#let me practice my self confidence she doesn’t get to see the light of day lot

[koifishscribbles]

Just hopping on again to remind folks of my wip long satosugu fic entitled I’m Sorry: In Various Translation!

Here’s the premise:

Gojo Satoru has not seen his ex, Getou Suguru, since college. Until he shows up one day teaching in the classroom across the hall from him.

Here’s a list of things that you might like about it:

- 56k so far and nobody’s kissed yet but it’s coming really soon. It’s definitely slowburning.

- alternating povs in a curse free AU. See satosugu in high school, then college, and finally as teachers!

- some of the major themes are grief and growing up (maybe that’s just a bonus for me)

Here’s a sample from the latest chapter (I picked an angsty bit for y’all):

“Smoke your fucking cigarette.” Satoru spits. It tastes like bile, but the only way he’s going to feel better is to cough it all up. “When’d you realize that you fucked up?”

The spark of the lighter burn his eyes. He still smokes the same cigarettes as Shoko. In a cloud of smoke Suguru responds, “I am still not sure I fucked up—“

“Fuck you.” It bubbles out of him and hangs from his lips before he can stop it.

“I deserve that. I think that if I had stayed, I might not be here, so I didn’t fuck up, I just survived. I felt guilty about leaving before I even did it. The question wasn’t you or me, because I like to think I would have picked to save you. The question was: save myself or we both drown.”

Satoru doesn’t expect to have anything left to say. The few words he’s already choked up have left his throat feeling raw, but this slips out coated in his blood: “I would have picked you too.” The phrase sits between them, garishly caring.

[tropes-and-tales]

It's That Simple

Day 16:  Praise Kink (Bob Floyd x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!) 

CW:  Light angst, kinda (Bob gets deflated); talk of panic attacks and self-doubt; smut (handjob); 18+ only.

Word Count:  5656

AN:  This was requested by an anon!

AN2: If you've been around a bit, you know the drill: this isn't edited or re-read or beta'ed.

It’s another terrible first date.

Bob struggles to even snag a first date.  He’s unassuming; he lacks the swagger and extroversion to stroll up to a woman and talk her up.  Most of his dates are obtained from other members of the Daggers—double dates, set-ups, stuff like that.

The latest one was set up by Fanboy, a friend of his sister.  Within moments of meeting his date, Bob knows it’ll be a mess:  she makes a face when she greets him at the door, and it goes downhill from there.

It ends when she gets a text.  An emergency, she tells him, and Bob is too smart and perceptive to buy the lie.  But he’s a gentleman, so he nods seriously and offers to drive her home or wherever she’s needed, which she declines.  He pays the bill of their abortive dinner, and he pretends not to notice how his date practically skips out of the restaurant and into the waiting car of a friend.

He should go home to lick his wounds.  Another failed date, another night alone.  He sees the stretch of his life in front of him and despairs that he’ll ever meet someone, and he should go home to sulk, but he goes to the Hard Deck instead.

He might as well break the news to Fanboy, at least, and maybe Nat can cheer him up with her usual sarcastic humor.

-----

The Hard Deck is as packed as always, and Bob—in his date clothes of dress pants and a button down shirt—stands out among the uniformed pilots and fellow wizzos.  He finds the Dagger Squad, confesses his failure to Fanboy, then settles into a stool near Nat and Rooster.

Nat puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a comforting squeeze.  “I’m sorry, Bob,” she says.

“Her loss,” Rooster offers.

Bob shrugs.  It’s not anyone’s loss but his, but he offers them a weak smile that fools neither of them.

It’s Hangman who sidles up to Bob, and in an uncharacteristic moment of thoughtfulness, the cocky pilot offers to be his wingman—which makes Bob laugh, and it comes out laced with some bitterness.

“No offense, Bagman, but you’d be a terrible wingman,” Bob says.

“What?  Why?”

Bob lifts his hands in a helpless shrug.  “Because you’re….you.  And I’m not like you at all.”

“So?”

He scoffs in frustration at Bagman being so obtuse.  As if any woman would look at Bob if he walked up to them with Jake at his side.  It’d be like an Aston Martin rolling up alongside an old Honda Civic, and that’s the analogy he uses to make Jake understand.  But Jake shakes his head, clasps him on his shoulders and gives him a friendly shake.

“Nah, Baby on Board.  You got it all wrong.  You just need some confidence.”  Another teeth-rattling shake.  “Trust me, there’s a girl out there for you.  C’mon.”

Bob finds himself powerless to resist as Jake pushes him off of his stool, then shoves him gently in the direction of the crowded bar.

-----

The first pair that Jake sidles up to is a bust, but it’s not Bob’s fault:  Jake had hooked up with the one woman before, forgotten about it completely.  He’s moments from getting a drink tossed in his face when Bob tugs him away from the danger and they pull back, reevaluate.

The second pair is a bust too.  The first woman doesn’t even let Jake get the full sentence out before she’s wagging her ring finger in his face.

“Married,” she says, her words clipped.  “Move along, sailor.”

The third pair?  The third pair works out.  Jake hones in on one immediately, a blonde with big doe eyes, but the second one—you—rolls her eyes at him.

But when you turn to study Bob, you don’t roll your eyes.  You hold out a hand, introduce yourself, ask for his rank, then pat the empty chair beside you.

“Settle in, Lieutenant,” and your smile is easy.  “Let’s chat while we watch your friend strike out, huh?”

-----

It turns out you’re drunk, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

For one, you’ve fallen in with Bob Floyd, the most gentlemanly man a drunk, single girl could come across.  He’d never take advantage, and in fact, he’ll end up driving you home at the end of the night, getting you into your apartment.  He will take your shoes off of you, tuck you into your bed, and press a glass of water and a couple of ibuprofen on you before he sees himself out.

For another thing, Bob Floyd has fallen in with you, the most fiercely sweet drunk that a down-on-himself man could come across.  You’re one of those loud cheerleader types when you drink; the kind of woman who chats up other women in the bathroom, who tells them they’re beautiful, that you love them.  With your friend and Jake otherwise engaged, Bob finds himself caught in the tractor beam of your charm.

“You look sad,” you tell him around the rim of your glass.  “Are you sad?”

You’re drunk and Bob is sad, and you’re staring at him with wide eyes that glitter in the low light of the bar, so he tells you.  He tells you about his terrible date, the latest in a string of terrible dates, that he’s been single for so long and he’s not entirely convinced he’ll ever meet someone, that he’s too scrawny, that his glasses are terrible (one date called them serial killer glasses), that he’s too reserved to ever catch the eye of a woman, too unremarkable looking, let alone—

“No!”  You cut him off by exclaiming it, a near-shout, and your hand finds his forearm and grips him there.  “You’re gorgeous, Bill!  Don’t even say you aren’t!”

He grins despite himself.  “It’s Bob.  But thanks.  I mean, it’s nice of you to say—”

“Bob.  Yes.  Sorry.  Bob, not Bill.  I say it because it’s true.”  You release your hold on his arm and sit back in your chair, your eyes narrowed now as you study him closer.  You’re quiet for a long beat, and Bob squirms under your attention, but then you tell him more and he swears he breaks out in a full-body blush.

“You’re gorgeous, really,” you tell him.  “It’s just that you have a sneakier handsomeness, you know?  Like, that one there—” You gesture broadly at Jake.  “—He’s, like, Ken-doll handsome.  Like, he catches your eye because it’s all symmetrical and stuff, and he’s fine, but symmetry can be boring and someone like you, it’s sneaky.  You have a nice face, and these nice blue eyes, and nice hair, and I bet people think about you after the fact like, ‘oh, that Bob guy, he’s not bad at all,’ and then even later it’s like, ‘oh, Bob, he’s pretty handsome.’  Because you’re that sneaky sort of handsome and that’s the worst damned kind.”

Bob isn’t entirely tracking what you mean, but he shakes his head at the unearned praise, and he can’t stop the smile that’s plastered on his face.  He probably looks like a dope.

“Why’s that the worst kind?” he asks.

“Because it’s deadly!”  You lean forward again, put your hand on his arm again.  “Sneaky-handsome guys are like a virus because by the time you realize they’ve infected you, it’s too late.”

Bob chuckles.  “I’m a virus?  Suddenly my night has gotten worse, somehow.”

“No, not at all.  It’s just…”  You trail off, polish off your drink.  You wave down Penny for another.  “It’s just that you sneaky-handsome types never understand the power you have.  Ken-doll over there knows he’s hot, and by the mere fact of him knowing he’s hot, he loses a considerable amount of hotness.  But you have no idea you’re handsome, and that makes you even hotter.”

“I think there’s a string of women in the San Diego area that would disagree with your assessment,” Bob replies.  “But I appreciate the compliment, nonetheless.”

“Oh, them.”  You flap a hand, a dismissive wave.  “There’s a lot of idiots in the world, Bob.  You can’t let a string of women in the San Diego area make you feel bad.”

“I guess I just need to find someone who isn’t an idiot.”

“Ah, well!”  You set your drink down and wave your hands in front of yourself in a ta-da sort of flourish.  “Cal Tech graduate, Bobby.  I work for NASA.”

He feels a warm flush at you calling him Bobby.  “You’re a rocket scientist?  Definitely not an idiot, then.”

“Astrobiologist, actually.  And only an idiot sometimes, but never when it comes to the sneaky-handsome men here at the Hard Deck.”

Bob shakes his head, a little embarrassed at how much he likes you, a drunk stranger, talking him up.  He tries to dial it back, afraid he’s going to fall in love before last call.

“You’re way too smart for me, then,” he tells you.

