#and would hem their dresses to be shorter and shave their legs and what not. I’m talking in the earlier years of highschool too. and they’d | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bonny-kookoo · 4 years ago

Text

Under Your Skin (JJK x Reader) | 🔞

Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Goth/Punk!Jeon Jungkook x Secretary!Shy!Reader

Genre: Tattoo artist!AU, Badboy x Sweetgirl AU, Idk what else

Tags/Warnings: Ultimate goodboy Kook, He looks grr but is actually sweet, shy reader, smol reader, Kookers is WHIPPED, Also a tease, Dom!Jungkook because how could I not, Sub!Reader, Babygirl!Reader, Its not heavy on the whole ddlg-stuff but yeah they be having some vibes y'know, don't come @ me don't I'm not forcing you to read it lol, anyways moving on, because smut, yes I mean it's my content, and yall nasty admit it, slight hair pulling, manhandling also only a little, oral (f & m receiving), praising, mentions of emotional and physical insecurities, but Kook be supportive so we good, back to the nasty, body worship yes pls, biting, fingering, because why not, protected sex because we keep it clean in this household, light-hearted sex, kook being a romantic goof, yeah I think thats it?

Summary: Jungkook looks like absolute trouble; like one wrong look could set him off, and turn him into an absolute murderer. But oh well, ever heard the phrase 'Never judge a book by its cover'?

A/N: you might have noticed me only putting one emoji up top. I have decided to from now on only mark my adult fics with emojis (which is basically almost every single one lets be real). Also; stop reading my fucking fics if any of the tagged/warned things make you uncomfortable. I'm tired of everyone clowning in my inbox telling me how disgusting ddlg/smut content is. You can't even tell me you 'read it by accident' because that's why I'm always putting the cut underneath my fics =) so pls go finish preschool and then we can maybe shake hands. Maybe not. Covid and all. Yeah.

On the outside, Jeon Jungkook seems like absolute trouble.

He's working at a tattoo and piercing studio, dresses in all black, clattering chains and heavy boots always alerting everyone around of his presence. His long black hair is never truly tamed, his nails painted black, and his face expressionless most of the time. He's a talented artist and well trained piercer, always visiting conventions to keep up with the newest trends, styles, and equipment there is. He takes his job seriously- and is proud of it, knowing that he had proven his family wrong by now. They had been worried about him; especially his mother had scolded him that he shouldn't throw his time away trying to make it in a world of art many had already failed. But last year, he had finally invited them over to his rather nice apartment, showing them that he was living a good life, with nothing to really worry about.

Jungkook had made it.

Well, not quite.

Because as of currently, Jungkook had a new mission, a new goal.

"Ah, Jungkook!" You say, eyes sparkling as you smile at him when he enters the shop he works at. You had recently started to work there as well, since Taehyung was absolute shit at keeping files in order and track of schedules. You hadn't applied for the job specifically, that's at least what his coworker had told him- he had known you prior already, and was aware that you had wanted a change these days.

And Jungkook had been painfully crushing on you ever since you started.

"Your schedule for the week is already here- I uhm.. didn't put it on your desk cause, I didn't want to intrude your space and all.." You say, giving him a small black booklet where you always noted down his appointments. He appreciated it a lot- knowing how much of a hassle it could be to move dates back and forth just to somehow make it fit. You always made sure that he had enough time in between multiple daily pieces in case something took longer or less so you could make sure to be able to move things accordingly. You didn't want him to get overworked, you had said. He had smiled.

"Thanks- and you can go inside, no problem." He says, and you nod. "I know you don't make a mess, like someone else here." He says, hinting at Namjoon, who was known to be quite clumsy- yet a mastermind when it came to designing pieces he struggled with. Jungkook stayed at your front desk for a bit, making you tilt your head a bit, as you tried not to stare. He always took so much care of himself, you would have had to be blind not to see how attractive he actually was. But then again, you didn't get your hopes up- after all, he was nice to almost everyone around. "You've never been in there, right?" He asks, and you shake your head. You haven't been in his space at all- too scared to invade his privacy and making him upset in the process. "I mean- you got time right now? I can show you around." He casually tells you, and you look at your computer screen in front of you. Everything had been filed for today- so you probably had a bit of time to spare.

"Sure." You said, taking your phone and standing up from your chair, making sure to lock the pc so no one would accidentally make a mess out of your tabs. Or worse; close them. God knows all hell would break loose.

Jungkook had to really force himself not to let out any noise as you walked next to him.

You were so tiny next to him.

He wasn't that tall to be honest- with Namjoon and Taehyung both taller than him, he knew he was average at best. And for the longest time, he'd had a thing for tall girls, all elegant and confident. He still liked their aesthetic, yes- but now that he spotted you, he could really see the appeal of having a shorter significant other.

You were so cute.

You carefully stepped inside when Jungkook lifted the curtain that was used instead of a door, surprised to see how.. organized everything was. A little.. off- some things seemed to be randomly put somewhere, but in general, it seemed like everything had their proper spot. "I like to have it like this." He comments, and you nod your head to that, finally spotting his tattoo-gun. It was made out of purple steel- polished, and changing its hue depending on how you looked at it. It was absolutely beautiful, even though you had a rather limited understanding of these things. "Was a present from Taehyung last year." Jungkook says, sitting down on his chair. "I never asked- are you inked at all?" He asks, leaning backwards as you stand there a little awkwardly. "You can sit down somewhere, don't be so tense." He chuckles, and you look around, before you sit on the stretcher across from him. You shake your head, and Jungkook isn't surprised. Your pink converse sway back and forth as you sit on the stretcher, legs too short to reach the floor anymore as you rest your hands underneath your thighs; hem of your dress revealing more of them than he can usually see.

"I don't have any tattoos yet, but I've been talking to Namjoon about it." You said, and Jungkooks saliva tastes a little bitter at that. He doesn't want to pout or give away that it's bugging him at all that you're not talking to him about it- but he fails miserably. "Namjoon actually said I should talk to you about it, since the style I want fits you best." You say, and he can't hide his smile, bunny teeth on full display as he leans forward a bit.

"You'd let me tattoo you?" He asks, and you shrug, before nodding. "What do you have in Mind?" He instantly asks, not even bothering to hide his excitement.

If only you knew that it's because of you; and not just because he's gonna be the first to ink you.

You've both agreed on a design you want, and Jungkook can't deny that he thinks it's absolutely perfect on you.

"Are you scared?" Jungkook asks you as he prepares everything, his sweater's sleeves rolled up, revealing his own body art to you, as well as some bracelets; one that you recognize as the wooden-bead bracelet you had gifted him last year for his birthday. It was weird to see him wear it.

"I.. no. Just nervous." You say. "I'm worried I might cry and make a fool out of myself." You say with a laugh, and Jungkook chuckles, placing a reassuring and warm hand on your upper arm.

"It's fine. I've seen grown man cry like kids on this stretcher before." He casually says. "Don't worry; I won't think any less of you just because of some tears." He says with a smile, and you nod, turning your head to look at his room's walls instead; covered in drawings, sketches, and pictures of finished works he was most proud of. "Do you want anything to hold onto?" He asks, as he starts to shave the skin of your thigh to make sure he can work as best as possible. He's so into his work, so concentrated on doing everything perfect, that he doesn't even take much into account that you're laying in only your panties and oversized sweater; skirt neatly placed on a chair in the corner of the room, to get it out of the way.

"It's fine" You mumble, although you really want to. So instead you curl your fingers around the fabric of your sweater- something that doesn't go unnoticed by Jungkook, who decides not to comment on it for now. He simply throws the one-time razor away as well as the tissues used to clean your skin, before he carefully places the tracing paper onto where he seems fit.

"I think it would look great right here." He says lowly, carefully removing the paper to reveal the lines he's gonna trace with his gun in a few minutes. "You wanna look at it again?" He asks, and you shake your head. "Alright." He says, before he gets up and walks out his room; only to return with your small squishy and round unicorn plush that's usually sitting on your desk. "To hold onto." He winks, and you chuckle at that.

Jungkook really pays attention.

"So, Taehyung has told me you're a bit younger than me." Jungkook says to start casual chit-chat, trying to help your nervousness as his tattoo-gun starts to buzz to live. "Only a Year if I remember correctly." He says, and you nod.

"Yeah.." You say, and can't hide your dissapoinment flooding your voice. Jungkook, until now, only had relationships with girls older than him. He's even said before that he just likes having someone older than him around- which made you even more nervous around him.

"You sound upset about that." He chuckles, and gently holds onto your thigh as you jump a bit when he first presses the tip of the gun down. "Sorry. I'll be gentle." He lowly tells you, and you swallow.

Not the time Y/N, not the time.

"Uhm.." You say, fingers digging into the squishy plush in your hands. "I.. there's someone I like, but he.. only likes older girls, so.." You say, and Jungkook glances at you. You're already interested in someone? He continues to trace the lines, wiping afterwards to get the excess ink and blood off. "But I mean, then again I don't think I have a chance with him anyways." You chuckle, and Jungkook can't help but shake his head. Even if you're interested in someone else, he shouldn't let you have thoughts like that.

"Highly doubt that." He says. "If he doesn't see you, he's blind." He tells you, and you giggle, glad that he's able to make you feel a bit better about everything. "I'm serious." He says, and you nod at that, watching his inked arm flex every now and then as he draws with absolute concentration; black facemask hiding half of his face. You can see the way his eyebrows furrow, eyes fixated on his work as he moves with absolute routine. "Do I know the guy?" He casually asks, before he dips the tip of his gun in the tiny pot of ink again.

You don't know what to say.

He looks at you for a second, and decides not to dig. "You don't have to tell me. Sorry if I seemed nosy; didn't mean to." He apologizes, and you shake your head to let him know its fine. It's quiet for a moment afterwards, only the buzzing of his gun and your occasional whine of pain. "Sorry; it'll hurt a bit more now since I'm getting close to your inner thigh- that's always a little more sensitive." He comments, and you really hope he doesn't pay much attention to your panties.

When you can see his eyes stick to them for a second, you really want to just disappear.

He doesn't comment on it though. What is he suppsosed to say? He really doesn't want to make you uncomfortable, and considering that you already have a crush on someone else, he doesn't want to get himself in too deep as well. He simply works away, finally finishing the thin and delicate outlines of your piece- the first step, before he will see you again for color and shading. He finally connects the last line, and doesn't think twice about what he says next.

"Good girl."

It takes a second that feels way too long for the both of you to register the words, and Jungkook quickly occupies himself with turning off his gun and cleaning up your skin and his workspace to get the awkwardness out of his room. You try to instantly stand up, but his palm holds onto your leg- silently ordering you to stay put, which you do. He rubs something over the piece, before he gently lifts your leg to wrap it. "I'll give you a bottle of lotion for it. Leave that bandage on for.. I'd say until tomorrow morning at least. Afterwards, apply the lotion everyday to help it heal properly." He lectures you with a gentle voice, before letting you sit up.

"Thanks." You say, grinning eagerly at the now hidden artwork on your leg. Jungkook chuckles.

"We're not done yet, but I'll take it." He says. "I uh.." He starts, as you jump off the stretcher and go to take on your skirt. "uhm, you up for some fast food?" He asks, a bit hurried, before he can chicken out again. And he hates himself for a moment, because you had literally told him just half an hour before that you already had interest in someone else. But maybe you were too innocent to get his innuendo, maybe you wouldn't get that he was asking you on a date-

"Like a date?" You ask, and he really wants to hit himself.

"I mean, if you want it to be?" He says, swallowing as he averts his gaze, a sight very weird. His hand runs through his hair, chain around his neck and piercings on his ears clattering against each other and making sounds as he moves, his combat boots nervously tapping the floor a little. "It doesn't have to be.. I know you're already-"

"I'd love to." You say however, now fully dressed again, as you grin with your bright sparkling eyes.

And Jungkook feels like he's won the lottery.

It's your third time laying on Jungkooks' stretcher like this- waiting for him to work on your art, finishing it today. But the energy is different.

Things are different between you two in general.

After some casual movie dates and rounds of overwatch, Jungkook had admitted to you that he had a crush. It was rushed, while he was driving, so he didn't have to look at you and instantly get hit by your reaction. But then, you had told him that you felt the same- and the two of you agreed to let things process from then on. Whatever would happen; you would let happen.

And Jungkook was starting to flirt with you.

It was a little weird to get close to him like that. While everyone seeing you two was a little taken aback- with your dresses and skirts, and colorful and almost childish personality, he seemed like the absolute opposite- quiet, all dark and dangerous while carrying your milkshake so you could put your phone away into your purse.

"Alright doll, let's finish this." He said with newfound enthusiasm, winking at you as you laughed at his demeanor.

"You seemed more excited than me!" You say, and he chuckles. "You're really desperate to have me gone?" You say in a playfully upset tone, and he simply huffs out a breath, before cockily looking at you for a second.

"That's not true." He says. "I'd just rather have you laid out somewhere else than in my studio, that's all." He casually says, and you shut your mouth at that, cheeks red as he laughs at your cute display of embarrassment. He routinely prepares your skin, before he starts his gun. "Too much?" He asks, and you know he's not talking about the pressure of his ink filled gun on your skin.

"No-" You start, and he now seriously speaks to you, voice a bit muffled through his facemask.

"Please tell me if I ever make you uncomfortable." He says. "You're not upsetting me if you tell me I'm going to far." He says, and you nod, knowing that he now needs a proper answer. Jungkook is way more attentive and romantic than people may think he is. He's a gentleman pulled out of a dictionary- careful and gentle with you, and always keen on getting to know you for you, and not for the person you like to portray yourself as. He wants to know what you like, what you don't like, what you dream of, and what you hate about yourself.

"Don't worry- I will." You say, watching him work on your skin. "Jungkook?" You ask, and he hums a reply to let you know he's listening. "Is it okay if I sleep?" You ask, and he chuckles.

"Didn't I tell you not to stay up for too long before I left yesterday?" He teasingly retorts back to you, and you pout at him- with no hard feelings behind it. He had left last night after eating with you for dinner at your place; and he did indeed tell you to go to sleep a little earlier since he knew you would have an early shift today, opening up the store. "I'm really tempted to say no." He says, eyes now on your skin again as he dips the tip of his gun in a pot of color. "You know, as punishment for not listening." He mumbles, and you almost don't catch it.

Almost.

"Jungkook?" Taehyung stands in his doorway, finally finding him sitting at his desk. "Oh?" He says in a surprised tone, spotting your sleeping figure on his coworkers lap- head resting against the inside of his shoulder, with your arms around his middle.

"Yeah?" Jungkook asks, not at all shy or fazed by the fact that Taehyung is looking at you. "What is it?" He asks again, as Taehyung smiles, giving the younger man his small booklet that you usually give him every morning.

"Nothing left for today." He said. "Just wanted to tell you good work and send you home." The older one explains, zipping up his own jacket. "Guess she'll be coming with you?" He asks teasingly, but Jungkook doesn't bite the bait at all.

"Yeah. Don't burn the house down while we're gone, you two. " He says, slipping the booklet into his pocket before he pats your back. "Come on doll, let's go home." He tells you, waking you up at least enough to put on your shoes and lead you out the store to his car.

He buckles your seatbelt as the engine comes alive, radio playing its tune softly in the background as he drives you home. "You awake doll?" He asks, and you nod your head, turning towards him with barely open eyes. "You haven't had anything proper to eat today, so I'll make us some ramen at my place, ok?" He asks, and you nod, before your eyebrows scrunch up. "What is it?" He chuckles, and you now grow more awake.

"Wait- but if we eat at yours then you're gonna have to drive me home late." You say, and he shrugs. "Noo, Kook, what if you crash the car because you're sleepy?" You tell him with a whine, genuinely concerned for him, as he has the audacity to laugh. "Kookie, it's not funny I swear to god-!" You say, and he apologizes.

"I mean." He starts, casually dropping what he had wanted to ask you for a couple of weeks now. "You could always just stay over." He tells you, and you look at him, meeting his gaze at the red light he stops at, his head turned towards you for a moment until the lights turn green again.

"We.. would have to stop at mine so I could get some stuff though.." You mumble, and Jungkook looks at you with newfound enthusiasm, setting his turning lights to enter a different road.

It's in a parking lot that you first unintentionally confront him with your biggest insecurities and flaws.

You've tripped over a stray stone you didn't see laying on the ground, leading you to fall onto your hands and scraping your knees open. Just like any normal human being, you dust yourself off, instantly hoping that Jungkook inside the shop hadn't seen you fail at something so basic as walking. You had carried some of the items you two had bought into the car while also returning the shopping cart while he had payed- and by the look on his face, he had definitely seen you.

He wasn't laughing, or hiding his grin, or anything alike. He looked concerned, taking his card back from the cashier before walking out the store, jogging towards you, who sat in the open trunk, ready to get laughed at. Even though somewhere deep in your mind you didn't think he would, past experiences had led to you now having that fear, no matter with whom. "Are you okay?" Jungkook asks, looking at you as he squats down to take a look at your bleeding knees. He reaches into one of the shopping bags, taking out a water bottle and a pack of tissues, before he wets it, one hand holding your leg by the backside of your knee, while the other carefully cleans the small wound. "You gotta be careful Baby." He chuckles a little- nothing like the laughter you had expected.

"I'm fine." You say, not looking up at him.

"It's okay to cry, you know?" He says, and you stay quiet, trying not to breathe too much as you desperately hold them back. "I won't laugh." He promises, deciding not to look at you as to give you a bit more space.

"People will stare though.." You quietly murmur towards him, and he finishes his job, before he goes to throw the now used tissue away in a nearby trashcan. When he returns, he's taking his jacket off, the item way too large on your form as he throws it over you, pulling the hood up as you look at him for the first time since your little accident, eyes sparkling with unshed tears when he pulls the sides of the hood towards him a little. "There." He says, a reassuring smile on his face. "Now no one can see you but me." He tells you. "And I will never, ever, laugh at you." He promises, and pulls your head against his chest, as you start to let go.

He really hates to see you cry- but he's glad that you're letting him in enough to let him see you this way.

Jungkook is frustrated.

He tries not to really show it, because he doesn't want to blow up in your face like that, but then again, you're kind of the reason he feels the way he does. Because even though he thought you both had a genuine connection, you're yet to let him touch you.

And not just hugging and holding hands.

It's not that he's impatient- its because he knows you, at one point, wanted him that way as well. But something happened, something he didn't notice, that made you take ten steps backwards from him. You seemed to be retreating, giving up, and he has no idea what he had done to make you react that way.

As far as he knows, he had done everything right.

But then he sees them; the messages sent back and forth between you and Hana, a returning customer at the shop- well known to flirt with everyone around here. Jungkook himself had actually considered hooking up with her once a year back, simply to make her shut up, but then again, he wasn't into one-night-stands. And she had never truly been his type anyways.

'Ah yeah, just re-schedule that then, I don't mind at all! Just make sure we have enough time together, since we haven't had time to catch up on things recently, if you know what I mean.' She had sent, a week ago; exactly the timeframe you had started to distance yourself. He knew he shouldn't look into it, but then again- this was his business too. He had the right to know.

'Sure? I can give you an appointment at around 4 PM then, so you'll be the last one. Would that be okay with you? Again, sorry for re-scheduling on such short notice.' You had written, and Jungkook can't decide if you had been oblivious to her implication (which was bullshit), or if you were simply too polite to call her out. But it's the next messages that make him fume.

'Again, no troubles. As I said, I only care that its Jungkookie, I don't really trust anyone else with my body that way ;). 4 PM is perfect, you guys still close at around 6 PM right? He's got skilled hands, I'm sure we don't need much more time, if you know what I mean.' she has the audacity to write.

But its your answer that makes him fume.

'Good to know.'

"Jungkook?" You say, looking at the screen, as you suddenly dash forwards, trying to shut the screen off- as if that would make any difference. But he catches your wrist with ease, holding it in his palm as he looks at you.

"Do you think I'm sleeping with her?" He asks, and you try to escape his grasp; and he lets you, staying at your workspace however as he keeps you locked in place with his gaze. "Y/N." He urges, making you look away from him.

