted to see me again. You didn’t deserve this and it’s not fair to you. I know my apologies don’t mean anything, and it can never totally be undone, but I’ve been trying hard to rectify this and-” 

“Shut up.” You cut him off. You kind of liked him groveling a bit and it was reassuring he at least feels bad for it. You knew it wasn’t intentional. You knew he didn’t mean to do it. You know he feels bad, he’ll likely always feel bad about it. He can save the apologies for later. You need to ask him before you lose your nerve. “Shut up and listen.”

He blinks at you in surprise, but he stays quiet. You’d get one hell of a reprimanding if you ever spoke like that to him outside private spaces. 

You take a breath, staring into those dark eyes. “Do you love me?”

His eyes widen just a bit, lips parting as he takes in your words. It’s bold, asking so directly, but you don’t have a lot of time. He’s shipping out in less than an hour. You could save the fluffy words for when he comes back. 

“Some of the girls in the barracks last night were talking about the video and they said they could tell they love each other just by the way they move. The way you touch me.” You step up closer to him, close enough to touch. “I never noticed it, I never really bothered to. I didn’t think...it was just supposed to be for pleasure, right? But...someone who’s supposed to be just a casual fling isn’t supposed to look at me like that.” 

He gulps, his hand slowly lifting to your arm. His gloved fingers are warm, even through the thick material of your uniform. You know what they feel like against your bare skin. You know how dangerous those hands can be, but you also know how soft they can be. How gentle. 

How loving. 

“It’s a risk.” He finally says, breaking eye contact. “Fraternization of any kind could lead to decommission, even a court-martial. If anyone found out...both of us would get in trouble. It would be an abuse of authority, we could both face consequences...” 

Your stomach starts to sink. He’d never voiced his concerns to you. You knew it was a risk getting involved with him, you knew what would happen if anyone found out. He had never shown any concern for the rules. Perhaps, though, with his mistake, his mind had changed.

“I never cared.” He continues, his fingers trailing up to your shoulder. “It was worth the risk, you were worth the risk. It was supposed to be casual. Nothing more than some stress release. Plenty of others do it.” His hand continues to your neck, cupping the back of it. “It wasn’t supposed to become love.” 

His words take a moment to process in your mind. He loves you. He loves you. It is true. It wasn’t just your mind playing tricks on you, hoping for something more in those glances, in those touches. 

Cody loves you. 

“Cody,” You whisper as he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I didn’t know how. I wasn’t sure it was what you wanted.” His breath is warm across your face. You’ve been this close before, you’ve been closer before, but none of it had felt like this. “I would happily suffer in silence if it meant I got to keep you forever.” 

You laugh, lifting your hands to cup his face. “You idiot.” Your thumbs rub his cheeks. “I love you too.” 

He closes the distance between you two, kissing you softly. It’s different from the other kisses you’ve shared. The passionate ones, the heated ones in the throes of lust. This one is soft, emotional, full of the unspoken love you both share. 

You hate having to pull away from him as his comm beeps. You hate that you’ve waited this long to notice, this long to say anything. He’s going away to war where the chances of him dying are high, and you’ll be stuck here, helpless to listen to the comms and hope his name doesn’t come up, or his body isn’t delivered on a gunship. 

“Say it.” You whisper, holding him close to you just for a moment longer. 

“I love you.” He says it with such conviction it almost knocks you off your feet. 

A smile tugs at your lips as you release him, letting him adjust himself before you sneak out of the closet. The halls are thankfully empty as everyone is gathering to prepare for shipping out. You wish you could hold his hand as you walk, but it’s too risky. Even if you managed to brush it off as nothing but emotional support for the rapidly approaching campaign, there’s too much going on right now. 

The last thing you need is someone else investigating you two and finding out Cody does, in fact, have a mark on his ass cheek that matches the one in the video. 

“Commander Cody.” 

A voice at the other end of the hall has you both freezing. Your heart drops into your stomach, and your stomach drops through the floors under you and out the bottom of the ship. You both turn, your face probably a painting of guilt and terror as you face General Kenobi. 