That makes you arch an eyebrow at him.  “You afraid of smart women, Bobby?”

“Not at all.  It’s just that smart, beautiful, and sweet?  Do you understand the power you have?”  He keeps his tone light, teasing, but he’s in over his head with this:  he’s definitely going to fall in love before last call.

Of course he is.  His question makes you laugh, a warm sound that knocks free the lump in his chest from his earlier failed date.  Your laughter makes him feel drunk even though he hasn’t touched a drop; he feels warm and light and big-headed at how kind you’ve been to him, how sweet, but your laughter is the sound that makes him fall in love with you.

-----

The two of you stay until last call.  Bagman and your friend disappear hours before then, and you shrug at Bob, say you called it all wrong, that you didn’t think Jake was your friend’s type.

Bob drives you home.  You’re unsteady on your feet, so he hovers near you, but you manage reasonably well until it’s time to unlock your door.  He watches you try it, then he reaches out and takes the keys from your hand.

It’s the first time he touches you.

He gets you inside.  He gets you to your bedroom, and you flop gracelessly across the mattress, and Bob immediately goes into caretaker mode.  He slides your shoes off of you, sets them in a neat row by your closet.  He makes his way to your kitchen, gets you a glass of water, then stops in the bathroom.  He rummages through your medicine cabinet—you use the same brand of toothpaste as he does, the same type of toothbrush, and Bob marvels at the strange intimacy of learning these things, the everyday things that not everyone is privy to about you.  He finds some ibuprofen and shakes two out, then takes them and the water back to you.

You’re already drifting off to sleep, and Bob has to cajole you into sitting up.  He gets you perched on the side of the bed and gives you the pills and water, which you take without complaints.  He takes the empty glass back from you, and then there’s a moment—

—you sit on the edge of your bed and Bob stands over you, and you look up at him with your bleary eyes and he sees fear.  You’re understanding what you’ve done, maybe:  you’ve invited a strange man back to your place and you’re drunk, and he could do anything, and Bob sees the flicker of uncertainty, the beginning of fear in your eyes.  It makes him feel sick because he’d never take advantage.  It makes him sick that the world, being what the world is, makes this fear lance through the whiskey fumes in your head.

He reaches down to the foot of your bed where there’s a blanket neatly folded.  He shakes it out, urges you to lie down, and when you do, he covers you up.

“Be sure to drink more water when you wake up,” he tells you softly. 

The nascent fear fades out of your expression, and it’s replaced by a loose, goofy grin.  You free a hand from under the blanket and give him a sloppy salute.  “Aye, aye, captain.”

Bob sees himself out but not before he’s struck with a bit of brave optimism.  He sees the little whiteboard by your refrigerator, and he writes out his name and his number.  He drives home and sends up a silent prayer that his sneaky-handsome virus has already infected you, charmed as he is by your earnestly drunken (albeit clunky) analogy from earlier in the evening.

He wakes up the next morning and feels less hopeful.  He queues up a playlist and sets out on his morning run, but his morning pessimism is misplaced:  you call him a mile into his run, and Bob stutters in his steps to hear your voice—a little rough, but sunny nonetheless.

“I’m looking for a guy named Bobby,” you tell him over the phone, and he can hear the smile in your voice.  “Lieutenant Blue Eyes.”

-----

The two of you make plans to meet up at the Hard Deck, but you don’t call it a date so Bob doesn’t either.  He’s in unfamiliar territory:  things have always been a date or not a date in the past, but he’s noticed that many of his Dagger teammates speak in looser terms—meeting up, hanging out—with potential partners.  He’s unsure how to handle it; if he seems too casual, you might miss his interest.  If he comes on too strong, he might scare you off.

He decides to just turn up in his uniform, as he usually does, and when he arrives at the Hard Deck, you are already there.  You’re perched in a bar stool and chatting to Penny, but when he strolls in, you see him.

You smile at him as he walks over to you, but then you shake your head in a mock-rueful way.

“Oh, no,” you say as you hop off of your stool.  You open your arms and Bob steps into them, and you hug him warmly like you’re old friends.  “I thought maybe it was just whiskey-goggles that night, but you really are cute.”

Bob chuckles.  He releases you, then takes the stool beside yours.  “Well, I’ve been downgraded.  You called me handsome that night,” he points out.

“Sneaky-handsome, actually.”

“There seems to be a whole spectrum here that I was never privy to.”

You wave down Penny who comes and takes your orders.  Once your drinks are in front of you—a hard cider for you, a shandy for Bob—you click your glass against his.

“Here’s to the sneaky-handsome men of the world,” you say.

Bob ducks his head and grins  “And to the rocket scientists,” he adds.

A date or not a date…the evening passes in a blink, and you leave Bob that night entirely sober after long conversations and a lot of easy laughter.  You pull him in for another hug before you part, and this hug lingers longer than the hug you gave him as a greeting.  When you pull away, though, you gaze at him with a somber expression.

“I wanted to thank you for the other night,” you tell him.  “For being a gentleman when you took me home.”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean it.”  Your hands on his upper arms squeeze him a little firmer.  “You could have taken advantage, and you didn’t.  You’re a good one, Bob.”

He shakes his head, tries to wave you off, but you squeeze him again.  You don’t let him shrug off your thanks.  You don’t let him downplay his goodness.

“You are a good man, Bob,” you repeat, and you stare at him, like you’re daring him to disagree. 

Bob, who finds that you’re something of a force to be reckoned with, wouldn’t dare to disagree.

-----

He’s still not entirely clear if this is dating or not.  Neither of you actually says the word.  You text each other steadily, and you meet up sometimes at the Hard Deck, but your schedule isn’t great and Bob’s is even worse.  He worries that he’s missed his chance.  When he talks about it to the other Daggers, Hangman rolls his eyes and tells Bob he should have taken his shot earlier, that Bob is pretty much friend-zoned now, but Nat rolls her eyes at that and says he’s overthinking it.

Of course Bob overthinks it.  Bob overthinks everything.

He doesn’t know yet that you overthink everything too.  That you are going through your own pangs of regret, that you think you’ve missed your chance too, that your friends circle around you too and give you tough-love pep talks to build up your courage to take the lead on this burgeoning thing with Bob.

And ultimately, Bob’s hunch that you’re a force to be reckoned with is correct.  In the end, you take charge.

-----

You end up inviting him over for dinner on a night when your schedules align, and Bob overthinks that too. 

What if it’s a date-date, and he turns up too casual, with nothing in his hands—no wine, no flowers?  Or the opposite—what if he dresses up a little, brings you a mixed bouquet, and it’s just a casual friends-type thing?

Bob has no idea how he can manage the systems on a sophisticated plane because his brain grinds to a painful halt the moment he starts to contemplate this dinner at your place.  It’s Nat—it’s always Nat, with her no-nonsense lens into the mystique of her fellow women—who smacks some sense into him.

“Wear a nice shirt, shower beforehand, and take a bottle of wine,” she tells him.

“But what if—”

“It’s always polite to take a gift, Bob.”  She rolls her eyes, heaves a sigh.  “And it’s always polite to, you know.  Shower.  Show up fresh-smelling and neat.  Jesus Christ.  Just go.”

So Bob turns up at your apartment, a mid-tier bottle of wine in his sweaty hand.  Freshly showered, a daub of cologne behind his ears, and a nice blue button-down that brings out his eyes. 

And it’s a good thing he took Nat’s advice too, because you open the door in the sweetest sundress, and there’s music softly playing and the most heavenly smells wafting from your kitchen.  Bob realizes all at once that it’s a date-date after all, and his heart does an alarming little stutter in his chest, enough to stun him until you take his hand and gently pull him inside.

-----

Part of Bob’s issue with women is his inability to pick up on subtle, sometimes invisible cues.  He has always fallen in with the sort of women who play mind games, who play coy and say one thing while meaning another.  He always feels back on his heels; it feels like women speak a language he’s only slightly fluent in, so he’s always playing catch-up to translate what they mean.

But it’s refreshing with you, in this moment, because as you both sit down to the feast you’ve prepared, you just talk with him.  The two of you chat about your lives, you catch each other up since the last time you’ve talked, and Bob almost forgets to be nervous.

Almost.  A pair of tapered candles flicker between you and cast your lovely face in a golden glow, and low, bluesy music sets the soundtrack as you eat.  You sip at the wine he brought, and he eats your home-cooking, and Bob imagines an entire life like this…and he almost misses the way you keep swiping your palms along your thighs, like you’re nervous.

Almost.  He leans into his WSO work, studies you closely like you’re a dashboard of lights and alarms and switches.  He watches you a little closer, and he sees the way your throat bobs when you swallow a mouthful of wine, like you’re swallowing past a lump or going all dry-mouthed on him.  He sees the deep breaths you take, the way you press the back of your hand to your neck, like you’re flushed and trying to calm yourself.

“You’re nervous,” he blurts out when he realizes it for sure, and you pause in where you’re lifting the wine glass to your mouth and stare at him.

“I am.”  It’s that simple.  No mind games, no coy pretending. 

“It’s just me,” Bob says.

You smile at him, and it trembles a little at the corners.  He can feel the nerves in you now, and he reaches out a hand across the table, palm up.  He makes a grabby motion with it until your smile firms up and you lay your hand in his, and he grasps you lightly.

“It’s just me,” he repeats.

“And I like just-you,” you tell him.  “Like-like, I mean.  I wanted to tell you so tonight.”

His heart does that wicked little stutter in his chest, but he squeezes your hand.  “Sounds like you just told me then.”

“Guess so.”  You watch him, and your smile seems tremulous again, so Bob replies, “I like you too.”

