#is this self-indulgence/projection? absolutely

[goodluckclove]

clove my kind comrade. i have a very emotional writing advice question for you. this turned kinda long, i apologize

i've been working on college applications these last few months, with the majority of that time taking the form of essay writing. and in these months it has been discovered that, at least to my dad's standards, my normal nonfiction prose writing skills are absolutely abysmal. i would write a draft, think i had everything pretty much shiny and complete, only to have everything i had worked so hard to finish absolutely picked to shreds by my dad and told i needed to start over. and there's nuance to this; i do quite literally forget a lot of writing tips and processes that worked for me, and it took last week's adhd diagnosis 17 years too late for me to stop hating myself for not being able to write a 300 word essay in a week. but this has left deep scars on my psyche and sent me for the most intense mental heath loop ive had in years.

that all contributed to a very intense anxiety ive developed about writing. i'll open a wip (or hell start writing an ask) and i will feel such a sense of dread. it's like i'm reaching into an oven that i know i've burned myself on so many times before. i can barely write a sentence before i start overthinking things too much and give up. this is specifically talking about my own personal writing. five minutes ago i opened my most self-indulgent wip that only four people on earth would ever be allowed to see and felt such an overwhelming fear of "what if it's bad". "what if it doesn't read this way to people". i've never had that before. i write what i write, and it's generally pretty damn good. but the anxiety i have about these stupid college essays has bled into MY work, MY own fun projects.

essentially, what i'm asking you is if you can offer any advice of how to conquer this anxiety. i know that an essay and a gay little fanfiction are fundamentally different things that cannot be equated with each other, and i know that other people's opinion on what is ultimately a self indulgent project can be easily and happily disregarded. but i can't have a self indulgent project if i can't even bring myself to physically write it.

this turned into a vent lmao. i hope you and Wife and the cats are doing splendidly.

Hi Bas! This ask made me deeply angry when I read it last night! Shame from artists, especially young artists just starting out in life and in their craft, apparently provokes a pretty deep rage in my soul.

I'm fine now. I'm at a coffee shop. Thank you for a pretty vulnerable and heartfelt insight into your brain-space, and I'm going to give it a pretty long and ramble-y response because that's what it deserves - and honestly, you've known me for long enough that I'm sure you kind of assume this is what's coming. Before that, though, I get the sense you're pretty anxious and drained. In the name of meeting your sincerity I would like to offer a look at the drawing my surrogate child demanded I draw for them after they saw the terrible Sonic the Hedgehog I drew from memory last night. Their prompt was "T4T Sonic/Shadow"

What do you think? I gave Shadow a wallet chain. I've never drawn fan art before but I do think going forward I'm going to give most, if not every famous IP I draw a wallet chain. This made me grin a lot because it's so fucking weird. Also it's not canon. Canonically Shadow would not smoke a blunt. Canonically Shadow the Hedgehog vapes.

Okay I made myself properly silly time for business. Come follow me into a hypothetical situation so I can talk to you (and anyone in your position - which is a lot of people your age) more intimately.

Okay, so I'm at a new coffee shop. It's open concept, fairly minimal an industrial in decor. I'm in this seated nook in the back at a bench by a large round table. The lighting is soft. There's a lot of plants and the baristas are like kind of anti-social which usually means the coffee is going to be great or pretty bad. Luckily it's the former - I got this iced maple cardamom latte. They have other drinks too. Tea. Your usual coffee varieties. They have a rosemary syrup you can put in lattes that I might try if I feel like I want another coffee later. Take my card and order something. I'll wait here.

You're back? What'd you get?

Mm. Fuck. I should've gotten that too. Nevermind, it's fine. I'll probably come back here again.

Okay, so college essays. I'm going to go ahead and just open by saying that college essays are absolutely not the same as nonfiction prose. Flat out, end of sentence. They're aren't apples and oranges - it's like comparing an apple and a used 2007 Honda Accord.

Good nonfiction means different things to different people. I personally enjoy a bit of humor and love for a subject, even if it's mundane to most of society. My wife prefers a Wikipedia-level of dry Academia. Different strokes.

College admission essays, however, are not good. They're really not. From a vague amount of research it seems this has been an issue for decades now.

You can still write like a bad college essay, don't get me wrong. Something riddled with typos or dribbled out by a generative AI. But if you look a little bit at what the people who actually check applications are, it seems the spectrum isn't "bad to great" as much as it is "bad to fine". My own college essay was some bullshit about how I learned about myself and the world around me by going to the grocery store before school and buying a baguette to have for lunch. It was stupendously mediocre. I got into college.

There's a lot of reasons for this. It could be because the average 17-18 year old isn't given the tools or opportunity to write really solid nonfiction - probably because the society we live in doesn't expect them to have anything to contribute in that way, but that's beside the point. You're taught essays. Ways to format papers that, from what I gather, only really apply in academic settings. When I was in high school the average essay had pretty stark parameters students were expected to follow, and from what I've heard those parameters have only gotten more specific.

With all that in mind, I understand why you're freaked out. If you look up tips on solid college essays the advice is like just comically vague. Be authentic! Focus on deeper themes! Pose a philosophical question! That last one actually made me laugh out loud when I read it, because it's so insanely discordant compared to how I've seen people you're age be treated. To go straight from people assuming you need your hand held on nearly anything to having a person say "Hey solve nihilism in 450 words " is baffling.

There's real advice in this odd, clickbait-y quips. You shouldn't feel like you have to play a character or pretend to be something you don't want to do, because that comes across in the text pretty easily. You should consider exploring a topic, because it reveals more about you as a person and that's valuable to the application as a whole. You - I'm going to go out and say you don't need to pose any sort of philosophical quandary at all, actually. That's a pretty wild thing to ask a huge portion of New Adults to be able to do.

So this isn't nonfiction. This isn't a think piece or a memoir, even though people might compare it to both. This is closer to a cover letter. You should still try, but do so knowing this is separate from your skills as a writer. Once you do that, you'll hopefully be able to relax enough to actually let your character slip into the work. What you mainly want to do is express a sense of your voice and sort of imply an idea of the type of presence you would be as a student at your school of choice. That's the point of the application as a whole. It's not going to win a Pulitzer. It would be truly, very weird if an admissions essay won a Pulitzer.

The other thing that I think might be making you and people in your shoes feel crazy is that you're in the period of your life when a lot of adults around you are going to say just the wackest nonsense. Oh this application determines the rest of your life! The stakes have never been higher! This is your future! You're setting the entire course of the rest of your life right now, somehow!

That obviously is also not true. Next year will be a decade since I graduate high school, and I still actually have no idea why some people had that level of intensity. It strikes me as incredibly counter-productive. I explained this to my kid, and they were shocked when I told them how many paths there are to get a higher education. You can get your first few years at a community college and then go to a university. You can go to a polytech school (They make them for the arts too! my brother went to Cogswell and it was such a cool campus) and get straight into industry experience. You might get into a university and transfer to a different one because it has a better program or opportunity.

All of these are cool. Not going to college is also cool, although it comes with other pitfalls. You can also go to college later on down the line. If you haven't figured it out yet, existing in the world is actually really flexible and open in terms of life choices. A college application, essay included, is not likely to play a huge part in the grand scheme of your life. The results of this will give you a sort of better understanding of your options for a plan for the next - like - year, maybe? It won't even determine it. It's more of a cool, maybe or a cool, I guess not right now situation.