"It's none of my business." You say, shrugging. "I.. No, it's-" You start, but he cuts you off.

"No, finish that sentence. 'No' what?" He says, and you've never heard him talk like that.

"I just.. didn't think you'd.. do that." You meekly say, murmuring it as he tilts your head gently upwards to look at him; his face now more relaxed as he softly smiles.

"That's good that you think that way." He tells you. "Because I don't do that at all." He says. "She likes to start drama all the time- was probably bitter I turned her down so much. You know what?" He suddenly says, turning towards the screen as he clicks to change the account, opening his own Inbox as he starts to write an E-Mail.

'Appointment is cancelled, be glad I'm not suing you for defamation. JK.'

"Jungkook-" You say, trying to get him not to send it- but it's already gone. "Why would you do that? Just because I misunderstood?" You whine, and he chuckles, shutting down the system as he looks at the clock, signaling that it's closing time.

"No." He says. "But because I don't want her around anyways, and this gives me a proper reason." He tells you, ruffling your hair as he looks at you. "You coming?" He asks, and you nod, taking your bag and coat before following him out the shop.

In the car, you finally speak up. "Jungkook?" You ask, and he hums out a reply. "Do you.. think I'm attractive?" You ask, and he clears his throat at the unexpected question.

"I- what?" He asks, unsure what you mean.

"Just.. Namjoon said, that he thinks you.. see me as a friend only? Because I'm nothing like the girls you dated before.. If I misunderstood something here then Oh my god-" You start to ramble, and Jungkook laughs suddenly.

"You think I'm not into you?" He asks, and you shrug. "Of course I want to fuck you doll." He casually comments, and you can't help but feel your cheeks redden. "Wait- did you really think I didn't?" He asks, face showing genuine horror as he looks over at you.

"I mean.. you never really initiated anything so I thought.." You started, and he groans out.

Thank god you're staying the night.

"Looks so pretty, does it?" He hums out, palm running over the tattoo on your thigh, delicate lines and well-placed shadings complimenting the colors perfectly. "You know why I love it most?" He starts, hand suddenly gripping the flesh for a moment, before he pulls you closer on his lap by the small of your back. "Because that's mine." He says, before he leans in, placing an open mouthed kiss against your pulse. "The ink that's under your skin, the design, the idea-" He mumbles against your skin. "And the body it's drawn on." You whine at his tone, dark and low, as he urges you back and forth on his clothed thigh- your panties suddenly feeling uncomfortable. "Isn't it like that, baby?" He asks, and you nod, furiously, and he chuckles. "Hm, you seem out of breath baby.." He grins at you, like a predator.

"Jungkook.." You whine, not knowing what you're asking for.

He wordlessly moves, helping you lay down on his bed before he crawls over you, his lips instantly attached to the skin of your neck, hands helping you out of your dress wordlessly, as he can't help but let his gaze linger on your body for a moment. "I can't believe that-" He says, pulling off your overknee socks. "-you'd ever think of yourself anything less than perfect." He says, placing a gentle kiss to the colorful image now forever placed under your skin by his skilled hands. He continues to display his affection over your skin, wandering over your stomach up to your chest, where he playfully bites just above your breast. He struggles with the front of your bra for a second, unsure how to open the undergarment without breaking it, as you help a little; letting them spring free. But only for a moment.

Because in the next, he's got them in his hands, palms gently moving over them, feeling their softness as he groans. "You're so sweet." he comments, as he finally kisses your lips, smile interrupting him every now and then. "So soft." Another kiss. "So delicate." Another one. "And all mine, yeah?" He asks, and you nod, smiling as he grins back, the expression making him look so young and carefree you can't help but wonder how anyone could ever think he's a bad man.

He's anything but.

He's so careful touching you, so delicate in moving his palms over your skin, as if its the most divine thing he's ever felt. He's still smiling, as if in a trance, while he can't stop kissing you. Your hands move into his hair- way softer than you thought it would be, and he groans into your mouth at the feeling of your fingers running over his scalp.

There's no urgency in anything he does.

He slowly moves again, hands opening your legs for him as he sits back on his heels, playfully pulling you closer by the backs of your knees, making you giggle. "You sound so sweet baby." He tells you, innocently, as if he's not currently placing his hand onto your center, ring finger collecting your already leaking wetness before he spreads it, moving his thumb over your most sensitive bundle of nerves while his ring finger enters you slowly. You whine at the feeling, not enough to get you as riled up as you'd like to be. Also; this is the first time you're genuinely experiencing foreplay. You don't know what to do- and Jungkook seems to pick up on that. "You good?" He asks, and you nod.

"I.." You say, breathless as he tilts his head, smile still present on his lips. "What should I do?" You ask, as his eyes widen.

"You?" He wonders, before he stops for a moment. "Don't tell me- this is your first time?" He asks, now genuinely worried he might've gone too fast.

"No.." You admit. "But uhm.. no one's ever, like.. you know, what you're doing.." You say, and that's when it clicks for him.

What kind of guys did you date before him that never gave you any attention like this? He's upset by it, but also weirdly cheered on by that simple fact; it gives him even more reason to make sure you'll get the most out of it. "Ah, I see.." He humms out, letting another finger stretch your entrance for him. "..well, I'm not like that." He explains, before he moves, face now close to your center- and you're unsure what he's going to do. "Trust me." He says, mumbles out, before his tongue places itself flat onto your clit, licking painfully slow as you move your hands over your mouth, trying to keep your noises in. "nuh-uh baby." He scolds, free hand pulling yours away. "Let me hear you." He demands, before he places his mouth back where it was.

Your mind is completely blank at this moment, the only thing you can really concentrate on being Jungkook, working you up so quickly you feel dizzy. It's new, and it's a little weird- but it's more than anything you've ever experienced before. And it brings you towards your end so suddenly you suddenly gasp out, back arching off the mattress as you grab at the sheets below, one hand grasping for Jungkooks, who lets you ride out your high to its fullest. "So pretty." He comments after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling at your blissed out state.

"Kook-" You say, moving as you sit up, less shy now that your brain is still clouded by pleasure.

"Ah- you don't have to." He tells you, but you shake your head, and he lets you. He slips out of his clothes, finally bare, and you would've taken time to look at all the different pieces of art decorating his body- if it wasn't for his cock, red and ready in front of you. Usually, you would've let your insecurities and doubts get the best of you. But this was Jungkook. And you wanted to really believe that nothing you would do could ever be judged by him. So there was no hesitation as your hands reached out for him, gently moving, before you took him in, your lips wrapping themselves around his tip, before you moved downwards, fitting as much as you comfortably could. Meanwhile, Jungkook himself was steadying himself with one hand on the mattress, while the other was buried into your hair, his own head thrown back as he closed his eyes.

Of course he had fantasized about this every now and then; but he had never thought you'd actually be comfortable doing it. And even if- nothing he could've imagined would've ever compared to the real deal happening. There was something absolutely mindblowing about the way that you handled him, your sweet and pretty presence looking so divine doing such a sinful act with him. He had to pull you off by your hair, gently, because any more, and he would've been a goner. "G-Good god baby." He chuckles, pushing you a bit so you were on your back again, reaching for his bedside table to search for a condom. "I swear to god if I- HAH!" He tells you in victory, hands making quick work of opening the foil package and wrapping the safety over his length. "I swear I would've run out butt naked to buy one if I wouldn't have found this." He says with a grin, making you laugh.

"That's weird." You comment, and he chuckles, entering you slowly as to not hurt you, his breathing labored as he still kept the lighthearted energy going.

"You think?" He asks, and you nod, giggling as your eyes close, the feeling of him filling you up too good to keep them open. "Hm no." He said breathlessly. "Would've probably put on some pants maybe." He says, before he starts thrusting. "Doesn't matter if it means I'd get to fuck you." He says, and you giggle again.

"Kook!" You scold him, and he still continues to thrust into you, exhaling forcefully as he kisses your neck.

"What?" He whines high pitched as if to imitate you.

"Be serious!" You tell him, but can't help your own smile either.

"Oh, why though?" He says. "We're making love, not war baby." He whispers into your ear, and you still laugh at it.

"I can't believe you!" You complain playfully, moaning out when he suddenly thrusts with more force, obscene noises now interrupting you two as he picks up his pace, clenching his jaw.

"And-" He starts. "I can't believe how fucking good you feel." He presses out, hand now reaching between the two of you as he brings you towards an earth-shattering orgasm, making you mewl as you can feel yourself bursting. "Good girl!" He praises, watching as you squirt all over him, his own orgasm hitting him soon after as he grunts out, finally slowing down until he stills completely, his mouth attached to your neck to place gentle kisses and teasing bites near your pulse point.

"I love you." He mumbles out, and your eyes sting.

Because yeah, you love him- you absolutely do, but hearing it from him, hearing it in such an honest and warm-hearted tone, having this final proof of his own feelings towards you, makes you emotional. "Baby, why're you crying?" He chuckles out of breath, wiping your tears as you smile, and finally look at him with glossy eyes.

"Cause I love you too." You say. "So much."

And he can't help but grin at you.

You really are the sweetest thing.

You watch as Hana walks out of Taehyungs studio, arm wrapped up in clear foil as she walks towards your counter, pulling out her purse. "Taehyung agreed on 345." She says, until Taehyung yells another number out of his studio, making her eyes roll. She wasn't supposed to come back- but Taehyung had agreed to finish her piece at least. "Alright, here you go." She says, watching as you counted the money. "Does Jungkook work today?" She asks, and you nod. "I'm just gonna go say hi then. You can finish the receipt yeah?" She says overly sweet, and you're about to tell her that Jungkook doesn't want anyone entering without his permission, but he's already walking out his studio, black sweater and silver necklaces on full display as he walks towards you. "Jungkookie!" Hana exclaims, but her face drops almost chomically as she watches Jungkook walk up behind you, placing a kiss on your bare shoulder as he looks over it onto your screen.

"Oh, looks like I'm done for the day. You need anything Hana?" He asks innocently, one hand on your desk while the other rests on your chair behind your back.

"I- just wanted to apologize for uhm.. the emails. I didn't know you'd read them." She says, and you slowly close all programs, while Jungkooks humms out something.

"Yeah, I figured." He says, before he shakes his head. "As I said, I'm letting it go. No hard feelings." He says, shrugging, before he walks towards his studio again, stopping in his tracks for a second. "Ah, baby, can you text Jin-Hyung and ask him if we can come now? I'm actually starving I swear." He says, and you nod with red cheeks, pulling out your phone.

"Huh." Comes from Hana, as she takes the receipt from you. "I honestly.. would've never thought." She mumbles, before she simply leaves, without any more words.

Yeah. You would've honestly never thought either.

(c)Bonny-Kookoo. Please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi.com/bonnykookoo. Thank you for reading.

#bts imagine #bts #bts fanfic #jungkook imagine #bts fic #bts smut #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook #bts reactions

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jeonsjiddies · 4 years ago

Text

Say You Want Me | ksj (m)

Summary - Reluctantly joining your friend at a party pays off when you end up alone with Seokjin in his apartment and he shows you what you’ve been missing out on.

Word Count - 2953

Pairing - Seokjin x reader

Genre - smut

Warnings - praise kink?, short lived sexual harassment, penetrative sex, oral (f recieving), big dick Jin, soft sex

a/n: another re-write from a previous fandom. :)

“No,” you glared at your friend, crossing your arms.

“But Y/N! I can’t go without you,” MacKenzie whined.

“I won’t tell.”

“It’s not that, Y/N. I need you there.” she pouted. “You’re my moral support.”

“I support you morally… from here,” you sighed, resolve already breaking.

“Please?” she begged, gripping your arm dramatically.

“I hate you,” you hissed and she jumped up and down, squealing.

You only sighed in response, but that didn’t deter MacKenzie. She jumped into action, pulling out clothes for you to review. Most of her clothes left little to the imagination and you felt naked just looking at them.

“This would look amazing on you.”

She held up a black dress with a belt that was shaped like a bow with diamonds on it. The hem was high and the neckline low.

“There’s no way I’m wearing that.”

“Come on, Y/N. Live a little. Maybe a certain Mr. Kim will be there,” she wiggled her eyebrows.

Your friend was well aware of your weakness for Seokjin. You had several classes with the tall boy, and you guys talked often, but weren’t exactly friends. You had a huge crush on him though. Low blow to use them as bait. You grabbed the dress and put it on in the bathroom. You looked in the mirror, looking like a different person entirely. You threw on a light jacket so the outfit wasn’t quite as revealing.

“You look hot,” MacKenzie sing-songed.

“So do you, babe.”

You both split an uber to take you to the party, not wanting to mess with driving in the event that you did end up drinking and she no longer had a designated driver. The closer you got to the party, the more you shook with nerves.

“This is going to be so much fun!” MacKenzie giggled.

You nodded, already wishing you’d stayed home. The uber dropped you off and you could hear the music thumping already. You gulped, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

“MacKenzie and her little wallflower. You made it,” Wonho, who was throwing the party, greeted with a grin.

You waved shyly, surveying your surroundings, where people seemed to have grouped off in cliques. Athletic people were in the kitchen drinking. The artsy crowd were over by the couch, giggling amongst themselves. The “bad” boys were by the TV chatting. Some stragglers danced. You saw Jimin, Taehyung, Namjoon, and Hoseok off on their own, and you went to talk to them, following MacKenzie.

“Hey Kenzie, hey Y/N,” they greeted.

You smiled and waved, “hi guys.”

You guys talked for a while (you mostly listened) before you wandered off to get some water. You left your jacket on the chair because the house was getting pretty hot, and you figured no one would pay attention to you without MacKenzie.

“Wow, y/n/ Looking good.” Gi-oh, the local campus fuckboy, slurred as he leaned on you with one arm.

“Thanks…” you said quietly, trying to wiggle out of his grip.

“Where have you been hiding that banging body baby?” he drawled on, one hand drifting to your backside and giving it a squeeze.

“Gi-oh, don’t,” you said, trying again to move away from him but his hand gripped your arm, pulling you in.

“Come on, Y/N. You didn’t dress up like that to be ignored,” Gi-oh argued.

“Stop, please,” you tried yanking your arm free.

“She said no, Gi-oh,” you heard a deep, angry voice behind you.

You turned around, coming face-to-face with Seokjin.

“Back off, freak. Y/N and I are just having a little fun,” Gi-oh rolled his eyes.

“Are you having fun, Y/N?” Jin asked.

“No,” you said quietly.

“Leave her alone. No means no,” Jin growled.

“Fine, you can have her ugly ass. Y/N don’t come crying to me when this bites you in the ass,” Gi-oh huffed, storming away.

“You okay?” Seokjin asked you.

“I’m fine…” you looked at the ground.

“Do you want to get some air? You look flushed.”

“After what happened with Gi-oh I don’t want to be alone out there in the dark,” you kicked at the floor with your shoe, avoiding eye contact.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Jin offered.

You looked up at him nervously and nodded slightly.

“If you wouldn’t mind?” you asked.

He nodded, following you out the door and down the driveway.

“Thank you for coming with me,” you nearly whispered, looking down at the ground.

Jin was hot and you were super nervous to be alone with him outside of classes, yet his presence made you feel safe, like nothing and no one could hurt you.

“No problem,” he smiled reassuringly.

You both walked in silence, and you kept glancing over at Jin nervously, feeling more awkward by the second. Jin was a man of few words, unless he was angry, so he wasn’t likely to start a conversation. You normally thrived in silence. Comfortable silence. This was awkward silence. It was driving you insane.

“Sorry you’re missing out on the party because of me.”

“I didn’t want to be there anyway,” he shrugged with a light chuckle.

“Why’d you come then?” you asked.

“Namjoon and Hoseok,” he explained.

“Your friends dragged you along too,” you smiled.

“Seems to be a recurring theme,” he glanced at you, the corner of his mouth twisting up.

You shivered as a chilly breeze flew past, cursing yourself internally for leaving your jacket at the party. Jin looked at you for a moment before shrugging his jacket off and wrapping it around your shoulders.

“Won’t you get cold?” you asked.

“I’ll be fine. Can’t let a pretty lady freeze to death, now can I?” his eyes twinkled.

Your cheeks burned hot and you hid your face but you were sure Jin could tell from the glow of the street lamps but he didn’t say anything. You didn’t miss the smirk that played on his lips though.

“I...thank you.” you managed to say quietly.

“Just callin’ it as I see it, princess,” Jin chuckled.

You hadn’t noticed you’d been walking long enough to be almost to the end of the Northside. You slowed down, looking around. The beautiful dark sky had lost its pretty diamond stars magical glow and storm clouds had replaced them.

“Where are we?” you asked.

“Edge of town, didn’t notice we’d gone this far,” Jin answered.

The first drop of rain fell right on Jin’s forehead, and it started sprinkling, slowly turning into a heavier rain.

“Fuck, we’d better get inside somewhere,” Jin said, glancing around at all the closed signs on businesses.

“How far away are we from the party?” you asked.

“Like, 6 miles.”

“We’re gonna get soaked,” you frowned.

“My place is only a half mile from here,” he shrugged.

“Your place? You live alone?” you asked.

Jin nodded and the rain started pouring.

“Lead the way!” you shouted over the drumming of the water on the pavement.

He took off running, grabbing your hand and pulling you along with him so you didn’t fall behind with your much shorter legs. You struggled to keep up as he led you to his apartment complex and unlocked the door to his unit, ushering you inside. You stood by the door, trying to squeeze the water out of your hair. Jin shook his head like a wet dog. You froze, not sure what to do, rocking back and forth on your feet.

“Do you want some water? Maybe some dry clothes?” Jin offered, gesturing to your soaked dress.

“Would you mind? I’m kind of cold,” you let out a nervous giggle.

“Sure.” he disappeared into the bedroom, re-emerging in dry clothes, holding out a flannel shirt and some shorts for you.

“I think the shorts might be too big but the shirt is pretty long, so…” he trailed off.

“Thank you,” you took the clothes and went to the bathroom to change.

You stripped off your wet dress and pulled Jin’s shirt onto your body. It was almost as long as the dress. Your hair fell in damp waves after you’d rung it out and brushed through it. You cleaned up some of your running makeup and tried on the shorts, but they fell right off and you didn’t have a hair tie to make them stay. You hung your dress over the shower rod to dry then turned to look at yourself in the mirror and you felt kind of… sexy. Standing there in Jin’s shirt covering your body until mid-thigh, you looked hot. You walked out of the bathroom, immediately feeling less confident until you saw Jin’s split second double take. You coughed nervously and looked down.

“The shorts were too big,” you explained, handing them back.

“Okay,” he said quietly, his eyes raking up and down your body before snapping out of it and clearing his throat.

“So�� what now?” you asked.

“It’s still pouring so I guess wait out the storm here?” he asked.

“Sure.” you smiled.

“Ummm… do you want to play a game or watch a movie or something?” he asked.

“We can play a game.” you smiled, sitting down and making sure you were covered up.

“Never have I ever or truth or dare?” he smirked.

“Ummm.. never have I ever,” you decided.

“Drinking version?” he lifted an eyebrow.

“Not in your best interest,” you laughed.

“Alright then, hold up your fingers,” he instructed.

You held up both hands, showing all ten fingers.

“Never have I ever read a fashion magazine.” Seokjin started.

You put one finger down.

“Never have I ever joined a frat,” you grinned, watching him frown before putting his finger down.

“Never have I ever read a romance novel,” he smirked.

You giggled and put your finger down.

“Never have I ever played beer pong,” you shot back.

Jin put down a finger, then thought for a moment.

“Never have I ever shaved my legs,” he laughed.

You rolled your eyes with a smile and put a finger down.

“Never have I ever been in a fight,” you said.

Jin put his finger down.

“Never have I ever had sex with a guy,” he grinned.

You sat there awkwardly.

“Wait, are you into girls?” he asked.

You shook your head, avoiding eye contact.

“You’re a virgin?” he gaped.

You looked down and nodded.