It’s that simple.  After you each put yourself through your own overthinking hell, each suffering through your own sleepless nights and needless worrying about dumb things like friend zones, it comes down to a moment so simple that it’s stupid:  just the two of you holding hands as you confess your mutual feelings matter-of-factly.

-----

It feels too easy.  After months (years) of struggling to even land the occasional first date, suddenly Bob’s dream girl turns up just like that.  It feels too easy, and so Bob slips into his overthinking almost immediately.

It goes fine after dinner, when the two of you trade nervous kisses on your couch until the nerves burn off enough that your mouth slotted over his feels natural, that you move in concert with each other—your head tilting one way, his tilting the other, no longer bumping noses or knocking his glasses askew. 

It goes fine as you climb into his lap, the solid weight of you a welcome sensation because Bob’s head feels like it’s filled with helium, drunk and fizzy from the feel of your lips against his, your tongue against his own.

It goes fine when you climb off of him, shaky-legged like a newborn foal.  When you hold out your hand and take his to lead him back to your bedroom.

The moment he finds himself stripped down to his boxers and lying on your bed is the moment it falls apart.

It’s like every mean comment, every brush-off and ghosting, every roll of the eyes and beleaguered sigh and overheard commentary about him crowds into the room and leaves no space for this moment with you.  Bob thinks of all the feedback he’s ever gotten on dates—the serial killer eye glasses, the lack of muscles, the lack of game.  He tries to take a deep breath and finds he can barely pull in a lungful, and his throat feels like it’s closing on him—

And he can’t get hard.  His near-erection from making out on the couch deflates, and even though you are perched over him—you’ve shed your sundress, and you’re in the sexiest, sweetest lingerie set, powder pink, like the underside of a cloud at sunrise—he cannot coax himself back to attention.

The panic that floods him—he recognizes the feeling.  He’s felt it a million times.  He feels the hot, splotchy redness as it breaks out across his chest and neck, and his face flushes furiously bright, and you notice it all in real time.  The sultry, heavy-lidded look on your face disappears and is replaced by pure concern.

“Bob?  Bobby?  Are you…okay?”  You reach a hand out and cup his face, and your palm had felt warm earlier but now it feels cool….which proves how hot he’s flushed, how feverish his panic makes him feel.

“I’m sorry.  Shit, honey.  I’m…I gotta go.”  He tries to sit up but your mattress is soft and he flails a moment, and if Bob were just a bit younger he’d burst into tears at how sideways this has all gone so suddenly.  You served him up the perfect evening, you’re kneeling right beside him in the hottest fucking lingerie, and he’s been reduced to a stuttering, red-face idiot who can’t even get hard—

“Hey.”  You lay your hand on his bare chest, steady him.  “Hey, hey, hey.  Take a second.  Just breathe, Bobby.”

“I gotta—”

“Just relax.”  You press against his chest, tap your forefinger against his skin.  “Breathe for me, okay?  Everything’s fine.”

“It’s not.  Fuck, it’s not!”  He raises his voice, winces at how shrill he sounds, and the dam in him breaks.  Something in him dislodges, and it all spills out:  every mean, rotten thing he’s ever thought about himself.  Every bit of unfair criticism, every insult and slight and how his own insecurity has twisted it all into a crippling imposter syndrome.  How he only ever feels competent at his job but how he struggles with everything else, and now how he’s fucked it all up with you because he’s overthinking, always trapped in the own tangled maze of his mind, always waiting for the other shoe to drop because he’s not good enough, he can’t even get hard even with you looking like a dream—

“Hey.  Whoa.”  You remove your hand from his chest, but you scoot over to sit beside him, turned to face him, your expression very similar to the night he met you—the same easy smile, the same studious eyes.

“Nothing’s ruined.  You haven’t fucked anything up.  Take a breath.  Is this because of that bad first date you had the night we met?”

He nods.  “A little bit.”

“There’s been other bad first dates, I guess?”

Another nod.

“And now you’re worried this is just another bad first date?”

“Yeah.”  It comes out a croak, a roughness in his throat. 

“Hmm.”  You lean forward, press a soft kiss to his forehead.  “You wanna hear about my worst first date ever?”

“No, honey, it’s okay—”

“His name was Justin.”  Another soft kiss, this one to his temple.  “Good job, good looking.”  Another kiss, to the other temple, right at his hairline.  “Picked me up and gave me flowers, took me out to San Diego’s most exclusive restaurant that has a reservation list a mile long.”

Bob chuckles weakly.  “Sounds awful,” he says, wry.

You hum again, kiss his flushed cheek.  “He was charming at dinner.”  A kiss on his other cheek.  “Said all the right things.  Asked about my life and listened to my answers.”  The lightest of kisses on the tip of his nose, and it makes him smile despite himself. 

“Halfway through dessert, a woman comes up to our table.”  Bob feels the gentle press of your lips at the corner of his mouth, and he turns his head to kiss you back, but you pull away. 

“It was Justin’s wife.”  A flurry of kisses now, to his chin, along his jawline, near his ear. 

“He was cheating,” Bob says.

“Nope.”  A kiss, this one lingering, under his jaw, on his neck.  “Turns out, this was a little game he and his wife play.  Some weird cheating, cuckolding fantasy.”  Your lips skate over his pulse point.  “He takes a girl out, his wife pretends to catch them, and then they go to a nearby hotel to fuck each other senseless.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Oh, shit is right.”  You lift your head to gaze at him.  “Asshole left me with the bill for dinner too.  So Bobby….you’re not my worst first date.  You’re not even close.”

“Honey—”

“You have no idea how hard you’re gonna have to work to really, honestly fuck this up.”  You grin at him, and then you straddle his lap again, and he lays his hands on your hips and stares up at you.

“Because you’re, like, exactly the sort of man I’ve always been looking for.  You’re that sneaky-handsome sort, and you’re smart and sweet, and you took care of me that first night when I was too drunk to make good choices.”  You cup his face in your hands, and you stare at him hard, that sweet forcefulness on full display, like you dare him to disagree with you.

“It’s already a sure thing, Bobby.”  You lean forward, kiss him gently.  “There’s no pressure to do anything tonight.  Don’t even think about needing to do anything.  How about you just let me love on you, and you just relax, and if you can keep your secret wife from busting in and turning this into a cuckolding fantasy, we’ll end the night just fine, okay?”

That makes him laugh, and it breaks the spell of his terrible ruminating.  Bob laughs, and he slides his hands from your hips up to your waist to feel your soft skin.

“I didn’t even think of getting a secret wife before I came here,” he confesses.

“See?  It’s a sure thing, then.”  You lean forward again, whisper in his ear, your warm breath making him break out in goosebumps as you tell him to just relax and let you love on him.

-----

The antidote to Bob’s awful overthinking, as it turns out, is your care and praise.

As far as first dates go, this is the one where Bob learns something new about his own sexuality.  He learns, thanks to you, that he has a praise kink, because your hands and mouth and body on his feels amazing, but it’s your words that make him hard.

Loving on him means you touch him everywhere.  You kiss him everywhere.  You stroke him, press your soft lips to him, lick against parts of him until he feels like he’s on fire in a way that is completely different than his panic attack.  You kiss every inch of his face and neck.  You trail your mouth over his shoulders and collarbones, across every bit of his chest and belly, and you praise him whenever your mouth isn’t otherwise occupied.

Look at you, Bobby.  Hiding this body away under that uniform.

You praise his arms, the muscles of his chest and abs.  You praise his shoulders and back, the smattering of chest hair, the trail of hair that leads down and disappears under the waistband of his boxers, and you glance up at him, the question in your eyes as you toy with the elastic.

“Can I?” you ask, and Bob nods, swallows hard, and you go lower, you push his boxers down and his cock is there, hard from your honied words.

“Holy shit,” you blurt out.  “Bob, are you for real with this?”

It probably seems like a cliché, like the pretty girl in a movie who somehow never realized she was pretty, but Bob has never really considered his size.  He’s been around plenty of other penises through the course of his career, but he’s never exactly eyed up other men and measured himself against them.  The handful of women he’s slept with never said anything so he assumed he was average, but you praise him here too—you tell him he has a beautiful cock, and Bob blushes at the compliment.  He’d never call it beautiful, but when you wrap your palm around his shaft and grip him gently, he’d agree to any adjective you might offer, so long as you never let him go.

This feels too easy too, but the panic never claws at Bob’s throat again.  You’ve chosen him, you’ve made it a sure thing for him, and you’ve cut through his awkward moment of near-flight to get him to this:  your body stretched alongside his, your breasts pressed against his arm, your hand working against his cock while you whisper praise in his ear. 

And every time doubt starts to creep in—he should be touching you too, he should be making you feel good too—you hush him, you still his mouth by kissing him, and you tell him that he has all the time in the world for touching you, but he should let you take care of him now.

His orgasm creeps up in fits and starts, and it seems to ratchet closer with each bit of praise you lavish on him, more so than each movement of your hand working against his cock.

“I want you to come for me, Bobby,” you whisper against his neck.  You kiss his pulse point, a plush, open-mouth kiss that makes him shiver as you grip him tighter, work a faster rhythm with your hand.  “Come for me like a good boy.”

He wants to be good for you; he wants to do as you say.  Some not-so-small part of him craves your approval, and maybe the two of you will play around with that sort of dynamic in the future, but for now, he just wants to obey you.  He wants to do his part to salvage the night he thinks he almost ruined, so he breathes in time to your strokes, focuses on every sensation—the softness of your breasts pressed against him, your wet, hot mouth kissing him, the light scent of your perfume.  The tension in his belly is a coil, and it tightens and tightens until it snaps, and his hips stutter against your grasping hand.  He gasps out your name, warns you, and then a beat later, he comes.  He spills over your hand, thick ropes of cum coating your fingers and wrist, spilling over onto his belly.