It's also way harder for most people to work with a smaller word count. Less words mean less margin for error. That's stressful. You aren't a failure for struggling to write 300 words in a week when you can't choose the parameters of the writing, can't change the deadline, and probably have a bunch of people saying how crazy important all this is. Those are batshit work conditions for someone who doesn't have ADHD.

For someone who does, I can see how easily this would warp the perspective you have on everything else you do. Being picked apart by someone who hasn't been where you are in like 20+ years but still expects you to take their words as gospel? Confusing! Maybe feeling the inexplicable need to compare yourself to any published nonfiction you've read and loved, even though this isn't even nonfiction - and if it was, those writers have definitely been working in the genre longer than just goddamned now.

I think I've told a few people your age that this is the point where you kind of have to pick and choose how often you listen to the adults in your life. That feels irresponsible for me to say, but I do stand by it. When it comes to the transition between high school and college, most established adults are just crazy biased. Maybe because they raised you. Maybe because they're blinded by nostalgia and think that high school was the best part of their lives. Maybe they aren't familiar with the work you want to go into and what's needed to get a start in it. Or they could just straight up not understand how the college system works now.

It is such bullshit that you eventually have to craft a sense of internal intuition out of essentially nothing but it is a thing. It takes time, though. I won't pretend like you can make it happen immediately right now.

What matters is that you're okay. I promise you that - you're okay. Looking you straight in the eye, Bas, you're a good writer. Not "good for your age", I have read enough of your actual writing to know that you're pretty solid already. I've also read enough of your posts and had conversations with you to know for certain that if you wanted to pursue nonfiction you'd be pretty good at it right off the bat. This would be under the usual standards of a nonfiction writer, of course - meaning you get to pick the length, subject, and when you finish it.

You are in the unfortunate period of going through multiple transitions at once. It's hard enough to navigate the way relationships change when people decide (or struggle to process) how you're an "adult" now (also not really true in a lot of ways, but that's another ramble). But going so long under the assumption of having a Default Brain Experience and then realizing that all of the struggles you assumed were normal are actually an imbalance of chemicals is jarring.

It's treatable, yes. Once you get on a medication that helps with the dopamine everything is immeasurably easier, holy shit. But even then it's still painful at times because the difference is so palpable you sometimes stop and think why did it take so long for me to be able to have this? Why did no one see I was struggling? That was my experience, at least.

This is a crucial point in life where you have to be extra kind to yourself however you can. Once you get on stimulants, if you go that way, drink a lot of water and remember to eat (Some of them can make appetite wonky and I think they all dehydrate you). Be careful with caffeine because they do make you more sensitive to that. Maybe like just stop thinking about whether or not your writing is bad or doesn't work in certain ways because I am a Professional Writer and those kinds of thoughts have literally never been helpful to me. When they pop up in my brain I literally say "no" and force myself to think about something else.

Whether your writing is "good" is not an actual question. Is it coherent and does it contain a noticeable and unique voice? Yes. Is it what you want? I can't answer that, but if you say no the way to fix that is usually read more/write more/think more/share with other more.

Also does it read the way it should to other people? Stop it. Don't worry about that yet. You have to finish the damn thing or else it won't read any way to anyone. So much of writing is Second Draft You's problem.

Anyways that's all I have to say. My heart goes out to you for being pulled in so many directions. From my own experience it gets slightly easier once you submit the apps, but people do continue saying dumb nonsense until like midway into your first year in college. And if you end up leaving college for some reason or another people will keep occasionally saying dumb nonsense. But usually by then you're more equipped to ignore them.

You're going to be okay. You are an intelligent, insightful, artistically capable and deeply kind individual. Whether you share your thoughts and make your stories, true or not, through text or art or a mix of both, you have so much to offer. Just remember that.

Also I'm hungry. I've been writing this for a while and I didn't get any work done on the painting for my wife, but it's almost noon and I didn't have breakfast. There's an American Chinese place near here and they have pretty cheap lunch specials. Come on, get your stuff and let's take a break.

Mongolian beef yum yum.

[tiniest-hands-in-all-the-land]

Heyooo! I spent the last year creating an incredibly self indulgent Ronadora Pinup calendar!

❤💜Pre0rder here!! ❤💜

I'm putting them up for preorder from today (12/06/23) to 12/16/23! Orders are to United States only, for now. This is my first time selling, so plz be kind ;w;

(And shoutout to @biscuitgeekery for the awesome product photos!)

[bean5prouts]

more dating sim stuff that i’m posting as a Special Treat - here’s arthur, guinevere, mordred and dinadan!

[motivation-ga-shinderu]

the price of recognition

[logicpng]

also finding out about re:curse, that involves an organization named aster, shortly after deciding the virtual assistant/system manager/antivirus character im working out will Also be named aster, was oddly funny to me

anyway i guess he felt like today was a good day to make a bad decision /j

[somethingnurseywoulddo]

Cicadas are singing their song in the near distance, an orchestra of thousands surrounding Will-- a singular. The porch is slightly damp from August's evening rain, humidity capturing water into the wood even hours later. None of that bothers him. He's lost in the lights high above him in the night sky, or maybe he's just lost in his own head. It's a differentiation he hasn't been able to make yet.

It's almost torture when he sits out on this porch. No one but him and the crescent moon, nothing besides the condensation of his beer in his hand. Almost as if Will was back in Maine sitting on the porch of his childhood home. Back then, he wasn't out there alone on purpose. Nothing in that small town fit his big emotions so he'd take his heart and spill it out to the stars in order to keep himself in check. He would allow the midnight blue to see his honest self, anyone else would judge his character except for the universe. Better to cling to shooting stars than gamble trusting his secrets to a potential knife in the back.

Except he shouldn't be on the Haus porch projecting childhood. He could very easily ask to devour a homemade pie or study on that god-awful couch or listen to his blades across empty ice. Yet Will finds a yearning in his heart for a familiar loneliness because sometimes that's easier than riding a bike. Pie and studying and even empty ice require questions and people. Improvement in trusting others only goes so far. Sometimes he needs to flashback four years to feel something so entirely known in order to process his current unknown.

This whole situation with Nursey is blooming across his chest. Maybe he's outside--nostalgic--because he can rely on a younger version of himself. He can only rely on those feelings dusted across the night sky all those years ago. He can only hope he finds them as he searches constellations. He can only hope that this ratty porch in Massachusetts can get him close enough to the Maine stars which hold his secrets. The very secrets he's hoping will answer a question of fear from childhood and light a new path.

Will flicks the condensation off of his hands before wiping them on his already-damp jeans. Maybe more than the stars heard his questions tonight. Maybe the cicadas singing were also listening. Maybe they can change past loneliness and provide today's support. He doesn't know why he feels poetic or nostalgic on this random summer evening, but he knows a little peace has found him.

[seventh-district]

it’s finally getting cold enough that i can bring my cardigan collection back into rotation without feeling like i’m gonna melt into a puddle the second i step outside!!!

[stray-dude]

homosexu-vulpes

[bluejaybytes]

wheres "i guess ill have to make it bad" i need it rn. im making it but its so bad rn. did you guys know art is hard or am i the only person who suffers in this way

[evilasiangenius]

fuck this anon specifically

I wrote an angry post because I was accused of using ai to write my big ambitious fic, the one that I have worked on every. single. day. for over three years.