“Sir.” Cody salutes him.

You manage a stiff salute as well. 

“We’re deploying in ten minutes.” General Kenobi says. “It’s time for a final gear check.” 

“Yes, sir.” Cody nods, gripping his helmet just a little tighter. 

“Also,” Your hope for a quick retreat is squashed as the General eyes you both. “I would suggest a little more care is used when saving your...personal files.” 

You think you might die on the spot, a nervous sweat breaking out across your entire body. He knows. He knows and you’re about to get fired, or worse, court-martialed. It’s over. It’s over before it even got a chance to start. 

“I will see you in the hangar in eight minutes.” He says before walking past you to the lifts. 

You stare after him in shock. The General knew. He knew it was at least Cody in the video. He hadn’t seemed like he was going to report you, in fact he hadn’t seemed bothered at all. 

You turn to look at Cody wide eyed. “He knows.” 

Cody nods. “Yes. He does.” 

Your gaze moves back to the lifts, your heart pounding rapidly in your chest. You’re not sure you’re going to last with all the stress, and there’s still an entire campaign to get through. 

“Wait-” You hold your hand out before Cody can walk away. “How exactly did he know it was you?” 

Cody’s lips lift in a smirk, his shoulder lifting in a shrug. “No idea. Must be a Jedi thing.” 

You squint your eyes at his back as he makes his way to the lifts. “Yeah, a ‘Jedi thing.’” 

***

Everyone is exhausted. You can feel it in the air without even having to look at anyone. Even those of you that hadn’t seen any combat were feeling it, your own feet dragging as you move through the mess line. You need a long sleep and a few stiff drinks before you’ll even begin to feel back to normal. Everyone is moving slowly, bodies slumped over trays at tables, some having even fallen asleep sitting up. 

You drag yourself to the table Cody is sitting at, taking the seat across from him. You stare down at the “food” on your tray, none of it appetizing but you are hungry. 

You also haven’t heard mention of the video in weeks. 

It’s been a nice break, everyone too focused on staying alive and keeping others alive to make any mention of it. Things have settled and before long some other controversy will start and most of them will forget it ever happened. 

Two trays hit the table on either side of you, making you jump. You glance to both sides as Waxer and Boil take their seats next to you. They both look tired, but they also look disappointed. 

“What happened to you two?” You ask, looking between the two pouting clones. 

“Someone deleted all our research.” Boil says. “Every last screenshot and file is gone.” 

You pout in sympathy, patting his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know you put a lot of work into that.” 

He nods. “We were so close. Now it was all for nothing.” 

You glance across at Cody’s raised eyebrow, giving him a sly wink before you go back to comforting the two dejected clones. 

Taglist:

@kaminocasey, @rosechi @mxkyrie @bobaprint @star-trekker-0013 @padawancat97 @bamfahsoka @rain-on-kamino @thrawnspetgoose @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @wolffegirlsunite @dukeoftheblackstar @starrylothcat @blueink-bluesoul @freesia-writes @anxiouspineapple99 @wings-and-beskar @dystopicjumpsuit @littlemissmanga @madameminor @eris-k @clio3kantarella @moonlightwarriorqueen @sleepingsun501 @originalcollectionartistry @maddiedrmr @idontgetanysleep @clonemedickix @523rdrebel @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @multi-fan-dom-madness @sinfulsalutations

[misserabella]

stray. pt.6

joel miller x fem! reader

< previous chapter next chapter >

summary; after saving Joel and Ellie from the brink of death, you get caught with having to live with two more strays.., and you don't do strays.

REMINDER: english is not my mother language so i apologize if there are some mistakes <3 !¡either ways, i hope y'all like it. <3

REPOSTS AND COMMENTS ARE VERY MUCH APPRECIATED!<3

warnings; eventual +18 content! MINORS DONT INTERACT IN THE CHAPTERS WHERE IT IS IMPLIED IN THE WARNINGS. and smut, mentions of death, possible deaths, blood, fighting, angst, fluff...

warnings for chapter 6; so much fluffffffff, tension, arguing, cursing, kissing, cuddling, ellie being a sweetheart and loving reader…

Please, under no circumstances, repost my work on any other sites. I do not consent to anyone taking my work and posting it as their own.