“Just like that, baby.”  You kiss his panting mouth, and he feels the curve of your lips as you give a pleased smile.  “It’s that simple.”

[igotanidea]

My eleven : Jason Todd x fem!reader

Request: Can you do a Jason Todd x reader where the reader doesn’t think she has a chance with Jason because “he’s a 10” and the reader has low self esteem.

Warining: all the typical that comes with Jay: swearing, teasing, bickering, slight innuendo in one sentence

***

„How the hell did I even get here?!”

“Are you having fun, Y/N?!” Steph yelled to her from the other side of the dancefloor. It was Brown’s birthday party and of course all of her friends and family were invited. Poor, shy, introverted Y/N being no exception to that even though she was trying her hardest to come up with any pathetic excuse that ever existed.

But Stephanie was not known for letting people off easily.

And that is how Y/N got here.

Here being the middle of the crowded club, filled with people, most of whom she did not even know. It was like suffocating, but she just put a thumb up and smiled at Stephanie, cause was else was left to do? She was practically dragged here to have fun and enjoy Friday night, damn it.

And more to that, she was forced to wear a dress.

A dress for God’s sake! Most of the time she felt insecure in pants and simple T-shirt so getting dolled up was just too much. Very much too much.

She had to get out. To find just  a little bit of peace and air to breathe, being it in the bathroom or outside or wherever else far from the people.

It took a lot of effort to squeeze between the moving bodies, unnoticed by any of the family members, but Y/N was fast, flexible and extremely sneaky when situation called for so she made it out to the door safely, nearly tripping over her own feet at the very end.

“Damn it!” she hissed exhaling deeply and letting all the frustration out.

“I take it you don’t like it here either?” a deep male voice, seasoned with mockery came from the right side and at first she almost expired, but quickly realized it was just Jason.

Just Jason.

Not that she was having a massive crush on him, for months now.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack you idiot!?”

“Is it working?” he raised an eyebrow at her puffing on the cigarette.

Oh damn it’s working. My heart is definitely beating faster than it’s supposed to.

“NO!” she scoffed

“Whatever you say, princess“ Jason smirked  “but I don’t think you were expecting to see me here”

‘You mean outside or at Steph b-day party?”

“Let’s say both”

“Well, I never took you for a party animal Jace, so….”

“I’ll tell you a secret” he pushed himself off the wall and came closer to Y/N. too close! “I didn’t really come for Brown…..” his gaze focused on her , eyeing her from head to toe and ended flickering between her lips and eyes making the girl choke down. “That;s a really nice outfit, princess….” He muttered and she was suddenly extremely aware of every nerve ending in her body “I guess I’ll see you inside” before she could gasp a single word Jason trampled the butt, smirked at her and disappeared inside.

What the hell just happened?!

Her head was spinning, heart jumping out of her chest, breath becoming uneven

Jason fucking Todd.

Of course he was just making fun of her. There was not a chance he meant what he said as a complement. Not an option that he was interested in her.  He was a  freaking edgelord, trained at intimidating people and bickering.

So why were her cheeks burning like that? Why was there a smile lingering on her lips, wondering that maybe…. Maybe …..

“Hey you!” this time it was female voice throwing her back to reality

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” a tall girl stepped into the light and Y/N could see her face. The other girl was just beautiful.  Her every step showed the confidence and determination. Oh, that one knew what she wanted and how to get it. And y/n had a feeling why she took interest in her.  “How do you know the 10”

“the 10?”

“That guy you were talking to. Don’t you know the scale?”

“Oh, no, please” Y/N whined “why do people feel the urge to judge each other like this? This is just …. Humiliating and freaking objectifying!”

“sorry to break it to you, sunshine, but that’s how the world works. People judge each other. How else would they get together? There are some rules to maintain, and social status is the barrier. Simple as it. Your… friend is a total 10. And so am I.”

“Right…..” as if Y/N didn’t know that. Of course she knew that was how it worked. She was actually painfully aware of that. And familiar with the fact that Jace was most definitely a 10. His ripped body was speaking for itself, and the little scars on his face, including that hated J was only adding to the flame. He was perfect image of a bad boy and it’s no news that most of the girls fall for that. To add to that, Jason was also a perfect mix of many different traits. Rough and sarcastic, but deeply caring. Harsh and violent when it came to enemies, but loving and longing for the one that were close to him. He was keeping his walls up and was wary, but once you gained his trust you get to know him on so many different levels. Y/N knew all that. And it was not easy to see herself in comparison. Boring, average, ordinary girl. She didn’t stand a chance.

“Listen, pidgeon. “ the blonde said, running fingers through her hair, fixing them to look sexier “I’m just saving you heartbreak. Stay in your line. Go back home, change into sweatpants and chat with someone online. That’s more of a place for someone like you. Do you understand me?’

“Oh, fuck you.” y/n muttered  

“Mhm. Someone definitely will do that tonight….” The girl grinned like a predator and followed  Jason inside.  

Y/N had enough. No matter how much this would break Steph heart, no matter how much of a cowardly behavior it was, she was going home. But that meant getting back to the club, grabbing her coat and perhaps seeing something her poor heart could not take.

“Oh fuck it!” she hissed to herself again. “just get yourself together, girl. You knew that one day, sooner or later, he was going to get a hot girl. Just get that shit inside your brain and keep smiling for him. If anyone deserve happiness it definitely Jace.”

If only that little pep talk worked. But no matter how much Y/n tried, her emotions were stronger than her brain. And unfortunately she saw exactly what she was fearing so much. The blonde had already approached Jason, smiling at him innocently, fluttering her eyelashes and talking, talking and talking while he was just listening. After a couple minutes of that show, his face expression changed from curiosity through amusement and then to taunting. And then he laughed at her face.

He laughed at the hot girl.

And then he turned around spotting Y/N with tears in her eyes and became concerned in a blink of an eye, ditching the blonde and rushing towards his friend.

“Let’s get the hell out of here” he mumbled grabbing her small hand, enveloping it in his and simply leading her out.

Y/N should not have felt so good having his attention and care. She shouldn’t have let him do all that. She shouldn't have enjoyed his warm hand holding her and sending heat waves all over her. She should have told him to stay and relax and have fun, to forget about her, but she just couldn’t do any of that. She wanted him. She needed him to ease her pain and soothe her and hold her and to be with her and never, never, never let go. Stupid, selfish silly girl.

“Y/N.” Jason grabbed her chin and forced her to look up at him the second they were back outside.

“Please, don’t ask me who hurt me. Please, don’t use that words ‘cause I will break under the weight of your care.” She thought “care that is not mine for the taking….”

“Who hurt you?” he asked exactly what she was fearing.  And then she truly could not hold it back any longer as her body started shaking and she found herself in his warm, calming, protective embrace, sobbing desperately, unable to form any coherent words, just crying into his chest. “Shhhh. Just tell me. I will make it right, I promise.”

“No….” she sobbed and it made him pull away and look at her.

“What do you mean ‘no’? Y/n/n? What is going on? Whoever made you sad does not deserve to breathe.”

“Jason, please just let go off me. Please, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t let you do this anymore.”

“Do what, love?”

“Stop calling me that” she struggled against him, but he was too strong and kept her close. “Why can’t you see? You’re a 10! I don’t even reach within the scale! You should find yourself the girl in your league! Why can’t you just stick to the rules!”

‘You’re unbelievable.” He chuckled shaking his head “truly unbelievable.”

“Stop making fun out of me! You shouldn’t…. You can’t …..” she hiccupped

“That is really bold of you to start a sentence like this. Telling me what do. But go on, I'm listening carefully.”

“I’m not good enough for you! I’m no one! And you…. you’re you! We’re not supposed to even be seen together! It will ruin your reputation and ….”

“My reputation….” He almost laughed “dammit, love. Are you done?” he locked his hands on her waist and it made her eyes grow wide. Something was terribly wrong here.

“No, I ….”

“Too bad.” He interrupted her, pulling her closer and she immediately put hands on his toned chest to separate their bodies. Grave mistake since feeling all that muscles only made her want him more. Again. “Cause now I will speak and you will listen, baby.”

“Baby?”

“You’re gullible. Self-conscious. Oblivious as fuck. Why? Why can’t you see that I don’t give a damn about should, could, must or mustn’t. I do what I want. Screw the rules, which are fucking stupid by the way. Me being a 10, shit!” now he laughed for real and that wonderful, rare sound made her close her eyes, indulging in this.  “Like I care!”

“But you are! For me!’ it just slipped through her mouth without her thinking “shit, did I say that out loud?”

“I’m glad you did.” He leaned forward a bit, testing the waters, and when she did not pull he back just put his lips onto hers, his grip on her tightening, her hands tangling in his hair. She was making out with him. In front of a public premise. Where everyone could see.

“No…” she pulled back upon realizing what was happening “this is wrong….”

“Stop being stubborn” he muttered resuming kissing her, this time harder, more intensely, that sudden craving of her taking over him. He finally had her without all her inhibitions and doubts. He had her in his arms.

“Jace….?” She asked hesitantly when he cut the kiss and leaned his forehead on hers.    

“You’re right y/n. You don’t fit the scale. Cause sure as fuck you are my 11.”

“But….”

“Oh, no, baby, forget it. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that to you, but I’m not letting you go away from me now that I have you.”

“Is this real?” she mumbled.

