#in other words I started testosterone today

[kissandtellus]

Mountin’ Mutts

Synopsis: Canine Hybrid!Caleb gets too rambunctious when in Rut. So Feline!Reader buys him a contraption to keep him under control!

Warning: Omegaverse, Hybrids, Knotting, Drooling, Muzzles, Smut, Sort of Mean!Caleb but MC is into it.

You’d grounded your mate from touching you. You still bore scarred marks from the last time Caleb was in rut.

He has been pining all night but he kept himself from dry humping your lower back. When he noticed you moving away, he whined into your neck.

His hand was resting on your waist and you can sense the tremble on it as he tried to control himself. He was doing his best to control the beast inside him because he really doesn’t want to hurt his mate. But the way he is panted into your neck, you could feel his body heat seep into your bones.

“Please,” he begged.

“No, Cal. You know why. C’mon, I said you can hold me but no more.” You huffed and tried squirming away. The summer night was already hot enough and the AC wasn’t doing much for his own overheated flesh.

He lets out a low, frustrated whimper at your refusal. His hands tightened around you, refusing to let you go even just for a moment.

His chest rumbled against your back as he spoke, his voice a hoarse disappointment. “Just let me…” he started, but his words trailed off, leaving them hanging, unspoken, charged with unexpressed desire.

You can truly sense how much he yearns for physical intimacy with you, how it's almost a physical ache within him.

The next morning is even worse, you have to peel yourself from him to fix breakfast, your ears on constant rotation to catch the noise of when he woke up.

You stand in the midst of the kitchen, fixing a shit ton of protein for him. Your ears twitch at the sound of him pulling himself from the bed. He’s standing in the doorway nearly too big. All muscle, over 200 pounds of pure strength wrapped in untamed desires.

“G’mornin’…” you murmured over your shoulder.

Caleb says nothing, but you can feel the floor quake under each step.

He wraps his arms around you from behind; his body pressed against you, the heat of him against your back a heady reminder of his state.

He knows he shouldn't push, but the desire is too strong to resist. He whispers in your ear, his voice low, “Just let me...please, pretty kitty. I need you…”

You sigh, fully prepared to push him off. But his hips twitch against your lower back, straining length stretching the fabric and…wet? Why was it-?

Oh. My. God.

“Caleb Xia, did you just cum on my back?!”

Caleb is groaning, whining, and still humping your back as the cum seeps through his boxers. “I’ll be good-s’ good! Please please please-

“Off.” The command is sharp, your tail between you rigid. He whines like you just kicked him but peels himself away,

You banish him to his at-home gym, tell him to work out his frustrations while you finish breakfast and head to the store.

He sulks at first, not wanting to leave your side, but after a few more stern words and narrowed feline eyes, he begrudgingly makes his way to the gym.

He works out intensely, trying to burn off the frustrations he feels. As he trains, his body glistens with sweat, his muscles flexing, his rut making him stronger than usual, his testosterone overbearing at this point.

You on the other hand, visit the tiny corner shop you and Caleb have visited a few times. It caters to Hybrids like yourself, owned by a Hybrid couple FOR people just like you.

The Bear Hybrid, husband of the owner, with his imposing tall build and lopsided grin, greets you with a hearty laugh. "Ah, if it isn't my favorite cat! What brings you here today?" His eyes sparkle with warmth, and there's a subtle hint of admiration behind his words.

The corner shop is a familiar haven for Hybrids like you, and the bear's genuine welcome always puts you at ease.

You grumble and pull your shirt off your shoulder just a bit so you can show off the vicious bite marks Caleb left during his last Rut. “Caleb is…a lot more bitey during his Ruts. I’m just looking for something that can help him. Got anything that’ll stop him from treating me like a chew toy?”

The Bear Hybrid lets out a hearty laugh at the sight of Caleb's bite marks on you. "That boy of yours sure does have a strong bite! Well, I might just have something that can help. Hold on, let me check in the back."

He disappears into the back of the shop, rummaging through various potions and remedies. A moment later, he returns with a metal contraption, he lays it on the counter with a soft clink.

A muzzle.

“It’s designed to prevent unnecessary biting during…uh, certain activities,” the Bear Hybrid explains casually, as though he was discussing the weather or last night's game.

He pushes it towards you. “It’ll prevent him from hurting you during his rut, but still allow you both to be close. Just don’t tell him it was my idea.” he adds with a wink.

You nervously walk back to the apartment with the paper bag in hand. Caleb is absolutely going to hate this, but he might hate remaining untouched during his Rut even more.

You slowly push open the door to hear whines, groans and the smell of raw Alpha in the air.

As you step into the apartment, you’re immediately hit with the raw, untamed scent of his rut. It hangs heavy in the air, an undeniable presence. His groans echo in the stillness, a symphony of suppressed desire. The smell alone is enough to stir something within you, a primal urge you've been trying to push down.

You hear him before you see him. He's lying on the ground, his body glistening with sweat from his workout.

But in his hands, is your crumpled used underwear, his salvia and…other fluids clinging to it.

When he notices you, he looks up, his eyes dark. There's no denying the wild hunger in them, a direct result of his rut. He tosses the underwear aside, his voice hoarse. "You're back. Please, pretty girl..."

When you pull out the muzzle, Caleb looks betrayed in a way. His tail tucks between his legs but there is a firm look in your eyes. “It’s the only way Caleb. Please?”

Caleb’s lip pulls back in a snarl and for a second, you think he might deny it. But then he steps closer and dips his head. You quickly slide it over his mouth, the leather straps rattling as you secure it fully.

“Good boy, how does that feel?” You take a step back and he gives his head a few firm shakes.

“It’s fine…I guess.” He huffs, jerking his head around. His massive body is tense like a coiled trap. Your lips curl up and you hold his cheek between your hands, hushing his angered huffs.

“Shhh, you’re doing well. Now-“ You step forward so your fingers press against his raging boner tenting his shorts. You nearly have to catch him in your arms when his knees buckle. He tries to press his face into his favorite place, the crook of your neck, but the metal bars keep him from your flesh.

“Can’t fuckin’ taste you.” He whines through clenched teeth. You giggle, just a light noise to thread your fingers with him.

You guide him to the safety of the bedroom. His scent bounces off the walls now fully surrounding you. “Stay.” You order, pointing in-front of you to the corner of the room. Caleb feels like his entire body nearly vibrate as you began to strip off your clothing. Your furry tail sprung up as you slide down your panties and shorts.

“Kitty-“

“Hush, enjoy the show.”

You soon stand bare before him, allowing his eyes to trail over each scar from the bites his fangs have left. He whines, heart aching. Another time he would kiss every bite as apology. But right now-

He wanted to give you more.

You crawl into the plush bed, enveloped in both of your scents. Your knees hit the bed and you press your chest to the soft comforter. You reach back, fingers grasping your cheeks before pulling them apart, exposing your holes like you were offering yourself on a silver platter.

When you look over your shoulder, Caleb’s shorts and tank top were tossed aside like trash. He’s panting, tongue out and all, drool seeping through the metal bars.

“C’mere.”

The command is so sudden it startles Caleb. But luckily he’s quick on his feet.

He’s bounding towards you like his life depended on it. He drops to his knees first, as if he’s ready to worship the most precious deity.

Caleb presses the end of his muzzle up against your dripping folds. He growls when the metal prevents him from tasting your sweet nectar that dribbled mere inches away.

He lets out a frustrated growl, the muzzle digging into your sensitive flesh as he tries to push past it to reach your center. His hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging into your skin as he attempts to force his way in despite the barrier. "Nngh... Fuck this thing..."

You mewl and arch as the cool bars rub your most sensitive flesh. He knows theirs no use, but he’s too far gone now.

Drooling tongue gets so, so close to your aching folds but falls too short. That’s when you notice them.

The thick tears welled up in those pretty violet eyes. He’s so desperate. You’ve been edging him for the past two days, refusing to let him have you because of a few (in his opinion) stupid marks.

How else was he supposed to let the other males know you had a big, scary looking dog at home who stretched your pussy so good you saw stars?

He lets out a frustrated groan, his claws digging into the sheets as he fights the urge to rip the muzzle off. Instead, he starts rubbing his snout vigorously against your clit through the metal grille, trying to stimulate you indirectly. His tail thrashes angrily behind him. "Please…”

Your body acts accordingly, slick beginning to drip down your thighs in response. “G-good boy.”

The praise sends a shiver down his spine. He redoubles his efforts, the snout of the muzzle rubbing faster and harder against your clit. His own arousal is obvious, his cock throbbing and leaking against your thigh where it's trapped between your bodies. “M’ Good, s’ good for ya.”

He’s a mess, leaking down your leg, the end of the muzzle now covered in your slick and his saliva. You take a shuddering breath and reach back to grab his arm. “U-up! Mount!”

At your command, he immediately scrambles up to mount you. His large, muscular frame overshadows you as his wet cock slides across your sticky mound.

The muzzle makes his breathing heavy and loud, but he can't help the muffled whine that escapes him as he slowly pushes forward, his angry cockhead stretching you open inch by inch.

It never gets easier taking such a beefy part of the canine Hybrid. His chin rests on your shoulder as he bullies inch by inch inside, stretching out the gummy walls that try to suck him in forever.

His slick thighs try to find purchase against your body but it fails the first couple of times. He begins pleading with you to loosen up, begging you not to choke him out.

His pleas grow more desperate as he tries to thrust deeper but keeps slipping out because of your stubborn hold. His nails carefully scratch at your sides, trying to coax your muscles to relax. "Nngh! Please... Open more...I’ll be so good to ya…”

Slowly but surely your natural slick drips around his girth and he can finally bottom out. He swears he might cum, might blackout right then and there.

The cold of the metal makes tiny indentions on your shoulder as he begins a desperate pace. There isn’t really a rhyme or reason to his thrust, the initial few pumps have your head reeling.

“Feel so good kitty-mmn fuck, fuck you feel so gooood~!” He’s a man deprived now. He grabs your hips to lift you ever so gently off the bed before pounding your guts like they owe you money. Your claws tear at the sheets when you try to find something to keep you grounded.

Caleb’s head is thrown back, the muzzle doing its job. But it can’t stop the flinging drool that drips from his dirty mouth. Pieces of saliva collect on the space between your shoulder blades when he curls himself around your arch.

“Pussy feels so good! C-can’t believe you tried keepin’ her from me.” He’s snarls.

He can feel the base of his cock starting to swell. His jaw snaps inside of the muzzle that pressed right against your swollen heat gland. His instincts are bitter, wanting nothing more than to make you bleed for making him wait so long.

Your ears pivot at the sound of his snarl and he catches the sight in his peripheral. One clawed hand encircles your tail, giving a light pull that sends a hiss from your throat.

“Think you’re so much better than this big dumb dog? All high and mighty, not lettin’ me mark ya? Afraid I’ll scare away those prissy fuckin’ cat suitors I see watchin’ ya?”

“F-fuckin’ mutt! So big, n cock is so big! D-don’t even think about how much it hurts!” You hiss out, ears flattened despite your tail folded against your spine as your body takes him over and over, tears of pleasure and frustration spilling down your cheeks.

Caleb’s eyes roll back at the way your walls spasm around his throbbing cock. “Yeahhhh, yeah you love this mutt’s big cock. Want me to give you all the fucking pups huh? Say it.”

His hand grasps your jaw, angling your head back and- “Fuck! Fuck yeah, want your pups. Pleasepleaseple-“

Caleb’s jaws flex, his snarl overpowering your moans. You barely comprehend the sound of tearing leather before his teeth fasten around your shoulder. His knot pops in and he balances on his haunches as he pumps load after load.

“FUCK! Fuck Caleb, ow-“

He gives his head a warning whip, daring you to try to push him away. Your cries die down to whimpers as you come down from your own high, a frothy mix dribbling down your inner thighs.

Blood trickles down your shoulder and onto the once clean bedsheets. You know you should hiss, should scratch and claw at him. But when the remains of the broken muzzle falls beside you on the bed-

“Oh f-“

~

Caleb has you sprawled out on the bed like a used white. He hasn’t stopped apologizing while he’s cleaned the wounds he’s left and the cum leaking out of your well used entrance.

You don’t have the strength to fight him off when he decides his tongue is the best cleaning tool for your pussy.

“Mm sorry Kitty. I’ll take care of you.”

Caleb crawls next to you but not before grabbing the broken muzzle and tossing it across the room like an unloved toy. “But if you ever put a muzzle on me again, I’ll fuck you through the wall.”

Was that a threat? Or was he flirting?

Knowing Caleb? Probably both.

[buysomecheese]

It’s funny to me that my t-shot day, today, is Leap Day. Like that’s kinda funny I think. I also like that Leap Year is the year I graduate high school + start college. Wouldn’t it be fun to see if I could get my top surgery on Feb. 29, 2028 I think that would be So cool actually

[gingersnapwolves]

So today I want to talk about puberty blockers for transgender kids, because despite being cisgender, this is a subject I’m actually well-versed in. Specifically, I want to talk about how far backwards things have gone.

This story starts almost 20 years ago, and it’s kind of long, but I think it’s important to give you the full history. At the time, I was working as an administrative assistant for a pediatric endocrinologist in a red state. Not a deep deep red state like Alabama, we had a little bit of a purple trend, but still very much red. (I don’t want to say the state at the risk of doxxing myself.) And I took a phone call from a woman who said, “My son is transgender. Does your doctor do hormone therapy?”

I said, “Good question! Let me find out.”

I went into the back and found the doctor playing Solitaire on his computer and said, “Do you do hormone therapy for transgender kids?” It had literally never come up before. He had opened his practice there in the early 2000s. This was roughly 2006, and the first time someone asked. Without looking up from his game of Solitaire, the doctor said, “I’ve never done it before, but I know how it works, so sure.”

I got back on the phone and told the mom, who was overjoyed, and scheduled an appointment for her son. He was the first transgender child we treated with puberty blockers. But not, by far, the first child we treated with puberty blockers, period. Because puberty blockers are used very commonly for children with precocious puberty (early-onset puberty). I would say about twenty percent of the kids our doctor treated were for precocious puberty and were on puberty blockers. They have been well studied and are widely used, safe, and effective.

Well. It turned out, the doctor I worked for was the only doctor in the state who was willing to do this. And word spread pretty fast in the tight-knit community of ‘parents of transgender children in a red state’. We started seeing more kids. A better drug came out. We saw some kids who were at the age where they were past puberty, and prescribed them estrogen or testosterone. Our doctor became, I’m fairly sure, a small folk hero to this community. 

Insurance coverage was a struggle. I remember copying articles and pages out of the Endocrine Society Manual to submit with prior authorization requests for the medications. Insurance coverage was a struggle for a lot of what we did, though. Growth hormone for kids with severe idiopathic short stature. Insulin pumps, which weren’t as common at the time, and then continuous glucose monitoring, when that came out. Insurance struggles were just part and parcel of the job.

I remember vividly when CVS Caremark, a pharmaceutical management company, changed their criteria and included gender dysphoria as a covered diagnosis for puberty blockers. I thought they had put the option on the questionnaire to trigger an automatic denial. But no - it triggered an approval. Medicaid started to cover it. I got so good at getting approvals with my by then tidy packet of articles and documentation that I actually had people in other states calling me to see what I was submitting (the pharmaceutical rep gave them my number because they wanted more people on their drug, which, shady, but sure. He did ask me if it was okay first).

And here’s the key point of this story:

At no point, during any of this, did it ever even occur to any of us that we might have to worry about whether or not what we were doing was legal.

It just never even came up. It was the medically recommended treatment so we did it. And seeing what’s happening in the UK and certain states in America is both terrifying and genuinely shocking to me, as someone who did this for almost fifteen years, without ever even wondering about the legality of it.

The doctor retired some years ago, at which point there were two other doctors in the state who were willing to prescribe the medications for transgender kids. I truly think that he would still be working if nobody else had been willing to take those kids on as patients. He was, by the way, a white cisgender heterosexual Boomer. I remember when he was introduced to the concept of ‘genderfluid’ because one of our patients on HRT wanted to go off. He said ‘that’s so interesting!’ and immediately went to Google to learn more about it. 

I watched these kids transform. I saw them come into the office the first time, sometimes anxious and uncertain, sometimes sullen and angry. I saw them come in the subsequent times, once they were on hormone therapy, how they gradually became happy and confident in themselves. I saw the smiles on their faces when I gave them a gender marker letter for the DMV. I heard them cheer when I called to tell them I’d gotten HRT approved by insurance and we were calling in a prescription. It was honestly amazing and I will always consider the work I did in that red state with those kids to be something I am incredibly proud of. I was honored to be a part of it.

When I see all this transgender backlash, it’s horrifying, because it was well on the way to become standard and accepted treatment. Insurances started to cover it. Other doctors were learning to prescribe it. And now … it’s fucking illegal? Like what the actual fuck. We have gone so far backwards that it makes me want to cry. I don’t know how to stop this slide. But I wrote this so people would understand exactly how steep the slide is.

[rafeslittlepup]

sexist!rafe in an alpha male podcast

the host introduces him like he’s bringing on a navy seal, “today’s guest is… well, he’s hard to describe, man. real estate mogul, former golden boy, some say menace, rafe cameron. he’s got opinions, he’s jacked, and apparently he doesn’t let his wife use microwaves.”

rafe leans into the mic, he doesn’t say hello. he nods. first ten minutes and he’s already saying stuff like: “masculinity isn’t toxic. soy is.”

“if your wife’s tired, you’re doing something wrong, or not doing her enough.”

“i don’t discipline my sons. i raise warriors.”

so the host tries to steer things gently, “so what’s your day to day like?”

“up at 5:00am. cold plunge. eggs. raw liver. i kiss my lovely wife. all four kids are already dressed, you know, matching outfits, my wife handles that. i don’t touch laundry. that’s her kingdom.”

he then casually name-drops marcus aurelius and some twitter “author” in the same sentence while adjusting his patek phillip and talking about “the collapse of the nuclear family.”

thirty minutes in, he’s downed his cold water, chewed a zinc tablet raw, and told a story about “earning his wife’s purity.”

“she had a promise ring of course… i replaced it with a rock the size of a baby tooth when she was 19.”

they spiral into a full hour on seed oils, school indoctrination, and why he thinks testosterone is sacred. rafe says the words “God’s values,” “homestead,” and “virginity restoration” in under 30 seconds.

then, the final stretch, “you ever worry people think you’re, uh… intense?”

but rafe stays calm “some people call me intense, but my wife packs my lunch in a hello kitty apron and she wears my last name like a badge of honor. so no, i don’t worry.”

the host claps, twitter explodes, reader gets like 20k new followers overnight on tiktok, some say the episode is banned in five countries. others say rafe started a cult without realizing.

[jungkoode]

OUT OF LINE | 01

˗ˏˋ gominola ˎˊ˗

"Some people are immune to charm, allergic to arrogance, and completely uninterested in your particular brand of expensive chaos. Today you meet one of them."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 8.4k

content: enemies to lovers first meeting, physio's daughter x player dynamics, aggressive indifference, professional boundaries being tested, Madrid vs Barcelona cultural clash, family grief processing, parental guilt, ferret therapy, hookup culture critique, explicit sexual content, Kim Taehyung being insufferable on purpose

—author's note

Okay. Okay. I really went and did it with this one. And I regret absolutely nothing. First of all. Just had to make that clear up front. No apologies will be issued at this time, thank you for your concern.

Second of all—and this one's been cracking me up for days—I've been texting Vani like "I'm so sorry. I fear this is my Wattpad fic." Because... it is. Like, it really is. I've gone full ✨she's unimpressed, he's cocky✨ and I need you all to understand: I am aware. I see the trope. I live the trope. And I embrace the trope. This is not innovative. It's not genre-defying. It is what it is, and I'm standing ten toes down in it. Sometimes life sucks and you deserve to indulge in a fuckboy right-back getting stonewalled by a girl in a hoodie and a death glare. Guilty pleasures are called pleasures for a reason. Let me live.