When Ellie woke up it was too early in the morning, sunrise, just when her body started to notice the lack of warmth. Her hands reached out for something, for you, her fingertips meeting nothing more than the cold sheets that once had surrounded you.

She frowned and sat up. The darkness of the salon swallowing her whole and a gust of air coming from your open balcony met her when she stepped outside of the room. Outside was Joel, smoking, probably awake since not long ago.

“She’s gone.” he said, without even looking at her, and her shoulders fell when her suspicions became real.

-

You were gone for three days. Enough time for Ellie to finish reading Alice in Wonderland. You felt as the white rabbit. Always too fast to reach, too quick to disappear and leave her behind…

You closed the door of your apartment, your back aching for the weight on your bag. You sighed when you pushed yourself to your sofa, and oh god, it for once was comfortable.

You left your bag aside and leaned on it. You felt at peace just when Ellie barged in the salon from your room.

“Oh, fuck! You’re alive! Now I owe Joel the sausages of my next breakfast.” she whined, and you rolled your eyes.

“Nice to see you too, brat.”

“Where the hell did you go?” she inquired, a curious expression on her face when she saw you get up and get your back.

“Went looking for this.” you said, getting out of it about five books, some big, some small, and all about the same thing; the space.

Her eyes widened, her heart stopping inside her chest.

“No.” she said, in disbelief.

“Yeah. Went to the library up east, thought you’d like having something more of your liking to read.” you scoffed, feeling awkward. Ellie’s hand were almost shaking when she took them from you. Physics, astronauts, NASA, the universe, the planets and every little star that was known to date before the outbreak… Everything.

“Thank you.” she whispered, shiny eyes still on the books in between your arms. “Thank you so much, y/n.” she smiled at you, and you scratched the back of your neck.

“Yeah, uhm… Whatever kid.” you said, pulling your bag over your shoulder. “I’m gonna go sleep now, alright? Would probably be passed out for a couple of days. Don’t you dare wake me up.” you said before entering Laura’s room and leaving your backpack on the floor. You sighed when one of the paint cans rolled out of it. You took it in between your hands. Black.

You looked up to Laura’s ceiling, and sighed.

“Well shit.”

-

Your body was covered in sweat, and your muscles ached and burned with every new punch you gave to the speed bag.

It was dark at night, no soul on the streets, everybody fast asleep. Everyone except for you. Your mind was clearly a mess, and your eyes were unable to close. Training always helped you with the fear that you always felt, but this time it was stronger, and none of your punches or kicks could make it go away, beat it out of yourself.

All of this scares you shitless. The things you’d found lately doing, the person that lied stuck into your head like the roots of your hair…

Every time you closed your eyes there was him, him and his stupid hair, and his stupid brown shiny eyes, his voice, his warmth and his smell.

You wanted it all out of your head, him out of your head.

You turned around when you heard footsteps at your back, and for a moment, you were in a dream. You had to be.

“You’re back.” Joel was resting against the threshold of the door to the training salon where you boxed and boxed everyday to get stronger, rougher…

There was this silence. This unspoken tension in between the two of you that begged you to lose yourself, to ignore the warnings from your head.

He couldn’t help but take you in, with rosy cheeks and shiny flushed skin, hair wet on a high ponytail.

He was like a ghost, a ghost that you couldn’t scape from, that haunted you when awake and asleep.

“Joel…” you muttered his name, and he stepped inside the room. The air around you seemed to instantly weight down on your shoulders even harder.

You couldn’t scape from him, couldn’t scape from it all, right?

“You look good.” and by that he meant that you didn’t look hurt, not like the last time. That was good.

“I know my ways.” you shrugged, and balanced the bag, that had been swaying due to your last punch. He looked at you, and you looked at him. There was it again.

“Ellie showed me the books.” he said, and your eyes darted away.

You shrugged, trying to hide your true intentions.