This is the only bit that survives as Tumblr ate it:

Has it ever occurred to you, anon, that THE TRAINING DATA THE AI STOLE INCLUDES HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF MY OWN WORDS THAT I HAVE WRITTEN OVER THE YEARS? If a pattern looks similar, likely IT'S BECAUSE THE AI STOLE MY SHIT.

I am really tired. I work really hard at this, and write every day. I spent years experimenting with style, structure, and voice. I learned how to edit. I spend hours proofreading my own work to the best of my ability. I do lots of research and share it so other people can use it too. It took me years to learn how to be a disciplined writer.

It's horrible getting accused of cheating when all of my work was stolen and folded into the training data.

Seriously what is the point of working so hard at being a good writer.

Update: anon is going around and spamming my works with accusations of being ai generated.

Update2 : Sorry, I have turned off anon comments for any works posted after November 2022 because of this anon. Which is horrid, because I have met some great friends through anon messages, but this will have to stay until this person leaves me alone.

Can't wait for them to accuse me of using an ai writing app for a work that predates ai writing apps. Hell, the big fic they are accusing me on started posting in 2021, most of it predating ai writing apps, and the writing style is consistent throughout. You wanna come after me for something I wrote 10 years ago, nonny? 15?

20???

[revvethasmythh]

thinking about weeks ago when I told my friend that bells hells meeting the mighty nein would actually be very fun, at the time if only to give Caleb a heart attack over ludinus/dunamancy brain/aeormatons etc. and that once I saw where this arc was headed I might fuck around with an au where that happened, but then canon straight up did it for but it has not satisfied my need for interaction and now I am actually even MORE considering writing crossover material and not less

[kresnikcest]

Julius being available in Chapter 12 changes a lot of course but I feel like Ludger would rely a little bit more on Julius being there with him. I can see the final decision when Ludger hesitates to kill Victor resulting in Julius killing Victor instead, for example.

But mostly I want Julius to be there for the sheer drama of Victor alluding to Claudia.

[playingonedchess]

really i dont see how fanfiction even manages to totally lack themes so often cause its not like you have to put them in intentionally they literally just come into existence as a result of writing a story which you use your mind to think about at all because they are literally just ideas about things

[fading-event-608]

Hello! I see people here are talking about Gaza again. 

I’m not one to vaguepost, nor do I usually spend time arguing with zionists and liberals online, but the amount of “pro-Palestine” liberals I’ve seen in the last day saying that Gazans “deserve genocide” because Trump won…

I’m not surprised to hear that democrats are mad at third-party voters. It’s true that even if all swing third-party votes went to Kamala she’d still have lost, but reality isn’t important to these people. Democrats want a monopoly - of course they’re upset at everyone who isn’t voting for their party. Of course they’re more upset with communists and anarchists than they are with nazis.

None of this is new. But even though we’ve seen these patterns before, I am absolutely sick to witness these people blaming Palestinians for this. I’m sick hearing them almost gleefully wishing for Gaza to be turned into a parking lot. I’m sick coming across individualistic little diatribes about how they’re “done” boycotting, “done” helping others.

Is it Palestinians’ fault that Kamala’s campaign was so poorly run?

Is it Palestinians’ fault that the US is now so full of nazis that the Democrats lost the popular vote for the first time since 2004, by 5 million votes?

Is it Palestinians’ fault that the US supplies and supports Israel in their annihilation of Gaza and other occupied Palestinian territories, as well as neighbouring countries?

Is it Palestinians’ fault that the government assisting Israel’s genocidal project was, for the past four years, Biden’s administration? A Democrat’s administration? 

The crime that Palestinians have committed in the eyes of these liberals is the crime of existing where said liberals can see them - namely, on social media. The unofficial charges: not being silent, resisting, asking for help from the people best equipped to give money for their survival. So again, I’ll ask - is it the fault of Palestinians that the people best equipped to help them are those in the imperial core? That the people Palestinians must go to for help are people benefitting from both this genocide and the genocides the empires that house them are built on?

Of course the gravest offence is interrupting the liberal supply of white noise. Comfort is, after all, the biggest priority in liberalism - silence and denial is self care. Murder by proxy is the most popular of hobbies, and is best enjoyed with the sound off. But Palestinians are not quiet. You can see their faces now - and the identification of them as something other than faceless, or rather someone, begins to burrow through the insulation built up around you. 

You have the barest sense of how fragile your world is. You can either turn away from this, or continue your journey towards the truth. These liberals are examples of those violently turning away and taking up the slaughter again, desperate to dispel any reminders that they are not the only people on earth worthy of life.

You can literally buy an indulgence now by donating to a Palestinian fundraiser. Yes, even if you’re not a Democrat, or you’re from Europe (chances are your government supplies Israel too, or is at least complacent), or there’s any other facet of your identity that supplies nuance. This is up to all of us, no matter who we are. 

I’ve been spotlighting Falastin’s campaign to save her family in Gaza for more than two months now. I will continue to do so until they’re safe; but their safety will likely be a long time coming. This is in part because Falastin’s campaign must support 24 people, and in part because donations are slowing down - not only for Falastin, but for a lot of other fundraisers I keep an eye on. To be afraid for so many people while watching liberals angrily abandoning this cause is distressing and disheartening.

This is life or death. I don’t care who you are, and I care even less to hear if you’ve voted or who you voted for. All I ask is that you boost this post and, if you can, donate to Falastin. The Gofundme is in SEK and the rates are:

10$ = 107 SEK

25$ = 269 SEK

50$ = 538 SEK

100$ = 1,076 SEK

You can also donate via PayPal in USD: [LINK]

We also host a raffle for hand-made Palestinian thob [info HERE], and the first winner will be chosen in a bit less than 2 days. 

P. S. Yes, Falastin’s campaign has been vetted, several times across multiple platforms:

#282 in El-Shab-Hussein and Nabulsi's spreadsheet [HERE], 

#957 in the Butterfly Project spreadsheet [HERE]

Falastin's account: [LINK]

[3verythingiknowaboutlove]

the limit does not exist!

how spencer helps college!reader understand a little calculus and therefore understand how he loves her.

MDNI | smut word count: 1931 warnings & tags & stuff: fem reader, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), lil bit of overstim hehe, pure unbridled affection, LOVE, FLUFF, hugging, reader cries, this was in fact meant to be written for spence's birthday... sorry about that school is kicking my butt lets just pretend it's october! author's note: this one is for my folks who HATE their calculus class and want spencer reid to give them head instead <3 maybe this can help you romanticize it a bit. i think this is classified as self indulgent…like REALLY self indulgent… hah... anyway i hope you enjoy! let me know your thoughts if u have any, i loveeeee you!! have a great day my hands are shaking posting this smut is so scary!!!!!

You sat in bed, staring down your notebook, eyes narrowed. Limits stared back at you. You were just about at your own limit, if you were being honest. 

Your brain, however sharp and witty it may be, is absolutely not one designed for calculus. A literary analysis essay? Done in half an hour. In depth scientific research project? Easiest months of your life. But there’s something about finding the instantaneous rate of change of a curve at one point in time by finding the slope of a tangent line that hasn't clicked yet. 

A slew of other papers- notes, practice worksheets printed from obscure websites, and formulas- surround you, a sea of unfinished thoughts from the past month of the semester.

You bite on the end of your pen, the little hope you had for a good grade in this class slipping further and further away with each passing moment, like the last ember dying in the remains of a fire.