“That’s insane. Is it a personal choice?” he asked.

“Kind of? I haven’t met anyone I want to have sex with that feels the same,” you explained.

“Who in their right mind would pass up that opportunity?” he shook his head.

You looked away and giggled.

“Never have I ever kissed someone,” you said, keeping the game going.

“WHAT? No one has kissed you?! Y/N this is a travesty!” he squawked.

“Volunteering as tribute?” you joked.

“Damn straight I am.”

“Wait, what?” your eyes bugged out.

“I’d gladly kiss you,” he clarified.

“Really?” you tried to hide the hope in your voice.

Your stomach was in knots, butterflies wreaking havoc when he said, “yes.”

“Okay,” you barely whispered.

Jin scooted closer to you, glancing from your eyes to your lips as the anticipation increased. You were nothing but nerves as he cupped your face in both of his large hands, calloused fingers gingerly rubbing along your skin. Jin leaned in, closing his eyes. Holy shit, this is happening. Jin’s plush lips barely brushed yours, a featherlight touch, but your heart stopped. He kissed you for real, pressing his lips against your own firmly, and your whole world spun out of control. You were dizzy and full of joy and you couldn’t believe you’d been missing out on this. You felt like time had stopped. Jin pulled away, looking into your eyes like he was searching for something.

“Wow, if I’d known kissing felt like that I’d have done it sooner,” you broke the silence.

“It doesn’t,” he said in awe, “it never feels like that.”

“Oh,” you whispered.

In a flash, Jin crashed his lips to yours again and you fell back with the impact, Jin hovering over you on the couch. You wound your hands in his hair as he deepened the kiss, hands all over your body. You felt like a light switch had been turned on, and you were warm all over. You moaned into Jin’s mouth as his hands grazed your inner thigh.

“If you keep that up I won’t be able to stop myself,” Jin warned.

“Then don’t,” you said, looking into his eyes, “don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened and he studied you for a moment.

“Are you sure about this, Y/N?” he asked.

You nodded.

“I need to hear you say it. Say you want me,” he purred in your ear.

“I want you Seokjin, so badly,” you whined.

That was all it took.

Jin ripped his shirt over his head, then with ridiculously quick and talented fingers, unbuttoned the flannel you were wearing, exposing your body to him. He licked his lips, eyes wandering along your smooth skin. Jin wasted no time, tossing the shirt off somewhere in the room and attacking your neck with love bites. You moaned his name, spurring him on. He unclipped your bra in record speed, his tongue instantly finding its way to your nipples, causing you to arch your back off the couch.

“This is your first time. It shouldn’t be here,” Jin mumbled, picking you up bridal style in nothing but your panties, carrying you into his bedroom and placing you gently on top of the covers.

You watched as he undid his belt and slid his pants off, only in his boxers as his body hovered over yours once more. Jin slowed down his assault, reminding himself this was a special moment for you, and he wanted it to be a good memory. He kissed and sucked on your neck, collarbone, your breasts, giving every inch of your skin attention.

“You’re so gorgeous, Y/N. So pretty,” he cooed in your ear, “I’m gonna make you feel so good baby, you’ll never forget this night. You’re going to feel me inside you for weeks after this, I promise.”

You squirmed at his dirty words, watching him.

“Prove it.”

Jin lifted an eyebrow, then started kissing down your stomach, skipping where you really wanted him entirely, and nipping at your inner thighs, massaging them each time. You leaned your head back, reveling in the feeling. You should’ve started having sex ages ago, this was amazing. Or maybe it was just Seokjin.

You were so lost in your thoughts, it took you by surprise when Jin’s tongue dived inside your aching heat and you groaned as his tongue licked figure 8’s on your clit, fingers slowly pumping in and out of you. It felt so good to be touched by Seokjin. Of course you’d touched yourself over the years, but fuck it felt so much better when Jin did it. He was electrocuting you in the best way possible. You were so close to losing it when Jin halted his efforts and reached for the condom. He pulled his boxers down, exposing his rock hard cock and your eyes widened. He was huge. He had such a pretty cock though, you weren’t surprised. All of him was pretty.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Seokjin confirmed.

“Yes. I want you so bad, Jin,” you said, taking his hand and pulling him closer, “I’m glad it’s you.”

Jin smiled, kissing you gently and sliding into you, pausing to let you adjust when you hissed. Jin was big, you knew that even with your limited experience, and it kind of burned. The burning subsided and you gave him the okay to move, and once he did, you lost your mind. Every time Jin moved inside you, you felt like you were going to explode with pleasure. Each thrust felt significantly better than the last. He went slow, murmuring sweet things in your ear and taking his time, making sure you were comfortable.

“Fuck Jin,” you moaned.

You were so close, on the edge of bliss, and Jin could tell. He sped up, moving in and out of you a little rougher, only once he knew you could handle it. It didn’t take long after he sped up for you to lose it. You screamed his name, clinging to his body and scratching at his shoulders. You were flying, floating, burning, dying inside. It felt like nothing you’d ever experienced in your life. You could die a happy woman if this was the last thing you ever did. You couldn’t even suck in a breath, your whole body was shaking from the immaculate pleasure coursing through you. Jin rode you through your high, milking it for all it was worth before spilling into the condom himself, then flopping next to you, exhausted. After you both calmed down and found your normal breathing again, Jin looked over at you and found you watching him.

“Not to be ‘that girl’ but… what are we now? Are we just friends, or-” you began.

“No. I want you to be mine. I don’t want to think about you begging for anyone else, being touched by anyone else. Will you be mine?” he asked.

“Yes,” you rushed out, tackling him in little kisses.

You both cuddled for a while, and you changed your relationship status online, begging Seokjin for a couples selfie. He said no about 15 times before you wore him down, fixing your hair as best you could before snapping the photo and posting it online, tagging Seokjin in it. You commented underneath.

@sugaflake thanks for making me go out tonight, it was definitely worth it. <3

#KIM SEOKJIN #KIM SEOKJIN X READER #JIN #JIN X READER #JIN SMUT #SEOKJIN SMUT #BTS #BTS SMUT #seokjin #seokjin x reader

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hatterstan-shameblog · 3 years ago

Note

Smut, you say 👀

You're this cute, kinda innocent woman that gets the help of this handsome gigolo to not be as... innocent.

💕 The Professional: Chapter 1 💕

Chapter Two

Rating: PG-13 (for this chapter only)

Pairing: Danma Takeru (Hatter)/Reader (she/her

Tags: flirting, suggestive conversation, alcohol consumption, smoking, kissing

“Well, darling,” he says, voice low and smooth and so much closer than before, “I think it’s high time we got to the heart of the issue. The root of the root and the bud of the bud, as it were.”

“Uh,” you say, unsure of where he’s going with this but very much enjoying his simple touches, “what do you mean?”

“I’m just wondering,” he clarifies, pausing to let out a soft sigh, “when you’re going to give in and kiss me.”

Notes: This is a kind-of sort-of AU—in the show, Hatter references his involvement with the host club business, and mentions that he “would do anything” to be the best. Although host clubs do not usually involve sex work (as far as I know), I believe that he would definitely offer that “off the books” in order to win over his clientele.

You’re nervous. Nervous and jittery and—oh, dear, there’s a lot of feelings going on in here, and all of them seem to fall under the umbrella of ��mild to moderate discomfort.’ Not that feeling uncomfortable is anything new; in fact, there are very few times where you happen to feel truly comfortable outside of, say, the warmth of your bed or the soothing calm of a late-night bath. Places where you feel safe. Places where you can let yourself breathe and be, unhindered by expectation.

The place where you currently find yourself—this strange little pocket of a room in the buzz and bustle of a Friday-night Kabukicho—is full-to-bursting with expectation. From the polished wood floors to the glittering gold chandelier that hangs from the center of the ceiling, there is an inescapable sense of opulent whimsy that is tinged pink with a blush of sensuality. There are even fresh flowers on the table in front of you—a vase of ranunculus, blooming bright and orange like a green-stalked bunch of tiny setting suns.

Something like an itch tickles your sweat-damp palms, making you ball your hands into tight fists around the fabric of your skirt. Oh, you should have worn something different! Something sexier, maybe, with a deeper neckline and a shorter hem, that hugged the shape of your body as opposed to ghosting over it in fluttering chiffon. Not that you actually, you know, owned anything like that, but—

The pop! of a champagne cork makes you jump. Hell, you feel like you’re about to pop, too, from the nervous energy boiling and swelling in your chest. It’s so very difficult not to fidget, to keep your toes from tapping out a frantic little rhythm on the rug.

Looking back, you realize that the paperwork had been the ‘easy’ part. Not that it had been particularly easy—who knew there would be an application process for this kind of thing?—but it was less stressful to fill out a (surprisingly comprehensive) questionnaire in the privacy of your own home as opposed to this agonizing waiting.

And what, exactly, are you waiting for?

Why, you’re waiting for him.

His name is Takeru—or, at least, that’s what he’s asked you to call him. Whether or not it’s a stage name is difficult to tell; but what you do know is that it sounded so very nice in the deep clear of his voice. The only thing that sounded better was your name, which he said in a gently-sultry half-whisper that made you feel…many thing, and not all of them innocent.

In a devastatingly well-tailored suit of lipstick red—a vibrant pop of a color you would so often consider buying at the makeup counter but always put back—it’s nearly impossible to look at anything but him. A small collection of rings glisten from his fingers, most of them delicate little things that wink a tiny gleam when the light hits them just right. The dizzying black-white-gold pattern of his shirt is unbuttoned just a smidge too low, offering you a tantalizing view of his chest.

And although his back is toward you, concocting some kind of magic at the bar cart along the far wall, you can all but feel the warm-dark of his eyes on you. Oh, he has beautiful eyes, dark and warm with the glitter of laughter—or perhaps mischief, if the situation calls for it. A slim nose leads down to a shapely mouth, handsomely framed by a neatly-trimmed beard and mustache.

Also, his hair—oh, that man has a great head of hair.

Aesthetics aside—he has been undeniably lovely. Slipping the coat from your shoulders when you walked into the room, fingertips skimming the slope of your shoulders with only the barest of touches. Offering you a glass of champagne (“Yes, thank you”) as he leads you to sit on the green velvet settee, hand hovering above but never touching the small of your back. A serene smile on his lips as he talks, as he tells you that your dress is lovely (“Blue is definitely your color, darling”) and letting out an airy chuckle when you mention that this was as good occasion as any to dig it out of the back of your closet.

It is impossible to ignore the way he is so very provocative—subtly so, in a way that makes you second-guess whether his flirtations had happened at all. Did his eyes really linger over the shape of your legs, or was he simply taking a moment to admire your (new, very cute) shoes? Did his fingertips slip over the curve of your shoulder as he removed your coat, or were you just imagining it?

His gaze tiptoes over your shape as he sits down beside you, two flutes of pink-tinged something in hands.

“I’ve taken the liberty of making something a little special,” he says, “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh, uh, thank you,” you say as he hands you one of the glasses, “it…it looks nice.”

“Know what it is?”

“Uh,” you say after a moment of silent deliberation, “Maybe alcohol?”

He huffs a short laugh at your half-joke—a rather polite response, and it manages to soothe the bubble of regret that had risen up your throat the moment you’d said it.

“You’re not wrong. More specifically, though, it’s a Kir Royale—or, my take on one, at the very least,” he watches the bubbles fizzle to the top of the glass, “I find myself more or less incapable of keeping with convention, even when it comes to alcohol.”

“Well, uh,” you say, “it’s pretty. I like the color.”

You taste the drink, bubbles like tiny fireworks tickling over the surface of your tongue. There is a dry bitterness, no doubt from the champagne, but it’s softened by a fruity sweetness. Something familiar, something that reminds you of summer and shaved ice and walks along the river and—

“Cherry,” you say, half-lost in the hazy-warm memory of days gone by—until you remember where you are and snap back to reality, “it’s, uh, it tastes like cherries.”

“Very good. Usually, the drink calls for creme de cassis, but I used Kijafa instead. It’s a dessert wine from Denmark, made from cherries,” his brow raises just a smidge, “I thought it appropriate, given the situation.”

And it takes you a minute to understand what he’s talking about. Cherries. You. Ah. A rather crass comparison, but accurate all the same.

“Oh,” you say, picking a very uninteresting spot on the rug to look at in an attempt to avoid meeting his eyes, “I, uh…”

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he adds, “In fact, virginity isn’t even a real thing. Completely made up. Means nothing, really.”

There is a kind of lag—he’s speaking, you know he’s speaking, but it takes your brain a few extra seconds to figure out what he’s actually saying. It’s strange, hearing someone talk to you so openly about sex. Not unwelcome, by any means, but you need a moment (or two, or ten) to adjust.

“That being said,” he continues, as if he’s discussing the weather, “just because it doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of life doesn’t mean it’s nothing to you.”

He’s fishing. He’s fishing, and you kind of want to take the bait, but…well, you’re finding it difficult to get your thoughts in order. He’s the very picture of calm, all while you’re floundering over a simple conversation.

“Apologies if I’ve overstepped,” he says, taking a slow sip of his drink, “I thought you might prefer to talk it over a bit. ”

“No, uh, you’re fine,” you answer quickly, “I’m just…I thought the paperwork kind of covered all that.”

“More or less,” he answers, “however, I’ve found that the person who fills out the forms and the person who ends up sitting across from me are not always of the same mind.”

He reaches a hand into the inside of his jacket and pulls out a silver-plated cigarette case. Although he is not gentleman enough to ask your permission to smoke, he is gentleman enough to offer you a cigarette before taking one of his own. You decline. He shrugs and quickly snaps the case shut before laying it on the table.

“In fact, it’s not uncommon for my clients to have a complete change of heart the second they walk through the door,” he continues, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, “Or, sometimes later on, for that matter. Depends on the person.”

Cigarette held between his teeth, he retrieves a lighter from his right trouser pocket. With a sharp little snick, he ignites it, pulling the little orange flame towards his face and hiding it behind his hand to let it catch.

“Really?”

You watch him intently, the way his eyelids flutter closed at the first inhale. The way his lips pucker around the filter and release, the red-pink sticking slightly as they pull away and let smoky white flow out and fade into the air.

“Really,” he confirms, “once, I had a client step inside, take one look at me, and promptly walk right back out. Never saw them again, which is fine. I’ll never fault someone for doing what’s right for themselves.”

“Are you, uh, trying to talk me out of it?”

“Not at all. Just making you aware of your options,” he says, “Doing anything for the first time is scary. Driving a car, swimming in the ocean, traveling abroad—sex is no different.”

“Yeah, well,” you respond, “you also get to do most of those things with your clothes on, so…”

“Depends on who you’re with.”

You can’t help but laugh a little.

“Well I still want to…you know,” you answer, “uh, do it. The…the sex part.”

“I’m happy to hear it.”

“Yeah, well, you’re supposed to say that.”

“It’s the truth,” he insists, “I can’t imagine anyone being upset at the thought of having a pretty thing like you in their bed.”

“I’m not—“

“Don’t,” he interrupts, taking on a tone that brokers no arguments, “I will suffer many things, but a liar isn’t one of them. You are an attractive woman and I refuse to be told otherwise.”

“Sorry, I,” you say sheepishly, “I guess I just…wasn’t expecting you to…like me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He ashes his cigarette and takes another long, slow drag, “You’re very sweet. A bit shy, maybe, but I happen to like the shy ones.”

And there is something about the way he says it, the way his voice wraps around the words—oh, there are implications to those words, and you find yourself growing warm at the thought of what exactly those implications could entail.

You sip your drink. He smokes. The quiet between you is almost comfortable. Maybe it’s the alcohol working it’s bubbly magic, but you’re starting to feel a bit more at ease in this strange little place.

Moreover, you’re starting to feel a bit more at ease with him. The thought of kissing him crosses your mind, then doubles-back and crosses it again. Oh, that sounds nice. He would be good at it, too; starting gently, mouth pressed soft and sure against your own, and then just the tiniest tease of his tongue—

“And there you go, biting your lip again,” he says, snapping you out of your impromptu fantasy, “You have no idea how sexy that is, do you?”

He is sporting a devilish grin—not only is he aware that you had been daydreaming about him, but he’s relishing the fact that he was able to catch you so off-guard.

“Didn’t even realize I was doing it,” you admit with a shrug. But you can’t help but feel a thrill at the thought of being considered ‘sexy’—you never really let yourself feel that way, but now that it’s happening…oh, it’s nice.

“It’s absolutely delicious, darling. Makes me wonder what else you do when you’re turned on…”

And he’s got you—like a knife held under your chin, his sharp gaze pins you in place. He is impossible to avoid. Not that you particularly want to avoid him—there’s something irresistible about this man, something that you can’t quite name but definitely want more of.

It’s scary.

It’s exciting.

“I’m,” you say with a nervous chuckle, “not really sure, myself. Guess we’ll have to, uh, figure it out together.”

His gaze darkens. He takes one last lungful of nicotine before stubbing out his cigarette.

“I suppose we shall.”

And he’s moving now, sliding himself down so that he’s closer to you. He stops when there is barely an inch of space between the outside of his thigh and your own. His right arm has draped itself over the back of the sofa, the fingertips of his hand now skimming the skin of your shoulder in loose, mindless sweeps.

“Uh,” you say, unsure of where he’s going with this but very much enjoying his simple touches, “what do you mean?”

“I’m just wondering,” he clarifies, pausing to let out a soft sigh, “when you’re going to give in and kiss me.”

He plucks the champagne flute from your grasp and sets it on the table in front of you.

“I, uh—“

The fingertips on your shoulder continue to make their idle little circles, almost hypnotic in their swirling pattern. His left hand catches your right wrist, his thumb pressing above where your pulse thrums beneath sensitive skin.

“Bit fast,” he observes, pulling your arm closer as if inspecting it, “Could be nerves, but I think it’s more from excitement, don’t you?”

You have no choice but to lean into him as he brings your hand closer. Your shoulder presses against his arm, and you feel the solid shape of him through the smooth of his suit. He’s strong underneath all of those layers—warm, too, judging from the heat that radiates from his person.

“I’m—“

The thumb that had been testing your pulse inches higher, stopping when it’s pressing into the center of your palm. His eyes lock with yours, a heartbeat of a moment, and brings your wrist closer and closer until his lips are ghosting over your flesh. When he finally decides to make contact, you gasp—it’s a delicate sensation, but sends your heart skipping in a shaking staccato.

And, then.

Then he sucks.

The sound you make is halfway between an oh of surprise and a desperate little moan—oh, wow, that’s really weirdly unexpectedly hot—and you don’t even have the presence of mind to feel embarrassed by your own reaction. He’s not even doing much, not really; just a little bit of pressure, lips parted just enough to let his tongue slip out and have a taste of you.

But, oh, it feels…it feels filthy, it feels decadent, it feels like something you should not be doing but very much want to keep doing for the rest of your life. Takeru’s eyes have since fluttered shut, and he hums the tiniest sound of pleasure as he maintains his seductive tease.

“Please,” you manage to sigh, sounding as breathless as you feel, “please, I, I want you to kiss me.”

His lips release from your wrist with a pucker-pop noise—which was no doubt intentional on his part, and does nothing to quell the thrill of desire in your belly.

“Hm. I’ll make you a deal,” he says, shifting a bit to the left so that he can turn to face you better, “I’ll kiss you for the rest of the night, but right now…you kiss me.”

And what a deal that is—you don’t even have to think about it, head bobbing in an affirmative nod as you wet your lips in anticipation. The hand that had so lovingly held yours is now guiding you to rest your palm just above his knee. You reflexively reach your other hand out to steady yourself, and it lands against his chest before you can stop it.

He’s so close now. There’s barely any space between your faces, barely room to breathe—

“Go on, darling,” he whispers, “if you want me, have me.”

And you do.

You kiss him like it’s the easiest thing in the world. The anxiety that has plagued you since the moment you entered the room hasn’t completely dissipated—it would be foolish to think it’d be that easy to banish those feelings completely—but all that is now secondary to the feeling of his mouth on yours.