“Needed to go for some things to the next town and found them.” you explained, the silence in between the two of you feeling like stone over stone, a tall wall.

“You do that a lot.” he said, and your breath hitched when he took a couple of steps closer, facing you. You could almost feel his warmth fill the air around you.

“What?” you inquired, and he was looking down at you, his head cocked slightly to the side as one of his hand reached out for you, for a lock of hair that had fallen on your forehead. You shivered when he pushed it away, his fingertips like electricity against your skin.

“Run away.” he answers, and you fell silent, until you could make the words stuck on your chest leave your lips.

“I don’t run away, Joel.” you spat, and pushed his touch away, but he just simply took your wrist, his grip soft against your skin. It burned.

“Oh but you do. You’re doing it right now.” he whispered, and your body froze. He was so close it was hard to breath.

You squinted your eyes, and in a quick movement you had pinned him to the floor, your hips straddling his, his hands on each side of his head. You felt like burning on a fire place, like snow melting under the sun, like a fire cracker being light up. You felt like giving in, like making your head stop whispering your fears, to stop the clock and freeze the time, to give into his eyes and lose yourself on his touch, on how he spoke, on how he felt…

“I’m not a coward.” you muttered, anger dripping from your lips, your eyes hard as a glaciar, but Joel was like the apocalypse, was like the unstoppable rising of global warming, and you were falling apart, melting.

Your breath left your lungs when you found yourself pinned below him, one of his hands harshly pinning your wrists to the floor, one of his legs in between your own and his weight on top of you to make you stay still. You were trapped. But had you ever been free?

“Then stop running.” he whispered, and your heart pushed harder against your ribs. His eyes were on you and solely you, his face just mere inches away. “Please stop running from me.” he muttered, and your eyes fell to his lips, to his healing cut, to his tongue dampening them. xxx

“I can’t.” you whispered back, but you were moving closer, giving in. It was unstoppable, you were drunk on his skin already. Addicted to the possibility of him. “I shouldn’t.” you said, and Joel’s grip on your wrists faltered, your voice sending chills down his body.

But now his lips were brushing yours, and your body was arching for his touch. Your mind was dead silent, as if he was the answer to all the questions, to all the doubts, as if he was the only thing that could make your world stop spinning, stop hurting.

His lips felt like stepping in heaven, like finding water in a desert, like being able to eat for the first time after starving for weeks…

He quickly let go of your hands to capture your waist, your own digging in his grayish hair. You were like gasoline. And he was a lighter. You were too gone to think about the disaster, about the fire.

He groaned against your lips when you pulled from his hair, pushing him harder against you, opening your mouth for him. He was quick to give it to you, pulling from you so you could straddle his lap once again, sitting softly on his strong and thick thighs.

“Joel…” you whispered against your lips, your mind screaming for you to run away the moment you pulled away to catch your breath, but he was nipping at your neck, and your body was consumed in electricity. He must have seen that look in your eyes, ‘cause he was quick to act.

“Don’t run from me.” he pulled you back to his lips, his arms surrounding your body to press you impossibly closer to his chest. It was an indescribable feeling, to have you this close, to taste the sweetness of your mouth, to tell your heartbeat against his…

And that’s when you noticed that you’d had it wrong this whole time, ‘cause truth was that you couldn’t. You couldn’t run away from him anymore. Not ever.

You melted in his arms.

“I’m right here.” he promised, muting all the warnings in your mind. And for once, you believed him. Ignored them. ‘Cause he was kissing you as if the world was ending, when in reality it was starting for you once again.

-

“Okay. Close your eyes. Don’t you dare fucking look.”

“I won’t.” Ellie groaned as you pulled from her through the salon.

“Good ‘cause then I’ll kill you.” you threatened her, opening the door at your back and dragging her in. You turned on the lights to Laura’s room, room which you hadn’t let anybody stepped into for days on end, until now. “Okay…” you said, your breath shaky and shallow. You were nervous. Terrified. You’d finally finished it. There were still bits of paint on your hands. “You can…, look.” you said, slowly. And Ellie at the same pace pulled her hands away from her face and opened her eyes.