What you really wanted to be doing was celebrating Spencer’s birthday with him right now. A chocolate cake lay on the kitchen counter and pasta simmers on the stove, but you and your boyfriend had agreed to do a solid hour of work before the celebrations ensued.

You were never particularly strong willed when it came to following through on such agreements.

“Teach me calculus,” you say, a very impressive three minutes later, flopping down on the couch. Your head makes its way to its forever resting spot, Spencer’s lap. He raises his eyebrows slightly, thumb reaching out to trace over the slope of your nose. His eyes flit between you and the file to the side of him. 

“I thought we agreed on an hour.”

“Yeah. But it wouldn’t be a very productive hour if I didn’t know how to do what I have to do. And I missed you.” 

He sighs quietly, closing the file next to him. 

“What do you not understand?” You smile at that, loving how quickly you won.

“Related rates. Like, conceptually.” 

Spencer hums in response.

“It’s October. You’re not even supposed to know related rates yet.”

“Fine. Then let's open presents,” you respond, smiley. His eyebrows get impossibly higher, hand stroking your cheek delicately.

“No. I want our night to be a little more stress free when we celebrate, okay? How about you think about that lovely cake you made for me. What if I decided to squash it so that the diameter would get bigger, going from…let’s say, 20 centimeters to 26 centimeters in 3 seconds, and the height would get smal-”

“That wouldn't be nice. It took me like four hours,” you interrupt, grumbling. He cracks a smile.

“For the sake of the example, let's say I was an awful boyfriend and really wanted to ruin all the hard work you put in for me.”

You roll your eyes.

“Hey,” he says, hand moving down to touch your jaw softly. “Don’t do that. Don’t be difficult. I’m helping you.”

“Sorry. I guess I need you to zoom out a little. I don’t really get why I’m learning this as a whole.” Spencer’s eyes pore into yours, staring down at you adoringly for a small moment as he comes up with an answer.

“Calculus helps us begin to explain the unexplainable by harnessing what we can,” Spencer says simply. “Einstein once said that, ‘Pure mathematics is, in its way, the poetry of logical ideas,’ which makes it simple in practice, but I actually like to think about it as the opposite philosophically. Trying to find logic in the more poetic ideas.”

You cuddle deeper in his lap.

“Think he would agree with that?” you ask. “I do answer to Einstein before you, unfortunately.” Spencer bends down to kiss your hair.

“I think so. He also had a really nice quote where he remarked that, ‘Gravitation cannot be held responsible for people falling in love.’ He said, ‘How on earth can you explain in terms of chemistry and physics so important a biological phenomenon as first love? Put your hand on a stove for a minute and it seems like an hour. Sit with that special girl for an hour and it seems like a minute. That's relativity.’”

Spencer takes a deep breath.

“Math doesn’t explain how I love you. It can’t. But I love the fact that it tries to. It kinda makes you wanna learn it as best you can.”

You process that for a long second and nod. He keeps talking.

… 

Presents get opened, and cake gets eaten before dinner. Of course.

You’re now in bed, on top of the covers, forcing Spencer to give you a fashion show of the new sweater vest and tie you got him. He turns to you after putting it on, and you beam. 

“I really like it. You look great. Do you like it?” you ask. He nods, smiling back at you.

“I’m gonna wear it to work tomorrow.” 

You beckon for Spencer to come closer, sitting up in bed. Your hands go out to the tie, tugging at the knot softly. He stares down at you until eventually interrupting your motions with a slow kiss, hands cupping your face.

“You’re so pretty,” he mutters.

He pulls away and finishes what you started, folding the tie neatly and setting it in the drawer. Then comes the vest, and soon enough, he’s just in his boxers.

“You’re the pretty one,” you say quietly. “Come to bed.” He crawls on next to you, tugging you into his arms. “Happy birthday, Spence. I love you.” He dips his forehead to your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Before you know it, he’s shifted on top of you, moving down. Fast. You blink, hard, trying to rid your head of the hazy endorphins as you register what he’s doing.

“What? No, I was gonna do that. It’s your birthday. You don’t have to,” you protest.

“But I really, really want to, darling girl,” he murmurs back, kissing your knee and softly pushing it to the side.

You fluster and Spencer just looks at you, fingers tracing shapes on your waist, waiting for you to be ready. 

“Well. Um. Okay. If you insist. I can’t really deny the birthday boy.” Your voice is small, and a little giddy smile grows on your face. Of course Spencer Reid would want to give you head on his birthday. 

He smiles a little against the bare skin of your hip where your top meets your shorts. Then he meets your eyes. 

“You know you can, though, right?” he asks, voice a little more serious. You reach out to touch his hair softly. 

“Yeah. I know.”

Fingers hook your shorts, gently pulling them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh, and then he suddenly looks down at it. 

“Soft,” he murmurs, like he’s making a mental note. He presses another, and another, incrementally going closer and closer to your soaked through underwear. His eyebrows scrunch when he sees the wet spot. “All this from a few kisses?” 

You blush, unable to respond. 

Spencer’s fingers hook a centimeter of your underwear. “These?” he checks.

“Yes, please,” you manage. He tugs them down, silently noticing the slickness of your sex, and exhales shakily.

“How many times on average does it take for a guy to call you pretty on a given day before you get annoyed?” he murmurs, soft smile playing on his face. You smile too, head cloudy from his words, but it immediately drops when his lips press directly against your pulsing clit, kissing it softly.

“Fuck,” you say (Spencer would argue moan) softly (loudly). You let out a content sigh, and he moves to suckle it, actions becoming less and less delicate. 

It’s not harsh, but incessant. Spencer knows what you can take. He knows exactly what you can take. You’re both quiet for a bit, save for your breathy moans. 

“Spencer,” you say softly, ripping you both out of your individually hazy and dirty and distracted minds. “You’re too far away.” He looks up to you, face parallel to your aching core, hair beautifully messy and mouth glistening.

After a second, he grabs your hips, gently pushing you up against the pillows so you’re propped up at a better angle. He then shifts his body up wordlessly so he’s more above you, dipping his head down to give you a soft kiss. You taste yourself, tongue darting out to lick your lips.

His hand takes over where his mouth was, sliding in between your folds with a practiced ease. Spencer looks down at you, eyes wide and flitting between yours, searching for a reaction.

You reach out and wrap your arms around him, holding him close. “Holy shit, I love you,” you murmur.

His fingers lightly graze your clit again before one slides into you. “Angel,” he breathes out, so quietly. “I love you too. This okay? Are you okay?”

You nod feverishly and lift your hips to meet his hand, always in a perpetual state of wanting more, to be closer. Your bodies are melded so close together, barely giving him room to push his hand into you. He doesn’t even bother to ask you to use your words or keep your hips down, like he might on a regular night.

He pulls his head back to watch as he pushes another finger into you, stretching you just a little. “There we go. You always feel like heaven around me.”

Your eyes flit up to his face as he says those words, now having a little more room to observe him. You focus on the slope of his nose and curve of his mouth. 

“You’re so perfect,” you say quietly, adoringly, before you even realize it was true.

You blink at that thought. Spencer Reid is perfect, despite whatever universal odds deeming that impossible.

Those graphs, those formulas, now laying discarded & crumpled on the ground. They click, a little bit. You understand why Albert Einstein wanted to spend his life developing theories of relativity.

This is how Spencer sees you? What he was talking about earlier?

This is how he sees you?

The thought is almost too much.