That said... this is still a Kiki fic. So yeah, it's Wattpad-coded, but it's also packed with trauma, psychological complexity, and enough repressed emotion to make a therapist cry. Because I can't write fluff. I can't write people who fall in love cleanly. I can only write emotional warfare and painfully specific coping mechanisms. So if you're looking at Taehyung like "he's insufferable," just know that's the point. He is! He's also deeply lonely, emotionally stunted, and addicted to being wanted because he thinks admiration equals worth. (Spoiler: it doesn't.)

And her—god. She is not here for the male ego parade. She's grown up in Spain, she's grieving, she's displaced, and she has zero energy for Real Madrid's locker room of dopamine-deficient mascots. That hoodie isn't just a hoodie. It's distance. It's defiance. It's a tether to a home she was pulled from too fast, and a warning sign to anyone trying to get too close. Don't get me started on the symbolism because this will get way too long. Vani knows firsthand.

Now. Leo? Oh, Leo. He's the Real Madrid maknae and a walking cautionary tale. He wants to belong so badly he'll mirror whatever's around him. Which, unfortunately for him, is Taehyung and Marco. He's twenty. Impressionable. Already being warped by the dynamic of party-first, care-later. I love him. I want to save him. I might not.

Also, let's talk about Jesús—because I had to sneak that conversation in. Chapter 1 is heavy on Taehyung's POV, which means you get all his projection and testosterone-induced decisions and derailed internal monologue. But the dad scene was non-negotiable. I needed you to see her from the inside. The quiet way she's holding herself together with routines, ferrets, gominolas, and the desperate need for control. She's not cold. She's scorched. And her dad? He's trying. He's trying so hard. And maybe that's the saddest part of all.

Also—linguistics side note because I'm annoying—I very intentionally wrote her dialogue with Jesús in Spanish (with translations) because I will die on the hill of language realism. It would make zero sense for them to speak English to each other at home. She's grown up in Spain. Her dad's Spanish. That's their intimacy language. Meanwhile, the Real Madrid players default to English—the club is international, and not everyone speaks Spanish fluently (Taehyung included). So yes. In this fic, she's the one speaking a different language. And yes. He's going to learn. Because nobody does language kink intimacy like I do. 🥴

So yes. He's awful. Intentionally. Aggressively. Satirically. This is not a "he's so cool because he's toxic" situation. This is "I am raw-dogging you his character flaws on a silver platter so you can watch him fumble in real time." Let's all unpack that together.

Anyway. Welcome to Out of Line. Vani's Between the Lines sister story. My trauma-coded cliché monster. My ode to messy boys and girls who pretend they're fine until they implode. Please buckle your seatbelts. Hold each other's hands. Consider investing in therapy. I know I am.

— quick links

read author intro + tws (must)

lineverse guide

between the lines (jk’s story by @writesvani)

read on wattpad

read on ao3

Kiki Nation’s discussion thread for this chapter

The new physio better be hot.

That's the first coherent thought Taehyung has after forty-five minutes of mindless drills. Not that he's complaining about the mindless part—muscle memory's doing all the work while his brain checks out, cataloguing last night's blonde (Marta? Maria? Started with an M, ended with her screaming his name, details irrelevant).

The September sun's brutal on the pitch, turning the grass into a furnace, and Coach keeps barking orders like they haven't run this same formation a thousand times.

"Fucking hell," Marco grunts beside him, bent over with his hands on his knees. "If I have to do one more suicide drill, I'm actually going to commit one."

Leo laughs—that nervous kind of laugh he does when he's not sure if Marco's joking. Kid's still too green, still thinks there's some magic formula to fitting in. Taehyung remembers being twenty and giving a shit about what the older players thought. Now he's twenty-four and the only opinion that matters is his own.

And right now, his opinion is that training's boring as fuck.

"New physio starts today," Leo offers, like that's supposed to make the sweat stop pooling in uncomfortable places. "Jesús something. From Barcelona."

So… A man. Boring.

Marco spits on the grass. "Great. We now got a Barça prick to tell us we're stretching wrong."

Taehyung's about to add his own commentary—something about how Barcelona's medical staff couldn't fix their players' egos, let alone their hamstrings—when movement in the bleachers catches his eye.

Hello.

There's someone up there. Female someone, from the shape. Not unusual—girlfriends, agents, journalists, they all hover around the complex like expensive flies.

But this one's different.

This one's got nose in a book (okay, miss 'not like other girls'), completely ignoring the show on the pitch.

And that's…

Interesting.

He shifts his stance, trying to get a better angle without being obvious about it. Hair pulled back, oversized university hoodie despite the heat, legs crossed at the ankle. Can't see your face from here, but the way you're sitting—spine straight, pen moving across the page in quick, efficient strokes—suggests you're not here for the view.

Which is fucking absurd, honestly.

He's shirtless. Marco's shirtless. Hell, half the team's shirtless, and you're more invested in whatever's on that page than twenty-two professional athletes in peak physical condition.

"Oi." Marco's elbow catches him in the ribs. "You checking out the competition or planning to actually train today?"

"Who's that?"

He doesn't point—he's not twelve—but tilts his head toward the bleachers.

Marco squints, then grins. That specific grin that means he's already mapping out his approach strategy.

"Oh shit. That's the new physio's daughter."

So a man—with a daughter.

The information slots into place like a puzzle piece.

Barcelona physio. Daughter in tow. Probably forced to tag along while daddy gets settled into his new job, bored out of your mind, killing time with—he squints—whatever the fuck that textbook is.

"Dibs," Marco says automatically.

"You can't call dibs on people," Leo protests, still adorably convinced that ethics apply to their world.

"Watch me." Marco's already running a hand through his hair, activating what he calls 'the panty-dropper smile,' which Taehyung's seen work on models, actresses, that prosecutor who definitely should've known better. "I give her two days before she's begging for a private tour of the facilities."

Taehyung watches you turn a page, pen tapping against your bottom lip. The gesture is unconscious, academic, completely unaware of the attention you're drawing.

Something about it makes his mouth quirk up.

"Hundred euros says she doesn't even give you her number."

"You're on." Marco's already moving, that swagger in his step that says he's never met a woman who didn't eventually cave. "Watch and learn, boys."

But Taehyung's not interested in watching Marco crash and burn. He's already moving, cutting his friend off with the kind of casual interception that works just as well off the pitch as on it.

Marco's protests fade into background noise—something about fair play and bro code and other shit that stops mattering the second Taehyung gets a clear view of your face.

You're pretty.

Not Instagram pretty, not 'done up for the cameras' pretty. Just… pretty. The kind of face that probably looks the same at 6 AM as it does at midnight. No makeup that he can see, just skin and eyes and a mouth that's currently frowning at whatever you're reading.

He leans against the barrier separating the pitch from the stands, letting his weight settle into the metal. Close enough now to smell something sweet—not perfume, something else. Candy, maybe. The artificial cherry kind kids eat.

You don't look up.

He's standing three feet away, shirtless and sweaty and radiating that post-workout testosterone that usually has women tripping over themselves, and you don't even glance his way.

What the fuck.

He raises an eyebrow, even though you're not looking to see it.

Clears his throat.

Nada.

You make another note in the margin of your textbook, and he catches a glimpse of the page—medical terminology, diagrams that look like someone exploded a knee joint and tried to map the debris.

A physio's daughter studying what looks like physio stuff. Following in daddy's footsteps. Cute.

He waves a hand in front of your face. Not aggressive, just enough movement to break your concentration.

And finally—finally—you look up.

Your eyes are darker than expected, the kind that turns black when annoyed.

Which, judging by the expression on your face, is exactly what you are right now.

He smirks. Can't help it. It's automatic at this point, the expression that says 'yeah, I'm that guy, you're welcome.'

"Hey."

You blink at him. Once. Twice. Then go back to your book.

What.

"Studying?" He tries again, because maybe you're one of those delayed reaction types.

Maybe the neural pathways from eyes to brain to mouth need a second to fire up.

Nothing.

He glances at the textbook again.

The words swim in front of him—Spanish, mostly, medical Spanish at that. His comprehension tops out at ordering beer and asking where the bathroom is. Carmen tried to teach him once, spent hours conjugating verbs while naked in his bed, but all he remembers is that 'cama' means bed and 'más' means more.

"I guess you already know my name."

He leans harder against the barrier, angling his body to block the worst of the sun from your page.

See? Thoughtful.

"But it's Kim. Taehyung. First name Taehyung."

You raise your eyes from the textbook. Slow, like it's costing you effort. The look you give him is so flat it could resurface a parking lot.

"And I should care because…?"

It's not quite a question because you clearly don't expect an answer. Or want one. You're already turning back to your book, dismissing him as efficiently as a referee's whistle.

He blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it.

"Tae!" Marco's voice cuts across the pitch. "Coach wants us back!"

But Taehyung's still processing. Still standing there like an idiot while you scribble another note in that incomprehensible textbook.

You've got a red pen now, underlining something like nothing else matters in the world—not even him.

That makes him frown.

The barrier digs into his forearms but he doesn't move. Can't quite figure out why you're not looking.

You're just… sitting there. Ignoring him. Like he's furniture.

Sweaty, expensive furniture that you have zero interest in purchasing.

"Taehyung!" Marco again, louder this time. "Unless you want extra laps—"

Right. Training. The thing he's paid millions to do.

He pushes off the barrier, but not before catching one last detail—a small bag of those candies peeking out from your hoodie pocket.

"Any day now, princess," Marco calls, and that gets a laugh from the others.

Taehyung flips him off, and he knows, technically, the smart thing would be to walk away. Get back to training. Forget about the physio's daughter who clearly has better things to do than stroke his ego.

But Taehyung's never been particularly smart about these things.

"You know," he says, loud enough to make sure you hear him, "most people at least pretend to be interested when someone introduces themselves."

Your pen stops moving. Just for a second. Then continues its path across the page.

"Most people," you say without looking up, "introduce themselves when there's a reason to."

It's so casual, so dismissive, that it takes him a second to realize you've just called him irrelevant to your existence.

Him. Taehyung Kim. Real Madrid's starting right-back. A hundred and thirty-six million Instagram followers. Face of three luxury brands and that unfortunate cologne campaign his agent swears was artistic.

Irrelevant.

"Taehyung, I swear to god—"

"I'm coming!" He shouts back at Marco, then his eyes move back to you.

He glances at your hoodie pocket again, at the candy, sweet-shaped things you're chewing.

"What's that?"

You look up slowly, like you're completely done with this, and he kind of likes the little groove appearing between your eyebrows.

"What's what?"

He nods at the small red jellybean thingy between your fingers.

"That."

"It's called gominola," you say, flat as concrete, like you're explaining colors to a toddler.

Gominola. Spanish word.

He's heard it before, maybe, but Spanish flows past him like water most days.

"Right." He nods like he totally knew that. "Gominola."

You're already deep in your textbook again, like the last two minutes didn't happen. Like he didn't happen.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, tasting salt and something sour. When he finally turns back to the pitch, Marco's wearing that shit-eating grin that means he watched the whole thing.

"So," his friend says as Taehyung jogs back to formation. "How's that hundred euros looking?"

"Shut up."

"No, really. I want to know what kind of flowers to send to your funeral. Roses? Lilies? Something that says 'here lies Taehyung Kim, murdered by a girl who didn't give a fuck'?"

Leo's trying not to laugh and failing. Even Diego looks amused from his spot near the goal, and Diego hasn't been amused by anything since 2018.

"She's playing hard to get," Taehyung says, grabbing his water bottle and taking a long drink.

The sun's turned brutal while he was standing there like an idiot, and his shoulders are probably fried.

"Right." Marco stretches the word into three syllables. "And I'm playing hard to get with Scarlett Johansson."

"Different game entirely."

Taehyung caps the bottle, eyes drifting back to the bleachers. You're highlighting something now, yellow marker moving in precise lines.

"Trust me."

"Oh, this is gonna be good." Marco's practically bouncing on his toes. "Taehyung Kim, rejected by the physio's daughter who'd rather read about—what was that, tendons?—than talk to him."

"I wasn't rejected."

"You literally just stood there while she acted like you didn't exist."

"She was just busy."

"That's what we're calling it?"

Taehyung grins, and it's the one that usually makes Marco nervous. The one that appears right before he does something spectacularly stupid and somehow makes it work.

"I'm calling it round one."

Because here's the thing—he's been bored. Genuinely, mind-numbingly bored.

Same training, same parties, same faces in his bed.

Madrid's full of women who know his name before he opens his mouth, who laugh at jokes that aren't funny and pretend to be fascinated by stories they've already heard from three other players.

But you? You looked at him like he was blocking your light.

So he spends the rest of training with one eye on the bleachers, and you don't look up once, not even when Leo completely botches a penalty kick and Marco screams creative Italian profanity at the sky.

You just keep reading, occasionally popping one of those gominolas into your mouth, completely absorbed in a world that has nothing to do with the spectacle fifty feet away.

By the time Coach calls it, the sun's turned the pitch into a sauna and everyone's dragging.

Taehyung grabs his shirt from the bench, pulling it on while trying to look like he's not watching you pack up your things.

You move like you have all the time in the world—book into bag, pens into case, everything in its place.

Then you're walking down the bleachers, taking the steps two at a time like you've got somewhere better to be.

"So what's the plan?" Marco appears at his shoulder, following his line of sight. "Flowers? Jewelry? Groveling?"

"Don't need a plan."

"Everyone needs a plan."

"No," Taehyung corrects, watching you disappear through the exit without a backward glance. "Everyone else needs a plan."

Marco laughs, but it's the kind that suggests he thinks Taehyung's lost it.

"She didn't even tell you her name."

True.

But he noticed the way your fingers tapped against the book when you were thinking.

Noticed the three different colors of highlighter in your bag, organized by size.

Noticed how you bite your lip on the left side when concentrating, leaving the faintest indent in the pink.

Details.

The kind that matter when you're mapping out a challenge.

"She will," he says, and means it.

Because Taehyung Kim doesn't do rejection.

He does persistence, charm and strategy wrapped in a smile.

And you, with your medical textbooks and gummies and complete inability to give a fuck about his existence?

Oh. You're gonna be fun.

Nube’s stealing your socks again.

You watch her drag the pink cotton across the hardwood floor of your bedroom, tiny paws working overtime to claim her prize.

She’s gotten bold since the move—probably stress-induced kleptomania.

Can’t blame her. You’ve been stress-eating pikotas like they’re a food group.

"That’s my good pair," you tell her, but she’s already disappeared under the bed with her treasure.

Hari’s less ambitious in his criminal endeavors. He’s sprawled across your stomach like a furry hot water bottle, occasionally chittering when you stop petting him. The sound vibrates against your ribs—small, warm, alive.

Better than the silence that fills this house most days.

Your phone’s face-down on the nightstand because checking it leads to Barcelona rabbit holes, and Barcelona rabbit holes lead to wondering what Dani had for breakfast or whether Jungkook’s figured out how to use the coffee machine without flooding the kitchen.

Pointless thoughts. Dangerous thoughts.

The knock on your door is soft, tentative. Dad’s signature.

Mom used to say he knocked like he was apologizing for existing.

"¿Sí?" (Yeah?)

"¿Puedo pasar?" (Can I come in?)

Hari perks up at your father’s voice, whiskers twitching. Traitor. You scoop him up anyway, settling him against your shoulder before nodding toward the door.

"Adelante." (Come in)

Dad enters like he’s entering a crime scene—careful, observant, ready to back out if needed. His hair’s still damp from the shower, smelling like that medicinal soap he uses. The scent of competence and sterile environments, you figure.

"¿Cómo van los estudios?" (How’s the studying going?) He settles into the chair by your desk, the one that’s supposed to be for studying but mostly holds laundry you’re too lazy to put away.

"Bien." (Good) You scratch behind Hari’s ears, feel him melt against your palm. "La anatomía es anatomía. Da igual si estás en Barcelona o en Marte." (Anatomy’s anatomy. Doesn’t matter if you’re in Barcelona or Mars)

He smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Never does anymore.

Not since the move.

Not since Mom.

"Bien. Eso está bien." (Good. That’s good.) His fingers drum against his thigh—nervous habit he developed after Mom died. "Oye, sé que este cambio ha sido… difícil. Para los dos." (Listen, I know this change has been… difficult. For both of us.)

Here we go. The conversation you’ve been avoiding for three weeks. The one where he apologizes for taking the job, for moving you from everything familiar, for choosing survival over sentiment.

"Papá—" (Dad—)

"No, escúchame." (No, listen to me.) He leans forward, elbows on knees. The posture of a man confessing sins. "Sé que no querías irte de Barcelona. Sé que esto te parece una traición." (I know you didn’t want to leave Barcelona. I know this feels like betrayal.)

Betrayal’s too strong a word. Abandonment fits better.

But you don’t say that because he already carries enough guilt for both of you.

"No pasa nada." (It’s fine.)

"Sí que pasa." (It’s not fine.) His voice gains edge, that firmness he uses with players who claim they’re not injured when they’re obviously limping. "Pero era necesario. Y a lo mejor… a lo mejor es bueno. Cambio de aires. Nuevas perspectivas." (But it was necessary. And maybe… maybe it’s good. Change of air. New perspectives.)

New perspectives. Right. Because what you really needed was exposure to Madrid’s particular brand of arrogance and entitlement.

Hari shifts against your shoulder, tiny claws pricking through your shirt.

Even he’s unconvinced.

"¿Y los jugadores?" (And the players?) The question comes out careful, as if he were asking about your opinion on the weather rather than your thoughts on his new colleagues. "¿Qué te parecen?" (What do you think of them?)

You consider lying. Consider diplomacy. Consider all the ways you could soften the truth to make it easier for him to swallow.

Instead, you shrug.

"Pues qué voy a pensar, papá. Son gilipollas." (What would I think, dad? They’re jerks.)

He barks out a laugh—sharp, surprised. The first genuine one you’ve heard from him since you got here.

"Joder, hija." But he’s grinning now, shaking his head. "No te cortes." (Shit, sweetie. Tell me how you really feel.)

"Me has preguntado." (You asked.)

"Es verdad." (That’s true.) He sobers slightly. "¿Todos?" (All of them?)

You think about it. Really think about it.

Xavi seems decent enough—quiet, professional, treats staff like humans rather than furniture. Diego’s got that aggressive competence thing going on, but he’s respectful. Even Marco, for all his obvious fuckboy tendencies, at least has the decency to say please when he wants extra ice.

Then there’s… him.

Taehyung.

With his lazy smirks and designer everything and complete inability to understand that the world doesn’t revolve around his stupid abs.

"La mayoría." (Most of them.) The admission feels like charity. "Algunos son simplemente… más gilipollas que otros." (Some are just… bigger jerks than others.)

Your phone buzzes against the nightstand. Face still down, but the vibration makes both you and Hari jump slightly.

Ignore it.

It’s probably Instagram telling you Dani posted another story, or your university group chat discussing assignment due dates, or some other notification designed to pull you back into a world you’re trying to navigate without drowning.

It buzzes again.

"¿No vas a mirar?" (Won’t check?)

"No es nada." (It’s nothing.)

But your dad’s looking at you with that expression. The one that says he knows you better than you know yourself, and lying to him is like lying to a mirror.

You flip the phone over.

@𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐨: BOMBAZO: 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚎 𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚂𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚝, ¿𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚓𝚊? 𝙻𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚊́𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 (BOMBSHELL: BarcaBarbie and Blake Scott, new couple? The pictures that confirm the romance)

The thumbnail is grainy, paparazzi-quality garbage, but unmistakably them. Blake’s hand around Barbie’s waist, pulling her close. Her face is hidden by her hair, falling between them and the camera.

They’re close. Too close.

The kind of close that could be a kiss or could be an almost-kiss or could be nothing at all, but the angle makes it impossible to tell and that’s exactly what sells magazines.

You stare at the screen longer than necessary. Feel something twist in your chest that you refuse to name.

It’s not jealousy. It’s not longing. It’s just… surprise.

Because Blake is a Barcelona player, and Barbie is Dani’s sister—and the implications are already enough without you having to explicitly connect the dots.

Your thumb hovers over Dani’s contact. The urge to text him hits like muscle memory—does he know about this? how’s he taking it? is he okay?—but then your heart does that thing. That stupid, treacherous thing where it speeds up just thinking about typing his name.

Because he has a girlfriend now.