Her heart skipped a beat, her lips parted in a breath.

You were looking at her, staring at the ceiling, her shiny eyes sparking with the stars you had drawn all over it, the colors of the space, the little constellations drawn by hand. By your hands…

“I was thinking you could… Stay here. Larry seemed to have taken a liking to the two of you and…” you took a deep breath in, her eyes now on you. “I want you to stay.” you muttered, your gut growing in knots. “You don’t have to. I was thinking that you could use this room and… Since you told me you liked the stars and the space so much I went to that town where I got your books and…” you were babbling, unable to stop talking when suddenly she was hugging you, knocking the air out of your lungs.

“Thank you.” there were tears brimming her eyes, and she was clinging to you as if you were the last anchor to this cruel world. “Thank you.” she repeated, and even if your arms were shaking you hugged her back.

“I get that as I ‘yes, and thank you for the drawing, I love it’?” you sarcastically played it off, trying to lighten the weight of the situation. It was suddenly too much, but not enough at the same time. It felt nice. To have somebody to look for again, to love again.

“Yes. I love it.” she repeated, and she smiled at you, letting you go and looking once again at the ceiling. “But what about Laura… This is her room.” she whispers, careful, softly…

“I’m sure she won’t mind sharing it with a brat as cool as you.” you said, and her smile only grew even more. You let out a laughter when she only came back to your arms, her head resting on your chest. “Okay, kid. Enough of that.” you played, pushing her away.

“Can I keep her drawings? I like watching them.” she pointed at Laura’s sketches, still hanging on the walls.

“Of course.” you smiled, the air around you feeling somehow warmer.

“Oh, and y/n?” she suddenly called out for you, your eyes back to her.

“Yeah?”

“Could you teach me how to draw?” she inquired, and you couldn’t help the huge smile that softened your face.

“Yeah.”

-

Things between you and Joel were silent. Dead silent. Since that kiss… Since those eyes had begged you to stop running away from him… You hadn’t even be able to look at him, ‘cause you knew that the moment you would, you wouldn’t be able to stop the dam that captured all your feelings to fly open.

You were smoking on your balcony when you heard him close the door to your apartment. It was late at night, and Ellie was sleeping in her now room. With charcoal all over her face since she had stayed up late while you taught her how to draw the anatomy of the human body.

You were on your fifth now, and your body was begging you for even more. Now that you could feel his presence, hear his steps getting closer…

You felt like pray. Like a rabbit trying to run away from a wolf.

He sat by your side, and the gravity pulling you down on your seat seemed to increase.

You took a drag of your cigarette, and when you heard his own sizzling you couldn’t help your eyes to drift towards him, towards the bear on his jaw and chin, the mustache rimming his lips, the hard lines of his face, his nose, his eyes, his eyebrows, his hair, his neck, his chest…

“It’s rude to stare so much.” he casually said, and you looked away as fast as you could, harshly swallowing. That’s when you felt his index finger and thumb took your chin to make you look at him once again. “Did I tell you to stop?” he muttered, and you looked into his brown eyes, he was now closer, his thumb caressing your chin. “You keep trying to hide from me.” he said, and you sighed when he pressed against your bottom lip, his eyes taking you in. “Trying to act like you can’t feel how much I want you. How much I want to kiss you right now.”

“Joel…” you called out for him, but your next words got swallowed by his lips when he kissed you. Your eyes closed as you leaned in it, your arms surrounding his neck.

“You’ve saved me. Multiple times. You still save me everyday.” he whispers against your lips, and there are goosebumps creeping up your skin when his fingers trailed down your neck, softly, mere fingertips against your skin. “Let me save you.” he begged, and your heart ached. ‘Cause you liked him. You liked Joel Miller. And there was no turning back from that fact, not if you were scared you’d lose him too, scared of your heart breaking again. Your eyes were watering, and his were beautiful. “Can I kiss you, y/n? Can I hold you?” he inquired, mere centimeters separating you two.