“Let’s see about that.” He smirked and kissed her again. And again. And again. Proving that this was not just a crazy dream of a delusional girl, but deep honest feelings on his part.  

He loved her.

[evvyyypeters-fics]

“Just A Bird”

Kai Anderson x gn!reader (ig)

Warnings! ANGST. Trauma, allusions to cult manipulation, manipulation, abüse, infidelity, allusions to domestic abǔse, groooming, extreme psychotic break, a little hallucination, mentions of drǔgs (metaphor), Kai Anderson, not proofread

(Will cause emotional damage (real) (not clickbait))

Based on the (absolutely underrated) song by The Weekend:

6 months with Kai was all it took to break my self respect. If you asked me 5 months ago, I would have said “I’d never let a man do that to me”, with confidence.

But here I am, pleading on my knees for a man who only looked down at me with a look of disgust and boredom. Yet if he asked me to, I’d lick his boot at that moment, if it pleased him. If it made him smile at me, or praise me.

Especially if it kept him from cheating.

There she was, another figure in the shape of an hourglass, and large breasts sitting on our his couch in the basement. There were too many to count now, so they began to blur into the same shape. I could never tell if it was a different girl every time any more. They were no different to me. Even I wonder how I haven’t grown to hate this man yet, always threatening to replace me with other women. It seems everything I do is wrong, and so every day comes with punishment.

I’m beginning to regret all those pinky promises, trusting him with my stories of trouble with loyalty, and how much it meant to me. He used it as a weapon, and he practically laughed in my face about it. It was like I was addicted to him like a drug, addicted to the pain. Like somehow, I believe subconsciously being with him will help me solve my issues. If I just learned my lesson one more time, I’d get it. There was this disgusting feeling of comfort with him, even when he was looming over me as I groveled beneath him like a pathetic worm.

Hot tears burned my cheeks as I clawed at the fabric of his jeans, climbing up his calves. I could tell just how disgusting my face must look, almost seeing the mess of tears and snot, the piggish color of pink that stained it, through the mirror of his eyes. I wondered if this is how the Wicked Witch of The West felt when Dorothy melted her into a puddle. Except if Dorothy was a man with blue hair and a sadism kink.

“Please just let me fall out of love!” I beg. I swear I can see the woman in the corner laughing at me, snickering to herself at the display with a snooty look, her legs crossed and revealing the rim of her stockings, through the thick tears watering over my vision and making the world a glass painting. The sight strokes a fire in me, but when I blink, it seems she has no reaction. As if she’s sitting there with zero amusement to the sight.

“It won’t be long before I fall out of love!” The shaky words, choking and sputtering with my gasping sobs. I can barely make out the sadistic smile that twitches across his face at the pitiful display.

A grin that to my horror that only gets bigger, like a Cheshire cat.

My heart skips a full beat, thudding and pounding, when he leans down closer to my face. “Do you think you get to walk away from me?” He croons to me slyly.

“I own you, lamb.” He practically spits the words into my face like I’m some mutt he’s found the time to mercy.

“So, you can either behave, or you can watch.” He doesn’t sound angry like the other times, almost sounding like he’s impressed at my manic state. Not at what I’m capable of, but what he's capable of doing to me.

A thick sob stuck in my throat shivers out into a whimper and I sink lower to the floor, like a dog being scolded. My eyes peering up wider, the tears silently falling on their own. It was wrong, it was all so wrong. But he looked like a fallen angel with the light above creating a glowing ring around him as he stood tall, creating a pillar of a shadow before me.

“Remember, lamb. This was your choice. No one forced you to join, now it’s your responsibility to deal with the consequences of your actions.” He says it so methodically, as if it’s just a normal protocol. Like he’s my coworker reminding me of the dress code in the office. Frustratingly, he was right. I asked for this, at the end of the day. And now I was met with the karma of my actions. I knew what Kai Anderson was about, didn’t I?

So when he slid his hand around the waist of the woman he brought home, leading her up the stairs from the basement. All I could do was watch. Watch the way he massaged her hip just like he had done me, the way her too short tight skirt rode up her thighs as she walked up the stairs, or the way her hair bounced behind her back. Even the small smirk he turns to give her, his eyes flashing back at me for a moment with a single frame of judgment and distaste. I couldn’t feel anything anymore.

The tears had shaken me so dry, that all I felt was the throbbing of the blood pulsing through my veins, rushing through my ears and making my whole body pound like a drum. My face felt tight with the dry, salted tears. But there was nothing, I couldn’t even form any thought for longer than a second, all I could do was stare. Stare, and feel the flicker of a flame of hatred towards the man I once loved like a loyal dog, spark inside of me from that very moment. Before long, a flame to become a fire. A fire, to anarchy.

“You’re just a bird.” Is the only thing I could utter last, under my breath, as the door closed behind them.

Taglist (you can be added or removed at any time):

@fear-is-truth @xkaisxjazzxsingerx @lemoniiiiiii @jazz-berry @marchsfreakshow @colinzabelswife @dearlizzies @americanwh0rerstory @xrag-dollx @lacucarachapisser @alittleobsessedbitch @n0tonlin3 @bellalove69420 @songbird-garden

[whumping-newbie]

Taking What Is His

Back from the dead to post a thing I wrote the other day for an extremely self indulgent AU to my longstanding, long suffering WIP :)

What do you mean it's been more than a year since you last posted. Not gonna lie, time is meaningless and a lot of stuff has happened. Either way, I hope you enjoy :)

Thanks to @justplainwhump for the support with this one, she's been a real rock these past months. I hope you know how much I appreciate it <3

Tiny bit of context that may help: The General is the de facto King of the nation after his successful coup to overthrow the previous King. He forcibly married the Crown Princess, and she has committed the grave sin of... saying "no" to him, so he feels he is allowed to teach her a lesson.

CW's: fade to black noncon, (male whumper, female whumpee), creepiness in general, forced servitude setting, forced to strip, threatened with a knife, cigarette burning.

There’s a distinct sound clicking down the wooden corridor. It’s subtle, rhythmic, and very recognizable. I turn a corner and find my assumption to be correct. One of my wife’s Maidens of Honour, the one with a prosthetic leg. The odd sound was her leg every other step.

What incredible timing.

“You.”

I call out to her, and she immediately stops, turns to face me, and stands aside against the wall as I approach.

“Good evening, your Excellency.”

Her greeting is stiff, her posture perfect as she bows her head, her long dark hair resting just so over her shoulders. I can’t help but look down at the rest of her. The maid’s dress is modest, just below the knee level, high necked and practically pristine. Of course. This girl is known to take great care of her appearance.

I do appreciate that very much.

“What are you doing here?” I ask her as I stand directly in front of her, barely a step between us, “a little late to be wandering around, don’t you think?”

It’s here that she does look up, ever so slightly, as she answers my question. “I was going to see if her Royal Highness needed anything from me before I retired for the evening, your Excellency.”

She speaks with an elegance that has not changed since the first time she set foot in this place, speaking to me no differently than she speaks to my wife in public. I can’t help but let out a small chuckle - clearly fate is on my side tonight.

“Of course. Come with me, I’ll take you to her. Save you wasting your time.”

With that, I turn back around the way I came, and it takes a second for her to register my order and follow me wordlessly. She knows this way does not lead to my wife’s bedchamber, but of course, who is she to disobey me when I know where my wife is?

She may be a simple girl, but credit where credit is due, she knows better to disrespect her betters, unlike a certain someone I know.

A few moments later, we’re back at my Imperial Office. It’s late, so of course there’s no one else around, meaning that when I open the door, turn on the light switch, step inside and wait for the girl to enter, it’s just the two of us.

The latch of the door clicks shut, and I slide the lock into place.

“Your Excellency?” she asks, and I barely catch the quiver in her voice. “Where is her Royal Highness?”

I don’t deign to answer her question, she doesn’t need one. Instead, I walk over to her, closing that distance between us even more than we did in the corridor. She is looking me square in the eyes, her stance firm, I can see her fists clenched by her sides. I must admit, if she is scared, she’s hiding it quite well beneath that bravado of confidence, like she knows what will happen here.

She hasn’t the slightest idea.

The girl clears her throat and speaks again. “Where is her Royal Highness?”

I reach for the side of her face, and cup her chin in my hand, relishing in the way she freezes in my grip. “That doesn’t matter.”

“But I -“

“Shh,” I push my finger to her lips, silencing her, “be quiet, girl.”

I want to savour this. The moment that I finally get to give my wife a taste of her own medicine. If she wants to be stubborn, I will make the consequences for her refusal severe.

Well. Severe for her and her friends. Me? I plan to enjoy this.

The girl’s breath shakes in my grip, and I pull her closer, practically feeling her heartbeat as I lean in for a kiss. She tries to lean back, get away, without directly fighting back. She tastes sweet, her lips soft and sensual, rather like the kiss I got from my wife our first night together.

It’s incredible how similar this feels to that very first night.

I pull back from her, keeping a hold of one of her upper arms. Her eyes are wide, her voice nonexistent, yet she does not reject me. Just frozen in place, and yet, I like her like this. I lean in again, and leave little kisses on her cheek to see how she reacts, she just barely turns her head as I leave the trail down onto her neck.

She shortly pulls her arm back, presumably testing my grip, but I don’t let go. She must realise that I am stronger than she thinks I am, given that she does not try that again. I can hear her breathing deeply as I move my kisses back up to her ear and whisper.

“Take off your dress.”

“What?” she croaks out.

I stand back up straight, “are you deaf, girl? What are you waiting for? Take off your dress.”

“Sir, why -“

“Are you going to disobey me, or are you going to do as I tell you?”