Kissing Takeru is warm. It’s soft and it’s sure and it’s…comfortable, in a way. Safe, even. He does not press, doesn’t do much of anything except mirror the way your lips slide against his own. A gentle rhythm, a push and pull between the two of you that feels as natural as the moon guiding the tides to shore—yes, kissing him is good and right and something you want to do many times over.

Unfortunately, you have to pull away to breathe. He doesn’t let you go far, though, one hand cupped behind the nape of your neck and the other pressing into the small of your back.

“Oh, you are sweet,” he purrs, his gaze dropping to your freshly-kissed lips, “and, seeing that I’m a man of my word…”

As it turns out, being kissed by Takeru might be better than kissing him, yourself. He is still so very careful when he presses his lips to yours, but this time…this time, there’s fire. He tastes like the best part of a cigarette, like warmth and alcohol and cherries, and it only intensifies as he tests the seam of your lips with his tongue.

Little by little, you begin to test him, too. Hands cradle the curve of his jaw, feeling the way his face shifts as he moves against you. Fingertips run through the soft dark of his hair—oh, he likes that, if the half-sigh that slips from his throat is to be believed. And when you nip at his lower lip with your teeth (he had, after all, very much enjoyed the way you bit your lip earlier), he genuinely moans and pulls you even closer to himself.

It’s when he begins to wander lower, with his mouth skimming the sensitivity of your neck and his hand splayed across your lower back in a way that flirts with the idea of indecency, that you begin to want more. Fear—and maybe that’s not exactly the right word for what you’re feeling, but it’s the only one that comes to mind—begins to creep up the column of your spine.

The “what-if’s” start filling your brain; what if you mess something up? What if you do something he doesn’t like? What if you freeze up later and—

“Alright, darling?”

His voice is a low soothe against your ear; he’s retreated, just a bit, and his hand has wandered to a chaste and respectable area of your mid-back.

“I—“

You want him to take you to bed. You want him to take off your dress and kiss you in all the places you thought weren’t worth kissing, to let his hands trace sparks along the curves of your shape and let him be close to you in a way that no one else has. You want him, despite the uncertain ache that burns between your ribs and bids you to hide yourself away and leave behind the pleasure of his touch.

…But all you can manage is a nervous glance to the bed behind you (the one you had been avoiding thinking about up until this point) and a stammered “Can we, uh…?”

“Ask me,” he says, his index and middle fingers idly skimming the notch in your collarbone, “I’ll give you anything you want, as long as you ask me.”

It’s difficult to make eye contact with him—every time you try, you feel embarrassment swell up beneath your tongue.

But Takeru is, as you have come to learn over the last hour or so, decidedly patient. He shows no sign of relenting, appearing to be perfectly content with giving you an expectant grin and continuing his little touches as you try not to squirm in your seat.

“I,” you gulp, “I want…“

You bite your lip—oh, wait, he likes that too, and he’s staring at you with those sharp and sultry eyes, and it makes something behind your heart squeeze and unsqueeze itself and punches the air from your lungs and—

“Take me to bed,” you manage to spit out, and it all sounds like one word with how quickly you pushed the words into the air. The “uh, please” you tack on at the end is an afterthought, but perhaps it’s polite enough to pass muster.

“Was that so hard,” Takeru asks with a good-natured chuckle, “but since you asked so nicely…”

He takes your hand in his and brings it to his lips for a kiss—and even that, after everything, still has you feeling a flutter of something giddy in your stomach.

“Darling,” he says, “it would be my pleasure.”

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

…and now, you’ll have to wait until chapter two to get to the “good stuff!”

It’s been a challenge writing this—I’m trying to make the scenario believable while still keeping it vague enough to allow for people to make up their own little details. It’s also been unexpectedly difficult to write him, since he’s kind of being himself while also playing a character who’s trying to mold themself into their client’s fantasy…it’s a lot of layers, but it’s been fun trying to figure things out!

#alice in borderland #hatter #danma takeru #writings and such #spicy boy #alice in borderland netflix #takeru danma #we did it fellas. we finally wrote the first chapter.#I’ve been working on this for WEEKS #now to write the actual spicy stuff lol oh geez

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nike-shawn · 4 years ago

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Hockey Shawn Part One

It’s here!! I really hope you guys enjoy my next series: Hockey Shawn! Let me know what you want to see later on, and happy reading! ⚡️❄️

⚡️ November 1st, 2020 ⚡️

You wake up early, before the sun. The hotel room is bathed in city light but the sky is dark, and you notice small snow flurries sticking to the floor to ceiling windows.

Snow. The first of the season.

Careful not to wake the sleeping boy next to you, you sneak out from underneath the duvet and pad to the bathroom where you splash cold water over your face. One quick look at the bags under your eyes and the mats in your hair could tell anyone what you were up to the night prior— you blush as you remember his calloused hands running over your soft skin, moving lower, lower...

You jump into a cold shower. The first seconds are miserable but you soon get used to it, as you always do. Water falls over your tanned legs and shampoo lathers in your hair as you try to hurry through all the steps. You’re going to be late for school, and you’re already skating on thin ice. Your boss, a stern, older woman with bright red glasses, has had her eyes on you since you accidentally let out a laugh at one of your kids’ senior pranks. (It was something to do with shaving cream and pencils— you can’t quite remember, but it definitely was hilarious). One more slap on the wrist and you’ll be firmly placed on her bad side.

Hooking up with a hot guy at a bar on a Sunday night was not the brightest idea you’ve ever had. You didn’t think it would lead to you sleeping in his classy hotel room, but here you are. You can just slip away into the darkness of the morning and he’ll be none the wiser. Of course, you’d love to leave with his number, but you doubt he’s staying in town for more than a few days judging by the lack of luggage he had in his room. You’re better off leaving before he cracks his pretty eyes open.

You towel off and cringe as you put last nights dress on. There’s nothing else to wear, but the thought of dirty clothes touching your newly cleaned skin makes you a bit sad. You push the thought away as you emerge back into the bedroom.

“Oh,” you jump, pressing a palm to your heart that is racing in surprise. “I didn’t think you’d be awake.”

The man who you forgot to ask the name of smiles softly, and you notice that he has an adorable lazy eye. “I have to get going soon too,” he replies. He runs a hand over his unruly curls and clears his throat. You watch as his eyes drag slowly over your body. “Did you want to borrow something?”

You awkwardly pick at the (very short) hem of your dress. “If you don’t mind,” you say.

“Not at all.” He turns to his now open suitcase and starts to shuffle the clothes around. You see a flash of red and black, something that reminds you of a jersey, before the lid closes and he’s offering you a plain white t-shirt and black joggers.

“Oh, wow,” you say as you take in the brand names of each item. “You don’t have to give me nice stuff; I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get it back to you.”

He shakes his head and motions for you to turn around. You do, and he starts to tug your zipper down, much more gently than he did last night. Your dress goes slack around your shoulders. “It’s no problem. Don’t worry about getting them back to me anytime soon.” You smile your appreciation as you pull his clothes on. “Though, I would really like to see you again.”

You blush. “I’d love to see you again, too.”

You turn to examine yourself in the mirror and you catch his eye in the reflection. “Here,” he says. His fingers dig beneath the waistband of your (his) joggers and he rolls it over a few times so the legs aren’t as slouchy as before. Your skin heats up from where he touches it. “Better, eh?”

You raise your eyebrows. “You’re Canadian?”

He just nods, that genial expression still light on his features. He’s really such a kind person, you think, as you grab your purse and dress off the floor. You really would like to see him again.

In an uncharacteristic bout of courage, you lean up and, with a grip on his shoulder, kiss him. You can feel him smiling underneath your lips.

“I hope to see you again soon,” he tells you.

“You too.”

You walk out the door and feel like you’re walking on clouds.

🍁⚡️🍁⚡️

That morning at school, your students are oddly energetic.

You’re trying to gather their attention when you overhear a couple of them talking about some sports scandal. You weren’t interested until you catch a name, one that was oddly familiar. “Shawn Mendes.”

Suddenly you’re transported back to the bar last night, completely sober and fighting annoyance at your best friends who were swooning over a boy across the room. He was obviously trying to stay on the downlow, since he was almost completely shrouded in the darkness of the far corner. “Shawn Mendes,” your friend told you, “he’s in big trouble these days.”

You must have pushed those words out of your mind because not too long after, the same boy ran into you outside of the bathroom. As soon as you locked eyes, you knew exactly how the rest of the night would play out. And you were right, of course, because you woke up in his bed. But if it weren’t for your students’ conversation, that entire situation with your friend would’ve completely slipped your mind.

Trying to push all those anxious thoughts away, you get through the rest of your day with little to no concern for Shawn. However, the second you get back to your apartment, you open up google and type his name into the search bar. Millions of results fill your screen— the first few being articles that reference an infamous video, a conversation between him and a paparazzi. It doesnt take you long to find a link to that particular scene, and you wait only a minute for YouTube to load before his beautiful face comes across your desktop.

He’s flustered, obviously so. It was from last month, so it hasn’t gotten too cold yet, and he’s dressed only in a light windbreaker and sweatpants with a logo you recognize on them. He looks exactly the same as he did in your hotel room, though his hair is a bit shorter. And, of course, he looks a lot angrier. “Get out of my way,” he says gruffly, wedging his way through the crowd of cameras. One person who was out of the frame must have refused to move, because Shawn says “I said, get out of my fucking way, man.” A few seconds pass and they’re all shouting things at him, things like “you and Maddy, huh? How is she doing? Have you talked to her?”

Then, there’s yelling.

The camera pans to the man in question, and all you see is Shawn’s fist collide with his face.

The video ends.

You stare at your computer in shock. Who is this guy? The boy in that hotel room would never do that, not in a million years. And why is he being followed by paparazzi? You figured he played some professional sport, but there’s a big difference between being on a team and being harassed by tabloids, wanting to know every last thing about your love life.

You check the sidebar for more videos of him, and you see a few referencing his “Greatest Plays” or “10 Times Shawn Mendes Made Me Swoon”, but then one towards the bottom catches your eye. “Shawn Mendes’ Career-Ending Accident”.

You’re too curious. You click on the video and feel your heart pound as it loads. It takes you to a hockey rink, the stadium filled with fans cheering loudly. The score is the New York Lightening 3, Detroit Cougars 2. The New York team is wearing the jersey you saw in Shawn’s suitcase. The camera finds him, the star of the show, and you find yourself smiling as you catch a look of his face through his helmet.

Then, a player on the other team comes up and shoves him against the edge of the rink. The hit itself didn’t look extremely hard— you hadn’t seen too much of hockey but you know that the players get hit much harder than that on a regular basis. However, this one must’ve hit somewhere that it shouldn’t have. Shawn falls to the ice and starts convulsing, the scariest sight you’ve seen in many years. The announcers of the game are rightfully concerned, and the crowd has fallen to a whisper. You find your palm over your mouth in shock.

Finally, after what feels like hours, he becomes still and a stretcher breaks through the crowd of medical professionals that have gathered around Shawn, shielding him from view of the camera. He is carried off, and before he disappears into the locker room, you can see him sitting up with a dazed look on his face.

You look over to the shirt and sweatpants he gave you. Last night and this morning with him seems so, so far away, and his picture in your mind has shifted dramatically. He’s an extremely famous hockey player who suffered an injury that has kept him from the game since this day over a year ago, and he has a famous ex-girlfriend who’s simple mention caused him to get angry enough to assault a cameraman.

His name is Shawn Mendes, and you need to see him again.

🍁⚡️🍁⚡️

The opportunity comes a week later.

Your friend convinces you to return to the same bar you went to last week. Convinces is actually quite a strong word for what happened— she mentioned her plans and offered for you to come along and you readily agreed. A part of you desperately wants to see Shawn again and ask him about his life, about all the things you had no idea about before. But you know that, in the off chance you did see him, you’d sink back into your shell and revert to the same thing you two did before. You’d go back to his hotel, have sex, and wake up the next morning beside him, all without any semblance of meaningful conversation.

You walk into the bar and immediately your eyes latch on to that corner where he stationed himself last week. There’s definitely someone there, but it isn’t your six foot something hockey player hookup. You fight the disappointment in your chest.

It’s for the best, anyways. Plus, tonight is Saturday, and last week you saw him on Sunday. Maybe he’s a Sunday night regular. Or, maybe he isn’t a regular at all. With a hint of sadness you realize that he most likely lives somewhere else and just flies in when he needs to be in the city. Why else would he be staying in a hotel?

“What’s wrong?” Your friend Lilly asks, gripping your elbow to gain your attention.

“Oh, nothing. Just distracted,” you say, smiling softly. You sit next to her at a bar stool and immediately lose interest in the scene. The bartender starts to flirt with Lilly and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. You wish Shawn was flirting with you like he is with her, but it seems like you’re fresh out of luck.

The night drags on and you spend a lot of it scrolling through Shawn’s Instagram. Most of the recent posts are sponsored, one for a sports drink and another for a protein powder, and both pictures are just of him with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes on the balcony of a gorgeous high rise somewhere in the city. So he does live here, you think. You want to kick yourself for never getting his phone number. The next few are action shots of him on the ice, his cheeks flushed and his hair sweaty and matted against his head. He looks fantastic in his uniform-- no wonder the pictures have over a million likes each.

“Are you ready to go?” Lilly asks, shaking you out of your Instagram stalking.

With one last glance at that dark corner, you nod and grab your coat and purse. The two of you exit the bar not having paid for one drink thanks to Lilly’s flirtation, and you feel like a deflated balloon. You gained absolutely nothing from the past three hours when you could’ve met back up with the sweet, handsome boy you had a massive crush on who has some secret, intriguing double life that you want to know more about.

You walk back to the parking lot behind the bar and breathe in the very unfamiliar smell of the small patch of forest around the lot. In the city, you don’t get much of that natural, woodsy scent, but you welcome it, even if you can see right through the shallow gathering of tree trunks to the other side, which is classic, crowded New York City. You get lost in the view of the snow gathering on the branches. It’s beautiful.

“Y/N!” Lilly whispers. “Holy shit, is that him?”

You snap back to attention and follow Lilly’s finger to the tall, very familiar figure that’s getting closer and closer. If you didn’t immediately recognize that messy head of curls, you may have been scared. But instead your chest fills with butterflies.

“Hey, wow,” he says as he gets closer. His cheeks are flushed rosy red from the cold and the yellow streetlights illuminate his face enough for you to catch the sight of his adorable lazy eye. He is slightly out of breath and you figure he was on a run, taking a quick glance at his dry-fit long sleeve and leggings with running shorts on top. “Crazy seeing you here.”

You are almost stunned into silence, but Lilly covertly kicks your foot to get your attention again. “Yeah, hey. That is crazy. You live around here, then?”

“No, not really. I’ve been staying at uh... at that hotel.” You can see that he’s uncomfortable with Lilly being there, thinking that she may be unaware. Of course, you already told her everything. “Just went out for a run because I’ve been holed up all day working.”

“Us too. We came to the bar to let loose a little,” Lilly fills in for you. “Rough week at school.”

“You’re both teachers?” He asks.

“Yeah, high school English,” you answer. You start to realize that he knows your job before he knows your first name.

You both let a small silence blanket the conversation before he breaks it with, “I came over because I thought I recognized that shirt.” His blindingly white, straight-toothed smile is back.

You look down, mortified at the memory of throwing on his plain t-shirt underneath a cardigan and tucking it into your jeans only a few hours ago, rushing through getting ready because Lilly was already waiting for you outside your apartment. It was the first thing you saw, so you grabbed it without any thought.

You flush a deep red. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry; I didn’t even realize,” you stammer.

“No, no,” Shawn laughs. “Don’t worry about it. Looks better on you.” If you weren’t blushing before, you definitely are now. “Do love those sweatpants I gave you, though. Can I have your number?” You feel yourself smiling like an idiot, your embarrassment fading away. “Just to get the pants back, of course.”

“Yeah, definitely.” You reach into your purse to grab your phone as he hands you his, a new contact page already pulled up. You both save your name and number in each other’s phones. “My name’s Y/N, by the way,” you say a bit awkwardly.

“I’m Shawn. It’s really nice to run into you, Y/N. Hope I see you soon.”

“Just to get your sweatpants back, right?” You joke.

“Oh, yeah. Just because of the sweatpants.”

You both laugh a bit before waving, and you watch as he disappears back to the trail that he was running on.

Lilly whistles lowly. “Well, shit. You’re in for quite a ride with him.”

You had no idea how right she was.

Part Two

#hockeyshawn #Shawn Mendes Imagine #fluff #HOW DID YOU LIKE IT #Idk it's kinda long but it needed all that build up #PLS LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK

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aliceasonal · 5 years ago

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Bimbo or Billionaire - Ali, Round 3

Ali watched in anticipation as the votes came in. At first, the results were terrifying, with Belated Birthday jumping out to a big lead. But it was quickly overtaken by Club Crawler, which gained a lead that became insurmountable.

It was a relief, but only a small one. Though she certainly didn’t relish the prospect of dressing like a club slut for the rest of her life, it certainly beat some of the alternatives. Then again, a part of her (that secret, kinky and submissive side that was into all this) was vaguely disappointed that the crowd hadn’t been harder on her. Much as the idea of spending her life in bikinis mortified her, it sent a shiver of arousal up her spine as well.

“I think we have our winner now, don’t you?” Leah said.

Ali’s clothes began to shimmer around her body, her top and shorts merging as they shrink wrapped against her body before turning a bright pink. The fabric turned shiny as it slid up her legs, stopping until it was only an inch or two below her ass. The dress’ new neckline swooped low, exposing the enhanced cleavage that had been her sole reward so far. She tugged at the hem of her skirt, feeling ridiculous for being dressed and made up this nicely when she was only sitting around her bedroom.

“You’ll be dressing like that from now on. Skirts exclusively. If not tiny little dresses, than tiny little skirts. I doubt you’ll ever squeeze into anything shorter than that.” Leah explained, “You’ll also find that everything you wear from now on will be very tight and clearly designed to draw attention. You can still wear lingerie, bathing suits and the like. You can dress down, in other words. But you won’t be dressing anymore casually or formally than that.”

Ali could hear the smirk in her voice.

“You’re really enjoy this aren’t yoooo-oooh!”

She was thrown off balance, her voice rising in pitch as she was tilted forward and lifted off the ground. It took a moment’s stumbling to realize why. High heels had appeared on her feet; stilettos that would never be practical, not in the least because they put her on eye level with most NFL players.

“Let me guess.” She said, lifting a foot as she twisted around to examine them, “These are permanent too?”

“Well, you’ll certainly don’t have to wear heels all the time.” Leah smirked, “But you will if you want to wear shoes.”

“Fabulous.” Ali groaned, taking a seat.

“Your next case, love?” Leah prompted in that annoyingly cheerful way that made Ali want to hit her.

“Uhm...10 please.” She said, fidgeting with her skirt.

It was another pink tile.

“And it looks like you’re moving onto a body type change. And this round will go a little bit differently, because we’ll be selected two of the following options.”

They appeared on the board, one by one, with Leah rattling off descriptions of each. This time, there were 8 in total.

1. Tiny Dancer - “Ali won’t be a tall woman if this option is selected. This should drop her height by nearly a foot.” 2. The Great Curve - “This one will make her a bit thicker all around. Not fat, just thick.” 3. Fat Bottom Girls - “I’m certain you can hazard a guess what this one does.” 4. Forever Young - “Not only will be we shaving about 10 years off of our contestant, but they’ll stay off forever!” 5. Burnin Up - “Ali’s body will be hot to the touch; sexually sensitive to even the slightest brush. 6. East Bound - “This one’s a race change. She’ll become Asian.” 7. Bonita - “And this will make her Latin.” 8. Drawn That Way - “A bit of an odd one. Ali will appear animated if this option wins. Quite a way to stick out in a crowd.”

Ali gulped. Most of these weren’t too bad, but all of them would be life changing. All she could do was wait for the votes to come in.