And when you nodded, he didn’t waste time to surround you with his strong and warm arms, your cigarettes long abandoned and forgotten on top of the balcony table.

You could taste the remains on his lips, taste his need to keep you close, to love you.

“Joel…” you cried out when he kissed you softly, so softly it was ripping you apart. So softly it was leaving you naked in front of him, freeing you of all the walls you had surrounded yourself with.

“You’re beautiful.” he muttered against your lips, and you swore you could die when his mouth left soft pecks all over your face.

“Please don’t leave.” you whispered in between his hands as he cupped your face, kissing your forehead.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby. I promise.”

And he repeated it over and over again as he carried you to your bed, where he laid you and pulled you flush against his chest, holding you like you didn’t know you needed to be held. “I promise.”

Joel was gluing all your broken parts back together.

-

taglist; ♡

@bubbles-for-all-of-us @hiphopdancer101universe @amethystwonders11 @mmeerraa @azxulaa @euovennia @twilightsbiggestfan @dabria14 @minaxcarter @lynndaline @frogjumps-world @cassiepascal @mdnigts @fudosl @batweildinglittlepysco @doodlebob-mp3 @boh3mian @saintmagx @scaredknight @ipadkidsworld @somebodytookmyusername @natalia42069 @cassrox @seninjakitey @maddsfilms @issybee0611 @corpsebridenightamare @eddie-munsons-slut @wren-2-d @hiroikegawa @luvwanda @hawsx3

pedro pascal masterlist! <3

joel miller masterlist! <3

a/n; AGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!! there’d probably be about 1 or 2 more chapters, sadly enough. hope you liked this one, and thank you for all the support!! love you<3

[buckysmith]

How they met you

Spiderverse

Includes: Miguel O’Hara, Jessica Drew, Hobie Brown, Miles Morales, Peter B Parker

Let me know if I have to put a warning

Reading is on your own. Not proof read

Miguel O’Hara:

- after destroying an entire universe to live a life that was not his, he forbade himself to ever open his heart again.

- no matter if it was for love or friendship

- he was afraid to lose everything again

- to see again how the people around him not only die but dissolve into nothing

- it seemed like he was cursed and had no right to happiness or better an Happy End

- he met you for the first time when he followed an anomaly

- into a world where there was no Spider-Man, no Iron Man, no Captain America.

- although he only found that out later, because before that he literally met you in person first

- the villain, who didn't belong in your universe, managed to give him a punch which threw him right through your window

- and to your sorrow, his body collided with yours, even if he tried to hurt you as little as possible he still knocked you both into the next wall/ground

-your eyes met as he got up from you

- you could not see his eyes, but he saw yours crystal clear

- something in your eyes reflected trust, care and security

- it was as if he had met you before, as if you were no stranger to him

- he didn't have much time, so he averted his eyes and went back to doing his job.

- It wasn't long before the bad guy disappeared through a portal and Miguel disappeared as well.

- but he couldn't get you out of his mind and one day the portal to your world opened again....

Peter B Parker:

- it was a typical cliché how you two met for the first time

- he had run full force into you in the New York rush, knocking your drink out of your hand and dousing you with it

- you looked like a wet poodle

- and as if that wasn't bad enough, you also had an important appointment that day

- and of course you didn't have time to go home and change your clothes

- to say you were pissed was an understatement

- especially since that joker in front of you started making jokes to lighten the mood.

- Spoiler: it didn't work

- so you just grumbled, thought your piece and continued on your way to the next store to buy new clothes

- and they say you always meet twice in life

- you wish you never saw that grinning idiot again in your life

- yeah, you thought wrong.

- but the second time was just as shitty as the first time

- because this time you walked too close to the road and when a car drove through the puddle you literally got showered with that dirty water

- the driver stopped only a few feet later, backed up and when the window went down you were greeted with the same grin as the first time

- to say it legally, you thought about how you would look in orange...

Jessica Drew

- You were on the way when you saw her for the first time

- it was already quite late and actually you wanted to be at home since 6 pm and it was near 12 pm and to your dismay you had to walk through a not so good area

- you saw her putting bags out of her car, probably she had just been shopping

- and she was pregnant.