Carla. Sweet, pretty Carla who met him with a press badge slung around her neck and a voice recorder in hand. Who writes match reports and profile pieces that are perfect and looks genuinely happy in her soft-filtered couple photos.

Of course he would fall for her. 

Of course she’s the kind of girl who gets the story and the guy.  

Carla who never had to compete with a dead woman’s memory or a teenage crush that should have died years ago.

You swallow the impulse. Bury it under three layers of rationalization and practical thinking.

Instead, you open Jungkook’s chat.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍? 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙱𝚊𝚛?

You wait 2 seconds max before the response makes its way through the chat. Well, of fucking course. It’s no secret Jungkook's always been surgically attached to his phone.

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚊𝚑𝚑𝚑 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚢𝚘�� 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚜

Relief floods your system before you can stop it.

Which is stupid.

Why should you care if Barbie and Blake are together? It’s not like their relationship status affects your life in Madrid.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒? 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕

The response comes quick. Too quick. Like he’s trying to move past the topic before you can dig deeper.

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍?

And there it is. The subject change.

Jungkook’s always been good at reading minefields and stepping around them.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚘𝚘𝚏

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, because…

You could tell him about Taehyung. About the smirk and the shameless showing off and the way he looked genuinely confused when you didn’t fall over yourself to talk to him.

But that would require admitting you noticed him at all.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛? 🤔

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚜

Despite everything, you smile.

Because he’s not wrong.

Barcelona players at least have the decency to look good while being insufferable.

"¿Todo bien?" (All good?) Your dad’s voice pulls you back to the room, to Hari’s warm weight against your shoulder, to the conversation you abandoned to spiral over Barcelona gossip.

"Sí. Solo… amigos siendo amigos." (Yeah. Just… Friends being friends.)

"¿Amigos de Barcelona?" (Barcelona friends?)

The question lands heavier than it should.

Because yes, Barcelona friends. The ones you left behind.

The ones who are moving on and coupling up and living their lives while you’re stuck in Madrid petting ferrets and avoiding eye contact with shirtless footballers.

"Sí." (Yes.)

He nods, understanding more than you wish he did.

"Está bien echarlos de menos. Es normal." (It’s okay to miss them. It’s normal.)

"Lo sé." (I know.)

"Y está bien… hacer nuevos amigos aquí. Aunque sean gilipollas." (And it’s okay to… to make new friends here. Even if they’re jerks.)

You look at him then, see the worry lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders carry tension like a physical weight.

He’s trying so hard to make this work. To make this place feel like home instead of just a house where you happen to sleep.

It’s not fair to him, to make it feel like it’s all his fault.

"Tal vez algunos sean menos gilipollas que otros," you concede. (Maybe some are lesser jerks than others.)

He smiles. "Sí, tal vez." (Yeah, maybe.)

Your phone buzzes again.

More Barcelona updates, probably.

More reminders of the life you’re not living anymore.

You let it buzz.

Because right now, in this sterile Madrid bedroom with your stress-thieving ferrets and your guilt-ridden father, you’re exactly where you need to be. Even if it feels like exile.

Even if every instinct tells you that Madrid players are trouble, and certain shirtless right-backs are the worst kind of trouble.

Even if your heart still does stupid things when you think about blue and red jerseys and boys who used to treat you like family.

"¿Cena?" (Dinner?) Your dad stands, stretching joints that probably ache from years of fixing other people’s bodies. "Estaba pensando en pedir de ese sitio argentino de la calle." (I was thinking of ordering from that argentinian place down the street.)

"¿El de las empanadas?" (The one with the empanadas?)

"Ese mismo." (The very one.)

Hari chirps at the mention of food, because ferrets are basically tiny, furry garbage disposals with boundary issues.

"Vale. Pero mañana cocinas tú. Esto de la comida a domicilio se está poniendo caro." (Okay. But you’re cooking tomorrow. This takeout thing is getting expensive.)

"Trato hecho." (Deal.) He pauses at the door, hand on the frame. "Y cielo…" (And sweetheart…)

"¿Qué?" (What?)

"Dale una oportunidad a Madrid. Solo… una pequeñita." (Give Madrid a chance. Just… a small one.)

You scratch Hari’s head, feel him purr against your palm. Outside your window, the sun’s setting over a city that still feels foreign, painting everything in shades of gold and possibility.

"Ya veremos." (We’ll see.)

It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no either.

And for now, that’s enough.

Twenty-two minutes and she hasn't cum yet.

Not that he's counting. Except he is, because Marco's got a thousand euros riding on twenty minutes max, and Taehyung doesn't lose bets. Especially not when the evidence is currently wrapped around his cock, lips stretched wide, dark eyes looking up at him through thick lashes like she knows exactly what she's doing to him.

Fuck.

Her tongue does this thing—this swirl around the head that makes his thighs tense—and he threads his fingers through her curls. Not pulling. Guiding. There's a difference, and he's not an amateur. The curls are soft, springy, wrapping around his fingers like they belong there.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. Screen lights up with Marco's name and some emoji combination that probably means he's balls deep in his own conquest downstairs.

Good for him. Great. Love that for him. Now fuck off.

He swipes at the notification with his free hand, types back without looking. Whatever he sends, it's probably not words. Doesn't matter. Marco speaks fluent 'leave me the fuck alone' by now.

She hums around him and his hips jerk. Shit. He tosses the phone somewhere—bed, floor, shadow realm, who gives a fuck—and gets his other hand in her hair. Both hands now, cradling her head like she's precious cargo. Which she is. Absolutely fucking is when she's doing that thing with her tongue again.

"That's it," he breathes, helping her with shallow thrusts.

Nothing too deep. He's not trying to choke her. Not unless she asks, and even then—

The phone buzzes again.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He ignores it. Focuses on the wet heat, the way her nails dig into his thighs when he hits the back of her throat.

She's good at this. Really good.

Like, 'might actually get her number after this' good. The kind of good that makes him forget about—

Another buzz. Another. The screen keeps lighting up like a fucking disco.

She pulls off with an obscene pop, lips swollen and shiny.

"Popular tonight?"

"Always am."

He guides her back down before she can respond, and she goes willingly. Eager, even. Takes him deeper this time, nose almost touching his pelvis, and he has to close his eyes.

Close, close, close—

The orgasm hits like a penalty kick to the gut. He spills down her throat with a grunt that's probably too loud for a hotel room with thin walls, but that's what they get for booking cheap venues for these sponsor parties.

He wipes it away with his thumb (gentle, see? he's a gentleman), and she catches his wrist, sucks the digit clean.

Yeah. Definitely round two with this one.

The phone starts actually ringing this time. Marco's ringtone—some reggaeton bullshit that makes him want to throw the device out the window.

"You need to get that?"

She's already climbing onto his lap, straddling his thighs like she owns them. Her dress rode up during the festivities, bunched around her waist.

No underwear. Smart girl.

"Nah."

He grabs her hips, pulls her closer. She's warm and soft and smells like coconut oil and that floral perfume every girl in Spain seems to own.

"Got better things to do."

She grins, reaching between them to wrap her fingers around his cock. Still sensitive, but already showing interest again. Twenty-four years old and blessed with the recovery time of a teenager.

Thank fuck for good genetics.

"Another round already?" She strokes him slowly, base to tip, twisting her wrist on the upstroke.

He smirks up at her, lazy and satisfied. She's gorgeous like this—dark skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat, curls wild from his hands, lips still swollen.

The belly dancing show earlier didn't do her justice. All that hip movement on stage was just advertising for this, for the way she rolls her body like water.

"Hmm." He nips at her shoulder, tastes salt and coconut. "Think you can handle it?"

She laughs, breathy and confident, already reaching for the condoms on the nightstand. His mouth finds her shoulder, teeth grazing the skin as she rolls the latex down his half-hard cock. Already getting there. Give him two minutes and—

The phone buzzes again. Then again. Then—

"Jesus fucking Christ." He snatches it up, ready to block Marco's number permanently.

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝙲𝙾𝙳𝙴 𝚁𝙴𝙳

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝙻𝙾𝚂 𝙸𝚂 𝙿𝙸𝚂𝚂𝙴𝙳

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

She's positioning herself over him, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other guiding him to her entrance. Wet. Ready.

Twenty-three minutes and counting, but who's keeping track?

"Ignore it," he mutters, tossing the phone aside again.

His hands find her waist, her lower back, steadying her as she sinks down.

Tight. Fuck, she's tight. Or maybe he's just bigger than her usual.

Either way, the way she gasps and digs her nails into his shoulders suggests this is working for both of them.

"Fuck," she breathes, bottoming out. "You're—"

"I know." He rolls his hips up, cutting off whatever compliment she was about to give.

Doesn't need to hear it. Knows exactly what he's working with.

She starts moving, slow at first, finding her rhythm. He lets her set the pace initially, hands roaming her back, her ass, her thighs. Cataloging reactions.

She likes it when he grips her hips. Loves it when he scrapes his teeth across her nipple.

Mental notes. He's nothing if not a student of the game.

The phone won't stop buzzing.

Fuck Marco, fuck Carlos and fuck the universe, honestly.

Change of plans.

"Gotta make it quick."

He grabs her hips, flips them in one smooth motion. Her back hits the mattress with a soft gasp, legs automatically wrapping around his waist. Better angle anyway.

He braces one forearm next to her head, uses the other hand to push her thigh back toward the mattress. Opens her up just right. Deep. The way he likes it.

"Oh fuck—"

She arches under him as he starts moving. None of that gentle buildup shit. They're twenty-four minutes in and he's got places to be, apparently.

He finds his rhythm quick. Hard, deep thrusts that have her gasping with each one. The headboard's probably banging against the wall but that's what happens when you book the cheap rooms for overflow guests.

Should've sprung for the suite.

One of his hands slides between them, finds her clit. Circles it with his thumb in time with his thrusts.

"Come on," he mutters against her neck. "Come on, come on, come on—"

She's close. Can feel it in the way her pussy flutters around him, the way her breathing goes ragged. Her nails rake down his back, probably leaving marks his physio will question tomorrow.

Whatever. Battle scars.

"Tae—" She can't even finish his name, too busy falling apart underneath him. Her whole body goes taut, cunt clenching around him like a vice.

Twenty-five minutes.

He'll tell Marco nineteen.

He fucks her through it, chasing his own release. Three more thrusts and he's done, spilling into the condom with a groan that's mostly relief.

Mission accomplished. Everybody wins.

No time to bask in it. He pulls out, ties off the condom, and makes the perfect throw into the trash can across the room.

Three points. Still got it.

"I gotta—"

"Yeah, I figured," she says, already reaching for her dress.

No hurt feelings, no "will I see you again?" Just a woman who got what she came for and seems pretty satisfied with the transaction.

He loves Madrid.

He's dressed in record time. Shirt half buttoned but who's checking? Shoes untied. Wallet, phone, keycard. The holy trinity of hasty exits.

The elevator ride down is a lesson in personal grooming. He tries to fix his hair in the mirror, gives up. Checks his phone instead.

Fifteen texts from Marco. Three from Carlos. One from his brother asking if he's seen the news.

What news?

The elevator dings at the lobby and Xavi's right there, still in his training kit because he's Xavi and probably sleeps in it.

"Bro." His teammate's eyes go wide. "Carlos is pissed. Like, nuclear pissed."

"Yeah, I got that from the fifty fucking texts." He's already moving toward the conference room Carlos commandeered for these lectures. "What's his problem now?"

"Check your Instagram."

"What?"

"Just check it."

He pulls up the app while walking.

A ferret account pops up on his discovery page first—weird? Then he checks his last IG story—mirror selfie, hair slightly wet at the tips after showering, navy sweater, gold and white make-shift belt around the loops as a wink to his team—has blown up.

Then his notifications, DMs…

@𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞: 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝙸𝚖𝚊𝚘𝚘

Taehyung flicks his eyes upwards, seeing the story attached in the group chat he has with Marco and Leo in their private accounts.

Some girl from the party, video of him in the background. He's clearly drunk, clearly has his hands on C-something's ass, and clearly doesn't give a fuck who sees.

But that's not the worst part.

The worst part is the red lipstick mark on his neck that's visible in HD clarity. The same one he's sporting right now. The same one that makes it very fucking obvious what he's been doing while Carlos texts and calls and slowly loses his mind.

He swipes at his neck, fingers coming away red.

"Fuck's sake."

"Yeah, it's not looking too good, disappearing from your own sponsor event to—" Xavi gestures vaguely at Taehyung's everything. "—whatever this is?"

"It's called having a good time." He spots the hotel bar, makes a beeline. "Maybe you should try it sometime."

"I have a good time. With my fiancée. Singular. Who I've been with for eight years."

"Boring."

"Stable."

"Same thing."

Marco appears from nowhere, blonde still attached to his arm like a designer handbag. His best friend takes one look at him and whistles low.

"You're fucked."

"Thanks for the insight." He nods at Marco's companion. "Mind if I borrow him?"

She pouts but detaches, wobbling away on heels that should require a license to operate. Marco watches her go with the satisfied expression of a man who's had a very good night.

"Isabella know about your extracurriculars?" Taehyung asks, still trying to rub the lipstick off his neck.

"Isabella knows what Isabella needs to know." Marco produces a tissue from somewhere—the man's always prepared. "Here. You look like you got mauled by a Sephora display."

"Fuck off."

"I'm serious. Carlos is going to have an aneurysm. Something about brand image and Nike and I stopped listening after he mentioned lawyers."

Great. Fantastic. Another lecture about representing the club and thinking about his future and all that shit that goes in one ear and out the other.

He's twenty-four, not forty. If he can't fuck random chicks at hotel parties, what's the point of being famous?

"How bad?"

"Scale of one to ten?" Marco grins. "Fifteen. He used your full name. Twice."

Shit.

"Did you at least win the bet?"

Taehyung grins. "Nineteen minutes."

"Bullshit."

"You don't know how to count."

"I have a fucking engineering degree."

"From where, clown college?"

The conference room door is closed but he can hear Carlos pacing inside, the aggressive click of designer shoes on marble.

Taehyung takes a breath, straightens his collar, and tries to look less like he just railed someone into a mattress.

"Good luck," Marco says, already backing away.

"Fuck you."

"Love you too, princess."

He pushes open the door to find Carlos mid-rant on his phone. His manager—all 5'9" of stress and designer suits—spins around and actually growls.

"Finally! Do you have any idea—" Carlos stops, takes in his appearance, and closes his eyes like he's praying for patience. "Is that lipstick?"

"No?"

"Kim Taehyung, I swear to God—"

"Okay, yes, but—"

"Sit. Down."

He sits. Carlos continues pacing, phone clutched like a weapon.

"Do you know what I've been doing for the past hour? Damage control. Do you know why? Because my client—my professional footballer client who makes seven figures a month—decided to get filmed grabbing ass at a party where half of Madrid's press was in attendance."

"It's not that bad—"

"Nike called." Carlos cuts him off. "They're concerned about your 'brand alignment.' Do you know what that means?"

"That they're uptight?"

"It means," Carlos says slowly, like he's explaining to a child, "that they pay you three and a half million euros a year to be a role model, not Madrid's most notorious fuckboy."

Fuckboy seems harsh. He prefers 'socially active'.

"I'll do an apology post," he offers. "Something about focusing on football and growth or whatever."

"No, you won't. Because that admits wrongdoing. We're going with 'private moment taken out of context.' Maria is drafting it now."

Of course she is. Carlos has contingencies for his contingencies.

"Fine. Can I go?"

"We're not done." Carlos finally stops pacing, fixing him with that look that means a PowerPoint presentation is coming. "This is the third incident this month. The referee thing, the Instagram live disaster, and now this."

"The referee deserved it."

"That's not the point!"

"Then what is the point?" He's getting irritated now, the post-orgasm calm evaporating. "I'm not breaking any laws. I'm not missing training. I'm playing the best football of my career—"

"The point," Carlos interrupts, "is that you're one scandal away from losing everything. Nike, TAG Heuer, the Korean skincare deal—they all have morality clauses. And you keep pushing boundaries like you're trying to find the limit."

He doesn't respond to that. Mainly because it's true.

"I need you to be smarter," Carlos continues, voice softer now. "I know you're young. I know you're having fun. But this isn't sustainable."

"Noted."

"I'm serious, Taehyung."

"So am I." He stands, ready to end this conversation. "I'll be more careful. Scout's honor."

Carlos doesn't look convinced, but he waves him off with a sigh that's more a cry for help than anything.

"Go. And for God's sake, wash your neck. You look like a crime scene."

He escapes before Carlos can launch into lecture phase two.

The hotel bar's still going strong—Madrid doesn't sleep, just shifts into different versions of awake.

He needs something to wash down the taste of Carlos's disappointment. Not whiskey though—that’s what old men drink when their wives leave them.

Vodka and tonic. Clean. Sharp. Doesn't linger.

The bartender's already pouring before he reaches the counter. Benefits of being recognized everywhere—people anticipate your needs, or at least pretend to.

He knocks back half of it in one go, ice cracking against his teeth.

There's a brunette at the end of the bar. Legs for days, red dress that he bets would look amazingly good on the floor of his bedroom.

She's been tracking him since he walked in—he can feel it without looking, the weight of female attention.

He's already mentally prepping—three minutes of conversation, five if she plays hard to get… His place or hers? Hers, probably. Easier to leave when—

"Tae!"

For fuck's sake.

Leo stumbles out of the elevator looking like someone killed his puppy. No, worse—like someone killed his puppy and posted it on TikTok. The kid's got his phone clutched in both hands, that specific brand of panic that only comes from relationship drama.

Why. Why can't the universe let him get his dick wet in peace? Just once. Just one fucking night without—

"Bro, I need your help." Leo shoves his phone in Taehyung's face. "Sofia saw—there was this brunette—someone posted—"

Instagram story. Leo with his tongue down some brunette's throat, hand up her skirt, zero subtlety. 47 views and counting.

He takes another sip of vodka, holds up a finger to the red dress at the bar—one second—and turns to Leo with what he hopes passes for sympathy.

"Breathe."

"I can't breathe! She posted a story. There's a hand. On her thigh. In a car. A man's hand!"

Leo shoves his phone in Taehyung’s face again.

Instagram story. Some girl’s thigh in a car, masculine hand placement that’s definitely not Leo’s. Caption: upgrade season 💋

"Okay."

"It's not okay! And the girl from tonight, she wants breakfast. Breakfast, Tae. Like, together. In public. She's talking about some place that does açaí bowls."

Christ. Açaí bowls. The official food of women who think one hookup equals a relationship contract.

"And Sofia's probably with that guy right now, and if she finds out I'm getting breakfast with—"

"You're not getting breakfast with anyone." He smiles to the brunette with gritted teeth. "Rule one: never do breakfast."

"But I already said—"

"Rule two: your word means nothing after 2 AM."

"That's fucked up."

"That's reality."

The brunette’s definitely listening now.

Great. Nothing kills the mood like babysitting a teammate through his first real fuckboy crisis.

He catches her eye, mouths "work emergency" with an apologetic shrug. She smiles. Understanding. Patient.

Fuck, she’s perfect, and he’s stuck playing guidance counselor to Spain’s most panicked midfielder.

The bartender slides him a fresh drink. Stronger pour this time. Bless.

"Where is she?"

"Room 412. She wants to leave at nine for this place in Malasaña that apparently has the best—"

"Stop." He's getting a headache. Or maybe that's just the vodka hitting an empty stomach. "You're going to go up there—"

"I can't, man. I can't face her. What if she cries?"

Jesus. Was he ever this young? This fucking soft?

"She texts asking where I am every five minutes." Leo shows him the screen—twelve messages, escalating from casual to concerned to the early stages of psycho. "What do I say?"

He looks at Leo—really looks at him. Sees himself at twenty, before he learned that feelings are just chemicals and breakfast is just carbs.

Before he figured out that the only way to win is to always play defense.

"Give me your room key."

"What?"

"Your key. I'll handle it."

"You'll—how?"

"Just trust me." He stands, checks his reflection in the bar mirror. Lipstick's gone but he still looks freshly fucked. Perfect. "What's her name?"

"Natalia."

Of course it is. It's always Natalia or Valentina or some other name that sounds like a telenovela character.

"You owe me." He grabs Leo's shoulders, makes sure the kid's paying attention. "You owe me so fucking big."