As I begin to speak, I reach for the knife in the sheath on my belt, which catches her attention and I can hear her breathing still. I haven’t even got this knife anywhere near her, as I had stepped back to give her some space, giving me the chance to get a good, long look at what she has hidden under her dress, what I’ve never seen in the years since she was first assigned as Maiden of Honour to the Crown Princess herself.

How many men can claim they will have seen this?

The knife is a convincing argument for her to do as she’s told, because she shakes her head shortly, before starting to undo the buttons on the front of her dress, her hands visibly trembling as she works the top one loose. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next

“Good. No need to be shy, is there?”

I move back a step and sit down in the armchair just behind me, in between the desk and the fireplace. I keep the knife in my grip, testing its sharpness on the tips of my fingers. Hm, it’s a little dull. Perhaps I should sharpen this. Either way, it seems like she does not want to test out the knife regardless of how sharp it is, because she’s now fumbling with the apron tied at the back, the buttons fully opening up the front of her dress, giving me a tantalizing taste of what she has hidden beneath it.

Once she has the apron untied, she drops it to the floor. As she tries to work off the dress from her shoulders, she quickly rubs one of her eyes before letting that fall completely, leaving her stood there in her underwear.

She’s quite the beauty under her clothes as well as in them, it seems. She’s not got much in the way of blemishes, but her slender figure is accentuated by the way she’s stood, legs tightly together, with her prosthetic leg ever so slightly in front of the “real” leg. The beautiful form of a dancer, with strong legs that have just the perfect amount of muscle on them to look like she could form complex dance moves without much effort.

I wonder what other moves she could do, if she really really tried.

She looks at me, and I can see her eyes are shiny with tears that she desperately is trying to hide, folding her arms in front of her, probably shivering in here. She’s somewhat obscuring her chest, but the way she’s done it has pressed her bra up, making those features look considerably more attractive.

I can’t help but smile. The girl has done very well so far. Let’s see how far she will go for me, in comparison to my wife, whom I helped undress on my wedding night, feeling her form in my hands as I unzipped the dress, leading her out of it and towards the bed.

Back to reality.

I nod in the direction of the sofa behind the girl here, still twisting the knife in my hands.

“Go lay down on that sofa.”

She doesn’t move, just cringes on the spot as she casts a small glance behind her at the sofa in question. One of the nicer ones in this place, a lovely green velvet fabric cover with rich emerald silk cushions in either corner. Quite the comfortable piece of furniture, and she’ll finally get to experience it.

However, here’s where she decides to be resistant. She shakes her head at me, soundlessly refusing my order.

That’s a pity.

“We can do this the easy way, or the hard way,” I stand up from my seated position, “are you sure you want to find out what the hard way entails?”

As soon as I say that, I take one deliberate step forward, and she all but falls backwards into a seated position on the sofa, gripping the delicate fabric in her hands, her chest moving quickly from her rapid breathing, her gaze firmly planted at the floor. I could swear I can hear a sob creep through that breathing, but it vanishes as soon as it began.

I carefully re-sheath my dull knife and begin working on undoing my own clothes, watching her shoulders move with every breath she takes. I can see her concentrated effort on steadying her breathing, but she still seems to breathe very quickly. I work my belt loose and undo my service uniform’s trousers, slipping out of my shoes then stepping out of my trousers, leaving them on the floor beside the girl’s discarded dress.

“Lie down on your back.”

She looks up at me briefly as I loosen my tie, and I realise that she has tears streaming down her face. Hm. I’ve never known this one to be an emotional one. I’ve seen one or two of those girls cry, especially since my revolution, but this one always seemed stone cold, uncrackable.

It seems I’ve found that spot with which I can break her.

Slowly, she swivels on the spot, lifts both her legs onto the sofa, and lies down onto the soft cushioning of the sofa, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She turns her head away from me, into the silk, her arms tightly at her side, her legs crossed over one another. It’s here that I can hear that tiny, tiny sob once again, her eyes screwed shut.

I take off my jacket, leaving just my shirt on, and make my move. Straddling her at the waist, I get a good feel at her upper body. Running my hands up her sides, I stop at her breasts, if only to see what she does. I can see her face screw up and she hisses through her teeth, clearly trying to ignore me as best she can, but that’s quite difficult when I’m sat on top of her getting a good feel at tonights entertainment.

Leaving her bra as is for now, I move my body into position above her, running my hands back down her midriff and working at her underwear. This action provokes another reaction from her.

“Please, please stop -“ she gasps out, her eyes open now, but still not looking at me, tears flooding down the side of her face.

I am now done with her underwear, and silence her cries by forcing my lips onto hers, feeling those little sounds at their source. She doesn’t try to buck me off, or fight me. My wife did that once.

She has not done it since.

I move away from her lips once again, whispering into her ear, “you don’t need to say anything else, girl. Just lie there and let me do all the work.”

With one last stifled sob, the girl closes her eyes and her mouth, looking away from me again. I’m ready, ready for my good time, all whilst a few of my men are probably doing the same to the other girls right this moment. I plan to enjoy every second of this, and every second of knowing that what my wife does not know will not hurt her.

And oh, I will get what I want from all of them.

---

The girl lays still on the sofa when I’m done.

I’m thoroughly satisfied with my time here, and am getting myself presentable - tightening my belt around my waist - whilst she just lies there, unmoving and silent. I will admit that she didn’t do much more beyond lay there and cry, but for the experience I wanted? I am more than content with that.

If I wanted more from a sexual partner, I’d certainly be more persuasive in getting what I want from them.

“How did you find that, girl?” I ask as I walk over to my desk and fetch a cigarette and lighter from the top drawer, “did you enjoy being fucked like you deserve?”

She does not answer me, does not even look in my direction, doesn’t even move. Merely acts like I hadn’t said anything at all. From here, her head isn’t visible behind the armrest of the sofa, but I have a good view of everything else.

I light the cigarette and walk back over to the sofa, taking a drag as I stop right at her upper body. It’s a bit annoying that she has ignored me, I would have thought she’d have it in her for a bit more respect than that.

I press the lit end of the cigarette into her shoulder and she instantly screams out, trying to move away from the cigarette, clutching her upper arm.

“Sit up,” I kneel down beside her, and she does as ordered, “tell me, was I your first time with a man?”

She blushes furiously.

“Am I to take that as a ‘yes’, then?” I can’t help but smirk. How interesting. I would have thought this one would have been snapped right up by some classmate during her teens, she certainly could have fooled me.

I pick up the discarded dress from beside me and throw it at her.

“Get dressed then clean up this mess,” I give the order as I move back towards my desk, “and hurry it up. It’s late, and I have to get up early in the morning.”

I continue to smoke the cigarette as I wait for my wife’s Maiden of Honour to finish what she had started. Little slut. I’m sure I can get more satisfaction out of her next time - satisfaction for me, that is.

Funny thing, that title of hers. She’s no Maiden anymore. And Honour? Well, the little minx certainly has none when I’m through with her.

She quietly yet quickly works at the sofa with what little we have in this room. She’s still in a sorry state - not yet dressed with her hair an absolute mess, the fresh burn from the cigarette is red and raw on her upper arm, and the tear tracks on her face have yet to dry.

By the time I’m finished with my cigarette, so is she with the sofa, and she quickly gets the dress and apron back on, tying up the buttons a lot quicker than she got them off.

“Before you go, girl…”

She freezes, not even finishing tying her apron behind her back, just holding it in her hands, both tightly at her side.

“Tell anyone about our little meeting, and I will make sure there are consequences. Is that clear?”

She nods.

Not good enough.

“I can’t hear you, girl. Am I understood?”

And then, in a display I’ve not seen since I first brought her into this room, she looks back up at me with a hardened stare. The tears are no longer flowing.

“Understood, your Excellency,” her voice, while weak, is certainly more akin to before than during our little tryst, “I won’t tell anyone about this, as you command.”

“Good. Now get out.”

She certainly didn’t need telling twice.

I’m not too far behind her in leaving the room, still relishing in the delights of fucking one of my wife’s so-called friends whilst she has no idea.

I’ll have to do this again sometime. Perhaps I should let my wife disobey me more often.

[eggs-can-draw]

various pregame shenaniganeries, including a baby shu because I missed him :) kinda long naegamigiri timeline thing under the cut that I made at like 1 am on friday

Hi hi hi sit down we’re gonna talk about pre-game naegamigiri because they’re kinda the reverse of how in-game naegamigiri ends up together in my head. HI hihihi this is Egg slightly later this kinda grabbed me and ran into the sunset so naegamigiri timeline thing lets goooooooo

So to start us out, we have the top two in the class, Togami sitting at no. 2 and Kirigiri sitting at no. 1. Togami being Togami, instantly turns this into a competition. His number 1 priority becomes rising to the no. 1 spot and shoving it in this dumbass detective’s smug face. At first, Kirigiri really couldn't be bothered, but sadly, she fell victim to Togami’s secret second talent, Super High School Level Drama Queen. So pretty quickly into their first year, Kirigiri and Togami are academic rivals! Both being naturally competitive, it rapidly evolves into full on rivals! Until…over time. They become reluctant friends. And suddenly class-78 has the world’s scariest power couple.  