Spencer sees your face, and not knowing what's going on in your head, slides down his free hand from your cheek to your carotid, feeling your racing pulse. “Take a deep breath for me, okay? You're about to come, huh?”

You inhale and are met with peace. Then your orgasm hits you like a wave. You clench hard around his fingers, and he just watches it happen, fascinated. “Baby,” he coos softly at you.

It wasn’t just your sensitivity he’s currently maximizing on or the little kisses he dips down to leave on your neck that sealed the deal, but the very thought that you could be loved in a way that is so perfectly impossible.

You exhale breathily as Spencer pushes you through the last trails of your climax, fingers not caring one bit that you just had your world tilted on its axis. 

“Spencer. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” you say eventually, overstimulated.

“You’re okay. Did so good.” he murmurs, fingers slipping out of you. 

His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away a tear you didn't even realize was dripping down.

“Don’t cry, you always cry. It’s my birthday. Don’t cry on my birthday,” he whispers soothingly, affection lacing his voice.

“I’m not.” 

Another one falls. 

You reach and press out that perpetual little slope between his eyebrows with your thumb, gentle, like you might break him. “I’m not crying.”

Spencer lets you lie.

[bananayuyu]

Come to Mine

Pairing: idol!Yunho x backup dancer!reader

Genre: fluff and smut

Word count: 6.3k

Summary: You didn't plan for it to be this way. You just couldn't help being attracted to each other.

Warnings: smut, MDNI, oral (f receiving), fingering, penetration, safe sex (condom woo), it's very sweet and clumsy

A/n: This was such self indulgence, I hope you enjoy if you read <3 I can't believe the comeback is tonight! I hope everyone is having a good day <33 (sorry for any typos, I didn't feel like editing today)

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You couldn't believe your eyes when you received the email.

Congratulations, you've been selected as one of the dancers for Ateez's upcoming comeback. Rehearsals start next Monday, August 2nd. Please look out for our next message, which will contain the full schedule with dates and locations. We look forward to working with you!

You'd worked with several other Kpop groups over the last few years. You'd actually made it as a dancer, much to the surprise of your family. You'd like to say you were surprised too, but in truth you weren't. You had felt it in your bones that this is what you were meant to do and would be doing, ever since you first watched a Girl's Generation MV on your shitty middle school laptop.

Working with Ateez felt like the absolute pinnacle. You were only several years in, but you knew from hearing the chatter, from watching their performances, that backup dancing for them was a true honor, and a challenge. You'd gone to the audition with an open mind, not riding on the fact that you'd be selected. They told you all they wanted twelve girls total, a smaller number than you'd expected. And most of the girls you went with were more experienced, or had major connections within the industry, so it really was a shock to you that you were selected. It made your whole body buzz, your confidence skyrocketing. If they believed you could hang with the best of the best, you'd do everything you could to prove them right.

Sitting on the hardwood floor at the end of your first rehearsal, it all just felt right. The group was working together so well already; most of these girls you'd danced with before, and you realized looking around that if you'd ever had the chance to select a dance team yourself, you would have made almost the same selections they did. Everyone was a dance nerd, a true artist, focused, dedicated. Everyone took good care of themselves, was smart, driven, and so hardworking. You all spoke amongst yourselves after rehearsal, anticipating your first rehearsal with the boys, wondering what they'd really be like in person. You'd all followed them closely for years, and were all big fans. You couldn't not be, given just how talented they were, just how dedicated to their craft, the same way you were. But you all vowed to be as respectful as possible, and keep the giggling and ogling to yourselves when the time came.

It was comeback season for them, their schedules incredibly full. The next album was almost entirely finished already though, and you had no doubt they were already beginning work on songs that would make future albums too. It was still six months until the comeback you'd be performing in, the time feeling indescribably far away. Many of the other girls, like you, still had smaller projects to work on in the meantime. This was the beginning of a long journey, one that would begin slowly. It was high pressure, you could feel it. You needed your absolute best to show here, for the sake of your career.

You'd never have guessed how it would feel finally meeting them all.

Sweaty and exhausted, they all came in after their final music show performance. They'd been up since the early hours of the morning to film, and now it was closer to midday. You'd slept in, spending the morning stretching and readying your body for this important rehearsal. In hindsight you hadn't needed to, the first day with the members being more of a meeting, followed by an attempt to brainstorm what formations would be possible with the twenty of you. Then you each had to introduce yourselves, going down the line of twelve, each repeating your names and where you were from.

After saying your name, after bowing, your eyes caught on Yunho's. And in that moment you knew it was all over.

All you could think was, 'fuck, I don't need this.' Truly, you didn't. There was too much else to focus on. Life had been hectic for so many reasons, but now you were just trying to focus on being present, there for your friends and family, focused on your work. You'd been single for almost two years now, and it had been the best time of your life. The time with your friends had been beautiful, fulfilling, peaceful. The success you'd had with dancing had been all you could have dreamed of. But you knew in that moment that something was about to change, something you doubted you could put any stop to. It felt written in the stars, like it was meant to happen. It had to. You could tell.

He'd noticed you right away. You were the shortest of the girls selected; they'd skewed more towards choosing taller girls, so that the height differences wouldn't be too severe. You weren't tiny, but still he'd noticed right away that you were shorter than everyone else. Your big glasses, your messy wavy hair, your baggy sweat pants. You stood out amongst the rest of the girls, but not because you were flashy. You were almost too relaxed in your appearance. He loved it instantly. And he could tell it affected you when he looked your way, your eyes darting fast to the floor when he pierced you with his gaze.

He watched you intently over the next few rehearsals, seeing immediately how talented you were. You picked up everything with such ease; but you weren't cocky, weren't throwing it in anyone's face. You helped other girls when they needed it, and you spoke up when an instruction wasn't clear, helping the main choreographer realize their mistake. You were quiet, mostly, except when you needed to be loud. You seemed so put together, almost boringly so. Some of the other girls were chaotic, which made the boys or other dancers gossip. But as Yunho listened to it all he realized none of them really mentioned you. From the outside in you seemed unassuming, and he knew people thought the same thing about him. So he knew that just like him, there was something more under the surface. Something juicier, freakier, stranger. Every time he looked you right in the eyes, the few times you'd let him, he could see it written in your pupils. And the way you always looked way, like you'd just had the wind knocked out of you, made him think he was probably right.

It really didn't help that he was such a good dancer, so confident and technically gifted, with a certain quality to his movement that you could not put into words. You became mesmerized from the first moment you saw it in person. You'd been impressed with his dancing abilities for a while, but seeing it in person in front of you, seeing his massive tall body move with a level of control that should not have been possible, had you completely entranced. You couldn't help the giddiness you felt when heading to work, the excited texts sent to your best friend. Your crush was forming fast, threatening to inflate inside of you and make you float away. He was all you could think about when you laid in bed at night, awaiting the next time you'd get to be in his presence, and say the few words you did to each other.

Then one day, it changed.

"Y/n, could I go over the middle section with you?"

His voice came from behind you, as you carefully retied your shoes during a break in rehearsal.

"With me?" you asked, turning around to find him standing behind you.

"Yeah, I've been watching everyone in the mirror and you seem to know that section best. I missed that rehearsal where we first learned it, so I think I'm missing the timing a bit." He reached out a hand to help you up, and you took it automatically, the touch between you sending adrenaline through your heart and making you shiver.

"I think you've been doing it just fine. What part is confusing?" you asked.

"I'm wondering when the arms come up, when we're turning around. Is it on one, or the and of one?"