"Anything, man. Anything."

"In five minutes, you go wait in the lobby. And try to look heartbroken."

They need Marco. Marco’s good at this shit—turning disasters into comedy, making women laugh when they should be throwing drinks.

So he texts him.

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚋𝚊𝚛. 𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏, 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚕𝚎𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙. 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: …𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚊𝚍?

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚍

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚓𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚜. 𝟸 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜

Marco appears exactly 4 minutes later (see, he can’t count for shit)—shirt half-buttoned, hair suggesting recent activities.

He takes one look at Leo’s face and laughs.

"Breakfast? Really?"

"Her name’s Natalia," Leo defends weakly.

"They’re all named Natalia." Marco claps him on the shoulder. "Alright, wait in the lobby. Look heartbroken."

"That’s exactly what Taehyung said."

Marco lifts his eyebrows and then smiles at him.

"Great minds think alike."

Room 412 is four floors up.

They take the stairs because Marco insists—‘builds character’—but really it’s to workshop the lie.

By the third floor, they’ve got it sorted.

"Family emergency," Marco’s saying, taking the steps two at a time. "Classic. Timeless. Nobody questions sick grandmothers."

"Too heavy." He’s already winded. When was the last time he took stairs? "She’ll want to comfort him. Send flowers or some shit."

"Work emergency?"

"At 5 AM?"

"Good point." Marco pauses at the landing, finger to his lips like he’s contemplating world peace. "Ex-girlfriend."

"That’s what I was thinking."

"Specifically, ex-girlfriend in the lobby with new boyfriend. Leo sees them, gets emotional, can’t possibly do breakfast while having a mental breakdown."

Sometimes he forgets why he keeps Marco around, but then shit like this happens, and it all makes sense.

The knock on 412 is soft, nothing about it screams ‘your hookup sent his boys to break your heart.’

She answers in a hotel robe, hair already curled for this breakfast that’s never happening. Of course she’s exactly what he pictured—pretty in that forgettable way, hopeful in that dangerous way.

"Leo?"

Her face falls when she sees them.

"Where’s Leo?"

"Downstairs." Marco’s got his concerned friend face on. Oscar-worthy. "Having a bit of a moment."

"A moment?"

"His ex." Taehyung leans against the doorframe, lets exhaustion sell the story. "She’s here. With her new guy. Showed up right as we were leaving and just… yeah."

"Oh." Her expression shifts from confusion to sympathy.

Incredible, how women always want to fix broken men.

"Oh god, is he okay?"

"He’s…" Marco glances at him, perfect comedic timing. "Processing."

"He wanted to come up himself," Taehyung adds, "but he’s not really in a state to see anyone. You know how it is. First love and all that."

She nods like this makes perfect sense. Like Leo—sweet, fumbling Leo—is the type to have dramatic ex-girlfriend encounters at 5 AM.

Though, considering the whole Sofia bullshit, that might not be too far-fetched.

"Should I go down? Talk to him?"

"No." Too quick. Marco softens it with a sympathetic head tilt. "He’s embarrassed. Grown man crying in a hotel lobby isn’t exactly his finest moment."

"Tell him…" She’s twisting the belt of her robe, searching for words. "Tell him I understand. And last night was really special."

Special. What a powerful word. One that turns hookups into expectations.

"We’ll make sure he gets the message," Marco promises, already backing away. "So sorry about this."

They maintain the bullshit until the elevator doors close.

Then Marco breaks, laughing so hard he has to brace himself against the wall.

"Did you see her face? ‘Last night was special.’" He wipes his eyes. "Fucking hell, Leo really stepped in it."

"He owes us."

"He owes us his firstborn. His kidney. His—" Marco stops. "Is that brunette from the bar still down there?"

"Probably." He checks his phone. 5:23 AM. The night’s officially crossed into morning, that grey area where bad decisions start looking like destiny. "Why?"

"Because you’ve got that look."

"What look?"

"The ‘I’m going to salvage this night if it kills me’ look."

Is he that predictable?

Don’t answer that.

The lobby’s thinned out—just the diehards and the professionals now. Leo’s slumped on a couch, still clutching his phone.

"Natalia?" Leo jumps up when he sees them.

"Sorted," Marco says. "Told her you’re emotionally compromised. She sends her understanding."

"You’re both lifesavers." Leo looks between them like they’ve just cured cancer. "I don’t know how to thank—"

"Learn from this." He claps Leo on the shoulder, harder than necessary. "Next time, no names. No promises. And definitely no fucking breakfast."

"But what if I actually like—"

"Then you’re in the wrong profession."

He can see the exact moment Leo’s moral compass realigns. The kid straightens up, nods like he’s just learned something profound.

Another one corrupted. Madrid’s finest at work.

"Thanks, guys. I mean it."

"Don’t thank us." Marco’s already eyeing the exit. "Thank Sofia for posting that thigh pic. Girl did you a favor."

Leo’s face falls. "Shit. Sofia."

"Tomorrow’s problem," Taehyung says firmly. "Tonight, you go home. Alone. Post nothing. Like nothing. Become invisible."

"But—"

"Go." He sighs. "Now."

Leo goes. Thank fuck. One crisis managed, one brunette to salvage—

She’s gone.

The barstool’s empty except for lipstick traces on her glass. When the fuck did she leave? He was watching her the whole—

No. He was playing mentor to Madrid’s most incompetent Romeo.

"Brutal." Marco murmurs at his shoulder. "She was hot too."

"There’ll be others."

"Always are." Marco stretches, joints popping. "I’m out. Got a hot thing waiting who thinks I’m getting ice."

"It’s been thirty minutes."

"I’m a very thorough ice-getter." He winks and disappears, leaving Taehyung alone with the growing certainty that tonight’s cursed.

But he’s Kim fucking Taehyung. He doesn’t accept defeat.

He spots her immediately—the blonde from earlier? No. Different blonde. Taller. Legs for days in a silver dress that catches light like a disco ball.

She’s typing on her phone, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

He doesn’t think. Just moves.

"Lost?"

She looks up. Blue eyes, the kind that photograph well. Her smile’s immediate, recognition flooding her features.

"Just waiting for my Uber." American accent. Of course.

They always love the accent combo—Korean face, Spanish lifestyle, English to make promises he won’t keep.

"Cancel it."

"Bold assumption."

"Safe bet." He leans against the pillar beside her, close enough to smell her perfume. That floral thing again. "Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be?"

She studies him for a long moment. He knows what she sees—designer clothes, professional athlete build, trouble written in every line. Her thumb hovers over her phone screen.

"I don’t even know your name."

Lie. She knows exactly who he is.

But he plays along because that’s part of it. The dance. The pretense that this is spontaneous rather than inevitable.

"Taehyung."

"Sarah." She cancels the Uber. "So what now?"

"Now?" He grins, the one that usually seals deals. "Now we get better drinks than whatever shit they were serving upstairs."

By 7 AM, he’s learned three things: Sarah’s flexible, she’s got a tongue piercing, and she looks fantastic in his sheets.

He’s also confirmed what he already knew—he’s still the best at this. Even when the universe tries to keep him in line, he finds a way.

She’s tracing patterns on his chest, already talking about breakfast, when he deploys the usual.

"Early training. Coach will kill me if I’m late."

"On a Sunday?"

"Every day during season." He kisses her forehead. Gentle. Final. "I’ll call you."

He won’t. They both know it.

But she gets dressed anyway, calls her own Uber, leaves with the kind of dignity that makes him almost respect her.

The sun’s coming up, painting his bedroom gold.

Two hours until he has to be human again. Two hours to sleep off whatever tonight was.

He’s already drifting when his phone buzzes.

𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨🍗: 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛

𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨🍗: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚜?

He doesn’t respond. Leo will figure it out. Or he won’t.

Either way, that’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight—this morning—whatever the fuck this is—he’s done.

Won a black girl, played mentor, lost a brunette, found a blonde, maintained his record.

The universe tried to knock him off his game and failed.

Because he’s Kim Taehyung.

And he’s simply the best at everything.

goal: 300 notes

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[delulu-is-da-solulu]

𝓓𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓽.:｡+•

⌦ .｡.:*♡Valentine's Day special˚ ◌༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ꕥ

(tmnt fanfic spin-off fic)

2k12! Donnie x reader

Hurt/fluff

A/N: Before I start this I wanna explain what this fic is. I'm really excited for Valentine's Day, it's my favorite holiday, so I wanted to post a fic in the context of my actual series that doesn't actually follow the story. so if you're okay with that, then let's start. <3

word count- 1600

While in your room scrolling through Tumblr and listening to music, you hear a tap on your window. Scince theres only four people you know that enter homes vian window, you get up to open it. “Hey Don. what are you doing her-” When you looked up from your phone you saw Doonies face, puffy, with strained red eyes.

He comes in, and instantly tumbles onto your bed. You don't need him to tell you what happened, today is Valentine's Day, Donnie has been working on something for weeks, and well… he’s Donnie. “D- did she not like it?”

“No, she did like it. She just didn't like me,” he curls up in a ball, and ruins your freshly made bed. “I- I don't know what I did wrong?”

“Donnie, you didn't do anything wrong she just didn’t like you.” You lay down on your bed next to him, while patting his shell in an attempt to comfort him. 

“Well, why not!” He jerks up, you jump back startled. Donnie’s never been aggressive towards you, he looks more mad than he does sad, and that bothers you beyond extent.

“Hey don't scream at me 'cause you got rejected! She doesn’t like you, get over it!” you push him off your bed, and look down at him irritated. “Donnie, I understand you liked April, but she’s like the only girl you know! your ‘feelings’ for her are just the way you react to seeing a woman.”

“Then what are you, a hermaphrodite?”

You burst out in laughter, “What!?”

“You heard me! If I’m attracted to every woman I see you mustn’t be one, cuz I’m not drooling over you!” He pokes your shoulders over and over again, till you're stating his hands away like flies.

“Well, screw you asshole!” the two of you started laughing together, “w- well my dicks probably way bigger than yours!”

“Wow, you've only been a man for a couple of seconds and you’re already trying to start a dick-measuring contest. I can feel the testosterone radiating off you.”

“Yup!”

 Donnie looks up at you with a somewhat remorseful face. “Hey, uhh… (Y/N), I’m sorry about lashing out at you. I don’t know why I did that.” he lifts himself off the floor of your room and rolls onto your bed. He rests his head down on your lap and cuddles up to your thighs. “Will I ever find love?”

You let out a light chuckle, “Oh woe is you. Donnie, it feels like people get mutated every day, one day someone might get mutanted and you might like them. And the Krang even being a thing proves that aliens exist! Who says you can't get an extraterrestrial baddie?”

“You flatter me, (y/n) if I can’t get a girl as beautiful, smart, and caring as April, what makes you think any other girl will want me?”

“Looking at how pathetic you are now, I have absolutely noooo clue. But you’ll make it work, you always make it work.” you pat the back of his head, much to Donnie's irritation.

“You know how much I hate that.” he pinches you.

“And you know how much I hate you.” you slap the back of his neck, and he jerks back holding neck as it stings, while you chuckle to yourself.

An hour or two later of just rotting in your bed, Donnie perks up with his "I’ve got an idea!" eyes. “Is your mom home, or siblings!?”

“No. why do you ask?" All of a sudden he picks you up by your thighs and he starts to go downstairs with your legs flailing. “Donnie what are you doing, put me down?”

you scream before you’re thrown on the couch, with Donnie sitting next to you. You were gasping for air, “D- dude, what’s your… FUCKING… PROBLEM!?”

“It’s Valentine's Day,” he said as if he didn’t just forcibly remove you from your warm comfortable bed.

“So?” you throw a pillow at him, which he catches before it can touch his face.

“What else do two single, hopeless romantics, do on Valentine's Day when neither of them have a valentine?” 

“Cry?”

“Already did that.”

“Watch romance movies?”

“Bingo,” he says with a cheeky smile, "so I’m thinking, of Mamamia, Enchanted, or my personal favorite. BEAUTY AND THE BEAST!”

“Every time we watch a movie together, you say Beauty and the Beast.” you chuckle, while his once confident and excited face becomes slightly embarrassed. “What about the princess bride? Ooh, or Labyrinth!”

“You always say Labyrinth! It doesn’t matter how many times you watch it, you won't become Sarah, and get to dance with David Bowie, in an all-white puffy ball gown.”

“Damn, you can’t just let a girl dream?”

“You crushed mine of rewatching Beauty and the Beast for the 85th time, so NO.”

It took about ten minutes for you and Donnie to both decide on a movie, but when you did the two of you were so into it.

“Anastasia.” you sigh, with a hint of whimsy in your voice.

“It never misses,” Donnie took another chocolate out of the box. “I thought you didn’t have a valentine, who got you these chocolates?”

“My dad.” you open the second box, “These ones are way better, I always open the shitty ones first.”

“These chocolates aren’t shitty, I really like them. And that's really nice of your dad to try and make you feel special.” Donnie's smile is truly adorable, even when it’s so obviously forced it can't help but make you grin. I guess people are referring to Don when they say, "a smile is contagious."

“Yeah, his are good, but I like the ones I bought better.”

He looks at you confused, “You bought yourself chocolates? If I knew you wanted some I would’ve gotten it for you. Now I feel bad.”

“No, I got them for someone else. But I decided it’d be best to not give it to them.”

“Wha- why not!?” The look of shock on his face is enough to make you choke on your drink. As you start coughing Donnie starts patting your back, trying to help.

“Hee- ha, hee- ha” As you were wheezing, you glanced back at Donnie and his face was even worse. If you had your phone you’d take a picture and meme it. “Donnie stop!”

“Stop what!?”

“You’re face! It’s killing me please…” After a couple of minutes, you managed to regain yourself. “Okay, okay I'm good now.” you look back at Donnie and he’s just waiting.

“You’re done?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me why a pretty girl, decided to get a guy chocolates on Valentine's Day, and just thinks to herself 'he wouldn’t like me.' and gives up!”

“Donnie-”

“I’m a mutated turtle and I gave it a shot! Did it land? No. it didn’t even hit the target. But I tried! What kind of psycho wouldn’t like you? You’re great to talk to, you're so talented, you’re pretty, you're fun, and it’s impossible not to like you!”

“He already likes a girl. The two of us are friends and he likes a girl that isn’t me. And he’s been obsessed with her for a while, I would have given him the chocolates but- then it would’ve made things weird.”

Donnie was confused and angry, at this mystery guy he’s never met, and now he feels bad for ranting about something he didn’t know shit about. “I- I didn’t mean.” he felt bad for what he said… at least you think he felt bad, you had no clue why he suddenly had a poker face on.

“Donnie, Donnie?” you wave your hand over his face before he looks back at you.

“Why do you like him?”

“What?”

“I mean, it’s pretty obvious when you like someone. You don’t exactly hide the way you feel about people, so I’m shocked he didn’t pick up on it. I mean if he was that great if a friend, he’d know the way you feel about him, that’s all I’m saying…” 

he started tapping his finger on his knee as we continued to watch the movie. Donnie tapping only occurs when he’s stressed or mad. But why would he be mad at?... then you got a great idea.

“Hey, Donnie.”

“Yeah?” he looked down at your hands.

“Want his chocolates?”

“Wh- for me!?”

“Yeah, you’re a way better guy than Danish anyway. You deserve then Donnie.” you grab his hands and place them in his palms, but not before kissing him on his cheek. “I know I'm not April, but I’m still a girl, so you should start swooning sooner or later.” you chuckled before laying back on the couch.

You took his attention away from the movie, and you had it for the rest of the night. He didn’t eat the chocolates, he put them on the coffee table and said he was gonna eat them when he got home. Instead, he cuddled up to you, in a totally ‘platonic’ way.

“Don, I appreciate the affection but don’t you think this is weird?”

“No, you have socks on. We should watch Atlantis next.”

“I’m always down to watch Atlantis. But you’re getting up to get the remote.”

At 4 am, Donnie you two finish Hunchback of Notre Dame, and you fell asleep on the couch. He cleaned up the living room so your mom wouldn’t get mad, then he picked you up and tucked you into bed.

“Thank you (Y/N)" he places a kiss on your forehead. Then he leaves out the window.”

You wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, but on your way back to your bed you see something on your windowsill. You go over to see what it is and it’s a beautiful parasol, with a sticker on it, a purple turtle.

Thank you sooo much for reading!!! If you liked this please give me some feedback on ur favorite parts so I can get better at writing (cuz I’m really not the best) and I hope u have a good day <3

[supernova-stardust]

No One Has To Know What We Do

jegulus | 18+ | 5,602 words | kinktober submission

@jeguluskinktoberr day 26 - mirror sex

Regulus has worked his entire life to earn a spot at Juilliard in their ballet program, but one day he's late to class and is forced to teach the Columbia football team their monthly ballet lesson. Enter James Potter: handsome, cocky, and annoying. Obviously, Regulus hates him immediately and can't resist his charm.

OR

Regulus and James hook up in the ballet studio after class and make a mess of the mirror (and each other).

This fic was written specifically for Jegulus Kinktober 2024 and contains the following prompts:

cunnilingus/deep throating, marking, impact play, semi-public sex, punishments, praise kink, mirror sex, breathplay

entire fic after the break or read on ao3, minors: dni

Regulus had never been late to class in his entire life. In fact, he typically showed up at least a half hour early to warm up, stretch, and make sure that he always got his favorite spot at the barre. Ballet was a wonderful discipline and he prided himself on being the most disciplined. He was never, ever late. That’s part of what had earned him his spot here in the first place. Very few people made it to the college level for ballet, let alone men. Nevermind Juilliard. He had goals, namely to be a part of the NYC Ballet Company and perform until he physically couldn’t anymore.

And so, the fact that he was running late today felt so unreal, it was like an out-of-body experience. Of course every single thing that could have gone wrong did go wrong and as he entered the room huffing out of breath with everyone staring at him, he knew that he was in for the worst class of his life.

“Lovely of you to join us, Regulus. I was just telling everyone who arrived on time that the studio will be closed to private practices this evening to allow the Columbia football team to have their monthly lesson,” his instructor explained as he set his belongings down on the floor in the corner and made his way to the barre. Thankfully, his spot was empty. Dancers were creatures of habit after all. “I was going to ask for a volunteer to stay tonight and teach their lesson, but since you’re late, I believe you should have the energy to stay late today.”

Fuck. Of course the only time he was late he would get saddled with teaching the football jocks. It was well known that none of them took their lessons seriously.

“Of course, I’d be happy to stay,” he said instead of voicing his honest thoughts. He’d rather drown himself than stay late for people who didn’t even respect the work they did, but saying no wasn’t exactly an option if he wanted to maintain his instructor's respect.

***

As the football team filed into the studio, Regulus felt more nervous and exposed than he expected. Growing up, he always knew he was a man. He started testosterone the moment he turned eighteen, despite his parents disowning him for it and in his everyday life he never thought about ‘passing’ anymore. He rarely, if ever, experienced dysphoria anymore. No one he knew before transitioning went to university with him and really the only person who knew and he saw regularly was his older brother, Sirius. Despite all of that, being surrounded by muscular and extremely masculine men had him questioning his ability to 'pass' for the first time in a long time. Every guy who walked in made him feel more and more self conscious. His body was toned and muscular, he couldn’t dance for hours on end if he wasn’t fit, but where he was all lithe limbs and grace, these men were bulky muscles, sharp jawlines, and reminded him of the picture-perfect portrayal of masculinity. 

“Please spread yourselves out on the barre along the wall and stretch while we wait for everyone to arrive,” Regulus announced. He heard murmurings of jokes and complaints but didn't deign them important enough to respond. He scrolled through the music app on his phone, searching for his preferred playlist that he listened to for warmups when he was alone. He hoped that it worked well enough for the class today, but figured that the jocks in the room wouldn’t notice if it didn’t anyway. As he connected his phone to the bluetooth speaker in the studio, a man with dark, messy hair and richly tanned skin ambled into the studio. The man’s warm brown eyes crinkled behind golden framed glasses as he laughed loudly at something one of his teammates said as they came into the studio together, not caring about the etiquette of staying quiet in the studio to avoid disruptions.

Regulus hated him immediately.