((Sorry for the delay on this. Life’s a little hectic at the moment. Vote here! https://www.strawpoll.me/19643171 ))

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copias-thrall · 5 years ago

Text

DIY

(Part: 1; 2; 3; 4; 5; 6; 7; 8)

It’s been a trying day. The staffing agency had gotten you another contract, and the firm wanted to meet with you in person for some reason. Usually you’re just traded around with firms already familiar with you, and you can’t recall the last time you needed to be respectable. You tend to dye your hair when your mood changes, so the fading pink had needed to be taken care of.

“What do you care about their opinion?” Mary had said.

“This would be a little more money,” you’d shrugged. “I could get the good coffee and that mochi you like.”

“I can feed myself,” Mary had snapped.

“Then why don’t you?” you’d retorted.

He’d made a sour face at you when you’d said that.

In the end, Mary had suggested going black, and the two of you had had hair-dye day where you’d introduced Mary to the wonder of Vaseline to keep the dye off his skin.

“Look at you, making me all respectable,” he’d quipped as you’d slathered him up.

“Yes, heaven forbid you lose your coveted street cred because your ears and hairline aren’t mottled with black half the time.”

While most of the dye had ended up in your hair, a few errant blotches ended up staining the tiles and shower curtain (and, ok—the hand print on your upper arm when Mary forgot himself). Mary had called you a spoilsport when you’d refused to fuck in the shower (“What? It’s cool with all the black dye running down our bodies. Come on!”). But in the end you were rather happy with how the fresh dye made your pixie bob look sleek and polished.

Mary had scrutinized you in the mirror.

“I don’t like it. Makes you look like you’re trying too hard to be normal.”

You’d made a face at him. “Well, we can’t all work at Mickey’s and dress like Oscar the Grouch kicked us out of bed for eating crackers.”

Mary’d lightly bitten your neck. “I’m taking that as a compliment.” He’d then run his fingers through the shorter hair at the back of your head. “You’d look pretty hot with an undercut.”

“I know,” you’d said as you’d winked at him.

He’d snorted. “Modest too.”

You’d shrugged. “Getting an undercut was one of my many tiny actions of rebellion. As long as I kept my hair down, no one was the wiser.”

“They never caught you?”

You’d sighed. “They did. Bitch of thing too—a picture of the school pep rally in the monthly newsletter for parents happened to catch me in the background.”

“Shit. What happened?”

“After all the screaming about boundaries and disrespect? TThey’d shaved my whole head.”

Mary’d stilled behind you.

“They … what?”

You’d leaned into the mirror, primping your hair unnecessarily.

“Buzzed all my hair off. Said I should never do things by half measures.”

Mary’d given you a look in the mirror, so you’d just smiled brightly at him.

“It’s just hair, Mary. Beside, all my schoolmates thought I was edgy as fuck.”

He’d turned you to face him.

“I really fucking hate your parents.”

You’d just patted him on the cheek. “Why waste the energy.”

“It’s just …” he’d leaned against the washer/drier as you began to clean up. “I had to be like, 15? And I came home from a friend’s house with badly bleached hair and a safety pin through my navel. My mum was in the kitchen, and I told her I wanted to be called Viscount Doom from now on. You know what she said?”

(It was a rhetorical question.)

“She said, ‘That’s nice, dear—now take out the trash’.” He’d chuckled. “I was always her son first, you know?”

You’d slid a hand under his shirt to stick your thumb in his unadorned belly button.

“Did she make you take the safety pin out.”

Mary’d grinned at you. “Ah, well. The fucker got infected. Angry red blotches with pus and shit. I had to come clean to mum, and she bundled me off to urgent care. Whoops.”

You’d traced your thumb along his belly button, feeling now the obvious bump of scar tissue.

“So you were always fucking crusty.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he’d said as he’d crowded into you and dragged your hand down to his crotch.

The actual "chat” (they’d purposefully pussyfooted around calling it an interview) had gone fine; a girl about your age—probably an intern—had read a bunch of inane questions off a piece of paper in a monotone before a harried-looking woman came in and asked you questions surely your resume could have answered.

The firm itself, however, was a 30min walk from the bus, and about 90 more minutes including a bus transfer away from your apartment. You’d gotten up at 5am so you could leave by 6 so you weren’t late for your 9am appointment (“Jesus. Who schedules interviews for the crack of dawn?” “Sadists, that’s who.”). So, of course, you’d gotten there an hour early and—with no coffee shop in sight—you’d sat on a concrete wall across the street that bordered a parking lot.

Like a creep.

You’d then been asked to wait for another hour because “an earlier meeting was running late.” The receptionist had at least taken pity on you and brought you a steaming cup of Dunks and a chocolate doughnut.

It was noon by the time you made it out of there—which meant that there was no way you were making the 12:25pm bus. Which meant you didn’t make the 1:33pm transfer, and you had to cool your jets in a fast casual restaurant for 45min. The next bus had never shown. When you finally made it onto the transfer bus, you’d dozed off and had woken up several stops past your destination; you’d opted to just walk back to your apartment instead of waiting the questionable amount of time for the next bus in the opposite direction.

By the time you finally get back to your place, you’re limping from the blisters your cheap dress shoes had given you, and it’s nearly 4pm. When you enter your apartment, you’re surprised to see Mary on your couch, guitar in hand and scribbling down notes. At the clink of you dropping your keys into the skull ashtray that had just appeared one day, he looks up.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, sounding much more harsh than you intended as you kick off your shoes.

“Well, hello to you too. I couldn’t hear myself think at my place.” He gives you a minute shrug.

You don’t know why this irritates you.

“Well maybe think about giving me the same courtesy,” you snap as you limp toward your bedroom. “I need to lie down.”

You don’t even get changed, just untuck your pussy-bow blouse and unzip your pencil skirt before flopping down onto your bed.

“Interview not go well?” asks Mary’s from your doorframe

You wave your hand. “The interview was fine, but it was a fucking trial and a half getting there and back. Thank god I won’t be onsite.”

“Yeah. I was kind of wondering where you were.”

You just snort and start to wrestle off your nude hose, but then Mary’s kneeling there and rolling them down you. You hiss when he gets to your feet.

“Fuck, your feet are wrecked.”

“Remind me to bring flip flops or something next time.”

“K.”

He tosses your pantyhose at your laundry basket (they only half make it in), then he leans down to kiss the instep on each foot.

“Do you want me to eat you out?” he asks as his hands travel up the inside of your legs.

You lean up to look at him. “Yeah, actually. Would you?”

Mary grins at you. “Ok, baby doll.”

You lie back down as Mary begins to kiss and nip up your legs. You help him to get your panties off and to push up your skirt—then he’s diving into your folds, his tongue enthusiastically lapping at your clit. Unfortunately, you’re just too exhausted to really get into it, and Mary notices your lack of engagement. His head pops up.

“Fingers?”

“Fingers,” you agree.

He wipes off his chin with the back of his hand before climbing onto your bed. You shimmy out of your skirt before he’s rolling you onto your side. He positions himself behind you, his hand sliding down your stomach until it reaches your lips. You arch back into him at the feeling of his finger slip sliding across your sensitive clit.

“Oh yeah, Mare …”

He doesn’t tease you, just keeps up a steady motion, changing it up to avoid touch numbness. Despite your lethargy, you pant and squirm against him as your blood pools and your orgasm slowly builds. He’s been giving your neck little nips and sucks, but as you get close to blowing, Mary leans over to engage you in a wet, sloppy kiss. It ratchets your arousal, and you suck his tongue into your mouth, saliva leaking out the other side, as you begin to press back against his hand. He quickens his finger, and you cry out at the burst of pleasure. Your orgasm swells and breaks soon after, and you moan and thrash a little as Mary works you through the waves.

When you sag, sated, he gives your ear a lick, then removes his hand.

“Mmm,” is all you manage as you roll onto your stomach.

“Yeah, I know. C’mon, let’s get you out of that top.”

“No,” you say into the bed.

“Yes,” he says as he starts to tug up the hem. “You’ll thank me later.”

You just grunt at him.

He manages to get the material up to your armpits before you’re obliged to move by lifting your arms—and even then all you do is hold out your arms.

“You’re a pain in my fucking ass.”

“Mmphb.”

Through minimal effort on your part, Mary finally removes both your top and your bra before rolling you this way and that to get you under the covers. You’re asleep before he even leaves the room.

You sleep, nude, sprawled out and face mashed into your pillow. It isn’t until much later when you wake. It’s almost certainly because Mary is on all fours over you, mashing his face into your neck. You must move in some tiny way, because he stills.

“Mare,” you mumble groggily into the pillow.

“Shh,” he breaths. “Don’t. Just …” His mouth moves to your ear. “Can I?” he whispers. “I was so good earlier.”

“Mhm,” you agree sleepily.

“Stay still then,” he growls as he shifts about. “Don’t. Move.”

You feel the head of his cock enter you, and you clench and moan. Mary’s other hand is quick on your head, smashing your face further into the pillow.

“Shut up,” he hisses, then his hand is gone.

He takes the tip out, then slides it back in.

Then out.

Then in.

He teases himself like that a few more times—making pleased rumbles—before finally sliding all the way home. You bite the pillow in an effort not to twitch or make noise. The bed jostles when his balled hands land on either side of you, supporting himself up. He takes a handful of slow, smooth pumps in and out of you, making little Mmm noises. It’s a nice feeling that you relax into—silently.

He speeds up a little … and then a lot … until he’s pounding into you with such force that there's an audible slap! slap! slap! as he makes contact with your skin and your one arm is jostled slightly off the bed. Mary moans, and changes up to long, hard strokes that hit your sweet spot deliciously; you know your breaths are labored at the strain of staying motionless and quiet, but luckily, any sound you’re making is being drowned out by Mary’s grunts every time the bowl of his pelvis smacks into the meat of your ass.

You’re pretty slick from your arousal, and Mary easily pumps in and out of you. You can feel your heartbeat in your pussy—and your frustration with not being able to touch yourself increases. Mary suddenly grabs the fat on your back hard enough you almost cry out. He lowers himself down onto his forearms and starts to fuck into you with quicker, deeper thrusts that are no longer quite hitting your G-spot—much to your chagrin. He’s not quite laying on your back, but he’s close enough that you can hear the rasping air through his nose and the Uhn noises he’s making—his breath hot and moist on the nape of your neck.

You expect him to finish like that, so you’re surprised when he heaves himself up to a kneeling position. His hands grip your hips hard, and then he’s yanking you back onto his dick as he buries himself deep into you.

And again.

When he accidentally hits your cervix, you do let out a little mewl, but he doesn’t seem to notice—cock still deep in you and his hands still clamped on your sides. After a moment, you finally feel the tension drain out of him, and he releases his grip, flopping down on the bed beside you. Sluggishly you begin to move your limbs, but Mary gathers you up to him with a soft C’mere. He presses his sweat-cool body against your back and kisses your neck once before he’s maneuvering your vibrator (oh, hello) between your legs.

You reach your hand down to help position it to your liking, mashing into it once … twice … thrice, and then you’re moaning and twitching—the nails of your free hand digging into Mary’s thigh—before the intensity has you finally shying away from the toy lest you make a mess.

Mary clicks the vibe off before letting it go, and you twist around until you’re facing him. You grip his hair in your hands and kiss him deeply, smashing your slickness into him as your cunt still gives an errant spasm or two. He grabs your ass and pulls you into him.

“Yeah, mash that wet pussy into me—I want to smell you on me all night.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You fucking love it.”

“I should pee on you.”

“Do you think I’ve never been pe—”

You shove a pillow in his face. “OH MY GOD—do not finish that sentence.”

His hand shoots out and presses on your bladder. You shriek and push him away from you, and he subsequently falls off the bed with an undignified noise. He looks up at you like a disgruntled cat, so you just cackle and sprint out of the bedroom. You can hear him start after you, but he’s not quick enough, and you manage to lock the bathroom door behind you before he can catch you.

You’re too tired to cook, and you’re wondering if you can count on getting that contract enough to order takeout when Mary surprises you; he takes out a beat up looking Tupperware from your fridge. Something reddish-brown sloshes in it.

“It’s my kitchen-sink goulash.” He beams.

You put a smile on your face.

“Aww, Mare. What’s … in it?” you ask as you squint at the contents.

He pokes you in the ribs.

“Just fucking try it.”

You reheat it in a big pot, and it looks edible enough—elbow macaronis, ground meat, tomato sauce, green … things. Once you’re settled at your rusty cafe table with the hot food, you dig in and you have to admit that it’s actually not bad. Mary has a smug look on his face as you tuck in.

“Shut up,” you say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your thoughts are loud.”

He just giggles at you.

“So what is in it?”

“Uh,” says Mary as he chews. “Frozen hamburger patties, spaghetti sauce, noodles, and some okra from the Latin grocer near me.”

You make a thoughtful noise.

“I wouldn’t have guessed okra. I knew it wasn’t green beans, but.”

“I swear that store is the only reason none of us have scurvy.”

Afterwards he packs up his guitar.

“I gotta be getting back to my place.” He licks your nose, and you sputter. He grins. “But thanks for the sex.”

“Yeah, well …” you say as you rub at your nose, “thanks for the Goulash.”

He looks at you for a moment before slipping a hand into your robe to rest on a love handle.

“I didn’t come by just to hear myself think, you know.”

You roll your eyes, but step into his space.

“I kinda got that, Mare.”

You tap your lips, and he leans down to kiss you.

⬅️Previous | Next ➡️

#mary goore #ofc #feral cats fic #gutter punk #gritty girls #my writing #original post

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mldrgrl · 5 years ago

Text

No Such Thing as Perfect

by: mldrgrl Rating: PG Summary: Here you are, the long-awaited sequel to A Few Thousand Plus One. Mulder and Scully’s first date.

He’s driving her nuts. Not because he’s doing something, but because he’s not doing something. It’s been nearly six weeks since he made the insinuation that he was going to ask her out on a date, but there’s been no further mention of it since he brought it up. More importantly, it’s been nearly six weeks since she insinuated she would say yes, and he’s done nothing about it.

She could tell she surprised the both of them by agreeing to a date. She would admit, though not out loud and certainly not to Mulder, that she was curious about what a date with him would be like. He was right, it had been so long since she’d been out with a man she could barely remember when it was, let alone what the guy’s name was. Ron?

So why then, nearly six weeks later, was she still waiting for him to make his move? Was he not as genuine as he seemed? Was he waiting for a perfect moment? They’d been in town for the last four weekends straight, a record for them, and they were coming up on another. She can’t handle the anticipation anymore and she’s a little tired of the monotony of housework and errands.

They’re shutting down on Friday evening, he’s already got his shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie loosened. She packs up her laptop slowly and takes her time with the straps of her bag to work up the nerve. Finally, she takes the few steps needed to stand in front of his desk and taps her nails lightly against the empty space in front of his nameplate.

“Mulder,” she says. “What are you doing this weekend?”

“Might play some basketball at the rec center. The Gunmen are having a hack-off at some point and I’ve been told I could have the honor of adjudicating. Wanna come?”

“You owe me a date.”

His eyes grow wide at first and his forehead wrinkles as he lifts his brows, but then he smiles so broadly that the apples of his cheeks become suddenly prominent and his eyes turn into twinkling crescent moons.

“Scully, are you asking me out?”

“You’re the one who asked, I’m just holding you to it.”

“Oh, I see. It’s about accountability then?”

“And trying to get it over with so we can move on with our lives.”

“Oh.” His smile falls flat and her stomach drops as she realizes how harsh that sounded.

“I don’t mean it like that. Only that it’s been six weeks since you asked and...I thought you would have planned something by now. Or are you going to wait another seven years?”

“No, I guess I just wasn’t quite sure you took me seriously.”

“Were you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“So…”

“So...I’ll pick you up tomorrow night? How’s seven?”

“Seven works.”

“Then it’s a date?”

As bold as she was to bring it up, she’s suddenly hesitant again. A date means trying on a dozen outfits and finding something wrong with every one of them. A date means carefully selecting the right perfume. A date means spending extra time on her hair and make-up. A date means butterflies and expectations. Hopefully. If it’s done right. A date means looking at the man who’s her closest friend, and at this point, maybe even her only friend, a little differently.

“Yes,” she says, slowly. “It’s a date.”

*****

After a sleepless night, she regrets bringing up the date at all. The continued anticipation of when he would ask was less stressful than the anticipation of the actual date. She tossed and turned thinking about how things would go, what they would talk about, what it would mean going forward. And god, what was she going to wear?

She’s at the mall in the morning before it even opens, waiting impatiently at the doors of a Macy’s as the manager fumbles with the keys. She heads straight to her usual section of pantsuits galore out of force of habit, but has to remind herself she’s not shopping for work, she’s shopping for a date. Contemporary fashion is distressing, all halter tops and paneled skirts, leather pants and bare midriffs. Date or no date, it isn’t her.

She tries on what feels like a hundred dresses and finds flaws in almost all of them. Too revealing, too tight, too baggy, too long, too fancy, too casual, too young, too old. Finally, finally she finds one that she deems acceptable. It’s navy blue, so dark it’s nearly black, a-line and sleeveless, with a simple open lace design across the collar. She even finds a sweater to match and she knows she has a pair of heels at home that will work with it. It’s a little shorter than she’d like, but at least the hem falls below her fingertips when she drops her arms to her sides. Most importantly, it looks good on her and she looks like a woman on a date, not a FBI agent.

Back home from shopping, she’s surprised that it’s not even lunchtime. Time seems to drag by, but then again, a watched clock never boils. Or something like that. In an effort to pass time she does laundry, she cleans, she changes her sheets. Finally, it’s late enough to start getting ready.

In the shower, while she’s shaving her legs, it occurs to her that she’s shaving her legs for Mulder. No, she tells herself, she’s shaving her legs for the dress she bought. The dress she bought for her date. With Mulder. She bought the dress for her date with Mulder, therefore she’s shaving her legs for Mulder. She knicks herself twice, distracted by the idea of Mulder noticing and appreciating her smooth calves and bare thighs.

The lotion she slathers on later, the perfume she dabs behind her ears and on her wrists, the rose shade of lipstick, the hint of blush, the exposed mole above her lip, the untamed freckles, the soft curl in her hair, is all for Mulder.

It comes as a surprise to her that he’s early. Only ten minutes before seven, but still, he’s early. Hes never early. She’s standing before the full length mirror on the back of her bedroom door when he knocks and she has to place a hand on her abdomen to remember to breathe.

And there he is, when she opens the door, in a dark suit and a plain silk tie, looking like he just stepped off of a GQ magazine cover. He smiles at her and it sends a nervous flutter across her stomach.

“I know you said no flowers,” he says, presenting her with a small potted bonsai tree. “But, I couldn’t show up empty handed.”

“Oh…” The gift almost makes her laugh, which she finds oddly calming.

“The guy at the store said it’s easy to take care of. Regular sunlight and water is all it needs.”

“That sounds pretty standard.”

“You look amazing.”

“Oh…” She looks down at herself, but the plant she’s holding is now in the way. The nervous flutter comes back though she knows it’s ridiculous. After all, she wanted him to notice.

“I got us in at an Italian place a few blocks away. 7:30. We can walk there.”

“Nonna’s?”

“That’s it.”

“I’ve passed by it many times. It looks nice.”

“But not too nice. Casual dining with a nice ambiance and two and a half stars. I spent the morning in the Barnes & Noble cafe with a Zagat’s Guide.”

“Okay, well let me just...find a place for this and I’ll get my sweater.”

She brings the little bonsai tree over to the bay window and clears a spot on her desk for it. Mulder stays by the door, his hands in his pockets. She glances at him on her way to the bedroom to grab her sweater and her purse and he smiles at her. She wonders how he can look so calm and collected right now when she feels like her nerves are tangled into knots. She pauses, takes a deep breath, and tells herself there’s nothing to be nervous about.

“Ready?” he asks, holding his elbow out to her like an escort as she comes back into the room.

Dear god, no, she thinks. “Ready,” she says.

***** If Scully believed in signs from the universe, and she didn’t, but if she did, a lost reservation might be a sign from the universe that they should end the date before it begins.