"It's on the and. Here, do you want to do it slowly together?" You couldn't believe the words were tumbling out of your mouth, so naturally from your years of helping assist dance classes at your high school.

"Yeah, that'd be great," Yunho replied, getting in position beside you. You began counting slowly, you both dancing crudely through the counts, reaching the confusing section with hesitation. "See, one and," you threw your arms up, spinning around and turning your back to the mirror, your hands coming out beside you. "They're not back down until the and of 2."

"Ah, that makes sense. So they're delayed compared to the shifting of our feet there," he said, and you nodded in agreement, watching him step through the moves himself, flawlessly.

"Yeah, that's perfect," you smiled at him.

"Thank you, that was really helpful. I'm worried I'm messing things up cause I missed that rehearsal," he smiled back, arms locked behind his back. It looked like he was nervous, to you, which endeared you even more to him.

"Your dancing looks perfect to me," you said, standing still and awkward, your nervousness also showing.

You both stood staring at each other, and this time you didn't flick your eyes away. It all felt like things were clicking into place, and any feeling you had to resist this little thing was all gone. Not that there really was much to begin with. But you were nervous at first, so unsure of his interest. You couldn't bring yourself to assume that someone like him would want to be friends with someone like you. You had to wait for the confirmation from him.

Easy conversation followed the next few rehearsals. Talking about the choreography was always an easy in, and Yunho took to using it as much as he pleased. He complimented your dance skills more than you thought he should, because you worried the other dancers would find it strange or have something to say about it. But no one said a word to you. You felt this thing happening, the two of you magnets pulled together, but it seemed like no one around you had any clue. It was normal enough for him to want to talk to a dancer about the routine, and so what if in those conversations things turned more personal, more jokey, more flirtatious. He complimented your glasses early on, you remember that, and it stuck with you for weeks. You couldn't get it out of your head, the way his head tilted to the side when he said it. His tone of voice, the look in his eye.

Then there was the rehearsal in the gymnasium. You were all sectioned off, the main focus of the day being how the background sets for the MV would fit around the group of you dancing. The director was there, talking with all of ateez and the head choreographer, as they all stood around on the floor. The rest of you were told to wait in the stands, as they set the exact measurements of the set pieces, needing you all on stand-by at a moments notice. It was times like this you realized just how big the budget they had was; they were paying you all to be here today, even though most of the day you spent just sitting there, your fellow dancer sitting next to you almost falling asleep on your shoulder three separate times.

He saw you as soon as you came in, your hair up in a messy bun, your hoodie swallowing you. Your socks didn't match, your shoe laces partially untied. You pushed your glasses up your nose as you stepped inside, nearly bumping into the girl in front of you. Unassuming. Clumsy. For some reason, everything he wanted.

He craned his neck to watch you sit down, waving when you finally looked in his direction. You waved back, the sleeve of your hoodie pulled over your hand. He stood amongst his members, wishing he could somehow say something to you. Everyone was discussing the slight differences in the placement of something, but he'd stopped listening as soon as he saw you enter, so he really wasn't sure what it was. He reached for his phone, wanting to shoot you off a quick text. But then he remembered, the managers had taken them today so the boys would be focused. Also, he still didn't have your number. He knew he needed to remedy that problem as quickly as he could.

You zoned out for a moment, everyone around you buried deep in their phones as soon as they realized they'd be stuck in the bleachers for a bit. But it didn't take long for your gaze to sweep back down, settling on the person you couldn't keep your mind off of. You were met with a surprise, holding a hand over your mouth to keep yourself from laughing.

Yunho was holding up a piece of paper in your direction, the word HI written in big bold letters. You weren't even sure where he got the paper from, much less the marker, but god did it make your heart constrict. How fucking adorable, how totally and completely cheesy. You were like Taylor Swift and her crush in 'You Belong With Me,' holding out written signs to each other and reading them through the window. Well, you could have been, if you had any paper of your own. You smiled, his action absolutely heartwarming, but you couldn't help feeling terribly disappointed that you couldn't reciprocate the gesture. That was until you remembered the back of your hoodie had the word HELLO written across it, right above the smiling sunflower. You held your hand out to him, beckoning him to wait a moment, as you turned and lifted up the hood to make sure he could see the white letters, that you hoped contrasted enough against the blue fabric that he could see them from so far away.

You turned to find him smiling, his shoulders jumping for a moment like he was laughing. It was just far enough away that you couldn't hear well, so you had no idea if he really was. The moment passed, and your heart was beating remarkably fast, but yet again it seemed like no one around you noticed. You blinked around, looking over your shoulder at your fellow dancers. Right then it hit you, that maybe you shouldn't be so openly doing this, whatever this was. You'd been warned time and time again that being involved with an idol was bad news, that plenty of dancers had done it and payed the price. One of your favorite fellow dancers had dated an idol, and you'd heard her horror story before over drinks one night. You knew people had complicated feelings on the subject.

But you also knew your own feelings weren't so complicated, at least when it came to him. Finally you all were beckoned down to the floor, the sets put in place. You all danced in front of them, the director trying out his camera movements, asking you to repeat certain sections so he could try different angles, see how the composition would look with so many bodies in the shot. You'd said hello to each other when you came down, but quickly you had to get to work, everyone's focus held on your dancing. It wasn't until you all wrapped up for the day that he said anything else.

"Hey, I've been meaning to get your number so we can text if we need to, like today," he said. Your stomach dropped; you couldn't believe the words you were hearing. Was he really asking for your number, here in front of everyone?

"Yeah, that would be great," you smiled, waiting for him to pull out his phone and hand it to you.

"My manager has my phone, do you have yours?" he asked.

"Uh, it's up in stands with the rest of my stuff. I'll have to go grab it," you responded, smiling apologetically.

"Yeah, no worries-"

"Everyone we need to clear out, we're supposed to be gone in five minutes! Let's get going!" the lead choreographer cut him off, calling out to the whole room.

"Yunho, I've got your bag, and the car is out front, we need to leave now," his manager came running up, placing a hand on his shoulder. You didn't know where he was headed, but it was probably another rehearsal, or interview, or photoshoot. One of the thousands of things they all had scheduled every week.

In the chaos you scrambled up the stairs, grabbing your stuff before dashing out the door, not wanting to get in trouble. Yunho waved to you from the car, it pulling away as soon as you exited the building and started your walk to the subway station. It had all happened so fast, and you hoped he didn't think that you'd forgotten. His question stuck in your mind over the next three days, until you had rehearsal again. And that time you walked in with your phone already open, pulled up to a new contact entry. You didn't even greet him that day; you just placed your phone in his hands, and looked up at him with big eyes. He blinked a moment, but it wasn't hard for him to know what you were asking. He put in his number, handing the phone back to you, and you sent off your first text of many.

🌸: hello :)

You waited that night after rehearsal, meeting up with your best friend for dinner. You could just feel it again, you knew he'd say something, if you had just a little patience.

🐶: I hope rehearsal didn't kill you today. They really didn't give you guys any breaks :(

Immediately you squealed, shoving your phone into your friend's face.

"How cute, he's so concerned for you," she laughed, poking your cheek.

"I can't believe he already texted," you sighed, grabbing another bite.

"He obviously likes you," she said, making your mind spin.

"Don't say that, you're getting my hopes up," you replied, shaking your head.

"Why else would he ask for your number?" she asked.