BUT EGG! You may be screaming at me, WHERE IS NAEGI IN ALL THIS?? Well you see, as the shsl lucky student and self proclaimed Just Some Guy, when he quickly fell head over heels for the power couple, he instantly assumed both were waaaay out of his league. I mean, who wouldn't? Togami practically refused to give ANYONE the time of day, and Kirigiri is one of the most closed off people on the PLANET. And while he does make friends with them during the rivalry era of their relationship, he resigns himself to pining for both from the sidelines

LITTLE DOES HE FUCKING KNOW THOUGH. Kirigiri and Togami are definitely happy together, but their relationship as it is feels like it's... Missing something. After about a week of awkward tension, they both admit to having a crush on Naegi. With both of them on the same page, they make it their mission to confess to Naegi, and get him to join the polycule!

So yeah it's a lot of fluff from both Kirigiri and Togami, Very Obviously Flirting and Naegi pulling the classic “Ok But Did They Mean It As A Friend” that slowly gets more and more intense.

Like. Picture this. A fancy candlelight dinner, the three of them at an expensive Michelin star restaurant, Kirigiri and Togami both got Naegi flowers, afterwards they went on a walk through a local park and watched the sunset with just the three of them.

Naegi still didn't get the hint.

After almost two years of flirting with Naegi being (somewhat willfully) oblivious, they decide to bite the bullet and just tell him. The dynamic duo write Naegi an adorable love letter, laying all their feelings out in the open, but the day they give it to him, just happened to be the day that class-78 was barricaded inside Hope’s Peak.

He was going to read it in his room when he was called down for the memory wipe, and it just happened to fall out of his pocket as he was walking out.

But fear not! This story isn't over yet! The polycule is real and they do love each other!

Beginning the game, Naegi can't help but feel. Weird. Whenever he's around Togami and Kirigiri. His head feels light and his chest gets all fluttery and he stumbles over his words a bit more than usual.

While looking through one of the classrooms on the second floor, after the first trial, he finds. A letter? Its torn and damaged but when he opens it, the handwriting feels oddly familiar? Names have been scratched out but he can't help but feel incredibly hot in the face when he reads it. He doesn't know why, but seeing this gives him a boost of confidence! While Monokuma shows up to rain on his parade and take the letter, it doesn't work and he uses this confidence to approach Kirigiri. They have a heart to heart and both admit to feeling the warm fuzzies around each other for an unknown reason. They’ve known each other for what, half a week? Kirigiri can't help but be intrigued so they decide to hang out more, this leading the two into a soft and fluffy relationship.

As trial two comes and goes, they both come to a startling yet all to familiar realization. They ALSO get the warm and fuzzies around Togami. That bastard. While making sure to do so outside of the earshot of a certain shsl Murderer, they both approach Togami, who (begrudgingly) admits to feeling the same. While it starts out a bit rocky, the three form a solid and loving polycule.

AND THEN CHAPTER 5 HAPPENS. I could talk about chapter 5 for a million years. Honestly. The angst potential is so so so so so so so strong. Togami doesn't want to believe that he’s been tricked by the two people he promised himself he’s make it out alive with, Naegi refuses to believe that Kirigiri would kill anyone but also a dead body doesn't just appear out of nowhere, and Kirigiri is just TRYING TO SURVIVE.

Pov you are Asahina, Scissor System, Yasuhiro, and Junko and you are witnessing a brutal divorce. The fire is real.

After Naegi’s execution, Togami is a MESS, Kirigiri completely shuts herself off, her one priority being getting Naegi the fuck outta the trash and making up with her short boyfriend. Once the sunshine boy himself is back, tall boyfriend has grown some bad abandonment issues and is beginning his journey as the Super High School Level Mother Hen, so as he’s lecturing treating Naegi’s for his injuries from almost being executed, Naegi gets them all to kiss (literally) and make up. Things aren't perfect, but they're on the same page.

And then trial 6 happens, and they win the killing game. Things seem scary, but they know that whatever they face out there, they’ll have each other.

It doesn't take long for the future foundation to find them, the small group of kids like scared animals being thrust into a world they no longer remember. Naegamigiri refuse to let go of each other, even when the FF’s medic team try to give them a check up to make sure they weren't seriously injured (which in Naegi’s case, led to Kirigiri and Togami yelling at the medic team that tried to shove Naegi onto a gurney and deeper into the hospital wing without them.

Things are tense and scary and they are tired but no matter what they have hope. The world is big and scary and completely foreign to them but no matter what, they have each other, and they have hope for the future.

FLASH FORWARD! The three are official members of the Future Foundation, and have been working on their little pet project involving The Remnants of Despair. After a lot of long talks, they agreed that they wouldn't get married until the tragedy was completely over, then where they would all leave the future foundation to pursue their ambitions and live a happy life together. This agreement, however, does not extend to children. This quickly becomes very relevant when through a series of vaguely ambiguous events, they ended up with little Shuichi Last-Name-Pending! So things get a smidge more stressful. The middle of the apocalypse is the perfect time for a kid. I have no idea what you're talking about.

Then UDG happens. And the stress. Rises. To put it lightly. Almost losing Togami definitely shifted perspective for the power trio. Kirigiri and Naegi were terrified of the thought of not only losing their partner, but Shuichi having to grow up without one of his parents. Togami got progressively more mother hen, despite being the one who almost died.

On the happier side, Komaru was very happy to find out she was an aunt! Once the tragedy is over, she is going to spoil the ever loving shit out of him. I’m sorry sir, but my nephew asked for no fucking pickles!

Things get kinda vague for me after this. Sdr2 happens, with Naegamigiri once again almost dying as you do. Shuichi gains a surprise new uncle, he also gets babysat by Asahina, and once naegamigiri get back I remember that I haven't finished the dr3 anime.

Not 100% sure if I’m gonna keep the dr3 killing game who knows. Maybe things stay cute and fluffy and nothing huge happens for naegamigiri until the tragedy is officially over and Togami and Kirigiri leave the future foundation to pursue their passions (FF wont let Naegi leave, sadly, he did get to change his job to a stay at home one tho, mans basically does paperwork on a laptop all day and sometimes has to go on long business trips to speak to people all over the world to help restore hope and stuff)

One important detail: The HPA survivors are not involved in the resurrection of hope's peak. It's something that's bugged me for a while and it just. It doesn't sit right with me.

A long time later, Shuichi and his friends attend Hopes Peak (a certain gremlin has to lie to their dad to get there due to Bad Blood Tee Em but it's fiiiine they're all fiiiiiine) where shit hits the fan, and I’m not gonna reveal that until I finish v3 so for now, that’s it! Get out of my house! Come back later! You’ve had your food for the day!

[fatfemme-inist]

A few things that have helped me:

1. Teach yourself to be kind to yourself. When you think of something dumb you did that you’re embarrassed about, try to put it in perspective. Remind yourself that it’s very unlike anyone else remembers these things or judges you for them. Imagine how you would treat a friend who did something similar at the same age. Imagine how you would treat a stranger who did something similar at the same age. Treat yourself like that. (If this doesn’t work, you may also need to practice being kind to others.)

2. Forgive yourself and release those memories. If there are particular memories or incidents that really bother you, work intentionally on letting them go. Write a letter to your past self in which you give yourself the pep talk you needed to get through that embarrassing or difficult experience. Write a short story about how things could have been different in the moment or over time. Write out the whole story of what happened and why it has haunted you and light it on fire. Whisper the secret of your most humiliating moment into a stream and let the current carry it away from you. Do whatever weird, vaguely ritualistic shit it takes to help you feel - even for a moment - like you’ve let go of that thing. Then every time it comes up again, remind yourself that you’ve already let it go.

3. Mantras are actually kind of amazing for this sort of thing, in part because they can become something to fall back on when you’re feeling bad about yourself and don’t have the spoons to crawl out of the shame hole. But also because over time if you say something to yourself enough, you’ll start to believe it. I spent several years when my mental health was at its worst repeating “I am a strong, confident person. I am smart and competent. I am an asset to the organizations of which I am a part.” I would do it while I exercised or while I washed the dishes or while I brushed my teeth - whenever my brain wasn’t doing something else. I didn’t believe it for most of that time, and it definitely wasn’t true when I started, but over time, I started to believe them AND they started to be more and more true. A few weeks ago, I found myself telling myself “I don’t deserve food because I didn’t work hard today,” so I made myself go in the bathroom and repeat my mantras and then I went into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich.

4. The best revenge really is living well, but sometimes spite is the gas you need to get there. When I starve myself or hurt myself or say mean things to myself, I am doing my abuser’s job for them. That dickhead doesn’t get to treat me like that anymore, and he doesn’t get to have me volunteer to do the work on his behalf, either. I take my meds and eat delicious food and dye my hair purple and do all sorts of things specifically to spite the assholes who raised me. And also because it makes me happy. Sometimes more of one and sometimes more of the other. Whatever it takes to get shit done on any given day.

5. I learned all of these things in therapy. It took me several tries, but I eventually found a really amazing therapist who doesn’t really do “labels” (aka diagnoses aside from what is required to get me insurance/services), and we’ve been meeting weekly for ten years. I will probably meet weekly with her until she is no longer seeing patients. Because sometimes it’s just helpful to have someone else’s perspective on your life or to talk to someone who you know will only be on your side.

Michael Schneider

[viviskull]

@cflight​​ : x

“Um, should I be worried?” Ekira chuckled nervously, hesitant at Vivi’s request. They knew she was one to be sporadic, taking them places more frequently than most— but to have them hold on right? Close their eyes? It was something they were more than a little unsure of, only doing as requested after the all too well known look she gave them.

“Oookay, but I’m blamin’ you if anythin’ happens!” they joke, hoping it didn’t come off as more frightened than they currently felt.