“I’m sorry sir,” the hostess says. “I don’t have a reservation for a Mulder.”

“I called today, around one. 7:30. For two.”

“Our next opening is for 9:15.”

She can tell that something sarcastic is rising in Mulder’s throat and she takes his elbow to stop him before he says something she’ll regret. “It’s okay,” she says. “We’ll go somewhere else.”

“I’d like to speak to the manager,” Mulder tells the hostess.

“No, we don’t,” Scully interjects, pulling on Mulder’s arm. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he argues, but follows her out the door. “They can’t just lose people’s reservations.”

“Well, they did.”

“What do you want to do?”

Good question. She looks past Mulder down the block. There aren’t many restaurant options on this side of her neighborhood. It’s a quieter area, mostly townhomes and a handful of bodegas. There is a French place another three blocks or so ahead, but it’s not one she was ever interested in. They’ve already walked all this way though and they’ve both gone to a lot of trouble for this.

“Um,” she says, stalling to make up her mind. “We can...there’s another restaurant a few blocks…”

“Do we need a reservation?”

“I don’t know.”

Mulder scratches the back of his head for a few moments. He looks longingly at Nonna’s, like it was something he’d had his heart set on, but then his expression changes and he drops his hand and smiles at her.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s give it a try.”

*****

Deep down, they both know it’s a mistake the minute they walk in the door of the next restaurant. The maître d’, with his haughty attitude, gives it away. He peers down his beak-like nose at his book of reservations and sniffs disapprovingly before he rather reluctantly finds an opening and leads them to a table.

The menu is in French and prices are unlisted, which says a lot. As soon as she’s seated and she’s had a moment to give it more than a cursory glance, she feels a whole new kind of nervous flutter in the pit of her stomach.

“Mulder,” she whispers, leaning towards him a bit. “We should go.”

“We just got here.”

“I know, but…”

“What do you think a ‘tartiflette’ is?”

“I don’t think we should get anything that doesn’t sound familiar.”

“I know what escargot is, but I don’t think I’ll be having that.”

“We can do this another time.”

“Are you sure? We’re here and no other plans for the evening.”

Scully hesitates and takes a few glances from the menu to the four corners of the restaurant. It’s too fancy for her comfort, unnecessarily gilded, chandeliers all over the place, impressionist paintings cluttering the walls. It doesn’t feel right for a date with Mulder.

“Madame, Monsieur,” a waiter materializes between them and startles her. “May I get you started this evening with something to drink?”

“Scully?” Mulder asks.

“Um…” She hates how flustered she feels. She fumbles the menu, turning it over and back to stall for time.

“You like Merlot, right?” Mulder says.

“Yes.”

“We’ll take a bottle of Merlot,” Mulder tells the waiter.

*****

She’s trying as hard as she can to recall a single conversation that she and Mulder have had that didn’t involve work, but she can’t. Sips from her glass of wine and tries to think of something to say. Oh, but there was a conversation once, on that rock, in the lake. They’d talked about Moby Dick and Mulder had said he’d wanted a peg leg.

“Earth to Scully,” Mulder says.

“Sorry?”

“I asked if you had decided on an entree.”

“Oh, um…I wasn’t even thinking about that.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“Are you still interested in a peg leg?”

“Exactly what are you proposing?”

“I just remembered that time on the lake when the boat sank and we were stuck on that rock.”

Mulder takes a look around and then takes a sip of his own wine. “Hopefully a cold, wet rock in the middle of a cryptid-inhabited lake isn’t comparable to this place.”

“There’s no such thing as cryptids,” she answers with a smile.

“Ugh!” Mulder feigns distress and slaps a hand over his heart.

“I was only trying to think of a time and place where we had a real conversation.”

“We have a thousand real conversations every day.”

“You know what I mean. Not about work.”

He scratches the back of his neck for a few moments and contemplates the menu. “Bellefleur, Oregon,” he says. “You were worried about those mosquito bites and it was raining and the electricity was out. I told you about my sister.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Does that qualify as a real conversation?”

“It does.” There’s a brief silence and she averts her eyes for a few moments back to the menu. “Mulder?”

“Hm?”

“Tell me about the Mongolian Death Worm.”

“The locals call it olgoi-khorkhoi,” he says, and she puts down her menu to listen.

*****

They both order what they’re relatively certain is chicken. The waiter sniffs disapprovingly when they pass on appetizers, but she isn’t interested in pate or anything tartare and she knows that Mulder has an aversion to seafood. It actually catches her off guard a little that she knows that about him and she can’t remember how. It’s not an allergy, of that she’s sure, he just doesn’t like it.

“Arcadia Falls,” she says.

“What about it?”

“When we went to dinner at the Shroeder’s, Cami made tuna noodle casserole.”

“The things I do to be polite.”

“You don’t like fish.”

“Nope.”

“Why do I know that?”

“We probably talked about it at some point.”

“Huh.”

“I don’t like beets either. Or coconut.”

“I don’t like figs.”

“No one likes figs.”

“Or raspberries.”

“Really? Raspberries?”

“It’s not the flavor, it’s the texture. It’s all...bumpy.”

“True. So, blackberries are out as well?”

“Never had one.”

“Huh.”

When the food arrives, they both look at their plates and try to disguise their disappointment, at least until the water leaves and then Mulder leans closer to her to whisper.

“I thought I ordered a chicken, not a canary.”

She chuckles. It’s the smallest portion of anything she’s ever seen. Maybe they should have considered the escargot to start, at the very least the snails are cooked and not fish.

“Bon appetit,” he says.

“You too.”

*****

He convinces her to share a charcuterie board when the dessert menu is presented. She really doesn’t take much convincing though. The wine has made her feel a little lethargic and the chicken wasn’t anywhere near satisfying. Meat and cheese sounds pretty good right about now.

“Though, why the hell meat and cheese is a dessert is anyone’s guess,” he says.

“I think that’s just how they consider it in France.”

“But, it’s meat...and cheese. More wine?”

“Please.”

Mulder pours the remainder of the bottle of Merlot into her glass. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be and why?”

“That’s an odd segue from meat and cheese.”

“I was just thinking about how I’d probably be run out of Paris for daring to eat my meat and cheese before dinner and wondering where else in the world I’d like to go. So, I’m wondering where you’d like to go.”

“You need my answer to formulate your answer?”

“Where you go, I go.” He smiles and swirls his wine a little. “Just wondering.”

“Ireland, I think.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“My father’s side of the family is Irish, though a few generations back. I think I’d like to see it for myself one day.”

“I took the ferry there a few times when I was at Oxford. The countryside is beautiful. I think you’d like it.”

“What about you?”

“Galapagos Islands.”

“The...really?” The answer surprises her.

“Yeah. it’s entirely possible I could meet a giant turtle that met Darwin. How cool would that be?”

“Pretty cool, actually.”

“And, of course, there’s the Monstro de Archipiélago de Colón to look for.”

“The what?”

“Galapagos Monster. It was first spotted in 1992, but there’s been an additional two sightings just a few years ago.”

Of course, she thinks. Of course.

*****

In Scully’s experience, the fancier a cheese is, the more unappetizing it appears, but as soon as the charcuterie board is placed before them, the smell of one of the three cheeses is overwhelmingly pungent and her eyes water in defense. Mulder is staring at the board with a look of skepticism she isn’t accustomed to.

“Here we have Roquefort,” the waiter points to a moldy blue cheese and continues down the line. “Camembert, and Epoisses. The meats are Capocollo, Soppressata, and Prosciutto.”

“Wanna take a bet on which one of these is the one that smells like the bottom of a dumpster on a hot day?” Mulder asks, as soon as the waiter is out of earshot.

She laughs and blinks the tears out of her eyes as she points to the moldy cheese at the end. Mulder takes a small piece off the corner of the cheese with his knife and brings it closer to his face. Tentatively, he takes the small bite off with his teeth.

“Nope,” he says. “It’s actually pretty decent.”

“Do you have any idea what the meats are?”

“I mean, I don’t know if all those words were French for salami and ham, but that’s kind of what they look like.”

She’s not uncultured, but there’s a reason she doesn’t like upscale places like this. They make her feel ignorant of basic things like meat and cheese. She takes a cut of the cheese Mulder tried and pairs it with the thin slice of curled meat that resembles salami and takes a bite.

“It’s good,” she agrees.

Mulder has continued with his cheese inspection and tested the Camembert. It’s the one cheese she’s familiar with. He nods approvingly and adds meat to a second bite, obviously a fan.

“That means,” he says as he wipes his mouth with his linen napkin, “through the process of elimination, that is the culprit.” He makes an accusatory stab at the last cheese with his knife and gives it a poke.

“Do you think it tastes as bad as it smells?”

“Only one way to find out.” He cuts into it and then brings the knife closer, but then turns his head and scrunches his face. “Jesus, we’ve been in morgues that have smelled better.”

“Don’t do it.”

“I have to solve this mystery, Scully, or I won’t sleep at night.”

She watches in horror as he quickly takes the cheese off the knife and then he puckers his mouth in distaste and swallows heavily. Immediately after, he drains the rest of his wine and then coughs lightly.

“Well?” she asks.

“If evil took a cheese form, it would be whatever that was.”

She chuckles as he pushes the cheese to the far side of the plate and then covers it with decorative sprig of parsley so they don’t have to look at it.

*****

“Will there be anything else?” the waiter asks.

“Scully? I think I saw chocolate mousse on the menu.”

“No, thank you.”

“Very well.” The waiter places the checkbook directly in front of Mulder and quickly retreats.

“Well, that was sexist,” Scully says.

Mulder shrugs. “Maybe it’s an old-fashioned assumption, but it is a date.”

“Still.” She reaches for her purse, but Mulder puts a hand on her arm.

“What’re you doing?”

“We should split it.”

“It’s a date, Scully.”

“That doesn’t mean you should have to-”

“It does to me. I wanted to take you out. Let me take you out.”

“Technically, I asked you out.”

“No, I did. You just held me to it. You can get the next one if you’d like.”

She sucks in a breath. She hasn’t even considered a second date. Mulder swallows again like he did with the terrible cheese and so she relinquishes the hold on her purse and puts her hands in her lap. She thought this would be the end of things, that they just needed to satisfy the curiosity and then move on.

Does he really want this? Does he want her? And, does she want this? Does she want him?

*****

It’s cooled down a little since they entered the restaurant, and Scully shivers as she steps out into the night air. Mulder has his jacket off almost instantaneously and slides it over her shoulders. She smiles at him and pulls it closed across her chest with one hand. He puts his hands in his pockets and falls into step beside her.

“There’s a 7-11 down that block,” he says, nodding to the left as they cross the street. “Want a hot dog?”

“A hot dog? Mulder, we just had dinner.”

“We had a baked parakeet and corpse cheese. I could go for a hot dog if you could.”

“I guess the portions were rather small.”

“Hot dog?”

“Sure.”

*****

They leave the 7-11 with one chili dog, for Mulder, and one plain hot dog, for her. Gentleman that he is, he lets her pay the $2.79. “See, I told you you can get the next one,” he says.

*****

At the sidewalk in front of her apartment, she gives him back his jacket, which he slips back on. They stand in front of each other, she with her eyes down and scuffing the toe of her shoe against the sidewalk.

“Well,” he says.

“Well.” She looks up at him and then sinks her teeth into her bottom lip.

“Please just tell me it wasn’t too terrible. That you’ll give this a second chance.”

“It was far from terrible, Mulder. But…”

“No, stop right there.” He puts a hand up to halt her. “No ‘but.’ I’ll take ‘far from terrible’ any day. The end.”

“But, I still don’t know if this is a good idea.”

He sighs and rocks back on his heels, tilting his head to look up at the night sky. His Adam’s apple bounces as he swallows and then he looks down at her and nods.

“Okay,” he says. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

She shakes her head a few times. He smiles ever so slightly and takes one hand out of his pocket. His fingers tickle her palm as he tries to hook his index finger around hers. When he finally does, he gives her a squeeze and swings their hands back and forth.

“Date’s not over until I walk you to your door though, right?”

“You really don’t have to-”

“I want to,” he says, cutting her off and giving her finger another squeeze. “Let me see it through.”

“Alright.”

His finger stays hooked with hers as he walks her up to the front door. Reluctantly, he lets her go so she can pull out her keys. They’re silent in the elevator and down the short hall to her door. She stops and turns to face him, but doesn’t look him in the eye.

“I just want you to know that I did have a nice time,” she says. “Despite...well, you know.”

“So did I.”

“You know, I think that part of it is just...it’s just that dating is such a difficult road to navigate.”

“How so?” He slouches with his back to the wall, head rolled towards her.

“Well, by and large it’s based on false pretenses. This really isn’t us, is it?” She makes a gesture towards the dress she’s wearing and looks down at her feet. “And that restaurant?”

“A little pretentious.”

“Wouldn’t you have much rather just been at home with a pizza and a beer?”

“Alone? Or with you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I grant you that aspects of it are...awkward. But, I disagree that it’s false or that either of us were disingenuous. Isn’t it just about putting your best foot forward and hoping the other person sees enough good there to want to know you better?”

“I already know you, Mulder.”

“I guess I’m pretty lucky then. You’re still here and I wasn’t even trying to impress you.”

“You weren’t?”

“Well, maybe a little.”

She finally glances up at him and meets his eyes. He gives her a smile and then she drops her gaze again. She takes a deep breath. “There are just so many reasons why it-”

He doesn’t let her get any farther than that. Swiftly, but gently, he takes her face in his hands and cuts off her protests with a kiss. She’s stunned by it, but not unwelcoming, even grabs on to the lapels of his jacket as though she’s trying to bring him closer.

He smiles and she makes a tiny noise of protest so he presses her into the door as he slips his tongue past her slightly parted lips. She tugs roughly on his jacket as she shifts her feet, whimpering into his mouth. He can feel the heat of her cheeks under his hands.

Rubbing the apples of her cheeks, he breaks their kiss, only to slant his head to the other side and start another. He goes deeper this time and leans into it so his chest pushes into hers and takes her breath away.

When he pulls back, her eyes are closed and her breasts heave against his chest. He leans back in to drag his bottom lip across her mouth once, twice, and then he softly kisses the curve of her upper lip before moving back. He traces her mouth with both thumbs until she opens her eyes and holds his gaze. She looks like she’s just woken from a wonderful dream and he can’t help the dopey grin that spreads across his face.

“You just keep saying we shouldn't,” he whispers, sliding his hands back to rub her earlobes between his thumbs and index fingers. Her eyelids droop. “Not that you don’t want to. And if you tell me you don’t see me the way I see you well then...”

“How do you see me?”

He doesn’t answer, just pierces her with an unwavering gaze that has her knees shaking and makes her feel absolutely liquefied. The love and desire she sees in his eyes almost seems tangible, like she can pluck it from the air and hold it in her hands.

He blinks languidly and then stands a little taller, his hands slipping away from her face. It takes her a few beats, but she slowly opens her hands and lets go of his jacket.

“Good night, Scully.”

His voice gives her a little jolt and tilts her head like she doesn’t understand what he’s said. He chuckles and shoves his hands in his pockets as he retreats, moving to the stairwell instead of the elevator. When he looks back, she’s leaning against the door, lightly stroking her bottom lip with her index finger.

“Hey,” he says, and she drops her hand and turns her head towards him. “Told you I was a good kisser.”

The End

#i wrote this #xf fanfic #msr #first date #awkwardness #mulder and scully are in love

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wot-tidbits · 5 years ago

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RJ’s notes Part 55 by Linda Taglieri

SOURCE PART 1

SOURCE PART 2

Costumes in the Wheel of Time

Ebou Dar

Ebou Dari clothing can be quite revealing, especially during the Festival of Birds. Colours are used to a great extent among both sexes. Embroidery is colourful, detailed and elaborate, more so among nobles and the wealthy, and usually features flowers and animals. Cuffs, lapels, collars and necklines are common locations, also along the hems of women’s skirts, bordering the area that is worn raised.

The wealthy and nobility wear embroidered or brocaded silk often set with jewels, and gold, while the poor and lower classes wear wool or linen set with brass and glass. The everyday garments of those people doing manual labour usually have shorter sleeves than nobles, or even none.

The Ebou Dari carry a dagger with an 8‒9 inch (20‒22cm) blade for a weapon and, often, especially commoners, a work knife with a blade of 3‒5 inches (8‒12cm).

Women’s clothes can be very colourful. The women wear dresses with a tight bodice and full skirt over brightly contrasting petticoats. To show off the petticoats, the skirts of noblewomen are raised in the front and may have a long train behind, and those of the commoners are sewn up above one knee.

“These dresses wouldn’t reach the ground properly if lowered, they do trail or nearly trail the ground behind, and are sometimes long enough to require a servant to manage them, though this is considered excessive by most women.”

While noblewomen always wear petticoats, the commoners’ dresses sometimes:

“are worn without petticoats or long shift, exposing the legs or stockings; among commoners this is considered less risqué than wearing the dress sewn high with petticoats.”

“Upper class women often have sleeves with long points or lace that would cover hand if lowered (no manual labour). Sometimes wear a version of the men’s jacket, as part of riding costume, though for them it is most likely decorated with lace.”

Outside, coloured wide-brimmed straw hats—often with veiling around the edges for the wealthy—tied on with ribbons may be worn (A Crown of Swords, A Note from the Palace), “or versions of men’s hats, but in bright colours, often with feathers or plumes added, or flowers made of silk.”

Women soon to marry wear a wide close-fitting metal necklace from which their marriage knife will hang hilt-down once they marry. The knife has a 4 inch (10cm) blade.

The sheath of a widow intending to remarry is blue, if she is not, it is white. Married women with a husband living have a green sheath, while a married woman who has "forbidden her husband the house" (separated or divorced) and has no further interest in him or another man has a red sheath. If she is divorced and willing to try again, her sheath is red and blue.

Noblemen wear their hair shoulder length and also wear velvet hats, often with a high crown and wide brim (A Crown of Swords, White Plumes). The brim may be turned up at the sides. Low crowned hats are also worn. The hats are a darker colour that complements their clothes. Lower class men wear their hair short, and don’t wear hats, except occasionally, straw hats.

CAIRHIEN

Women in Cairhien wear dark-coloured, high-necked dresses unless they live in the Foregate (see below). Upper class women may wear brocades, but they would be monochrome and not two or more colours, while lower class women wear unadorned dark fabrics. Showing the cleavage slightly is considered daring, any more is considered indecent. Some women thread a fine golden chain through their hair from which hangs a small clear stone centred on their forehead just above their eyebrows, the kesiera. In the main series, these were no longer as fashionable, and not much worn.

GHEALDAN

Fringes are a popular ornamentation of dress, accessories and reins, bridles, and saddle cloth. Saddles are mounted with gold and/or silver among the nobles and the wealthy.

Women: have dresses embellished with lace and embroidery. A recent fashion amoung noblewomen and the wealthy well-to-do is a “ruff that stands up in back and is open in the front, thus making a wide standing collar. Newest fashion in women's dresses is very low-cut, but with a border of lace that provides decency while suggesting that all might be visible.”

Some noblewomen wear a veil which covers the entire head like a kerchief, held by various means. This is an old style, just coming back into fashion.

Noblewomen's slippers, shoes and boots may have high heels, which can induce a swaying walk. Noblemen can and do wear heels also. Both men and women sometimes wear beauty spots among the nobles and merchants.

Men: wear embroidered coats. Noblemen and well-to-do merchants wear small lace ruffs.

ILLIAN

There can be elaborate standing collars on women's dresses, sometimes almost high enough to hide her head, in a formal gown. A standing collar that rose to the level of the bottom of the ear would be about average.

MALKIER

The ki’sain is blue for an unmarried woman (New Spring, An Answer), red for a married (Winter’s Heart, Sea Folk and Kin) and white for a widow (New Spring, Keeping Custom).

“In death, she would be marked with all three, one of each color, whether she had ever married or not.”

“A Malkieri woman paints the ki’sain on each morning in pledge that she has sworn, or will swear, her sons to fight the shadow and she herself would oppose the Shadow every way she could.”