"To talk to me about work stuff, dance stuff, I don't know?" you replied.

"Did he ask for anyone else's number?" she asked.

"I don't know, he could have," you said, raising your shoulders.

"I doubt it," she smiled. "Look at you, you've caught yourself an idol. Better be careful, my girl," she joked, finishing off her drink.

"I wonder if this is a bad idea," you pondered, staring off into space and letting your mind wander.

"Don't overthink it. How often do you come across people you like? If he likes you too, you should go for it. You don't have any reason to hold yourself back from this. I mean, be careful of course. I don't want any death threats coming your way," she chuckled, reaching over the table and grabbing your hand. "Connecting with another person is a special thing, and it sounds like you two really have. Don't under sell that."

You left the restaurant and wandered home, a warm feeling in your chest. Hugging your friend goodbye you thanked her, so grateful to have someone you know you can tell anything to. As soon as you made it home, you pulled out your phone and responded to him.

🌸: It was fine, I just got very sweaty. my hair was a frizzy mess 🐶: you still looked so pretty 🌸: you are very sweet to me 🌸: why is that 🐶: I like you, that's why 🌸: you like me? 🐶: I want to see you outside of work 🌸: I want that too

You breath caught in your throat. It was everything you could have hoped to hear and more.

🌸: how can we do that tho 🐶: we'll find a way 🌸: you could come to my place. it's very small. I live alone

He could have guessed that was the case. You never mentioned having roommates, or parents, or anyone else you lived with in the brief conversations you'd had.

🐶: can I come this Saturday? 🌸: okay :) 🐶: are you sure? 🌸: be here at 7 🐶: will do

You had two days of filming for a different group's music video, a huge group dance with nearly fifty dancers. You be finishing it up Saturday morning, and hoped that things ran on time. You wanted to have the time to get yourself ready, take a shower, pick out your clothes. Even though you'd just be at home, surely just lounging around. You wanted to wear your favorite sweats, and the black tank top you had that sat perfectly over your figure. You two wouldn't be going on dinner dates out, or to the bar for drinks, or to the cafe or farmer's market or any other place where Yunho could be spotted. He didn't have to explain that to you; you'd worked in this industry long enough to understand. He'd have to do everything he could to avoid being seen entering your building. If this did become a romance, it would be one conducted in the privacy of bedrooms, apartments, hotels. You couldn't walk out on the street holding hands, or even just walk down the street side by side. But then you reminded yourself of the if. You still didn't know what he wanted, exactly. You'd still never been in the same room just the two of you. The nerves gnawed at you as you showered, as you carefully set out the clothes you would wear as you dried your hair. You'd wear no bra with your tank top, you decided, and you'd wear your favorite bikini cut black underwear. You didn't like lacy thongs, you didn't like most women's clothing period. But you wanted to feel sexy when he arrived, wanted it to be clear to him what you were after.

🐶: I'm heading out now, I should be there in 17 minutes, according to google maps 🌸: see you soon :)

Your adrenaline surged, your body sweating despite the cool temperature of your tiny apartment. You scrambled around, cleaning every surface one time over again, making sure your dirty clothes were tucked away in your closet and not strewn about anywhere. You gave yourself a final look in the mirror, your glasses looking comically huge on your face. Your hair was a mess, but it always was. You'd never learned how to properly take care of your waves. The black tank top looked as good as you'd hoped though, so you shrugged. It was good enough.

You'd only sat on your couch for about thirty seconds when the doorbell rang, and you physically jumped. Opening your door you found him in a loose button up shirt, casual baggy pants, a baseball cap covering his nut brown hair, and a mask.

"Hi, come in," you said, your heart beating faster than it did even during your most difficult dance numbers.

"Thank you," he said, stepping inside, his jacket held over his arm. He pulled off his mask, folding it and shoving it in his pocket.

"Would you like some water?" you asked, awkwardly. You didn't know what to say, the two of you standing feet apart in your tiny living room.

"Sure, that'd be great," he said, looking around, taking everything in.

"You can sit on my couch, or on the floor, if you'd like. Sorry there aren't more options, my apartment is tiny," you said as you filled his glass. You decided to fill one for yourself, realizing now that you'd completely forgotten to eat dinner or drink any water this afternoon because of your nerves.

"It's perfect. I really like it," he said, sitting himself down cross legged on the floor, on the small rug that surrounded your coffee table. It was the only table you had here, the one you always ate your meals at. "Is this the rug you always lay on at night?" he asked as you came and set his water in front of him.

"Oh, no, that one's in my room," you smiled, sitting opposite him on your couch, cross legged too.

"I was gonna say, this is pretty small for laying on," he laughed.

"My other one is small too, I guess," you laugh in response.

"Can I see it?" His eyes have a mischievous glint to them as they meet yours.

"Sure," you say, smirking back at him. You're trying to put on a confident front, because you swear you keep seeing his eyes trail down your body hungrily, but as soon as you start walking towards your room your legs are shaky. Yunho reaches out and grabs your shoulder from behind, steadying you for a moment.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, just tired. Filming ran long this morning, we had to go over this one section like fifty times. I'm gonna be so sore tomorrow," you say.

"Do you have a foam roller? It's helps me a lot when my legs are cramping up on me," he says, as you open your bedroom door, revealing the tiny room to him. It only has room for your full bed, your dresser shoved into your closet.

"I should really get one," you say, turning to face him. "There's the rug," you smile, watching intently to see his reaction.

"That's the one you lay on every night?" he asks. You nod your head, chuckling. "That's even smaller than the one out there," he laughs, pointing in the direction of your living room.

"I wonder if you'd even fit," you laugh, looking down at the small strip of floor that isn't taken up by your bed frame.

"Let me try," he says, kicking off his shoes and setting them on your shoe rack outside your door. He crouches down, settling himself on his side, his legs bent up to make it possible for him to fit.

"Wow, so comfortable," he quips, sarcastically.

"It is if you're my size," you pout, looking down at him with your arms crossed.

"You really lay here every night before bed?" he asks.

"It's my favorite spot in the world," you nod.

"You think we could both fit?" he asks, pulling off his hat and tossing it on your bed, holding out an arm to you.

"Maybe..." you trail off, stepping over towards him, carefully setting yourself down in front of him. You're on you side too, your face maybe a foot from his, your back shoved up against your closet door. You stare into each other's eyes, still not having touched, the whole scene potentially still friendly and innocent.

A yawn hits you, a wave of exhaustion washing over your whole body. You really should have remembered to eat a good meal before this.

"Tired?" Yunho asks, you his eyes not leaving yours.

"I guess so. Sorry for yawning," you say.

"Am I boring you?" he jokes.

"No, not at all," you shake your head, smiling back at him. And then you both just stare, a good minute passing, your heart racing and racing in your chest, your body aching for something, anything.

"Can I kiss you now?" he asks, but still doesn't move. So you do instead, pulling yourself closer to him, your legs entangling as your lips finally meet, the first moments of the kiss awkward and stilted in that way it always is with a new person. But soon enough you've found each other's rhythm; you can tell he likes sucking on your bottom lip, and likes it when you open your mouth and let out those breathy moans, allowing him to dive his tongue inside, feeling over the plush softness of your tongue. It's heated so quickly, your arms desperately grabbing at each other, a sexual excitement awakened in you in a way it hadn't been in so many years. You got lost in it; you couldn't have even remembered your own name in that moment, because all you knew was his mouth and his hands, his tongue on your neck, the way your clit felt rubbing hard against his thigh, your climax reaching you so fast you don't even realize it until your hands are cramping up. They do that when you're too stimulated, when your whole nervous system has too much input and can't process it all. He senses a change in you, pulling back to see you holding your hands, trying desperately to calm the spasming muscles.