The two men shoved at each other a bit before Regulus cleared his throat. The two of them froze and looked at him, the one wearing glasses raking his eyes up and down Regulus’ body. “There’s a time and place for… whatever it is you’re doing,” Regulus snapped at them. “This is neither. Please, take a spot at the barre so we can get class started. Might I remind you that this is a requirement for your training and your coach relies on my feedback to know whether or not you're participating properly.”

They went completely stone-faced and found their ways to the barre at Regulus' scolding, clearly wanting to make sure that they didn't need to repeat this lesson in order to continue to be a part of the team. Regulus went through the motions of showing the team a very basic combination to start and pressed play on the music. “Five, six, seven, eight,” he counted out and led the class into their warmup. Once he was sure that they had the basic combination down, he began making his rounds down the barre, offering subtle corrections and moving their bodies as needed. When Regulus made his way to the man with the golden skin and messy hair, he placed his hands on his hips and adjusted him properly.

“At least ask my name first, love,” the man joked, his eyes crinkling in that annoyingly cute way as he smiled wide. 

“Does it matter? Neither of us wants to be here,” Regulus retorted.

“Aw, c’mon. You don’t know that.” He tilted his hips again and Regulus swore it was intentional. “My name’s James, by the way.”

“James, you know what I want you to do?” Regulus asked as he corrected his hips again.

“What’s that, love?”

“Shut up and hold your hips properly.”

James hummed and looked as though he’s deep in thought for a moment before he replied. “I’d prefer if you held them, I think.” 

His teammate behind him at the barre stifled a laugh and looked away quickly when Regulus glared at him. Regulus groaned in annoyance and walked away, figuring that ignoring him was the better option for class to be able to continue with as few disruptions as possible.

After what Regulus swore was the longest hour of his life, he dismissed the class and informed them that he would be emailing their coach to confirm that they all completed the class and to schedule their time for the following month. The men all nodded and said their thanks as they grabbed their belongings and shuffled out the door. All except for one. When only Regulus and James remained in the studio, Regulus walked over to his bag on the floor and pulled on his oversized sweater and baggy sweatpants. He sat on the floor and peeled his black ballet shoes off his feet while watching James standing in the middle of the studio. His entire life he’d been under a microscope, having his body analyzed and critiqued for every slight imperfection, but he’d never felt more heavily scrutinized than while James was staring at him alone in this space. 

“You can leave now,” Regulus snapped. After ten hours in the studio, he was ready to leave and he didn’t want to entertain this immature man any longer than he had to.

“I just— You never told me your name.”

“That was intentional.”

James stepped closer to him and while normally being alone with a man like this might make him uncomfortable, Regulus couldn’t help but feel drawn to everything about him, his casual confidence pulling him in. If they were in different circumstances and had met in a more controlled setting where Regulus could make sure that he was cool with the fact that he was trans before any flirting happened, Regulus might have even wanted to date this annoying man. Or at least fuck him. He hated James for it.

“Are you really gonna make me beg? I’m not above getting on my knees, you know.”

Fucking hell, this guy.

“Regulus.”

The corner of James’ mouth quirked up in a smirk and he took another step closer. “Regulus,” he said in a way that made his name sound like sin. “I’ve never met anyone named Regulus before. A unique name for a unique beauty.”

Regulus scoffed as he stood, grabbing his bag and slipping on his slides as he tried to step around James. “Thanks. Picked it out myself. Are you done? I’d like to go home now.”

“Picked it out— oh, that’s cool.” James stepped into his path and walked backwards as Regulus continued walking towards the door as if James wasn't even there. When they reached the door, James pressed his back to it and smiled down at him. “Look, I’m gonna be really honest with you, I think you’re hot.”

Regulus glared at him in response, crossing his arms and pushing his weight into one hip. He said nothing while James seemed to squirm under his cold eyes before continuing on.

“I, uh, I don’t date,” James explained. “Too busy between football, school, friends, and work. Feels rude to demand someone’s attention when I can’t give them mine.”

“I have a hard time believing you care about being rude.”

“Says the meanest guy I’ve ever met, I mean, fuck. You didn’t even give me a chance to— anyway, you’re hot. For some reason, I think I’m into the whole mean thing. We’re here all alone and I’m sure you’re the one with the keys to lock up.”

“Are you trying to hook up with me?” Regulus raised an eyebrow in question.

“Are you flattered?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on,” James whined as he banged his head on the door behind him. “Have you ever had a hot quarterback want to fuck you in the dance studio? You can’t honestly tell me you didn’t think about it at all during that class. You had us all bent over, for fuck’s sake.”

“This is a learning environment,” Regulus replied. “I’m a professional, you know.” He refused to admit that he absolutely was staring at James’ ass every time he passed by, but now he wondered if the man had seen him in the mirrors lining the walls.

“Please, you’re not as subtle as you think.”

Regulus’ cheeks turned pink at that and he felt the blush all the way to his ears.

“I’ll move so we can both go home if you can honestly tell me that you don’t want to hook up. But I have a feeling that you want this as badly as I do.”

The silence that stretched between them was charged with desire. As much as he hated the guy, Regulus wanted James so badly it hurt. But he was also terrified of, well, everything. Being a gay trans man came with a lot of disclaimers beforehand, in his experience. He tried to hint at the fact that he was trans earlier and James said he was cool, but did he really know what he was getting himself into by continuing to hit on Regulus? If he told James outright, would he be safe here alone with him? 

Regulus let out a shaky breath before he spoke again. “I— I don’t usually hook up like this.”

“It’s fine, it can stay between us.”

Oh, why did that hurt? Why didn’t he want to be kept as a dirty little secret? What was it about James that made him… want? He’d never wanted anyone like this before. 

“It’s not that, It’s— I’m trans.”

“Okay?” James’ eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Don't take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure why that matters?”

Regulus gaped at him, unsure how to even respond to the confusing man before him.

“I think you’re hot,” James continued, saving Regulus from having to formulate a response. “I’m pretty sure you think I’m hot, though you haven’t admitted it. If I was a more self conscious man, I might feel a bit inadequate if I’m honest. We’re young and we have this place to ourselves for the night. I’m clean too, if you were wondering.”

“I’m clean,” Regulus responded without processing the rest of what James just said. 

James smiled at that. “So?”

“So?”

“You want to go home or can I kiss you already?”

Regulus dropped his bag on the floor next to him with a loud thud and crashed his lips onto James’, crowding his body against the door. Their first kiss was a cruel thing, the building energy between them finally boiling over into something physical. James’ arms wrapped around Regulus, one snaking down to his lower back and the other gripping the nape of his neck. When Regulus brushed his tongue along the seam of James’ lips, he opened for him and Regulus allowed himself to indulge in exploring James’ mouth.

Regulus reached a hand down towards the knob of the studio door near James’ hip and clicked the lock in place while they continued kissing. He felt James smirk against his mouth and pulled back, glaring at the taller man he had pinned against the wall with his body.

“What?” Regulus snapped. He would never admit it outloud, but really wasn’t sure why this man’s cocky attitude was so attractive. That smirk on his face made him melt and Regulus knew that he was in for a world of hurt after this was all over and James wanted nothing to do with him again.

“Planning on more than a kiss?”

“You were the one who—”

“I know, shh, I’m just teasing.” James placed a quick peck on Regulus’ lips. “I feel like I’m pushing my luck here by asking, but do you have a condom?”

Regulus felt his face heat. He normally wasn’t embarrassed by sex, honestly. There was just something about this Adonis of a man trapped against the door in front of him asking him for a condom that felt like an out-of-body experience. “Uh, I think so, let me check.” He dropped down to his knees and rifled through his bag, trying to ignore the heavy weight of James’ gaze on him. When he found the condom, he grabbed it and looked up, holding the condom up like a prize. James’ eyes were heavy with desire and when Regulus went to stand up, James buried a hand into his hair to hold him in place. 

“You look so pretty on your knees, Regulus.”

“I’d look prettier with your cock in my mouth.”

“Oh,” James tightened his grip in his hair and Regulus let out a wanton moan at the feeling. “You are a good boy, aren’t you?”

Regulus hummed in response and reached for the waistband of James’ shorts, tugging them and his boxers down just low enough to free his hard cock. Regulus leaned forward against the resistance of the hand buried in his hair and lapped at the precum beading at the tip. James groaned at the feeling and pumped himself a couple of times in front of Regulus’ face. Regulus raised himself up higher on his knees and dragged his hands up under James’ shirt, feeling the hard muscles of his abdomen and back before he licked at a vein along the underside of his cock and then sucked him into the back of his throat, taking as much of him in his mouth as possible. 

He bobbed his head a few times, relishing at the feeling of James’ hand threaded in his dark curls guiding his movements, then pulled back and ran his tongue up his entire length. He swirled his tongue around the tip once, twice, then pushed his tongue at the slit, moaning at the unique salty taste that was James. When he looked up under hooded eyes, they locked eyes and James gave him a pleased smile.

“Fuck,” James breathed. “You’re so good for me, you do look so pretty just like this, I knew you would. Can you be such a good boy and let me fuck your throat, hm?”

Regulus squirmed as he opened his mouth with his tongue flat, feeling hot wetness pooling between his legs. When he felt James slide his cock back into his mouth, he relaxed his throat and surrendered completely to the pace that James set. He felt James shift so he had one hand on both sides of his head and Regulus adjusted so that both of his hands gripped James' hips. He was slow at first, unsure of how Regulus would handle his size, but grew more confident when Regulus moaned around his cock. Soon, the pace was unrelenting and Regulus felt his eyes watering, tears streaming down his face. Spit ran down his chin and he found that he didn't care at all. He dug his fingers into James' hips, hoping to leave bruises. Evidence that he had James, if only for a little while. He barely had any room to breathe between the strokes as James continued to thrust into him, focused entirely on his own pleasure.

Before he knew it, James pulled himself out of Regulus’ mouth. He bent down to wipe the spit off of Regulus' chin with his thumb then languidly sucked at it before pressing the pad of his thumb against Regulus' bottom lip. Regulus swiped his tongue out and caught James' thumb in his mouth, sucking and swirling his tongue around the digit. James smirked, pulling his thumb away and wiped at the tracks of tears on Regulus' face with his thumbs. Regulus whined a needy sound at feeling so empty, rubbing his thighs together in hopes that any form of friction would bring him relief. James leaned in to kiss him before pulling Regulus to his feet as he tucked his erection back into his shorts.

“Shh,” James soothed, pushing his hair away from his face and placing soft kisses on his cheeks. “Let me return the favor, c’mon.”

James grabbed his hand and dragged a boneless Regulus to the center of the room. When he got there, he held up one finger, signaling for Regulus to wait a moment. Regulus wanted to pout, but watched as James went to the corner of the room where a stack of folding chairs leaned against the wall. He grabbed one and carried it back to where Regulus stood, opened it up, then pushed Regulus into the seat facing the mirror covered wall. 

Regulus reached his hands out towards James’ hips and tugged him closer, hoping to return to having that beautiful cock in his mouth before James clicked his tongue softly. “I said I was going to return the favor, baby.” James knelt down and looped his fingers under the waistband of Regulus’ sweatpants. “Can I?”

“In front of the mirror?”

“Why not?” James shrugged. “It’s hot. Plus it’s not like there’s anywhere in this room without a mirror. Might as well make good use of it.” James playfully tugged at Regulus' waistband with one hand again as he removed his glasses with the other and set them to the side on the floor. “Are you gonna make me beg or can we continue?”

Regulus nodded as he shifted his hips so James could pull at his baggy sweatpants, then he heard James laugh as he pulled at the baggy shorts underneath his sweatpants revealing yet another pair of shorts, these ones much tighter and shorter. “So many layers,” James huffed. “Why do you need so many layers?” He pulled down the shorts and finally got to Regulus’ underwear. Pulling those down, he unbunched all of the layers of pants from around his ankles and threw them to the side. The cold metal of the folding chair bit into Regulus’ skin as he sat there in just his baggy sweater feeling extremely exposed.

“Keeps the muscles warm in between—” All thoughts of the logistics in layering clothing during ballet were lost as he felt James spreading his legs apart. James bit down on the soft skin of his innermost thigh as he slid his hands up to Regulus’ hips. He allowed James to pull him towards the edge of the seat, tilting his hips up to give James better access. 

Regulus writhed at the first feeling of James’ tongue on him and he let out a shameless moan that echoed around the room. He tilted his head back and allowed his legs to fall open in pure pleasure. James grabbed under his thighs to hike his legs up over his shoulders, giving himself more access as he continued devouring Regulus, licking and sucking at him. When Regulus glanced up, he looked at the two of them in the mirror. Watching James on his knees worshiping his body, he understood immediately why James said it would be hot. He had never seen a sight quite so erotic and between the feeling of James sucking on his most sensitive nerves and the reflection before him, he climaxed hard and fast. His orgasm rippled through him and James reacted by moaning as he pushed his tongue inside him, lapping at his release. 

As he came down from the orgasm, James slowed down and started kissing down his thighs, sucking small bruises along the way. Normally, Regulus would ask his lovers to avoid leaving marks like that, especially since they were so visible in classes, but something about James made him want to be claimed. He wanted people to know they were together, and for a time, be able to say that he belonged to James.

Just when he felt like he was coming back into his body, James pushed two fingers inside him and curled them up at the perfect angle, hitting the sensitive walls inside his body. Regulus felt his entire body jolt with pleasure as James’ tongue returned to between his thighs, circling the sensitive nerves and flicking in time with his fingers. 

“Fuck,” Regulus whined, feeling his body climbing rapidly towards another orgasm.

James pulled back to gaze up at him, his fingers continuing at a punishing pace. “I know you can cum for me again, baby. Show me what a pretty boy you are while you cum on my fingers.” He bit into his leg just above his knee and sucked a bruise, watching his fingers pumping in and out of Regulus’ body. His orgasm crashed through his body again and James moaned at the sight, dipping his head between his legs again and giving him one languid lick before pulling back and smiling up at Regulus. He sucked on his fingers and made a show of licking off every drop, giving Regulus a visual reminder of how skilled he was with that tongue.

“Think you can go again?” James asked from between his legs. Regulus had no doubt in his mind that if he said yes, the man would sit between his thighs all night long, and maybe if they hooked up again he’d get the opportunity to experience it, but for now he really wanted to know what he felt like buried deep inside him.

Regulus shook his head and pulled off his oversized sweater, then the white tee underneath until he was sitting in the middle of the room, fully exposed. “Your turn, you have a criminal amount of clothing on your body.”

James barked a laugh and practically ripped off his clothes as he stood. He grabbed Regulus’ hand and hoisted him to his feet, pulling him in close to his naked body. The feeling of their bare skin brushing against each other was enough to set Regulus’ overstimulated nerves alight. He moaned as he leaned in for a kiss, tasting a heady combination of the two of them on James’ lips.

“I’m going to grab the condom,” James said against Regulus’ lips, his breath hot. He kissed down Regulus’ jaw and neck before he continued. “Go stand facing the mirror for me.”

“I—”

“If you don’t want me to take control, tell me now sweetheart.” James said softly. He placed a quick peck against his lips. “Otherwise, I’m going to get a little bossy from here on out.”

Regulus nodded, then moved to stand facing the mirror while James dug through their discarded clothes for the condom Regulus had found earlier. When he returned, James stood behind him and gently grasped at his jaw, ensuring they made eye contact through the mirror.

“Familiar with the traffic light color system?”

Regulus nodded again and James clicked his tongue. “I’m going to need verbal confirmation here, baby.”

“Yes.” 

“Good, so if you want me to stop immediately you say?”

“Red,” Regulus answered without hesitation.

“And if I check in and you’re enjoying yourself?”

“Green.”

“Good boy. Last one, then we can continue. If you need to pause or something doesn’t feel right?”

“Yellow.”

James kissed his neck from where he stood behind him and smiled. “Very good. Now, hands against the glass for me. And they’re not allowed to move at all. Your pretty little ass will get a beating if they do. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes… Sir?”

James clicked his tongue and Regulus could tell that he was disappointed. "Come now, you can do better than that."

Regulus wracked his brain searching for whatever it was that James was asking. Finally, it came to him after he reflected on all the times James had called him 'baby' and a 'good boy.'

"Yes, Daddy."

James let out a groan at that, moving his hand down from Regulus’ jaw to his throat and squeezing slightly. Regulus keened and pushed his hips back towards James, searching for friction. 

“Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me,” James said as he pulled back and ripped at the condom wrapper. Regulus whined at the loss of the hand around his throat and turned around. He draped his arms around James' shoulders and sought out his lips for a kiss.

With the condom not fully unwrapped, James froze and gripped Regulus’ throat, stopping him from the kiss he was seeking. “What did I say, baby?”

“Oh, please.” Regulus scoffed when James loosened his grip just enough to allow him to reply. “We hadn’t even started yet.”

James’ eyes darkened at that. “Did I or did I not tell you that if you moved your hands from the mirror, you’d be punished?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Do you want to push me to find out how serious I am?” At the silence hanging between them, James smirked. “Now, turn around. Hands on the mirror. I’m going to spank you five times and you’re going to count out each one, thanking me for every one. If you stop counting or lose your manners, you’ll earn five more. Understand?”

“Yes.” Regulus followed his instructions, placing his hands on the cold mirror and breathing as evenly as he could.

“Yes what?” James kneaded his ass, making him even more sensitive to the touch.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good boy. Color?”

“Green.”

James hummed in acknowledgement before his hand slapped Regulus’ ass. Regulus let out a surprised yelp. 

“Count, baby. I won’t remind you again.”

“One,” Regulus cried out. “Thank you, Daddy.”

James’ hand smacked down again, the sound echoing in the room, and Regulus gasped at the shock of pain that rippled through his body. “Two. Thank you, Daddy.” Regulus looked up into the mirror, taking in James’ hungry face. 

“Maybe you can be trained, baby. Three more. You’re doing so good.”

With each slap to his ass, Regulus became more sensitive and felt himself slipping into a hazy headspace where everything felt like pure pleasure shooting to every nerve in his body. When he finally reached number five, James dropped to his knees behind him and rubbed at his cheeks before pulling them apart and licking all the way from his sensitive nerves to his ass. He circled the ring of muscle with his tongue and pushed in slightly.

“Fuck,” James breathed hot against him. “You did so good, baby. You’re fucking dripping for me. Have you learned your lesson? Will you be a good boy and let me fuck you now?”

Regulus nodded, a whine escaping his throat that he would normally feel embarrassed about.

“Words, baby.”

“Yeah— Yes, please. Please fuck me, Daddy. I need your cock inside me.”

James bit into one cheek of his ass before he stood up, grabbing the condom and rolling it on. “Anything for you,” James murmured as he lined himself up with Regulus’ entrance. They made eye contact in the mirror as James pushed in slowly, using both hands to grip onto Regulus’ hips and position him perfectly. “Color?”

“Green. Fuck, so fucking green.”

Finally, James moved his hips. Regulus had never been a religious man, but he swore that he found a new religion at the feeling of James inside him. James moved his hips in purposeful, deep thrusts, making Regulus see stars with each shift inside him. Regulus’ eyes closed and his head tilted back as he relished in the sensation until he felt a strong hand on his jaw. The grip was unyielding and Regulus knew that he’d do whatever the man this hand belonged to said.

“Eyes on me, baby,” James purred. “I want you to watch me ruin you for anyone else.”

Regulus cried out a moan and opened his eyes, taking in their bodies in the mirror. His hot breath fogged the mirror in front of him as James pounded into him from behind, both of them glistening with sweat. James’ face was smug as he continued to hold onto Regulus’ jaw, not offering him any way of avoiding watching their bodies. 

James’ pace started to slow, but he somehow managed to make it feel like he was impossibly deeper inside Regulus’ body. He snaked a hand down towards the bundle of nerves between Regulus’ legs and rubbed in confident circles, pushing Regulus closer and closer to the edge. Just when he thought he couldn’t possibly experience more pleasure than he was already tasting, James’ hand slid down from his jaw to his throat and squeezed. The restriction of blood flow to his brain made Regulus feel fuzzy as he dissolved into pure pleasure. His knees buckled and he arched his back, pushing his ass into James’ hips as his orgasm washed over him. A moment later, James let out a moan and Regulus felt him pulsing inside of him as he followed him over the edge.