MURANDY

Men: wear high crowned hats (The Fires of Heaven, The Nine Horse Hitch), and long bright knee-length coats (Lord of Chaos, A Different Dance), “often very elaborately embroidered, and with an Andoran-style high collar.” Murandian men occasionally wear a single earring, which may contain a jewel, or a piece of colored glass if they can't afford jewels.

SALDEA

Women: wear a very high-necked dress with long or wide sleeves and narrow skirts. Skirts reach just above the floor Highborn women usually wear fine embroidery on their dress: this can range from very simple to very intricate, from trim on the neckline, collar and perhaps hem of the skirt, to broad bands that cover the shoulders, bodice and sleeves and rise a quarter to a third of the way up the skirt.

Noblemen frequently grow long, thick beards that reach down their chest.

SEA FOLK

Sea Folk women wear considerably more jewellery than men. No rings or bracelets, however, because these might catch in the rigging.

Tattoos are important indicators for Sea Folk, especially on the hands: a six-pointed star is tattooed on the web between thumb and forefinger of the right hand. It is a: symbol of the covenant with the Coramoor; some believe it makes you less likely to drown. Some of the other taboos on the right hand are, in effect, your official record, showing what ships you have served on, what posts and positions you have held.

Windfinders have a three-pointed star on the back of their right hand.

Men do not wear the nose ring or honour chain and medallions.A single earing indicates someone out of training, someone who knows his or her way around the ship and basic duties.

Cargomasters: wear loose silk breeches of one colour and a narrow matching sash that is elaborately tied. Daggers are ofen carried thrust into the sash, but they will not carry a sword unless action is imminent. Cargomasters usually have three gold earrings in each ear.

A Swordmaster has 8 thick earrings.

Master of the Blades: wears silk breeches of more than one colour held up by a long, intricately knotted bright red sash, 10 earrings.

Someone out of training, who knows their basic duties and their way around the ship has a single earring.

Sailmistresses of Darters wear linen blouses and coloured trousers and a few earrings. They have an honour chain connecting their earrings to their nose ring, but only a few medallions on it (Knife of Dreams, To Make an Anchor Weep). “Few women below the rank of Sailmistress of a ship and her Windfinder have the chain and medallions. These medallions can identify rank, among other things, such as being Wavemistress of a particular clan, or of a particular ship, as well as clan and familial relationships. The chain always loops across the left cheek.”

“The number of earrings and medallions can vary downward over time as well as upward. Someone who is Windfinder to a Clan Wavemistress or to the Mistress of the Ships is required to start over again at the bottom with the death of the woman she serves. Also, if a Sailmistress dies, the new Sailmistresss of that vessel may keep on the old Windfinder, but she may already have one or may wish another, in which case the old Windfinder must start over again at the bottom and work her way back up. Her earrings are reduced in number accordingly, and she must pack away most of the medallions. They aren't taken from her; she just can't wear them any longer. This is in part because of the Sea folk awareness that Windfinders who can channel live a very long time, and helps preclude the possibility that a Windfinder will remain at a very high level while surviving a number of Wavemistresses or Mistresses of the Ships. It also makes room for those at lower makes to move up.”

Sailmistresses: Usually wear silk in an outfit all one colour, plain silk for the smaller vessels, brocaded for larger, with a matching narrow sash that is elaboratedly tied.

SEANCHAN

Personal public nudity lowers the eyes of a Seanchan, since those who are scantily clad are at the bottom of social pecking order. However, in private, there is nothing embarrassing about servants or da’covale seeing their employer/owner naked, and the Blood and the wealthy are quite confirtable being unclothed in front of their servants and/or da'covale of whatever gender.

The nobility shave their heads in varying degrees, symmetrically. (Asymmetrical shaving is the sign of a servant, a so'jhin.)

“Those of the highest level of the High Blood are called High Lady or High Lord and lacquer the first two fingernails on each hand. Those of the next level of the High Blood are called simply Lord or Lady and lacquer only the nails of the forefingers. Those of the low Blood also are called simply Lady or Lord, but those of the higher rank lacquer the nails of the last two fingers on each hand, while those on the lowest level lacquer only the nails of the little fingers. The Empress and immediate members of the Imperial family...lacquer all of their fingernails.”

Da’covale:

Beautiful slaves wear loose-fitting transparent white robes with nothing on underneath, and white slippers indoors. Shea dancers are perhaps the most extreme example, wearing transparent face veils and little else (The Shadow Rising, Hidden Faces). Less physically attractive da’covale wear more ordinary livery.

SHIENAR

Women: wear fairly modest belted dresses with medium to high necklines. Those of the wealhy are embroidered in flowers on the bodice or sleeves and perhaps also on the shoulders, but rarely on the skirts. On the whole, Shienaran women don’t wear much jewellery, even the wealthy.

Shienaran merchants and craftsmen usually wear their hair cut short of the shoulder.

TEAR

Serving women in Tear wear a dark coloured dress and short white apron.

(Or you know just read the two parts article in the blog. It is amazing... and huge.)

#The Wheel of Time #clothing #costumes #atha'an miere #seanchan #Malkier #Altara #ebou dar #notes #robert jordan

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quicksilver-rain · 6 years ago

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Earlier this month, I received an invitation to a wedding from a friend in high school, which is fine, except that when I checked what date the wedding was supposed to be on (thinking it was like, in April or something) I found out that, actually, the wedding is on the 5th of January, which would be fine, except that the only dresses I own are either red, or in need of repairs that cannot be done in a week, and while I own a suit, it's from when I was in high school and which was like eight years ago (at least) and as such, is from before my thighs had been blessed by the God of Thunder himself, which is to say that nowadays, I can't put one leg into them, much less my whole ass.

This is a problem, as I'm sure you can tell, however, the easiest solution I can figure is to simply go to the place I originally bought the suit from and get another pair of pants in the same pattern, which will be more comfortable and warmer in the long run, with the added bonus that I won't have to shave my legs.

So, with the Mother's blessing and the Father's only command being, "Do Not Buy A Velvet Suit Jacket Quicksilver, I Swear To God," the Brother and I pile into the car and trek to JC Penny, where I got the original suit, only to find, surprise, surprise, that the brand that made my original suit no longer makes that particular pattern (it's black on black pin stripes??? Why would you stop making black on black pin stripes??). So we leave, defeated and debating our next move, which leads me to this idea:

My birthday is in two weeks, and I haven't yet gotten myself a present.

Also, I want to go to this wedding and strike fear into the hearts of men while making the women swoon.

I want to be a force of nature that can be stopped by no mere mortal.

I want a new suit.

So, we trek around some more, thinking perhaps Khols might have something, because I don't need a tailored suit as much as I need something that will be ready by Friday.

No such luck, though I do end up procuring two shirts for the price of one.

Then the Brother suggests we go to Men's Warehouse and do some pricing there, or at least figure out what I want, before moving on to other places.

This is a good idea, because the Brother's wisdom is infinite, so we go into to Men's Warehouse, where we are greeted by Keith, who is wearing a blue pin-striped suit and a pink shirt and tie and looks rather like he might have 'Steal A Monet,' or perhaps, 'Meet Up With Kuryakin and Miss Teller,' on his list of things to do after he's finished with his shift. He glances between us and asks how he can help us, which I answer with:

"I'm going to a wedding and need a suit."

He looks me over, makes a face that says 'challenge accepted,' and then says, "when is the wedding, what's the dress code and what colour were you thinking?"

And I'm like, "I literally have no idea because they have given me the BARE MINIMUM of information, but I want a grey suit, and I think I want purple, black and white as my other colours," because if I want to look like an Ace Pride Flag whenever possible, that's my business, and Keith helps me into a jacket, saying something about trying to figure out what kind of fit would look best on me.

I nod, because I only know enough about men's fashion to be dangerous, look at the price tag, which reads $465, get mildly dizzy and lie through my teeth, "but we're just price checking today, probably, we'll be back later maybe."

"That's fine," he says, pushing me toward a mirror propped up at the front of the store. "I don't know about the fit of the shoulders, but is that the right colour?" he asks, already stalking off to go find a different jacket that will presumably fit better.

"Yeah, maybe a little lighter," I tell him, twisting around, thinking that I also don't know about the shoulders.

I take off the jacket, hand it to Keith and put on the next one, shaking my head, because it's no longer the eighties and my shoulders are already broad enough, thanks. Keith, apparently thinking something similar, takes the jacket from me and disappears into parts unknown again.

When he comes back several minutes later, he's carrying a new hanger with another jacket in a slightly lighter shade of grey, looking pleased with himself for reasons unbeknownst to me. "Try this one," he tells me, "I think it's closer to the colour you want and the shoulders should fit better." He pulls the jacket off the hanger and holds it up for me to put on.

This observation makes sense, because the suit jacket is, in fact near exactly the colour I want, and anyways, far be it from me to argue with a guy that does this for a living. So I do as he says, but pause in the middle of pulling on the aforementioned jacket, distracted by the sudden presence of the rest of the suit, which is, as far as I can tell, out of the ordinary. "Is that the vest and pants that go with this?" I ask, squinting at the price tag, which says '65% Off' in red letters.

What is wrong with this suit and why is Keith having me try it on.

"Oh," Keith says, like he's surprised I noticed, which is strange, because I know for a fact that I look a little bit like a hobo in my too-big flannel, Super Bee shirt, noticeably old jeans and converse that might have been teal at one point, but are now just a confusing shade of green. If anyone in the store is going to notice a sale tag, it's probably me.

Which is to say, that unlike the guy in the corner trying on a white suit jacket with silver embroidery that makes him look like some kind of beautiful Snow King, I do not know what I'm doing, nor do I even remotely look like I have the money to be patroning this place.

At this point, I am broken from my vaguely self depricating and slightly anxious train of thought by Keith continuing: "This one's a special case, we made it for a guy and it ended up being too small for him, so we're selling it for 65% off which would be..." he pauses, pulls out his phone, checks my price tag, and continues, "$120 for the whole suit, plus about $50 for the alterations."

"Oh," I say, pulling on the jacket, and then, "oh," as the shoulders settle over my own like it was made for me, extra tiddy room and all. I look around, wide-eyed at the Brother, feeling like God Themselves has come down from heaven to boop my snoot and give me this gift appropos of absolutely nothing, or maybe to celebrate my surviving twenty-five years on this wildly spinning orb, or perhaps as an apology for all the bullshit I've had to endure at work the past six months.

The Brother gives me a thumbs up and mouths, "that's god talking to you."

"Keith," I say, "I want to try this one."

Keith, who has apparently predicted this entire visit down to the second, hands me the pants and pushes me off to the fitting rooms, talking about what my shoe size is and how they're going to have to make the sleeves of the jacket slightly shorter so that I don't look like a toddler playing dress up, and do I like my cuffs to show a little or a lot, before he closes the door to the dressing room, leaving me clutching the pants in mild confusion because this is all happening very fast.

But really, here, I think, taking off my own pants, because there's no harm in trying the suit pants on, even if I am a little overwhelmed, is the real test, because men's pants are not really made for anyone but stick straight folk, and I have not been stick straight for over fifteen years. So if anything is going to shake me out of this nonsensical idea that I'm going to be walking out of here with a new suit, it's this.

I prepare myself for heartbreak as I pull on the pants, and am genuinely amazed to find that they fit perfectly. The lines will be a little messed up when I eventually wear them because of my wallet, but who even cares about that when you're cute as fuck anyways.

They even fit right when I sit down.

I bite back manly tears and walk out to the mirror, where Keith gives me a pair of oxblood dress shoes, we talk suit fashion in general, and he marks where my pants need to be hemmed to.

"I could take them in a little, under the thigh. I can't do much to make them bigger, but I think cropping them would look nice."

I nod, watching him work while I play with the buttons of the vest. "Yeah," I say, "that sounds fine."

He marks and measures, me and the Brother chat with another salesperson about Into the Spiderverse, and then Keith says, "the vest should be fine, but there's not much we can do about it without ordering another."

I eye the vest, it's bunching up a little near my hips, which is expected because men don't generally have them, and say, "no, this is fine, I'm always cold, so I probably won't take off my jacket, I can get a new one later." What I don't say is that I'm going to have the Mother do some minor alterations, because she is a saint and I'll be able to act as a mannequin for her to adjust on.

Keith nods sagely, like he knows I'm lying, tells me to change again, and whisks the Brother and I away to look at shirts and ties, which are apparently on sale once I've put my own pants back on.

You guys, I came out of that store with three shirts, two ties, and an almost custom made suit, when I walked in expecting a mild heart attack and a few solid minutes of quiet hyperventilation in the dressing room.

Happy Birthday to Me.

#quicksilver's adventures #the brother's wisdom is infinite #the brother #the mother #the father #the family

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chris2018blog-blog · 6 years ago

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storytellerren · 7 years ago

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Chapter 7: Cabin

The cabin was small, but the walls were thick. Made of the same wood as the robust trees that swathed the planet, it was indestructible and held heat remarkably well as long as a fire burned in the hearth. Thankfully, there were a few logs in a straw basket that Kylo Ren tossed inside the hearth and ignited just as soon as he’d crossed the cabin’s threshold. He’d never slept as deeply as he did that night, but a chill awakened him the next morning, reminding him that he wasn’t out of danger just yet.

Nobody lived in the cabin, so far as Kylo Ren could tell. A stiff layer of dust coated every surface, including two sets of dishes arranged on the small dining table. The bed linens smelled stale and unused, but there was a large depression in the center of the lumpy mattress and two feather pillows against the headboard. A wardrobe as tall as Kylo was jammed full of clothing—woven sweaters and thick trousers for a man as well as a woman’s collection of embroidered dresses. Kylo ran his fingers along the heavy fabric of one of the dresses and was abruptly overcome with melancholy. He wasn’t sure why.

Shivering, he turned his attention to the blackened belly of the hearth. He would need more wood.

On the east side of the cabin sat a shaded log pile. Examining the large cylindrical logs, Kylo knew they would need to be cut down if they were to fit inside the hearth. Wishing he had his lightsaber instead, he gripped the cool handle of the axe that sat propped against the cabin. It was much heavier than his lightsaber with its bulk concentrated on the far end instead of the shaft. Adding to his discomfort, he was forced to swing with his left hand while his more dominant right hand held his crutch. He practiced the motion a few times, but when he brought the axe down with his full strength, he lost his balance and toppled into the sticky mud. Cursing, he looked at the log and found that he’d missed it completely. It took him nearly every hour of sunshine to cut enough wood to keep him warm for the next day. After he’d understood that the axe needed sharpening, he had an easier time of it. Still, he went to bed that night filthy and sore, the pain in his broken leg so severe that he wasn’t sure if he’d fallen asleep or blacked out.

The next day he went looking for food and found seven jars of preserved vegetables and jellies inside a dark cabinet. He pulled them out and grouped them together on the dusty dining table. Then he opened two different-looking ones and began to eat. Some of it was a bit sour, like it was spoilt or very near it, but Kylo enjoyed the taste more than he did the gritty food from the escape pod’s provisions. He only had five of those little packages left. Adding them to the seven jars on the table he guessed that he had another week’s worth of food. But that was it. There was nothing else to eat. The gardens in the front of the cabin would grow food, but not during winter. There were animals in the forest that he could cook and eat, but he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to kill them. With the axe?

Kylo felt a dull ache blooming between his eyes and so he limped to the bed where he collapsed between the warm blankets. Repositioning the pillow to better hold his throbbing head, he felt something strange on the hem of the pillowcase. Pulling the pillow into the light, he found two letters embroidered in forest green.

N.D.

Convinced of what else he might find, he checked the hem of the other pillowcase, and sure enough, there were two violet letters.

T.D.

“Who were you?” he asked. But no one answered, and any attempt to answer the question himself just made his head hurt worse. Turning back around, he pulled the blankets to his chin and closed his eyes. He spent the rest of the day there, in the cavity of the bed with his legs bent so his feet wouldn’t hang past the mattress’s edge. He could save thinking for tomorrow. For now, he just wanted to disappear.

He drank melted snow with his early meal the next day, and after a few hours chopping wood, he heated some water and used it to wash. His black supreme leader’s outfit was nearly fused to his skin, so caked with filth it was, but he managed to peel away each layer, exposing the pale body beneath. It had been more than a week since he’d stood naked before a mirror. This one was cracked and turning brown at the edges, but it showed his reflection nonetheless. A purple bruise stained his underarm where he kept the crutch wedged so he could walk. And he had new scars. He always had new scars. He traced the pink shape of the one on his hip. His fingers were dry and calloused, but he closed his eyes anyway and imagined that Rey was touching him instead. He tried the Bond again, not caring that he was naked—perhaps it would help him say the things he needed to say, the things he’d always kept hidden from her—but there was nothing.

After his bath, Kylo found a razor and a frothy balm to shave with. Unlike the axe, the razor was still sharp, resulting in more than a couple of nicks on the raised skin around his scar. But he did a fine job, he thought, considering he hadn’t had much practice using an old-fashioned blade. When he was finished tending to his face, he went to the wardrobe and, averting his eyes from the woman’s dreary garb, he selected from the man’s side a cream colored shirt with a little green leaf stitched on the sleeve. When he put it on, it strained against his broad shoulders, so he moved his arms in circles, stretching the stiff fabric until it felt more comfortable. Sitting on the bed, he pulled a dark pair of pants over his legs. They fit in the waist, but when he stood up, the hems sat just above his ankles. He supposed some thick, knitted socks would cover the exposed skin. Opening a drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe, he revealed, not socks, but a carved wooden box with a tarnished lock. Lifting it out of the drawer, he felt its considerable weight and wondered what might be inside. What could be so sacred that it wasn’t already safe enough in a secluded cabin?

“What happened to you?” Kylo asked the clothes in the wardrobe. If the man and woman that lived there had simply awoken one day and decided to leave, then why didn’t they take their most essential belongings? And where could they have gone? If there was a village or spaceport within a hundred miles, Kylo thought, then perhaps he could leave this planet. But with his leg on the mend and winter only just beginning, he wasn’t sure it’d be possible until springtime. And it definitely wouldn’t be possible if he didn’t find something to eat in the meantime. He spent a few minutes looking for the key, but abandoned the search when it didn’t deliver a swift result.

Later he collected more snow and heated it in the wash basin. And because he could no longer stand to look at it, he scrubbed clean the expensive fabric of his black pants and tunic and hung them in front of the fire to dry.

Just before nightfall, he pulled on the man’s heavy coat and gloves and hobbled outside. Searching a small shed beside the cabin, he found an archaic looking projectile weapon. It reminded him of the bowcaster his father’s Wookiee companion carried, but this crossbow was more crudely constructed than Chewbacca’s. Beside it was a box of heavy, pointed bolts. He guessed that the weapon fired these bolts, though he wasn’t immediately sure how. Gripping the crossbow in one hand and the ammunition in the other, he left the shed and reentered the cabin. Tonight he would study the weapon. And tomorrow … tomorrow he would learn to hunt.

But hunting did not go well.

Kylo fired bolt after bolt at zigzagging shapes in the treetops before he realized that he was running out of ammo. Even after a short break midway to focus his senses, no dead birds graciously tumbled down to him on the forest floor. He’d always thought his aim was above average, but this bulky, handmade crossbow felt awkward in his hands. And besides that, his index finger barely fit inside the trigger nook. He couldn’t retrieve the bolts he’d fired into the trees either. Even if they’d managed to puncture the canopy and come back down, they could be miles away and his leg just wouldn’t let him wander that far. Plus, searching for the bolts would take hours and with daylight growing shorter each day, time was not on his side. He’d think of something—he had too. And then he’d try again tomorrow.

A long night of fitful sleep was exactly what Kylo didn’t need to help him prepare for his second day of hunting. The half foot of snow that fell during the night didn’t help him either—especially since he’d decided to give up shooting a bird and focus instead on the furry creatures that roamed the forest floor. He couldn’t even see the forest floor from the cabin’s doorway. He loosed a heavy sigh as he stepped from the hearth’s warmth and into the frosty cold. His breath clouded around him.