- Hof did you know?

- her belly was hard to miss…

- you thought nothing of it and kept on walking

- the hood pulled low over your face to look dominant you kept walking until you heard several voices and a thump

- you turned around, saw how the men had knocked the bags out of her hand and were harassing her

- you wanted to look away and ignore it, but she was in danger and you couldn't accept that for the life of you, so you walked to her with quick steps

- you smiled at her while you walked between the men and hugged her

- you started telling lies that you were looking for her, that Josh and Luke were already waiting for you because they were really hungry after their shift at the station and looked at the men questioningly after that

- you looked at her and then asked how she knew those men

- with the information that she was now no longer alone and potentially two policemen were waiting for her, they left

- she thanked you and wished you a nice evening after she gave you her number

- if she hadn't seen you coming towards her, she would have dispatched the men with ease.

- but to see someone without superpowers put himself in danger impressed her

- from that day on you had Spider-Woman on your side

Spider-Punk Hobie Brown

- who would have thought that there were more universes

- sure you had it in class and always hoped there was a way to travel to them but your common sense knew that was impossible

- well until the time you fell through a portal that took you out of your universe and brought a villain into yours

- the pain you had until you were found was unbearable

- but fortunately for you, you were quickly found

- when you heard a voice saying you did not belong here and tying something around your arm was quiet and dark

- when you looked up you could hardly believe your eyes, he looked so, so animated and yet so real

- he personally brought you back to your world

- from that day on, you began to learn more about multiverses

- and from that day you had a new friend from another universe

Miles Morales:

- you wanted to do something illegal for the first time

- Spray graffiti to be more precise

- but who would have thought that you would run into Spider-Man of all people

- there was an awkward silence between you while he looked at you and you at him

- he had caught you red-handed, shortly after the first spraying attempts

- you were uncomfortable and you reached for your bag to leave, but he stole your notebook out of your hand to look at your drawings

- you expected anything, but not to get art lessons from Spider-Man

- you came every week on the same day at the same time to the point where you had met for the first time

- and he was there every time

- waiting to see you again to share his passion.

- who would have thought that the old subway station could give him not only superpowers but new friends as well

[basketballanonsblog]

Synopsis: One way or another, the truth will get discovered.

TW: mentions of blood and a bit of violence.

Flashbacks are in italics

Revelations

"Jihyo! I'm guessing from the flowers that your girlfriend isn't coming to the fan event?" She rolled her eyes at the second eldest member.

"She's not my girlfriend. And no, she got called to the hospital."

"Could've fooled me, y/n looks at you like you're her entire universe."

"Really?"

"Yes. And do you know how I know?"

"How?"

"Because you look at her the exact same way. It's just something to think about." Jeongyeon shrugged, walking away, leaving the leader by herself.

Jihyo finished her night routine, but her phone rang before she laid down.

"Hi y/n."

"Hey, are you busy?"

"Getting ready for bed, why?"

"Look outside." She peeked through the window to see you holding a basket. "Have a picnic with me?"

It didn't take much to persuade her into saying yes, and a year later, it's one of her fondest memories with you. The both of you talked under the stars until Jihyo fell asleep, and she could still feel your warmth as you carried her home.

Was it romantically cliché? Most likely. Does she get butterflies when she thinks of it? Yes. She shook her head, blushing.

She didn't have time to dwell on it.

~x~

You were drenched in sweat, knuckles burning as you circled the punching bag. Hit after hit, for hours; trying to rid your guilt for not being able to make it to the group's event.

"Wow. Never thought I'd see the day you go into boxing, especially since-"

"That night. Yeah, I know, just trying something new."

"More like slipping back to old habits."

"Lucifer." You warned.

"Right, right. I'm sorry, but maybe you should call it quits for today. Give your literally bloody hands a break."

Huh. You hadn't noticed blood seeping through the wraps.

Checking your phone, a message had you unconsciously smiling. Lucifer peered over your shoulder to read along.

'Movie night at the dorm, wanna join?'