James ghosted his fingers along the side of Regulus’ neck as they rode out the last of their orgasms and he kissed his shoulder. When he pulled out, he took off the condom and tied it off, then walked over to toss it in the trash can next to the door. Regulus turned to lean against the mirror, watching James stride back towards him. Regulus gave him a weak, hazy smile.

“You okay?” James asked. He placed a quick peck on Regulus’ lips and rubbed soothing circles on his shoulder.

“Yeah, I—” James interrupted him by kissing him again. “I thought you said this was a one-time thing?” Regulus questioned.

“That doesn’t mean you deserve to be treated like shit, Regulus.”

Regulus gave him a flat look before he pushed off the mirror and walked to where his clothes were piled on the ground. He started pulling on his many layers and by the time he was fully dressed again, he glanced over to see James standing watching him, still completely nude. Regulus bent over to grab his glasses on the floor and handed them to him. “What?” Regulus asked.

James pushed his glasses on his face and for the first time, Regulus witnessed a flustered James. “Look, I know what I said, but can I have your number anyway?”

“I won’t be your late night, drunk booty call, James.”

“I just…this was a lot of fun. It’d be nice to do it again sometime, that’s all.”

“So, a sober booty call?”

“No, I—”

“Listen, how about you give me your number? If I’m ever feeling like having you boss me around again, I’ll give you a call. How’s that?” Regulus raised an eyebrow as he pulled his cell out of his sweatpants pocket and held it out to James in offering.

James hesitated to take the phone from his hand, clearly playing a game of mental chess on how to obtain Regulus’ number, but Regulus refused to be a pawn in his games. “This is my only offer, it expires once your pants are on. Take it or leave it.”

Sighing, James grabbed his phone and created a new contact with his phone number, then handed it back to Regulus.

“‘Daddy,’ really? You seriously put your name as ‘Daddy’ in my phone?”

James smirked, then began dressing himself. “I figured you’d remember me that way.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but internally he might as well have been giggling and kicking his feet. He stepped forward and placed a chaste kiss on James’ cheek. “I’ll consider calling you, Daddy,” he said and then he grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Clean the mirror and take that trash bag out with you, yeah? I can’t have my teacher finding out about this.”

“You got it, baby.”

As Regulus walked out of the studio, he thought to himself that he should absolutely not call James again. He made a bargain with himself anyway that if he was still thinking about him in a few months, he’d gladly fall back into that man’s arms again.

[vegan-peppermint]

A snippet of life

In which the reader is a med student/ doctor who talked herself out of her death by conving the proxies they need her skills. Now this is her life.

Genre: just plot?

Word count: 1.6k

CW: blood, violence, swearing

Characters: Masky, Toby, Hoodie

Part 2

Adaptability is the only requirement for survival. The sooner you learn to sail with the tide, the easier it will be to navigate the waters. Their waters.

When you needed to work in order to finance your degree, you adapted. When the people you depended on became abusive, you adapted. It didn't matter what life had thrown at you, trying to derail you from your goal,  you caught it and tossed it right in life's eyes.

Seven months ago when three dickheads broke into your shared apartment and gutted your four roommates, you figured out the best- if not only- way to survive. You adapted, it is what you do.

You excepted to face anxieties and nightmares prompted by survival guilt, however you did not afford to be that vulnerable, not in the presence of those creeps.

"Come on, everyone! Let's keep it moving, we want to get there today, yes?"  Tim commanded promting you to roll your eyes. The rain was drumming steadily on the treetops, its rhythm deep and persistent. With every hurried step you took the mud got closer to grabbing hold of your boots.

"We got a problem, doc?" The same hoarse voice called to you, Tim halted letting the other two overtake him.

You lowered your head, passing him just the same. 

He seemed the worst of the trio, a patronizing control-freak, but in the time you've spent with them you have learned a few things:

1. Tim was undeniably the compasionate leader. He’d yell and push against anyone who dared to think something else than what he was preaching- true. But after every mission, he’d make his way to your room and ask about everyone’s injuries and morale. He pretended to be aloof, scrolling through his phone and lighting a cigarette, yet his attention was razor-sharp, never missing a single word.

"How much l-l-longer do we have to g-go?" Toby groaned, his question ignored. "Hey, assholes! I'm t-tired!"

2. Whenever Tim’s back was turned—whether for two seconds while walking or hours spent in the driver's seat—Toby would raise his middle finger high and proud. His age played a part, of course; the surge of newfound testosterone often drownd any sense of logic. Still, after being forced to sleep outside countless times because of his 'rebellious' tendencies, one might think he’d start to learn. Even dogs  stop barking eventually when they’re not fed.

"Stop whining," Tim responded, speeding up his pace to get to the front of the group once again. "If I knew you'd be acting like such a bitch I'd have left you in the car."

Overtaking you and Brian was easy, but Toby decided to get on his nerves today. He lengthened his strides and quickened his pace. Tim tried closing the gap multiple times, but just as he was right on Toby's heels, Toby would lunge forward, keeping the distance between them.

Tim muttered plenty of curses under his breath before he shoulder-barged Toby, shoving him out of the way. Toby stumbled sideways, nearly losing his balance on the slippery ground, but he caught himself just in time. In the next breath, Brian surged forward from behind, tripping Toby with ease. This time, the boy went down hard, face first, his body hitting the mud with a loud splat.

"That better not be you, Tics!" Tim laughed several steps ahead along side Brian.

3. Brian didn't talk much, not directly to you or Toby at least, but his remarks and complaints always made their ways to your ears through Tim. His face was more often than not hidden behind that creepy hood, leaving any trace of emotion completly unreadable. He spoke to you a total of five words since you've met: stay out of the way. Indeed, a rock was easier to read than he is, but your life experience came in handy: it's the quiet ones you always have to watch.

After thoroughly scouting the area, Brian entered first, moving with the stealth of a shadow. Tim and Toby advanced slowly before bursting through the front door. The unwritten rule was that you were the last to enter and left last, so you followed suit.

The moment you stepped inside, you realized that “overpowered” didn't quite capture the severity of the girls' state. Tim was busy tying up the blonde while Brian dragged the redhead in from another room. Their faces grimaced, twisted with anguish, deep lines etched into their expressions—enough to amplify the shock of the scene. Their body was lean and young but their soggy faces resembled cartoon witches. Toby noticed your curious gaze immediately.

“They’re c-c-c-FUCK-cultists, you know?” he said, strolling around the two girls with exaggerated steps. “That’s why they l-look like t-that! It’s their true face!” He crouched down in front of the blonde, who was undeniably the more threatening of the two, pinching her loose cheeks with mock disdain. “Uuugly,” he sneered. With the same sharp and agile movement a snake takes to bite its pray, the girl bit his hand ready to pull it off. Toby's didn't react, not even noticing any difference, he continued to taunt them.

“Enough!” Tim barked, grabbing her by the nose and forcing her onto her back. Toby’s hand was now a crimson mess, chunks of flesh missing, revealing dull, white tissue beneath.

“Goddamn, idiot…” Tim scoffed, gesturing for Brian to drag the couple to the basement. He wanted a more peaceful environment to work in, and Toby was actively ruinning it.

As the metal door screeched shut, silence enveloped the room. A heavy door and a dozen steps stood between the living room and whatever lay below making it easy to convince yourself that nothing sinister was happening six feet beneath you as you settled onto the couch beside Toby.

“"You really are an idiot," you began.

"You don't get to to call me that."

"When other half your hand is in a cultists stomach I think I get to call you whatever I want," you spoke plainly.

After realizing that the white thing poking from his wound wasn’t a bone, you settled on disinfecting and bandaging him. He was surprisingly easy to tend to, his lack of pain receptors making the process almost blissful.

You tightened the final knot on his bandage with a firm pull. He gave a small nod of gratitude, then stood up and made his way to the couch, settling down. You swiftly gathered the medical supplies you'd used, cleaned them, and returned everything to your bag before finally taking a seat beside him.

Now all you could do was wait. And wait. And—

“How long is this going to take?!”

“Toby, please, shut up.”

So you waited.

The afternoon slipped into evening, the sky transitioning from gold to deep blue. Toby snored through the shared couch, an irritating hum cutting through the quiet. As night deepened, you accepted the reality of leaving the following day, allowing yourself to drift off to sleep, his presence—Toby’s, of all people—offering a measure of comfort.

You jolted awake, the silence of the night shattered by the sound of rushing footsteps, followed by the unmistakable clang of metal. You and Toby shot upright just in time to see the blonde barreling toward the door, her eyes glowing red with fury beneath thick, dark brows. A low, guttural growl rumbled in her throat as she charged forward, Toby’s blood still smeared across her snarling mouth.

You leaped over the couch, using it as a barrier between you and the creature. Toby grabbed his axe and charged at her without hesitation. To your surprise and his horror, she blocked his attack with her forearm, blood bursting violently gushing out in all directions. Toby squeezed his eyes shut, turning away. “EW-EW—Fuck!” His heart raced as he fought to regain his composure. Seizing the moment, the cultist pounced on him, your mind racing between the chaotic struggle before you and the opened basement door.

“AGH—she's a—biter!” Toby groaned, struggling to free his axe. The woman’s face was buried in the crook of his neck, clearly intent on tearing him apart. Yet, Toby held his ground, unfazed by her onslaught.

Your hands trembled as panic consumed you. Pain wasn’t the issue; it was his impending blood loss that truly terrified you. With each agonizing second, no one emerged from the stairs, and the weight of what you might have to do pressed down on you.

You could run for it, you thought, escape into the woods and leave the killers to their fate. But facing that thing in the dark was a nightmare, just as terrifying as confronting her now. What should you do? What should you do?

Fuck’s sake.

“Toby! Toby, turn around!” you shouted, sprinting around the couch, your heart racing as you prayed to every god you could think of that this would work. With steady hands, you reached between Toby’s shoulder and the cultist’s forehead, attempting to mimic Tim’s movements from earlier. You clamped your fingers around her nose and yanked, hoping it would have the same effect.

The woman jerked violently, giving Toby just the opening he needed to shove her against the opposite wall.

[tiredofthehumanlife]

So we’re all trans?

Barbie dolls: t4t!Jegulus x genderfluid!reader

Word: 3.3k ish

Summary: James and Regulus are nervy to tell you they’re trans while you are nervy to tell them you’re genderfluid and hilarity ensues

Warnings: Lightning McQueen, Shrek, Spiderman, and Peter Pettigrew mentioned, James is a kale freak, I talked like a lot most of which was not necessary, mentions: shots (testosterone), getting vaccinations, cheating, domestic homicide, medieval torture, your experience with genderfluidity(it’s going to be a word for today) might not align with mine but i kept it as vague as possible, a bit of a Disney channel moment but just like ignore the cringe baby it's fine it adds character, you place your hands on your hips but it's not like “you place your tiny baby girl hands on your voluptuous hips in girly frustration” yk so it works for whatever gender you're feeling🩷, insecure feelings in gender identity, everybody is worried the other is going to break up with them bc they’re trans so it's like hypothetical transphobia, you wear pants, jamie used once, yeah i think thats it please read the author’s note i want to cover all my bases to make sure this doesn’t have unintended messages right okay cool

A/n: I'm going to use the small text bc I'm going to be yapping a lot so I apologize to all the bad vision freaks(I can't see two inches in front of my face) right so I just wanted to say that both James and Regulus had medically assisted transitions (that feels like a right phrasing) reg had top surgery, James takes puberty blockers, and they both take T I just wanted to say that you do not have to take anything or do anything to be valid in your trans identity some people can’t afford surgeries and some people don't want them and everybody is valid (except for those people who are like “me when the trans guy with triple d’s gets mad I mess up their pronouns” they can suck my 12-foot long dick) I just wanted to say this because I didn’t want someone to read this and feel like they don’t count because they didn’t follow these two rich boys’ paths okay awesome

request: right here dickhead

James and Regulus have been dating for years. Strangely enough, they had been taking care of each other since day one. It was truly simple, once they moved in together their acts of service quadrupled. Suddenly James was sitting with Regulus on the edge of the bathtub, gently removing his chest tape. Regulus decided chest tape wasn’t enough, and James was reaching the shelves over Regulus’ elbow height for him. James became a supreme master at making soup while Regulus was in recovery from his top surgery. Eventually, Regulus was healed and extremely joyous. He was wandering around the house with his shirt off just for the hell of it. Regulus was prancing down the porch stairs to get the mail in only his James’ plaid pajama pants and cat slippers.

James was lucky enough to have loving accepting parents. He started puberty blockers early on and eventually, he swapped them out for testosterone so he neglected the want and or perceived need for a top surgery. James, after having years of practice, lost his uneasiness towards the injections. Regulus, however, was extremely terrified of needles. As a kid, he was practically breaking Sirius’ hand from his grip when he needed to get his vaccinations. Before he met James, Sirius would do them for him. Now, Regulus would stand in the kitchen covering his eyes with his forearm and turning away as far as he could. James would inject the shot as fast as possible, rewarding Regulus’ bravery with 80 kisses on his cheek and ice cream.

They were out to their friends, but it wasn’t exactly something mentioned frequently. It didn’t really matter all that much. Barty would call you a dickhead no matter what was in your pants. Marlene was similar but her go-to insult was ‘ bitchey-bitch-bitch-stupid-face’, friends only of course. You can’t have that insane unfiltered language out with strangers. Lily loved everyone, closing off every single phone call with ‘I love you’ even if it was customer service.

Peter was similar although instead he thanked people by saying ‘I appreciate you’. He once mentioned how he was working at a restaurant having a horrible day. He was yelled at more than thrice in a row, and he was certain if someone called him one more bad name he’d burst into tears. Then this woman came in, who appeared to have met the first dinosaur, and she was so kind to him. When she left she said ‘Thanks, baby. I appreciate you.’ And he sobbed in the freezer. Peter immediately engraved it into his dictionary. All their friends knew, but it was like knowing their favorite letter; it’s nice to know but that information doesn’t really come into play very frequently.

Then they met you. Regulus had dragged James to the bookstore. James loved going to the bookstore with Regulus. Regulus liked wandering for hours. He liked scanning the backs and summaries inside the front cover. James liked the bookstore mainly because Regulus liked it. He also liked looking through the cookbooks and workout guides. Sometimes when the story was empty he’d head towards the kid section, squeeze himself into one of the tiny plastic chairs, and do the puzzles. Eventually when Regulus would finish looking, a hefty stack in his arms, he’d find James. Usually, James would brag about how ‘those dumbasses’ had nothing on him. He finished eight puzzles in under a minute. Regulus would remind him the puzzles had six pieces each.

That time was different though. James had looked through all the cookbooks, finding one he liked. James looked at a few of the workout books, getting bored when they said something he didn’t agree with. He finished all the puzzles made for toddlers, and yet his boyfriend still wasn’t done. It was odd. So James went on a search for Regulus. He checked the poetry section first, no Regulus. He went to the fantasy next, no dice. James stalked up and down every aisle. His ears perched up at the sound of Regulus’ voice. It was a bit strange, Regulus didn’t usually volunteer to socially interact with anyone. James assumed he got trapped into small talk, rushing to his boyfriend’s rescue.

James found Regulus actually grinning with a stranger. James didn’t even know he could do that. Regulus was holding a book open, letting you lean to look over his shoulder. You both looked more than excited to finally meet somebody you could talk to about your favorite book. The more James looked at you, the more he understood why Regulus was so happy to talk to you. Delectable was a nasty word to use to describe a person so James opted instead for extremely stunning. Eventually with Regulus’ book opinions and James’ cheesy flirting, their couple grew into a throuple.

Your relationship is a little fresh now. In the way that you had no idea what either of their pajamas looked like but you knew exactly where their spoons were. James and Regulus weren’t entirely sure if you would accept them with open arms if they shared every part of them, including their favorite letter. They stayed silent for the most part, letting you stay ignorant just this once.

You were harboring your own skeleton in the closet. You haven’t told them you are genderfluid, and you haven’t told them how many frustrations that caused. You love who you are but for fucks sake could it be just a smidge easier? Your secret was weighing on you. It was all you could think about while you were out with your two amazing boyfriends. If you told them they could disprove and break up with you on the spot. They could also accept you but an overthinking mind never seems to be optimistic.

Your boyfriends seemed to notice your mood change, worried now you might’ve put together a couple of context clues and realized maybe they aren’t cis. What if now you were disgusted by them? James squashed that idea when Regulus voiced it, though it still lingered with him. Regulus knew James was just trying to relieve him of his worries but Regulus still appreciated his attempt.

Finally, the camel’s back broke and you were heading straight to their shared home. It was edging towards their bedtime the sun had set a couple of hours ago, fully relying on their warm lamps. They both had changed into their matching pajamas; plaid pants and Spiderman t-shirts. Regulus had slippers with tiny cat ears on the top and little cat faces on them. James however had Lighting McQueen slippers that lit up when he took a step. They were cute when he first got them but the novelty wore off rather quickly and now Regulus complains that James’ shoes give him a headache. Regulus settled into the barstool behind the kitchen counter with his reward ice cream. James leaned against the counter across from him, slurping very loudly on his smoothie. James jutted it out to Regulus.

“Want some?” Regulus looked up at James with a raised eyebrow.

“James, if I ever say I want some of your kale and banana smoothie, I give you full permission to assassinate me. Preferably quickly.” James pouted, pointing the lip of his glass back towards himself. Regulus rolled his eyes and took another bite of his ice cream.

“You could’ve just said no, also what did we say about suicide jokes?” James said, pointing over his shoulder at the small whiteboard on the fridge that said ‘6 days without a suicide joke’ in James’ handwriting. Regulus dropped his spoon back into his bowl, feeling particularly peeved at the unjust accusation.

“No, no. That’s not suicide, that's homicide. Two entirely different things. You can’t dock my streak just because you didn’t find the joke funny.” Regulus stuck his finger at James. James pushed Regulus’ finger away, leaning forward to steal a kiss from him. James pulled away, taking another sip of his smoothie as Regulus took another spoonful.

“No offense, babe, but I’m not sure if I know anyone who would find domestic homicide funny,” James added, with his straw still in his mouth. Regulus scoffed.

“That’s because you have lame friends,” James’ jaw dropped in offense at Regulus’ words. “Barty would find it hilarious, and Dorcas would find it mildly amusing.” Regulus retorted, grinning like he won their game. James pressed his lips together in disapproval. As he was opening his mouth to continue the verbal play fight, a knock on their door interrupted him. They both shared a look of confusion. James shrugged, leaving his smoothie on the counter to get to the door.

“See but Barty finds The Pear of Anguish funny,” James argued, his slippers lighting up on his way to the door.

“Barty’s a masochist, I’m not sure what you were expecting when you took him to that museum,” Regulus muttered into his bowl as James peered out the peephole. James hummed in a confused tone, opening the door to find you. You were not in pajamas and you looked rather stressed.

“Hey sweetheart, you okay?” James asked, worry lacing his words. He moved back letting you step into their foyer. Regulus looked up at James’ words. He doesn’t usually greet the door-to-door salesman like that. Regulus quietly joined you two at the door, he understood James’ greeting now but didn’t understand why you were visiting them looking so frazzled. You looked them both up and down, slightly pausing at James’ shoes. You shrugged your coat off, placing it on their coat rack. James found it at a thrift store and Regulus repainted it.

“You two look dashing.” You muttered as you straightened your shirt. Regulus glanced down at his pajamas, suddenly feeling slightly judged. He crossed his arms over the very large print of Spiderman.

“James picked it out,” Regulus whispered, trying to ignore the stinging on his cheeks. James’ chest puffed out, taking a wider stance and pulling at the end of his shirt so you can see the picture better.

“Aren’t we cute?” James said, confidence making him smile brighter. You nodded.

“Yeah, gotta love Spiderman.” You squished your lips together. Even with your words seeming relaxed your nerves were spreading to Regulus. James seemed to taste the uneasiness in the air.

“Are you alright? If this was planned I would’ve gotten you a shirt.” James reached over, rubbing Regulus’ shoulder to give him silent support. You nodded, staring at the ground to take in a deep breath.