Poking holes in the snowdrifts with his crutch, he staggered around to the backside of the cabin. He hadn’t been to this patch of forest yet. Maybe the trees were thick enough back here that their crowded branches had captured some of the snowfall.

He wasn’t entirely wrong. The snow was shallower behind the cabin, shallow enough that he could see a lot more of the forest floor—including a narrow path lined with smooth stones.

Curious, he followed the path, already forgetting the day’s impossible task. A strange heaviness had taken hold of him and it had nothing to do with fatigue or even pain. This was something else.

His grip on the crossbow tightened as he saw, in the distance, another clearing. His left leg felt like putty, but he made it strong as he loped the rest of the way. Like the path, the clearing was lined with the same smooth stones, but because the trees were parted, the stones were buried in glistening snow. Everything inside the clearing was painted pristine white. The trellises and gardens, the leafless flora. And the bench in the center—

The crossbow tumbled from Kylo’s hand as he drew a frigid breath.

They were there, on the bench. N.D. and T.D.

He saw their shapes, the shape they made together, huddled under a cold blanket of snow. They were dead, of course. But he had to know why. The strange heaviness he felt would not lift until he knew the truth.

It felt almost like a desecration to drag his boots across the threshold of the clearing. This was a sacred space—a space so full of love that death itself could not frighten inside its border. Kylo reached out a trembling hand and wiped the powder from the icy cadavers. He’d seen dead bodies before—he’d created them—but he’d never seen two so at peace. Even nature had left them alone. Arms still encircling one another, the woman’s head rested on her husband’s chest, perhaps to listen for his final heartbeat. Their skin was not skin anymore, nor were they skeletons—they were something in between. As sunlight found their exposed flesh, it went to work melting the snow around it. Little by little, trickles of water dissolved the white crust, revealing hair and clothes … and a tarnished key hanging on a cord around the man’s neck.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter 2: Coup

Chapter 3: Falling

Chapter 4: Pain

Chapter 5: Listen

Chapter 6: Cold

Entire work

If you enjoy The Middle Place, please reblog and help get this story out there!

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gaytrojangirls · 8 years ago

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Chapter One

Prologue

“Welcome to USC!” a guy said, bouncing over to the huddled group of freshman standing around the court parking lot. Laila was pretty sure he wasn’t a guy at all, but perhaps a human ray of sunshine, or possibly a puppy walking on two legs instead. She exchanged a glance with the blue-eyed, dark skinned girl next to her with coppery hair curled on top, the rest shaved to the base of her skull. The slightly taller, eastern looking girl raised her eyebrows with a smirk before turning back to the human ray of sunshine that Laila assumed was their junior captain.

“That stands for University of Southern California,” the guy clarified, and damn was he too excited for this early in the morning , Laila thought hypocritically. She was bouncing up and down in her converse from her own, unrestrained enthusiasm.

“Named by Robert Widney when he founded it in 1880, making it the oldest private research university in California.” Another girl standing near Laila added quietly. Laila turned to look at taller girl - everyone was taller than Laila fucking Dermott it seemed - and couldn’t help but smile. Her hair was tied back in a loose braid that floated around her silky skin.

They briefly met eyes before Laila caught sight of something that made her look back down at her own skin instead. Curving around the other girl’s neck was elegant black scrawl. She couldn’t quite make out what it said but the implication was obvious: this girl has met her soulmate.

Laila briefly scoured her own arms, wondering if any of her soulmate’s thoughts had appeared there. There was nothing. If Laila’s soulmate was thinking about her, the thought was hidden somewhere else on her body.

“I’m Bryant Wolfe,” an even taller guy said from behind Mr. Grin and Smiles. His smile just as wide and his dark arms were covered in permanently inked words and images in the form of tattoos, but no soulmate scrawl in sight. “And this is Jeremy Knox. We’re going to be showing you all around today so follow us!”

They entered into the building like a flock of lost geese as the two kept talking, keeping up an easy banter as they showed the new freshmen the sights. Eventually, they came to a stop outside the dorm building. Jeremy stood at the head

“I’m excited to have you all on the court this year. I can’t wait to see what we can do together this season once summer practices start this Wednesday..”

“However,” Bryant cut in, “you don’t have to wait that long to get to know each other. We’re having a freshmen meet and greet with the rest of the team tonight and you’re all expected.”

“Joy,” the blue-eyed girl muttered next to Laila, her sarcasm thick.

“Not a fan of parties?” Laila asked as they filed into the dorm building.

“I didn’t come here to party, I came here to play Exy.”

“Letting loose isn’t gonna kill you,” another girl said. The females of the newly recruited Trojans had flocked together it seemed. Laila was surrounded by the four other girls in a sea of testosterone. This one was tall, even taller in the pumps she was wearing, with dark brown, sunkissed skin. Laila eyes betrayed her, obviously following the rather impressive curves of the girl’s body.

Shiiitttt, I’m gay , Laila thought, something like a smirk playing across her lips.

Blue Eyes - Laila really needed to learn their names - rolled her eyes with such force it was almost painful to watch.

“Sue me if I don’t want to spend my college years high and plastered.”

“Okay, break it up, break it up,” an older girl said, coming up from behind. It was obvious she wasn’t a freshmen simply by the way she carried herself and made even more obvious by the Trojans letterman jacket she wore with her name and number on the back. Berker, #7 was written in embroidered red and gold.

Lalia recognized her almost immediately: Diana Berker, #7 Defensive Dealer. Laila knew all of the female Trojans by heart, Diana especially. She took the Exy world by storm when she made starting line up during the season opener her sophomore year. It was a faster rise to starting line than the Exy world had seen in years and, in Laila’s humble opinion, Diana had every right to be on track to take over the captaincy. Laila was gay enough to admit to nursing a not so small crush on the start of her junior year. Diana, along with Vivian Bhat and Beatrice Watson, were pretty much her heroes.

“I’m going to take you guys to the less male driven side of the dorm and let you get settled,” Berker said, gesturing for the girls to follower her. Glancing back to the moody group she added, “And if you want to listen to some unsolicited advice, I’d suggest spending less time fighting each other and more time figuring out how to get along.”

Blue Eyes stared back defiantly to which the dealer responded with a hard look, “We might not be the foxes, but we are still girls. We’ve got enemies in our own right, you don’t need to go making more. Especially not of each other. So play nice for the next five years, understood?”

As a smile spread across her face, Laila decided she liked Diana even more in person than on the field.

The freshmen girls followed Diana to where the female Trojans’ dorm rooms were clustered. As they walked, Laila’s eyes drifted again to tall girl with the sunkissed skin. God, she was gorgeous.

“Okay, Winger and Montalvo, you’re in room 312. Alvarez, Dermott, and Jones, you’re in 314. Me and the other girls are just down that hall in 322. Take a couple hours to settle in, shower and sort out your shit and what not, me and the girls will be by to pick you up a little after noon for lunch and a campus tour,” Diana said, tossing keys to each of the girls and leaving them with a mock, two finger salute.

The two other girls, the one with the facts about USC and a shorter blonde who hadn’t spoken yet, headed off to room 312 leaving the breathtakingly gorgeous girl who held a solid four inches over Laila and Blue Eyes standing awkwardly in the hallway.

“Shall we?” Laila said, nodding towards the door to room 314.

Laila looked into the full length mirror attached to the back of the door to the dorm room. Her white dress had thin straps looped over her shoulders and a floral print of pink roses, seeing as Laila loved roses. Her wedge heels were white to match the dress, and her lips were painted bright pink to match as well.

Blue Eyes, whose name was Annabeth-Not-Annie-Don’t-Fucking-Call-Me-That, was curled up on her dorm bed. She wasn't any more thrilled by the prospect of a team party given how it looked like she was planning on sleeping through it. Laila, on the other hand, was practically bouncing with excitement. She turned to the other girl, Sara Alvarez, and grinned.

“Help zip me up?” Laila asked, gesturing to the zipper on the back of her dress.

“Sure, shortie,” Sara replied playfully. The five foot eight Latina relished in the height difference between her and other other girls in a way that sent Laila scrambling for her favorite pair of heels. Even in her wedge sanders, Sara still held two inches on the smaller girl.

However, two inches or not, Sara Alvarez was at perfect kissing height. And if Laila let herself engage in the harmless fantasies, no one needed to know.

Laila wondered if her soulmate would be as pretty as Sara Alvarez. She doubted it.

“You look nice.” Laila told Sara, which was the understatement of the century. Sara looked much more than nice. She was stunning, especially in the little red outfit that made Laila’s breath catch in her throat. Laila suddenly felt childish in her floral dress.

Sara’s eyebrows quirked for half a second before a smile broke on her face. “Thanks, you too.” Her phone lit up in her pocket and she pulled it out. “It’s Naomi.” She announced. “The other girls are ready and waiting for us in the hall.”

Sara glanced over at Annabeth, who was still on her bed, in the same clothes she’d been wearing all day. “You coming, Grumpy the Dwarf?”

Annabeth grumbled something in a language Laila didn’t understand, but then pushed herself into a sitting position, stretched, and climbed out of bed. Laila waited for a moment to see if Annabeth planned on changing or freshening up, but the girl just gestured towards the door with an enthusiastic “let’s get this thing over with,” before picking up her backpack and slinging it over her shoulder.

Naomi, Ms. Fun Facts, and Anya, the near-silent freshman, were waiting in the hallway. Naomi greeted them with a smile, while Anya was busy staring down at her feet. She nervously toyed with the hem of her floral skirt. Naomi was in simple jeans and a white button up, looking the most at peace with being there.

Before they had a chance to exchange niceties, the door down the hall opened and Diana stepped out, closely followed by Beatrice Watson and Vivian Bhat, the other older Trojan girls. Laila had spent half the day with them, but she had to admit she was still more than a little starstruck.

Beatrice stood taller than even Sara in three inch, baby pink stilettos which paired perfectly with her lacy crop top that fell of her slim shoulders. A soft smile graced her lips as she smiled at the freshmen. Beatrice hadn’t said much earlier, leaving the forceful Diana and Vivian do most of the talking. Not that Vivian had done much talking earlier, but her facial expressions spoke volumes. Hilarious, sarcastic volumes that made Laila want to get to know the striker better.

“God, I’m fucking proud of you,” Vivian muttered to Bea just loud enough for the others to hear. “You picked out almost all of that outfit yourself, I’m going to get you a girlfriend yet.” The striker herself was in a low cut, slim fitting black dress that came to rest mid-thigh.

She surveyed the freshmen with a critical eye and her perfectly manicured eyebrow shot up a few inches when they came to rest on Annie.

“Oh god, the new gremlin is worse than you, Bae.” Annabeth just met the sophomore girl’s eyes with an uncaring shrug and a fierce glare.

“Break it up,” Diana said with a roll of her eyes, “again,” she finished before shouldering past Vivian and corralling the freshmen down the stairs and towards the sidewalk where Beatrice quickly ditched her shoes in favor of walking barefoot in the carefully tended, vibrant grass. When Vivian sent her an exasperated glare, Beatrice just grinned back, clearly enjoying what Laila surmised was friendly teasing.

The march to the party wasn’t a long one; it was held in a rec room a building or two away from the sports players’ dorms. The music of the party was heard before the party itself was seen, Taylor Swift’s “Blank Space” blasting through stereos inside the building. Laila immediately perked up a the song, one of her favorites, and wondered who was choosing the music.

Laila’s thoughts were pulled away from the music selection as the fleet of testosterone made their way to the girls. Jeremy lead the pack, and Bryant was corralling the eight or so freshmen from behind. Trailing right behind the older boy was a short, slouching kid who seemed very adamant at staying in Bryant’s shadow. Laila could only make out long, curly brown hair and a pair of wide eyes made even wider by his thick framed glasses before she began taking in the rest of the freshmen.

All of them were insufferably tall, well muscled, and if Laila wasn’t more gay than a double rainbow, she probably would’ve been attracted to them. However, she was, in fact, gay as a double rainbow, so her thoughts roved back to Sara Alvarez. Laila searched for the unfairly tall girl in the crowd of Trojans, only to be jostled into the rec room.

The room itself was a sight to behold. There was red and gold everywhere, on every chair, table, every brick on the wall it seemed. Streamers hung over rafters and were tied to chairs. Once the group was through the door, they dispersed in different directions.

“I thought this was a freshmen meet and greet?” a voice from behind Laila questioned with obvious amusement. Laila turned, nearly tripping over her own heeled shoes, and found the arms of Sara Alvarez steadying her.

“Meet and greet, no freshman qualifier,” Bryant corrected. His shadow from earlier had disappeared so the sophomore was alone. “There wouldn’t be much meeting and greeting if it was just the freshmen, so a few others came over to meet the fresh blood. Now come on, go have fun,” he shooed at them playfully before headed towards another group of freshmen boys to give the same short lecture.

Laila turned away from the retracting form of Bryant and towards the inner workings of the party. There were groups hanging around in different places: Annabeth had slinked off to somewhere Laila couldn’t track, Naomi was over talking to a group of girls in cheer uniforms, and Anya was off hiding - maybe with Annie.

The girls Laila assumed were from the cheer team were easily the most dynamic group from one girl’s sparkling outfit and another’s cotton bright blue hair tied up in playful braids. Laila turned to Sara and smiled. “Wanna get punch?” she said, nodding over to the refreshments table.

“Sure,” Sara agreed, returning Laila’s smile.

Like the rest of the room, the refreshments table was decked in red and gold - team spirit was not in short supply around here. There was a plate of cookies frosted with the USC logo, and Laila was impressed someone had taken the time to make them. She picked up one and took a bite.

“Mmm,” Laila mumbled. She needed to find out who made these cookies, because they were incredibly amazing.

Sara was smirking at her. “So much for a sports diet, huh?”

Laila shrugged. “I’ll start tomorrow.” She held the other half of her cookie out to Sara. “Want a bite?” Sara shook her head, so Laila finished the cookie in one bite.

“You have a little something-” Sara waved her hand in the general direction of Laila’s lips. “Here.” She reached out her hand and ran her finger under Laila’s lip, wiping away cookie crumbs. Laila could’ve sworn Sara took a moment too long to pull her hand away, and the touch left Laila’s lips tingling with the remembered sensation and longing to have it again.

Laila ignored her goosebumps. “Thanks.”

Sara poured two plastic cups with the punch, which was of course red, and held one out to Laila.

“A toast,” Sara announced, after Laila had taken her cup, “To our first night as Class I Exy players.”

“I’ll cheer to that,” Beatrice Watson said, suddenly materializing at their side. “I’m happy to have you two on board. We’ve been needing more girls around here. Di practically bullied the coach into taking y’all on.”

Laila felt her eyebrows shoot up. She hadn’t gotten the impression that Diana was all that fond of them, but then again, maybe it took a while for the older Trojan to be more than just professionally courteous to the new recruits. After all, it had only been a day.

Beatrice looked like she was about to say something else until the sound of a microphone crackling to life drew the crowd’s attention. Standing on top of a makeshift stage at the front of the room was the human ray of sunshine himself, Jeremy Knox, grinning wide enough to light up the entire room.

“What’s going on?” a freshmen piped up as the lights dimmed a little.

“Oh, god, not again,” someone groaned in contrast from behind Sara and Laila. Despite the clear dismay of the older Trojans, Beatrice was smiling dopily. She looked around the crowd, silently laughing, and waved someone over. Vivian sauntered through the crowd, her smile slicing wickedly through her features.

“You’re in for a treat, gremlins,” she drawled, looking at the girls like they were fresh meat in a slaughter house. Laila gulped nervously before turning her attention back to Jeremy.

“It’s karaoke time!” Jeremy practically jumped up and down. Laila got the picture karaoke time was one of Knox’s favorite times. “Karaoke time?” Sara asked in a breathless laugh, turning her cheek to give a questioning look at Beatrice. Beatrice simply smiled back as the beat of Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” began. Jeremy cleared his throat, grinning out at the crowd, and then began to sing.

It was a truly atrocious performance that sent even the most polite freshmen cringing internally - and sometimes externally - but sent most of the older Trojans into either fits of groans or playful laughter. Either way, almost everyone was singing along by the end of the song.

“Oh my god, I love Taylor Swift!” Laila’s voice raised into an excited squeak before continuing to sing along. She heard Alvarez’s laughter from beside her, and Laila felt her stomach turn at the beautiful sound.

Later in the night, sometime after the 15th Taylor Swift song and no where near the end of the party, Jeremy Knox took the stage again. As he walked up, he high fived a grinning Beatrice who had just performed a stunning rendition of Who Says by Selena Gomez.

“Now, let’s have some volunteers from the freshmen,” Jeremy’s smile was wide and playful as he gazed over the crowd. Vivian got a honest-to-god terrifying look on her face that had Laila already forming the word “no” in her mouth.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Beatrice said, boxing Laila in on one side as Vivian took the other. “It’s tradition.”

“It’s horrible, I love it,” Vi said, her eyes gleaming. “Hey, Knox!” she called out, waving to get the striker’s attention. “We’ve got two volunteers right here.”

“No, you don’t,” Laila tried to say but was cut off by Sara grabbing her arm and pulling her towards the front of the room. Her contagious laughter filled the air around the pair but did nothing for the nerves growing in Laila’s stomach.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.” Laila said quietly, so only Sara could hear her, as Sara dragged her to the stage.

“Don’t worry, Strawberry Shortcake, it’ll be fun,” Sara assured her. Jeremy outstretched a hand to the two of them, giving them each a microphone.

“What song do you two want?” he asked cheerfully. “How about some Taylor Swift?” Jeremy suggested with a knowing look at Laila, able to tell she was more than a little nervous.

“You Belong With Me?” Laila immediately suggested one of her favorite songs, and only then did the realization hit her that she was about to sing a romantic song with a really pretty girl. Not just a really pretty girl, Sara Alvarez ; her new roommate, teammate, and what was beginning to look like her new crush. At least she hadn’t said Love Story.

The lyrics started at the same time Laila began singing. She knew the song by heart and could probably serenade anyone with the song at any given time. Of course, that didn’t make her prepared to serenade an entire room full of people.

Her voice was quiet at first, barely audible over the background track. Sara shot her an encouraging look, and Laila sang just a little louder.

After a few lines, Sara joined in, singing with much more confidence and beauty in her voice than in Laila’s. Sure, Sara’s voice wasn’t superstar quality, but it filled the room and made Laila smile despite the nerves.

Lalia found a boost in her confidence, and by the end of the first chorus, she was singing almost as loudly as Sara. As long as she was looking at Sara, she didn’t even think about the crowd. By the very end of the song, Laila was laughing as the crowd cheered. A few playful wolf whistles could be heard from within the group. Laila was too happy to even give the crowd a second thought.

The pair of girls bounced happily off the stage, back down from the clouds. Beatrice high fived them both, told them how well they did, and left them with Vi.

“See, tradition,” Vi said, her smile cunning and sharp as a knife before she followed after Bea.

Sara turned to Laila. “I told you it would be fun. We make a good team, Shortstack.”

Laila was too far in the clouds to feel insulted by the nickname. Sara was grinning at her and Laila wanted to do nothing more than make that girl smile for the rest of her life.

“You belong with meeee,” Laila and Alvarez sang loudly as they entered their dorm at the end of the hallway. Naomi gave Annabeth a bemused-if-pitying look, knowing she’d be stuck with the two, before disappearing into the dorm with Anya. Annabeth grunted an unintelligible question before retreating to the small dorm bathroom.

“Tonight was fun.” Laila said, once her and Sara were alone. “I’m glad we’re roommates.”

Sara smiled back -- god, her smile was beautiful -- and whispered, “Me too.”

As Sara went to go flop into her own bed Laila turned around to change, only to feel her eyes widen in surprise and her breath catch in her throat. Written in beautiful, swirly letters, across her wrist was the word Enchanting.

Laila felt a giggly laugh bubbling up inside of her and held onto the feeling. Someone loved her. Someone loved Laila Dermott. And they were at USC.

#the fic #chapter one

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