'I'll be there in half an hour.'

"Have fun on your date!"

You ignored him.

~×~

"Y/n! You're finally here, help us choose what to watch." Nayeon dragged you into the front space. Your eyes locked with Jihyo's, whose smile was replaced swiftly with a frown.

"What happened?"

"Huh?" She took your bruised hands in hers.

"Oh, this? I got carried away with the punching bag."

"You box?" Chaeyoung chimed in.

"Nothing serious. Boxing isn't something I do, especially since -" Your mouth quickly shut.

You've said too much.

"Since?"

"Never mind, that's a story for another day."

She kept looking at you, concerned. And you were starting to crumble under her gaze.

A blow to your ear made you yelp and scramble away.

"Sorry, I was getting impatient, watching you two stare at each other." You were so flustered that you were actually grateful that Nayeon burst the moment.

In the end, everyone was huddled together as the horror movie played. Jihyo hid in the crook of your neck, making you stiffen.

"Why so tense, is it the film?" She whispered.

"I don't get scared easily." Jihyo smoothed her thumb over your hands.

"Then is it because it hurts?" She never gave you a chance to answer. You got lightheaded at the feeling of her lips brushing over your knuckles. Thank goodness it was dark, you didn't want to share this moment with anyone else.

~x~

One movie turned into three, and it was after midnight. Jihyo had found solace, leaning into you and fell asleep. You gently carried her to her room, and you almost walked away when she tugged you by the wrist.

"Where are you going? Stay here."

"I should go." She pulled further, forcing you to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Please stay, it's late." You settled beside her, making sure to give her enough room.

"Do you have enough space, Jihyo?" Her eyes darted to the gap between you and raised her eyebrow.

"Come closer, y/n. You're practically hanging off the bed." She laid her head on your chest, and oh how it felt so familiar.

"You're tensing up again. Relax, it's just me." It didn't take long for Jihyo to fall back asleep. But all you could do was stare and softly run your fingers through her hair.

"Just you?" You murmured. "Like you aren't the reason my heart beats every day. As if I wouldn't move the heavens and earth for you."

You fought the urge to pick at the broken skin by your fingers, lest you bleed again. It made you reminisce the last time they were in such a condition.

"You killed her."

Your hits were unrelenting, his blood coating your knuckles. He lost consciousness long ago, but that didn't deter you. A hand clasped your wrist before you could deliver another blow.

"Unhand me, Lucifer." You growled.

"That's enough y/n."

"No. It will never be enough. He deserves to suffer the way I'm suffering now."

"Jihyo wouldn't want to see you like this-"

"Well, Jihyo is gone!" Your voice cracked as you tried to force your arm out of his grip.

"I said. Let. Go."

"He's dead, y/n."

She shifted, bringing you back to the present. "Would you run away if I confessed what I had done all those years ago?" You held her ever closer.

With an unshakeable sinking feeling in your stomach, sleep did not come easy to you that night.

~x~

It was 6am when you made it back to the not so empty apartment.

"You know Lucifer, you own an entire club building and penthouse in Los Angeles. So why the hell do you keep coming over to this side of the world?"

"To be a nuisance. Plus, I want to be nosey and ask about your date."

"Wasn't a date. It was just a movie marathon with the group."

"And a sleepover. Which brings me to the next topic, when are you going to tell Jihyo the truth?"

"I don't know."

"Sister, it's been a year. She should know. Otherwise, I have no problem telling her. I'll even show her my other face."

He switched to his devil form, making your wings appear and blood boil. You sneered and grabbed his collar.

"Do not push me Lucifer, you will do no such thing."

A thump broke the tension, Lucifer quickly changed back to normal but it was too late. Jihyo stood wide eyed with fear in front of the door you had apparently forgotten to lock; Your phone on the floor. You knew you forgot something when you left.

"Jihyo... we can explain." But every step you took forward, she would take one back. She pulled away so abruptly when you tried to reach out.

"I'm sorry, I have to go."

You didn't make another attempt to stop her.

But why did it feel that you lost her for the second time?