“Right yeah. Sorry to drop in on you guys, but I think we need to talk.” You said, giving yourself a breath to steady yourself. Regulus felt his stomach jump into his throat. It felt tighter now, his heartbeat reaching his ears. Regulus glanced over to James, finding he was already looking. James gave him a tiny smile that Regulus could tell was forced.

“Yeah absolutely.” James brightly said, gesturing towards the living room. You lead the way. Regulus moved his hands to the back of his neck, trying to soothe himself. James noticed, grabbing both of Regulus’ shoulders to rub them, waddling behind Regulus. James kissed Regulus on his temple. Regulus reminded himself that even if what he thought was happening was happening, he’d still have James in the end.

Regulus and James settled on the couch, holding onto each other for emotional support. You started pacing in front of them, walking from one end of James’ favorite rug to the other. James intertwined his fingers with Regulus’, letting Regulus fiddle with them in his lap. It was better than biting his nails. ‘I should get a whiteboard for nail biting’ James thought to himself before zoning back in on your rapid pacing. Regulus’ eyes were following you with panic behind his head movements. Your anxiety was dripping out through your hands, slapping them together over and over again. James was starting to worry that Regulus would get hypnotized moving his eyes back and forth like that.

“You know, darling. I learned the hard way that anxious thoughts are like burps; better out than in.” James offered, hoping it would soothe you a little. You paused your pacing behind the coffee table, turning to face James.

“Did you just quote Shrek?” James clenched his jaw, feeling caught. James saw Regulus turning his head slowly to look at him out of the corner of his eye. James let out a nervous and breathy chuckle.

“It’s good advice,” James muttered, slipping further down the couch. You sighed and faced them both. You held your hands behind your back. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath.

“Right okay so I need to come clean to you two, I’ve been hiding something for a while now. It’s been stressing me out a lot and I think I would rather risk our relationship than have to go through this alone.” Regulus squeezed James’ hands tighter. James had flashbacks to Regulus getting a shot at the doctor's office.

“Is there another person?” Regulus abruptly said, cutting into your steady breathing time. You looked up at him shocked, quickly shaking your head.

“Oh, no, no, no. No. I would never do that. I would never cheat on you guys.” You quickly rushed out, like Regulus might implode if you didn’t get it out fast enough. James moved to make a fast joke, pushing a small bit of the thick tension out the door with a broom.

“I haven’t been cheating. Have you, Reg?” James asked with a pained grin. Regulus knew his tactics, joining in to shove some of his anxiety behind a potted plant.

“Not that I’m aware of.” Regulus felt himself let out a strained laugh that came out more like a cat hacking up a hairball. You looked at them both with a worried look. Regulus wanted to settle your nerves, giving you his shining smile. Which was just him showing his teeth with dead eyes. You took a step back, holding both your hands up.

“Okay well don’t do that.” You whispered. Regulus relaxed his face. You shivered, shaking out your worries through your hands.

“I’m just going to say it. It’s a lot of words so maybe just sit quietly and let me spill.” You looked up at them both for their agreement. James sat up straighter, giving you all of his attention. Regulus kept his wide, slightly unsettling, eyes on you. You gave them both an awkward smile.

“I’m genderfluid. Which if you don’t know means my gender kind of flows through like all of them. I’m kind of worried about telling you this because I’m not entirely sure if you’ll still think of me the same.” Your voice cracked. You let out a breathy chuckle wagging your finger towards the ground.

“Oh you cheeky mother fucker, pull it together.” You whispered to yourself. You pushed your shoulders back, speaking again. “And it’s just a little frustrating and confusing because the whole time I’m just second-guessing myself. I just feel like no matter what I do I’m never a hundred percent confident in myself. It’s like I’m sitting there wondering-“

“wondering if you’re valid or if you made it all up?” Regulus asked, somehow making his eyes wider. You looked away from your fiddling hands to stare at him quizzically. You whispered the tiniest agreeance, James was shocked he still heard it. James decided to speak up and comfort your frustrations.

“It’s alright that you feel that way, darling. You’re entirely valid. We’ll love you no matter what, unless it’s murder-“

“Well-“

”No matter what. I want you to be your happiest, whether that be doing naked cartwheels in the backyard or making a fort under the kitchen table. Man, woman, something else, a nice mixture of both, I’m here for you. Confusion and frustration happen all the time it's alright. I think it’s important to just make sure you do whatever makes you happiest for that moment or day.” James explained. As he talked Regulus watched your shoulders sink with relaxation. Your anxious eyebrows slowly retreated back to their resting place, the worry lines on your forehead dissapeared again. James let out his own sigh, glad he got to relax his partner again.

“And on a different note, I’m trans myself so I support you on extreme levels,” James added, giving you a bright smile. Regulus scoffed next to him.

“Oh, you’re trans? Not we’re trans?” James clutched his pearls, reeling back to look at Regulus.

“Well, I’m not going to come out for you. I don’t know if you’re comfortable doing that. It’s not my story to tell.” James said, shaking his head at Regulus. Regulus muttered a few choice words at James under his breath as he turned back to you. You looked to have a million math problems in your head.

“So if we could just wrap back around, you’re both trans?” Regulus and James nodded at your question in sync. You sighed, looking around the living room. You placed your hands on your hips in exasperation.

“Just to clear everything up for those at home, I’ve walking around for weeks anxious up the wazoo for absolutely no reason?” Regulus and James glanced at each other.

“yeah.”

“it appears that way, yes.” Regulus watched you groan and drop your head in your hands.

“To throw my two cents in, it’s totally valid to feel a little discombobulated. Gender is hard and often it’s difficult to figure out what you’re truly feeling, it took me years to realize I wasn't nonbinary. It’s entirely okay that you feel like this.” Regulus said, releasing James’ hand from his grip. James’ shook his hand out, finally getting feeling back in his fingers. You gave Regulus a small smile.

“Regulus, love of my life, can I please eat your face?” Regulus smiled at you, nodding his head. You quickly made your way around the coffee table to lightly peck Regulus’ lips. You moved past Regulus to kiss James as well. You squeezed yourself between the two of them. Regulus rested his head on your shoulder, moving your hand to play with in his lap. James pressed himself against you, smushing his cheek against yours.

“I'm the love of your life too, right?” James asked, his words rolling onto your cheek. You hummed.

“Yes, Jamie.” Regulus interrupted your sweet moment.

“James, do me a favor and go get my ice cream.” James let out a loud gasp, jumping out of his seat and jogging towards the kitchen.

“My smoothie!” You wrapped your arms around Regulus, kissing his temple.

“I wasn’t insulting your shirt before, by the way.” You whispered into his hair. Regulus nodded against your arm.

“Is his smoothie worthy of stealing?” You muttered as quietly as you could so James didn’t hear you. Regulus let out a snort.

“Oh fuck no.” Regulus said before adding “I’ll give you a few bites of my ice cream.” You gasped, smacking a kiss to the apple of his cheek.

“You’re so kind.” Regulus groaned at your words.

“Not really being kind. It’s my reward for being brave, as James said. And I know that was probably scary for you so technically speaking you do deserve some of it. It has nothing to do with me it's just like the rules.” Regulus said, trying to cover up that he might actually have a heart.

“Right, the rules.” Regulus hummed. James soon returned with his smoothie and shockingly two bowls of ice cream. He handed one to you and one to Regulus. You three sat on the couch as you finished your sweet treats and smoothie. Even though technically speaking your reward was already given to you, Regulus’ spoon would randomly stick out toward you. You thanked Regulus with a peck on his cheek after each spoonful. Eventually, when his bowl was empty your spoon would jut out towards him, he was quite brave coming out to you today. James seemed to notice the food sharing, offering up a sip of his smoothie. You and Regulus both grimaced at him in sync before turning back to your bowl.

[ashthewaterghoul]

Mushy May Day 3: Nesting - Swiss/Phantom

Prompt list by @forlorn-crows can be found here All my Mushy May will be slightly shorter stories and can also be found on ao3 :) Words - 970 Phantom is pregnant in this btw (no one can tell me they wouldn't look so damn cute pregnant)

    Swiss came home from his duties in the music room one day to a very adorable sight that he simply watched from the doorframe for a while.

    His mate, Phantom, fussing about their nest as they decided the perfect spot for each pillow and blanket to be placed at. Their little determined face was very cute already but what made it even cuter was the hand on the swell of their belly that housed the life they made together.

    Contrary to what many would derive from Swiss’ history, the kit was entirely planned. They had been mated for about two years and, after a lot of discussion and careful consideration, they decided they both wanted a kit. It took a several months – not including the time to get Phantom weaned off their testosterone and hormone blockers - but when Swiss saw that bright little soul starting to grow inside Phantom, neither could wipe the cheek-burning smiles off their faces for days.

    Phantom was seven months along with their little Multi boy, and the nesting instincts were in full-swing. The bat plushies that usually sat in Phantom’s corner of the nest (easier to turn around or be covered so they couldn’t watch the mates… mating) now had to be placed in specific spots all around. The purple blanket that Swiss was given on his summoning day used to be at the bottom but now was rolled up to one side like a little wall to keep the world out. And there was of course the massive pregnancy pillow that Swiss had to compete with for Phantom’s affections.

    The angles of the blankets had to be perfect and the pillows had to be propped up just right. Phantom couldn’t explain what metric they were using other than sheer instinct as they moved everything around until it felt right. The pregnancy and changes to their body were, perhaps foolishly, more of a sensory nightmare than either of them expected so Swiss was happy to follow whatever they needed.

    Swiss stood and watched for a while until Phantom broke from their little nesting trance and saw their mate at the doorway.

    “Oh! Hey, love!” They smiled, tail wagging softly behind them.

    “Hey, lovebug. You okay?” He said as he came over to kiss them.

    They nodded as they kissed back. “I am now I’ve done all this.”

    “It looks fantastic. Can I climb in?”

    “Of course.” They said as they scooted back and made room for him. They both laid on their sides, facing each other with Phantom’s kit-bump pressing against Swiss’ own soft belly.

    “How has our little one been today?” He asked as he stroked the bump softly.

    “Been practicing his dance moves just like his Dada.” They trilled softly as their hand joined their mate’s on the bump.

    Swiss chuckled. “I hope he stretched properly beforehand. Don’t need him getting all my back and hip pain.”

    “He definitely stretched.” Phantom said as they reached for their phone and showed Swiss the video of the bump contorting as a foot pressed out against it, Phantom’s own voice in the background going “Oh, biiiiiiiiiig stretch.”

    Swiss purred at the video and leaned down to kiss the bump. As he came back up though, he disrupted a few blankets, a plushie toppled down and he pushed a pillow from its assigned spot.

    Phantom’s face pinched together with big sad eyes.

    “You moved it…” They quietly in what was quite possibly one of the saddest voices Swiss has ever heard from them.

    “Oh, fuck. Sorry, let me fix it.” Swiss said, kissing their forehead and helping them sit up. He moved everything back to his best recollection of how it was and looked to his mate. “How’s that?”

    Phantom swallowed and muttered: “It’s not right.” Their bottom lip coming forward a little in a pout that Swiss tried not to find too adorable as his mate was genuinely starting to get distressed over this.

    “Alright, tell me how to fix it.” Swiss said.

    “That blanket needs to be straighter.” They said as they pointed to the offending piece of bedding.

    “Okay… Like that?” Swiss asked as he followed his best interpretation of his mate’s instruction.

    They shook their head. “No, more towards me… Back a bit… Back… That way… Okay.” They said, their brows un-creasing some by the end.

    Swiss followed similar directions for the rest of the items that had shifted and carefully climbed back into the nest when everything was in order once more.

    “So what are we going to do when we fuck?” Swiss asked.

    They shrugged, “Fix it after.”

    “And what about the plushies?” Ever since their first time together, Swiss has known how much Phantom hated having their fluffy friends as tiny voyeurs.

    “We’ll just have to turn them all around.” They said again with a small shrug.

    Swiss tried not to roll his eyes as he thought about how long that may take, but again, he was happy to do whatever Phantom needed throughout this entire journey.

    “It’s a good job I love you.” He said with a smile and kissed them.

    “I love you too.” They smiled and kissed back.

    “I love you too, Babybel.” Swiss smiled as he caressed the bump once more, finding his hands usually did it of their own accord nowadays.

    The kit inside let his tiny hand whack the bump a few times where he could feel his Dada’s hand right there.

    The two Ghoul laughed softly as they felt it.

    “I think he loves you too.” Phantom said, looking at their mate's golden eyes with pure love and awe.

    As the two held each other, the kit making his presence known from time to time too, neither could wait for the day this scene played out with their kit wriggling and laughing between them.

[bardjaskier]

🩷 underdog recs 🩷

fics with less than 500 kudos on ao3

today's fandom: 9-1-1, relationships: buddie, gen. enjoy <3

~

a matter of time by kermytheefrog (tardigradeschool)

Rated T | Complete | 7k words

Eddie wakes from the sleep of the truly exhausted and registers mild surprise at being horizontal. His neck doesn't hurt. Buck is dead. The facts fade back in in that order and Eddie takes in a shuddering breath, reaching for Chris - who isn't there. He shoots upright, and hears a snort of laughter behind him. "Dude, you've reached levels of bedhead most of us could only dream of. Don't freak out, Chris woke up around midnight and I put him to bed, but you looked like you needed the sleep." Eddie turns his head slightly, and then he can't move. It's like some kind of fucked up sleep paralysis except instead of the hat man, it's the specter of his dead best friend. Who does not, in fact, seem to be dead. . Buck keeps dying. Eddie's the only one who seems to remember it.

~

I Am More Than Just a Sum of My Parts by Wouldratherbesleeping

Rated T | Complete | 12k words

It's not like he hid it or anything, he just didn’t think he needed to say it out loud. Like, they all live in L.A, he’ll work out in the firehouse, shirtless, with top surgery scars showing, and so Buck thought he was fine to not verbally come out. And then. The pharmacy where he’d been getting his testosterone shots for the past four years had a sudden shortage, and so Buck had gone on a deep dive on the differences between testosterone shots and T gel, and whether using it in a mixed rotation could mess you up. Anyway, Buck had agonized to Hen about it, and she had just looked at him weirdly. “What’s got you going down this medical rabbit hole, Buck?” She had asked. Buck had raised an eyebrow, because really? And when Hen had just stared at him blankly, it hit him. They didn’t know Buck was trans. 

~

Fractured Minds by Cryptocol

Rated M | Ongoing | 205k words

Buck has always been the charismatic, go-getter firefighter with a penchant for making people laugh and jumping headfirst into dangerous situations. But for years, something about him felt off—like a piece of himself was missing or out of place. As his life continues to unfold, he starts to notice strange gaps in his memory, moments where his behaviour shifts inexplicably, and flashes of emotions he doesn't understand. When Eddie Diaz, the new firefighter, joins the 118, he begins to feel a shift in his life. Eddie, with his steady and empathetic presence, doesn’t shy away when his struggles surface. Instead, Eddie becomes an anchor, slowly helping him peel back the layers of confusion and uncover the truth—Buck has Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). With the unwavering support of everyone at the 118, he finds the courage to trust himself, his system, and the people around him, finding the strength to open up and let others in. Through love, patience, and acceptance, he learns that healing doesn't mean repressing or fixing the different parts of himself - it means embracing them and finding a way to live with them.

~

kudos are great, but so are comments! if you don't know what to say, leave a pink heart in my stead 🩷

[squishmallowo]

EDIT: TME/TMA ARE NOT INTERSEXIST TERMS PLS STOP INTERACTING WITH ME IF YOU BELIEVE THIS THANK YOU - sincerely, an intersex person who actually listens to transfems (including intersex transfems) (no not tme people with pcos/ncah/whatever, you know what i mean)

anyways.. here's the original post:

i regularly see people talk about whether pcos should be considered an intersex condition or not.. and tbh, regardless of what you think, pcos (specifically the symptoms they call virilisation) is treated like an intersex condition in practice anyway

even if they don't actually use the word intersex, so many of the symptoms are completely harmless and instead they're defined by the fact that they're "male" characteristics on a "female", if that isn't intersex then idk what is! having the "wrong" sex characteristics according to society is how intersex is (or at least should be) defined

like hell even the term hirsutism on its own literally only exists because of intersexism, the literal definition of it is "male pattern hair growth"... that's literally just it, the only thing that makes it a "symptom" is being the wrong person to have this kind of hair growth

while intersexness does centre around physical traits, imo it's the way society treats us and reacts to our bodies that actually makes us intersex (as an identity and community), if i wasn't treated this way growing up (and still treated this way today!!), i would probably not have identified as intersex, i think it's important to keep this in mind when looking at how people decide what an intersex condition even is

so with that logic, it makes perfect sense for hyperandrogenic pcos to be considered intersex, the only reason why it isn't is because society benefits from having a large group of women to put below other women while still telling them they have a chance to be "normal" like other women, as long as they put the effort into it.. (by making them spend thousands on stuff like hair removal, weight loss, fertility treatments, anti-androgens, surgery, etc!)

them identifying as intersex in any way completely breaks the illusion, it separates the "male" features from the actually bad symptoms, people would start to question why they have to put themselves through so much effort rejecting their bodies just to be seen as normal, and ofc society does not want that, especially because it makes a lot of money to keep things this way

even the way pcos is diagnosed reeks of this, you could easily be diagnosed with it even if your only problem is high androgens and nothing else (i've been told to get checked for pcos for the crime of: simply having more testosterone than average)

if you tell someone their perfectly harmless features are actually part of this scary disorder that needs treatment then it suddenly becomes a lot easier to manipulate them into finding a "cure" for these harmless features, the pathologisation of intersex features is a huge part of what makes intersex an identity in the first place..

not only that, but ncah (a condition that's more commonly accepted as intersex) is almost always misdiagnosed as pcos, if pcos can look almost exactly like an intersex condition, it is probably intersex. i most likely have ncah, not pcos, and it's treated as almost the same especially before it's actually diagnosed as ncah

and if nothing else, if the intersex "symptoms" of pcos could somehow be found out at birth, and could be "fixed" by a surgery, they absolutely would do it (something that so many intersex children have to suffer through), the only reason why they don't is because they can't, if that isn't enough proof on its own that pcos can be intersex then idk what is!!

the experience of being pathologised for having the "wrong" sex characteristics (both primary and secondary) is what makes intersex a community and grouping these "symptoms" in with actually bad symptoms under one syndrome is not by accident!

[dizzyyeti]

Hilson t4t. Huddy t4t. I will not be stopped

There is something so tender and personal to me about t4t Hilson giving each other their testosterone shots… 

ALSO. I WANT TO WRITE T4T HUDDY AGAIN SO BAD. IF I GET A GOOD IDEA YOU WILL BE SEEING ME AGAIN .

(CONTENT WARNING FOR NEEDLES & SEXUAL TENSION (nothing actually happens I just always write them with tension LMFAO) UNDERNEATH THE CUT)

“I’m surprised you decided to show up.” Was the first thing Wilson had said as he turned around to see House walking through the exam room door. 

House had opened the door with haste; but paused, slowing his movements as he took in the scene unfolding before him.

“You said there was a consult…” House stated, his voice trailing off. His suspicious, squinted stare took account for everything- even a lack thereof- situated in the room. 

The empty space on the exam table, the packaging littered across the limited counter space; and Wilson snapping on latex gloves. 

“Woah there! Wilson, maybe we should sit down and have a proper discussion about kink in the-”

“House.” Wilson sighed through his speech and turned, facing the other man with a syringe in his hand. “It’s testosterone.”

House shifted in his spot and studied the object in his hands. Pursing his lips together, he tilted his head to the side.

“Well, if you had started with that I would’ve known that’s what you meant! Whew,” House threw his free hand into the air, slapping it dramatically on his good leg with a dramatic, forced laugh. He approached Wilson, hovering over his shoulder as he watched him prepare the shot. 

“I thought you had a nurse do this for you, what happened to her?” House asked, his face barely parallel to Wilson’s ear.

“There’s a thing called personal space, House. I know you hate to give me any, but…” Wilson stood up straight, and spun on his heel, their noses only inches from each other.

House’s lips were gently- just barely- parted, his breath soft against him. Wilson hesitated in his movements, losing his stare in House’s eyes. They held eye contact for a brief moment, Wilson’s expression hazy and flustered. 