"What's wrong?" he asks, gently holding your hands in his own.

"It just happens sometimes, when I come," you whisper into the cool air of your bedroom. "My hands lock up like this." You start to giggle, a blush creeping over your face at the look he's giving you.

"You came?"

"Yeah, I know, I'm insanely sensitive," you laugh, still rubbing at your hands.

"Fuck," he groans, shaking his head back and forth, and you laugh again at how affected he is. "Are your hands going to be okay?"

"Yeah, just give them a moment. They'll be fine," you say, putting your face up to his again, your lips connecting and fire shooting through you once again.

Before you know it he's on top of you, kissing you hard, his hands snaking underneath your top to feel over your hard nipples, grabbing hungrily at your body. "Can I taste you?" he whispers through ragged breaths, and you nod into him, whispering yes on his lips. He moves down, pulling at the waistband of your sweatpants, and you lips your hips to help him. When he grabs at your panties he drags them off slowly, shoving them in the pocket of his jeans, moving his mouth down your thighs and licking up to your core. He swipes his tongue up your slit slowly, giving firm pressure to his movement, making you moan and arch your back in response, your knees falling wide and hitting the wall and bed you're caged between. Yunho hums at the taste of you, the heady sweetness better than he could have even imagined, his tongue swiping again and again up your entire slit, taking in as much of you as he can.

"Fuck you taste good," he whispers, before attaching his lips to your clit, sucking gently and making you squirm, your knees jumping up to cage in his head. Then he's adding a finger, and then another, slowly pumping them into you while he keeps sucking on your sensitive bud, ripping another orgasm out of you in seconds. He keeps touching you through your after shocks, making your moans high pitched and sharp as you feel overstimulated, but then as he keeps going you slip back into pleasure, and another orgasm builds faster than the first.

"Fuck, fuck," you scream, your hand in his hair, snaking through and grabbing hard onto it. It makes Yunho moan, the vibrations radiating through your core and sending you over the edge once again, your pussy fluttering around his fingers. This time you push him up, your body wracked from coming so hard and fast.

"You can come multiple times," he states, his lips and chin glistening from your slick. You just nod coyly, breathing hard, trying to regain your sanity as he moves on top of you again, kissing you hard. You moan at the taste of yourself, and at the way he's smothering you so entirely. "You like how you taste?" he asks, smiling into you as you nod your head yes, your lips not able to leave each other for more than a few seconds.

"Can I fuck you?" he asks into your ear, his low voice shuddering through you.

"Please," you whisper, grabbing at his pants to help push them down, laughing as he tries to stand and bumps his head on the door handle to your closet.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, holding his head for a moment, scrambling still to pull of his pants and finally get to what he's wanted all night. "You're making me so desperate that I'm hurting myself," he jokes, slipping a condom over himself with finesse, finally collapsing back onto you, rubbing his hard dick up and down your slit, attaching his lips to yours once again. Slowly he pushes in, testing the waters, watching your face as he stretches you out. He's loving your reaction, the way that just him putting his cock in you is making you so overwhelmed with feelings and pleasure.

"You're so big," you cry into his shoulder, grasping onto him for dear life.

"I know," he chuckles, his face in your hair, taking in the scent of you.

"Shut up," you giggle, hitting his shoulder playfully, holding back a moan from ripping out of you. He's just barely bottomed out, holding tight onto your hips to anchor himself.

"You okay?" he whispers, placing gentle kisses on your forehead temple, keeping himself still until you give him the okay. You nod against him, your face still buried in his shoulder, holding him to you.

"Please move Yunho," you beg, your body needing more from him now, even if the stretch is hurting. He slowly pulls himself out, pushing back in with care, the wet sounds loud and embarrassing. You're so wet it's starting to drip down your leg, and he slides in so easily, even though you're tight against him.

"Does that feel good?" he asks you, setting a slow pace, watching your body intently. You babble and nod against him, and he picks his pace up, hitting something so deep inside of you that it makes you head fly back against the ground again. Thankfully your rug is there on the floor, but it isn't the thickest, and the actions till hurts.

"Ow," you mutter, your eyebrows scrunching up in pain.

"Careful, careful," he coos, grabbing the back of your head in his large palm, slowing his movements. "Why are we on the floor when your bed is right there?"

You chuckle, blinking up at him with blown pupils, your walls still clenching hard around him.

"Let's move up there," he smiles, slowly pulling out of you, standing gingerly and helping you up carefully, too. You pull at his shirt, unbuttoning some of his buttons, making him pull if off over his head. He's completely revealed to you now, and he grabs at your top too, pulling it over your head and throwing it over the side of the bed.

"Your head okay?" he asks, moving on top of you again, cradling it in his hand.

"Yeah, it's okay," you laugh, staring up at him. "How's yours?"

"It's fine," he chuckles, kissing you deeply and grabbing at you, unable to stop himself. "You're driving me crazy," he whispers, and in a moment he's sheathed himself inside of you again, resting your head against your pillows as he starts fucking you hard, his mouth on yours as your tongues swirl around each other's mouths. He's hitting that spot inside you again, over and over sending waves of pleasure through your abdomen. You feel like you're being split open, like your entire body is filled by him, by everything he's meaning to you. The care, the attention, the perfect angle of his hips as they snap against yours, has your mind floating on a cloud of pure joy. God, it's never felt this good, and you don't want it to stop, don't ever want this feeling to end. You know you're stuck now, you're addicted, you've had one taste of him and you'll never want anyone else.

"Yunho," you whine against his lips, as you feel another orgasm building.

"Fuck, don't say my name like that, you're gonna make me come," he groans, lifting his head up to deepen his angle even further, fucking you even harder. "Are you close?" he asks, and you whimper in response, moaning high pitched and holding tight onto his biceps. "You're so fucking perfect," he says, his upper body falling down on top of yours again, as he holds you close. You come, the warmth and safety his body is giving you making you release, every part of your being comforted by the man above you.

"Yes, fuck that feels good," he groans into your ear, feeling the way you're squeezing so hard down onto him, your moans like screams again, stroking his ego in such an addicting way. "I'm never gonna get enough of you," he groans, finally releasing his load, his orgasm washing over him hard as his hips stutter, his face scrunching up in pleasure as he finally comes. He collapses on top of you, holding you close as you both come down from your highs, your breaths hard and fast and totally in sync.

"You're amazing," he mumbles, stroking a hand through your hair.

"No, you're amazing," you giggle, your head floaty and calm in your post orgasmic state. You poke his side, giggling into him when his body jumps.

"Don't you dare do that right now," he grumbles, tickling you back and twice as hard, making you shriek and laugh beneath him.

You stay cuddled up all night, not able to sleep cause you keep kissing, Yunho's large warm body making you feel safe in a way you didn't know you were missing.

"I should have taken these off before I fucked you," he laughs as he pulls off your glasses, placing them gingerly on your side table.

"Eh, it's okay," you laugh, snuggling into him closer. "They're always on, I'm used to it. I keep them on even when I dance most of the time, which is weird."

"I noticed," he said. "They're so fucking cute."

"You really like them?"

"Y/n, you're fucking perfect. Every thing about you."