Wilson let go of the breath he was holding as he took House’s shoulders and forcefully guided him to the exam table, hitting the cushion with a great force and a light grunt of protest from House. 

Though Wilson’s focus was lingering, House kept his glare steady on the other man. Peeling his glance away from House, he could feel him watching the way his cheeks reddened, his eyes unsteady and unfocused.

He fumbled with the needle cap, setting it carefully next to House.

“She- she was busy today. I didn’t… wanna wait to get this done,” Wilson took House’s shirt with his free hand, lifting it up. 

“I can do this myself.” House muttered, his stare unrelenting as Wilson positioned the needle.

“I could understand if you paged me here to perform your shot, but-” House cut himself off as Wilson stuck the needle in his side, holding back a subtle wince.

“You could’ve at least warned me!” House seethed, flexing his shoulders as soon as Wilson pulled back from him. 

“You can get your revenge in a second.” Wilson’s composure seemed to return as he walked away to discard of the syringe, letting House’s shirt drop. He could practically feel House’s eyes glued to the back of his head, steady and curious. 

“Okay. My turn!” House exclaimed after a beat of intense silence, holding onto his cane that had been propped up against the table to help him stand.

Wilson sat himself where House once was, pulling his dress shirt out from where it was tucked neatly in his pants.

“I checked the nurse schedule today. You’re a liar,” House said as he turned with the prepped needle, waving it lightly in the air with an annoyed stature before moving closer to Wilson. 

“Wh- Why did you- when did you check!?” Wilson sputtered, any more words trying to form covered up by his embarrassed stammers. 

“Before I came in. Why else would you page me to an exam room? You know I’d never come for an actual consult,” House paused his sentence to pull the cap of the needle off with his teeth, spitting it carelessly to the side. The cap hit the floor with a loud clatter, and he propped his cane back up next to Wilson.

“So it had to be for something you needed help with. I just didn’t expect you’d have a shot for me as well- not that I’m complaining, it was very thoughtful of you.”

Wilson could hear the sarcasm laced in House’s voice- it was subtle, and he knew most of what he said was true- and though House discovering his lie wasn’t necessarily surprising, it caught him off guard. 

“By the way,” House started, sticking the needle into Wilson’s side after taking some of his stomach in his hands, 

“I lied. I didn’t check the schedule- I did it to set you off, which helped distract you. Finding out you lied too was just a bonus. You wanted me to do this for you," House held back a smile, keeping his eyes steady on Wilson’s side. He finished the injection with ease, and turned back around with his cane when Wilson started to protest.

“You- What!? You lied? How did you- why-!?” Wilson held onto the sides of the exam bed, his face flushed more than ever. 

“A hunch.” House shrugged, holding back a grin as Wilson furrowed his brows. 

“You’re a jerk,” Wilson spat, but the anger in his tone wasn’t there. In fact, House could almost see a hint of gladness in his embarrassed complexion, and that was enough for him.

“Love you too!” 

[polo-drone-001]

Golden Muscle Marathon: Ezan vs. Captain Hamza – The Ultimate Showdown

The Golden Army gym pulsed with raw energy, thick with sweat, testosterone, and anticipation. The challenge had been set. Ezan vs. Captain Hamza, the two most massive, cocky, and overpoweringly dominant Golden Arabs on the team, were going head-to-head in the most brutal, ego-driven, hyper-masculine lifting contest the Army had ever witnessed.

It wasn’t just about proving who was stronger. Every rep, every flex, every impossible feat of muscle-bound arrogance was driving donations to fund elite fitness programs for underprivileged youth.

The gym lights bounced off their bronzed, sweat-slicked bodies, their golden compression shorts stretched impossibly tight over their thick, powerful thighs. Every step they took radiated dominance, their cocky smirks daring each other to break first. But these weren’t men who broke. They conquered.

The Challenge Begins

Ezan cracked his knuckles, rolling his massive shoulders, confidence dripping from every word. “Yo, Herc, you sure about this, bro? You ready to watch me lift your legacy into the dirt?”

Captain Hamza, Herc himself, the undisputed beast of the Golden Army, just grinned, rolling up his sleeves to reveal veins like steel cables, biceps thick enough to crush skulls. “Bro, the only thing getting lifted today is your sorry ass off the ground when you collapse.”

They started with bench presses, loading plates like they were weightless. Three plates? Child’s play. Four? Warm-up. Seven? Still too easy. By the time they were pressing nine plates, the entire gym had stopped their own training, watching in awe as these two Golden Gods outlifted reality itself.

Then came the real insanity.

Ezan grinned, calling over one of the bros. “Sit on the bar.”

Hamza scoffed, shaking his head. “Weak. Watch this.”

Two more bros hopped onto the bar. Hamza benched them with one arm.

The gym exploded in cheers and laughter. The cameras rolled. The donations surged.

Ezan, always the showoff, grabbed two Golden Bros by the waist and started curling them, flexing his massive golden chest, winking straight into the camera. “You sweating already, bro?”

Hamza wiped his dripping beard, his scent thick, musky, intoxicating, pure, unfiltered dominance. “Only ‘cause your weak-ass cologne stings my eyes, bro.”

Lifting Beyond Limits

The regular weights weren’t enough. They moved to the Golden Dumbbells, solid gold, engraved with ancient runes of power, each one heavier than a small car.

Hamza hoisted one overhead, veins bulging, traps straining, muscles shaking with raw power. “BROOOOOO!!”

Not to be outdone, Ezan lifted one in each hand. “BROOOOOOOO!!!” His golden eyes glowed, his massive pecs dripping sweat, every fiber of his body flexed to inhuman perfection.

Then came the ultimate challenge.

Hamza pointed outside. “Bet you can’t deadlift a car, pussy.”

Ezan arched an eyebrow, grinning like a demon. “Make it two.”

And they did.

With bystanders recording in absolute disbelief, the two Golden Gods positioned themselves under not one, but TWO Golden Army SUVs. With primal roars, legs shaking, backs arched, quads pumped like stone pillars, they lifted. The metal groaned under their grip, the gym flooded with the scent of sweat, musk, and unstoppable power.

The donation counter surged past $50,000.

They didn’t stop until their muscles screamed for mercy.

The Final Flex-Off

Hours later, exhausted, drenched, pumped beyond belief, they collapsed onto the benches, golden compression shorts soaked with sweat, their veins throbbing, their chests rising and falling like battle drums.

Hamza smirked, wiping sweat from his beard. “Admit it, bro. I won.”

Ezan grinned, shaking his head. “Nah, bro. The real winners?” He pointed at the donation board.

The entire gym turned to look. $75,000 raised.

The crowd erupted in applause.

The Golden Army had done it again, turning their obsession with flexing, lifting, and pure, raw masculinity into something truly legendary.

Ezan sat up, smirking into the camera. “Aight, bros. Who’s next? Who’s stepping up to train like a real Golden God?”

Hamza flexed hard, his biceps stretching his golden compression sleeves to the brink of destruction. “You wanna be a beast? You wanna be like us? Step the fuck up.”

🔥 Join the Golden Army. Train like a god. Dominate the game. DM us, or hit up @polo-drone-001 @goldenherc9 @brodygold to get started. The Gold awaits you.

[loverhymeswith]

Let's Be Alone Together || Part Three

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x F!Reader

Summary: After being rejected by Tommy, your attempt at avoiding him fails miserably

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: Mentions of death, smoking, angst, Tommy being Tommy

A/N: When I originally planned this chapter, it was going to be much longer, but I ran out of time before going on vacation and I didn’t want to leave you all hanging. Thank you so much for all the love and support for this story. There are at least 2 more chapters on the way. Shout out to @a-reader-and-a-writer for the beta-read and invaluable suggestions as always 💖

Masterlist

The bookmakers on Watery Lane is eerily quiet. Silent in fact, which is a rare occasion indeed. The building is usually a hive of activity, the air full of cigarette smoke and testosterone, of quick tempers and over-inflated egos. 

But today, it’s just you.

Today, the Shelbys are at the races. 

Despite invitations from both Polly and Arthur, you had been firm in your decision to stay behind after taking the morning’s bets. As far as the family is concerned, you have a migraine. However, the truth is that after Tommy’s behaviour the other night, you have been mindful to stay out of his way. 

Spending the afternoon taking stock in the betting shop seemed like a far safer option than being in the vicinity of Tommy Shelby and his expensive suit on race day. The longer you go without seeing him, the easier it is to convince yourself that his rejection - his dismissal - doesn’t hurt. That you’re not ashamed and embarrassed for suggesting that you might have wanted him to come home with you. Even if at the time it had been true.

The longer you go without seeing Tommy Shelby, the easier it is to convince yourself that you don’t want him.

Hearing the telltale sound of the front door unlocking, you look up from your desk, a jolt of panic nudging you out of boredom. With the exception of Finn and the handful of loyal foot soldiers tasked with keeping watch over the Shelby empire, everyone else is at Cheltenham.

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear”, you mutter under your breath when a pair of piercing blue eyes meet yours across the room.

Missing either the irritation in your voice or the comment altogether, Tommy strides into the room, a cigarette resting between his plump lips as he surveys his surroundings. “Any trouble this morning?” he asks around the cigarette.

You shake your head. As far as race days go, today has been particularly quiet. By now, the local gambling men know better than to cause trouble on Shelby soil.

Tommy hums under his breath, starting to remove his dark woollen coat and jacket. You ignore the lump forming in your throat as you realise this isn’t a flying visit. Something or someone has brought him back to Small Heath. 

It proves a struggle to return your attention to the ledger before you. Your eyes are unwillingly drawn away from the small handwritten numbers, focusing instead on Tommy as he sinks into the chair opposite. An expensive suit indeed, judging by how perfectly the clothes are cut to his powerful body. 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Tommy observes, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray between you. When you don’t reply, he adds, “And now you’re ignoring me, eh?”

Rising to the bait, you level him with your best attempt at a Shelby glare. “What do you want, Tommy? Haven’t you got someplace better to be? I thought your horse was racing today.”

As usual, Tommy doesn’t respond immediately. A heavy silence stretches out as he watches you intently, his lips ever so slightly parted as he carefully considers his next words. 

Slowly, he blinks. “We need to have a talk.”

“Sounds serious,” you scoff. But the humour is a front. In reality, your heart is pounding, your fingers clenching the folds of your skirt beneath the desk as you wait for him to continue.

After another beat of silence, Tommy reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a roll of notes. You follow his hands, calloused and scar-flecked, as he stretches across the table, placing the money in front of you.

“What’s this?” You raise a brow, discomfort rapidly spreading through your stomach as you try to make sense of the gesture. “You know I’m not one of your whores. The other night…”

You trail off when a burst of white-hot anger flashes through Tommy’s blue eyes. Then it’s gone just as quickly and he clears his throat. “That’s why I want you to take the money.” When it becomes obvious he’s not making any sense, he elaborates. “You don’t belong here.”

Your heart sinks as his words register, recognising this for the familiar Tommy Shelby ploy that it is: throw money at a problem until it goes away.

“You’re trying to get rid of me.” 

Tommy blinks again, his mouth a thin line neither confirming nor denying the accusation.  It’s a struggle, but you manage to temper down the hurt, matching his stoic expression. “Why?” 

Tommy lights another cigarette before replying. It gives you time to run through the myriad of reasons why he wouldn’t want you around. Eventually, you settle on the most obvious explanation: the other night, you overstepped the mark. He simply doesn’t want you.

A cloud of smoke escapes his parted lips as he leans forward in his seat, his eyes never leaving yours. “Birmingham isn’t safe.”

“Oh come on, you think I don’t know that?” You shake your head, fighting the sting of angry tears. “It’s been two years since you brought me here. For my safety, if I recall. A promise to a dying man… Do you intend to break that promise now?”

A muscle in Tommy’s jaw ticks, the only indication your words have any effect on him. “Times are changing. We have more enemies now. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“You’ve always had enemies, Tommy. So why now? Who are you really trying to protect me from?”

Yourself?

The unspoken answer hangs in the air between you, the heaviness an indication of its truth. Tommy blinks rapidly, his mouth closing firmly as he inclines his head. You’ve hit a nerve. “I hear Sheffield is nice.”

“Sheffield?” You laugh bitterly. “You’re not even going to give me a choice, are you? Let me guess, you have a family lined up for me to go and stay with. People - friends - who will keep an eye on me and report back when the guilt becomes too much for you to bear. You’ve probably arranged a husband for me while you’re at it.”

“You’ve got me all figured out, eh?” He leans back in his chair and takes a long drag of the cigarette. 

The haze of white smoke obscures him from view just long enough for you to compose yourself. “You really are a piece of work, Thomas. Did it ever cross your mind to consider what I might want?”

As his tongue darts out, wetting his lips, you force yourself to maintain eye contact. Looking away would be a sign of weakness and you can’t afford to let your guard down around him. Not again. 

“And what is it that you want?” he asks, too patiently.

At the end of your tether, you push back your chair and rise to your feet, fists clenched. “You want to know what I want?”

Tommy nods slowly, his sharp gaze following you as you round the table and come to stand before him. 

“I want to know what’s really going on inside your head. I want to know what changed since we left the restaurant the other night. I want to know why you-”

“You deserve someone better.”

His abrupt admission startles you into silence and you stagger backwards, desperately trying to make sense of his words. You heard them the other night when he was referring to Lewis Powell, but now…

You wanted the truth but you hadn’t really expected him to offer it so willingly. And now that you have it, you’re not sure what to do with it.

Tommy stubs out his cigarette and rises smoothly. He’s standing before you, mere inches separating the two of you as his eyes rapidly dart across your face. Whatever semblance of control he had earlier is quickly slipping away. “You talk of being alone. Well, I feel the same way. And sometimes, I think that maybe we could be alone together.”

You let out a quiet breath, your head continuing to spin with every new revelation. “So what’s the problem?”

“You know what the problem is.” Tommy's eyes shutter, as if the thought alone causes him pain. “I made a promise to your husband.”

“Who is dead,” you snap, despising the harsh words even as they rush from your mouth. “He left me. And now you’re going to do the same thing. Don’t think for one minute that you’re being an honorable man by sending me away, Thomas Shelby. You’re just a coward. You’re a -”

Before you can finish, Tommy reaches out, cupping your jaw with his large, warm hands. Firm but gentle, he forces you to look into his eyes, the action so intimate, so unlike the Tommy you have come to know. 

“You’re right.” He smooths his thumbs over the tears now freely running down your cheeks. “You're right. But only when it comes to you.”

Taglist: @a-reader-and-a-writer @crysxtal @butterfly-lover @sunshineyourethebesttime @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake @breezy2and2freezy

[cumulo-stratus]

Trypanophobia

Request- yes/no

Pairing- Spencer Reid x FtM!reader

Summary- spencer helps you with your T shots because your fear of needles is getting in the way <3

Warnings- Needles, discussions of fear of needles, Spencer being a pookie bear 🫶

A/N- thank you so much for the request lovie!! We love a good ftm reader ☺️🫶 and thank you everybody for all the love recently, I've had a lot of fun writing more often!!

wc- 1.1k

This wasn't supposed to happen. 

It wasn't supposed to go like this. 

Spencer was supposed to be there with you. 

The needle shook between your fingers, you could barely hold it with how intense your hands trembled. You tried to ground yourself by focusing on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, the perpetual sound of the whirring fan above you. But the shaking wouldn't stop, you even tried your other grounding strategies, recommended by Spencer's bubbly coworker, penelope. But you couldn't get the needle straight- and you probably wouldn’t. But you had to try. 

Ill tell you, trying didn't work- you couldn't stop spiraling at the idea of a sharp object piercing your skin. And now you were left with a still full of testosterone needle on the floor next to you, tear stained cheeks, and a boyfriend who wasn’t supposed to be home for at least another four or five hours. It was a sticky situation and you were left reeling at the fact that this would have to be done at some point. You didn't want the little testosterone you could afford to go to waste, after all, the FBI is not as lucrative of a career as one might think, and you don't get paid to go to university.

You were so caught up in your own thoughts, and doubts to hear the sound of the door to your apartment opening and closing again. 

Spencer. 

Your saving grace Spencer, as he always was and always would be found you sitting on the floor of the tiny bathroom, leaning against the toilet and crying with a needle in your hand. Spencer's mind immediately went to the worst, his own fears and experiences flooding his memory- but then he saw the little bottle labeled ‘Testosterone’, and lots of other little labels he couldn't read. 

“Oh darling what happened? come ’ere.”

Spencer opened his arms and invited you to lean into him, just as you often did. but today you needed it more than most days. 

“I- I i’m sorry- i shou-“

“don’t apologize- we all have hard days, just tell me what happened okay love?”

you nodded, knowing there was no arguing when he shuts down your apologies like that. his hands started rubbing up and down your back in a soothing motion, trying to calm the occasional sob that still bubbled up. You took a breath before responding, trying not to let your voice crack when you spoke. 

“i tried spencer- i tried so hard to do it on my own- but I can't. And I know I should, it's just a needle it's not that big a deal! but- but-“

Words tumbled from your lips so fast that your brain could barely keep up, but you were interrupted again by Spencer pressing his lips to yours, effectively stopping you from rambling any further. When he pulled away there was a smile on his face, and you couldn't stop the small, sorrowful smile that slipped onto your lips when he kissed you. Spencer's kisses always did that, they always made you smile.

“slow down handsome, i'll do it for you it's okay,”

Spencer's tone was soft and caring, his voice never failed to quiet your thoughts. But you still couldn't bring yourself to look in his eyes- old habits die hard and accepting help from others, especially when you were vulnerable like this was a hard drug to kick.

“Are you sure? you don’t have to if you don't want to- don’t feel like you have to,”

Spencer just chuckled and picked up the needle from its fallen place on the white tile, his encyclopedic knowledge coming in handy, allowing him to know how to properly clean and handle the needle.

Spencer decided to lead you from the bathroom and onto the large, plush couch which offered much more comfort than the bathroom floor. He made sure your left leg was hanging off the couch and that your shorts were pushed up so he had access to it your upper, outer, thigh. All his motions were gentle and intentional, carefully trying to make the experience as comfortable as possible despite your fear of needles. 

Spencer could still sense the doubt in your eyes at the notion of him doing so much for you, but he put that to rest by taking your hand in his and placing a kiss on the knuckles and reassuring you, “You know i don't mind taking care of you, you know- i actually enjoy it. You're my prince, I'm gonna treat you like it-” Spencer had an almost bashful smile on his lips when he spoke, causing you to blush.

“i know- i just dont think im ever gonna get used to it,”

Your comment made Spencer chuckle as he did the final preparations for your injection, he was honestly more giddy then you were for your first shot. But Spencer had always been one of your biggest supporters in your transition.

“Alright I'm gonna count to three, and do the shot on three, ready?”

You nodded and steeled yourself, turning your head the other direction so you wouldn't have to look at it. With everything set, spencer began to count.

“1…2…3…”

Spencer poked you with the needle on two.

You yelped and turned to Spencer with an incredulous look on your face, mouth agape at his perceived betrayal. Your boyfriend smirked, leaving a peck on your cheek before saying, “ baby your muscles were gonna be tensed and it would’ve hurt more if I did it on three- I did it all out of love,”. The playful tone of Spencer's voice matched his expression, and you mirrored it- all notions of betrayal forgotten for Spencer's soft touch as he pulled you into his arms for a bone crushing hug. 

“I'm proud of you, you know. Trypanophobia affects 1 in 4 adults, and you have to do this everyday now! you’re so strong, even if you need some help sometimes..”

Spencer punctuates his statement with a meaningful kiss to your lips, holding your hands as he does. His palms radiate heat into your own slightly chilly extremities. Spencer was practically a human heater, and you always took advantage of it in times like this. 

You eventually pulled away for air with a smile, but it fell again and you leaned your head back with a groan. Immediately spencer was worried he’d done something wrong, but his worries dissipated when you spoke again,

“I'm gonna have to do this everyday! for the next who knows how long,”

You punctuated your complaint with a groan, your head flopping back forward to smush your face into your boyfriend's shoulder, muffling the groan. Spencer just chuckled and placed a small kiss on your scalp, and mumbling,

“And i'll be there for every one of them.”

The End