And when they knew her best?  They would be right to hold onto that flick of fear blooming in their chest; she was cooking something up behind that ever so innocent smile of hers.  The way her eyes twinkled, the way her words literally buzzed with that loving warmth of excitement..  Ekira could only hope in the heart of her sporadic nature, they could only pray on her soul she knew what she was getting them both into.  Chaos followed her wherever she went, and sometimes she’d come home with a few burns at the end of the day.

Surely she wasn’t thinking what their worst fears were already thinking.. Right?  This cliff was already a high enough peak for them to gaze down upon the vast valley.  What more did she have in store for their freshest stroll out in the forest?  She surely always had something in mind, didn't she?

“Well–,” she chirps out, giving them a knowing wink–. “ya just have to hold on tight and be patient, my lil peachy bud~!”  Scooping them up into her arms, being just as firm and confident with her strung up words, Vivi practically tosses them up like a potato sack; quickly embracing them into a familiar bridal hold that often came naturally to this dame whenever she went to twirl the other about into a shower of her beckoning kisses.  They always felt so light in her arms, and it was more often than not she was grateful for that fact in this instance.  She wasn’t too sure herself she could pull this stunt off, even with the extra set of weight she’d have to bear in the next.  But who was she to doubt herself now?  The winds were blowing strong today.  There would just be enough for them both if she played her cards just right.

Throwing in a kiss that would probably bite her in the back later, she offers a teasing peck to the side of her companion’s cheek.  “Aww, is that a bet?”  She lightly teases.  “If so, I’ll take ya down to that pizza joint you’ve been eyeing for a while, if this surprise doesn’t take a lick to your fancy.  Just keep those eyes closed for me until then, ey~?”

Besides, she doesn’t know if she could bear them seeing her do this, this was her second time she’s ever really indulged her other Godly abilities in some form of.. test run.  Plus she didn’t know how long she’s got to hold this one power down at any rate.  It was better to practice it late than never, right?

Before she could let that self doubt try to rush in with that little voice of her own panic, before that tiny flicker of Ekira’s fear would try to set her own aflame, her legs break out into a run with the ground quickly falling behind her.  Her heart swiftly pushes the false courage to spread across her limbs with a surge of her determination.  Her arms hold onto Ekira just a bit tighter, her grip fastening upon them with the promise she’d keep them glued to her no matter how they might’ve been deadweight.  Adrenaline burns in her limbs, the horizon was already drawing closer with each stride she took.  1 step to trip over her own feet… 2 steps she had to correct her stumbling across the grass… and with 3 breaths of air to keep her going… 

She takes that one leap over the edge of the cliff.  The winds scratched against her skin, the flutter of her scarf whips behind her as everything seemed to slow down in that single bound.  That electric spark of her Goddess spirit surges and blooms from her own chest, a vast amount of energy she could never get used to after repressing it with every breath.  Too long she let it go neglected like an unused muscle, too long it took for her to take to the skies.. For in that instant, they both went falling down as gravity had naturally had its grip on them.  Like a rock plummeting down into the depths of the sea, they were falling fast.  Her stomach jumps like it couldn’t keep up with the rest of her body, her regrets were dragging them down with it.

But try as she must, she still had a life to keep safe, she couldn’t lose her focus now.  One more breathe in.. She wasn’t as frail as she used to be.  The ground was coming at them fast, but she could outrun it faster.  She could fight any beast that came her way.  Why not beat gravity again too?

That electric spark takes its hold on her again, this time it flickers against her companion’s fur too.  Her magical presence was everywhere, everything, yet it was also nothing.  Her body was but a veil keeping it contained.  She was a universe that would bend to nothing.  The winds will be her guide, and that spirit would be light as she.  Like a weight that had once had its hold on them both, the once spinning world around them snapped her back up into the air like an arrow.  Trees were flying past her, the winds were lifting her up to practically touch the skies with her winter kiss…

.. She’s flying.  She was really flying.  Vivi could feel the way her long, sparkling hair trail down her back, yet this time.. It wasn’t as heavy now as it often had been before.  And this time, she wasn’t crashing into those same trees like she had crash landed once before!

“So..”  She clears her throat.  The winds were gently hissing in her ears, but she still could hear every little beat of her companion’s heart blaring in her ears just fine.

“.. When ya open your eyes?  Try not to freak out a lil for me, Honey.”  She gently advises.  “We.. have a really nice view of town right now.”

[userholland]

overdrive (biker!tom) | one

genre ↠ strangers to lovers, love at first sight, idiots to lovers

summary ↠ somehow you ended up at a frat party that’s already gotten out of control. feeling out of place and socially awkward, your best-friend relentlessly tells you to talk to someone, specifically a curly-haired boy with the bright smile and tattoos shaded and painted from his shoulders to his wrists. from one glance, you could see a whole live with each other.

word count ↠ 6.7k

warnings in this part (?) ↠ gushy, gushy, and uh—gushy. both tom and reader slowly becoming completely smitten. tattooed!tom w/ eyebrow piercing <3 (sleeves along both arms + some self-tattoos on his fingers), drinking alcohol, cursing.

chapter playlist ↠ girls like you - the naked and famous / in your eyes - the weeknd / godspeed - frank ocean / spinach - timothy infinite / 9 and three quarters - txt

a/n ↠ this fic has been a work in progress for months. there is a mention of a city but, that's up for the reader's interpretation because I didn't want to put a specific location on it. but i hope you guys enjoy it! always appreciate the love i get !!! honestly been focusing on escapism and true self in my fics so please let me know how they are. major credit to my header made by @venomsilk aka the hottest girl on here :'D much appreciated besthie ! this series will be mature so, 18+ so please, again, minors dni! as always, i hope everyone is doing alright and please stay safe <3

series masterlist ♡ main masterlist

*✭˚·ﾟ✧*·ﾟ*✭˚·ﾟ✧*·ﾟ* PART I. I Trust You… I Think

True love was complete and utter bullshit.

How could someone give their entire heart to another person? How could they not understand the fear of being let down? How were they able to fall so fast? Fairytales were tailored to little girls growing up and walking around with one glass slipper to find their knight in shining armor or their blue-eyed prince who doesn’t even need the say anything to know they are in love with them. It didn’t make sense as to why someone would risk all their love on a whim because of the way their eyes connect with someone else’s across a room. It seemed like a fast way to create a Cinderella complex and high expectations through the eyes of any girl.

If anyone embodied a modern-day princess, it was Sloane. Granted, you were best friends since you were in the playpen, she always got her heart stepped on and broken into pieces. Guys adored her while girls envied her but how couldn’t they? She exuded confidence and walked with poise, owning whatever hall she walked through with a glare in her striking green eyes, but with that, she was prone to be taken advantage of for ‘just a pretty face’.

You’d been at her side through every heartbreak, from fifth-grade crushes to college fallouts. Throughout it all, you never shamed her but, rather, you became more protective of her. They say blood may be thicker than water but Sloane was practically your sister. Even if you had differences in the portrayal of love, that didn't stop her from dreaming about finding her prince; you just didn’t think she’d find him at a crowded frat party with beer-covered floors and Kappa Sig brothers making freshmen do keg stands.

“Chug, chug, chug!” The group of boys yelled in unison, watching the scrawny freshmen’s face fade into a bright red from the alcohol.

You furrowed your eyebrows as you passed them, your arms crossed over your chest as you followed behind Sloane. Purposefully, she wore a two-piece set that was a creamsicle color. Her clean, blonde locks and glossy lips completed the look as if she were a movie star from the 1960s. It always impressed you how she managed to be the most put-together one in the room, which was even easier in a setting like this. A light groan came from your lips as you heard the bottom of your shoes stick to the ground, quickly looking under one before you walked to the kitchen island littered with hard liquor and cups.

“Look, they have Grey Goose!” Sloane smiled, unscrewing the cap.

“Great way to forget about tonight...” You trailed as you grabbed two cups from the stack.

“Yeah, I need to loosen up already. I saw this guy by the door and I think I might try to talk to him.”

“Talk talk or just hooking up?” You asked, pouring orange juice into your plastic cup.

She giggled, “Talk talk, you know, just get to know. Mingle.” She nodded, adding the vodka to your drinks.

“...Have you heard from Devin?”

“No. But, hopefully, he’s not here tonight.” She raised her eyebrows before taking a short sip of her drink before she turned around to scan the room, “Don’t want to talk to him, don’t wanna deal with him.”

“He’s an asshole.” You commented, holding your drink. You leaned your back against the counter, searching around the party, but you doubted that you would see anyone you knew. Frat parties were never your scene, hearing enough stories from your friends that it seemed sketchy to go to them, but it wasn’t that bad right now. But as the night went on, you noticed it fill up and the booze flowed quickly.

With the main room starting to feel smaller, you decided to find a bathroom while Sloane was talking to one of her friends. She assured you she’d call you if anything happened, feeling comfort in that before you left. You brushed past a few guys, trying not to touch any one and simply sliding by, yet still got a slab of sweat along your arm from them. With a disgusted look, you hesitantly wiped it on your shirt before a few people bumped into you along the way.

Being anywhere else was preferable when compared to the pungent and overwhelming mixed reek of booze and sweat created throughout the entire house. You could almost grab at the air with how thick it become from the rising humidity, even though it was winter and the doors were opened for anyone to enter.

Before you got to the start of the stairs, someone shook their beer to spray it throughout the crowd and you tightly closed your eyes when you felt the drops land on your face and hair. As you wiped the beads away with your forearm, you realized how sticky your hands had become from how many things and people you didn’t intend to touch－ more of a reason to use the bathroom.

“‘Cuse me.” You said, passing by another guy. You placed your hand on his back before moving past and walked up the stairs.

Looking over your shoulder, you saw the stranger you passed was a brown-haired boy with a piercing at the tail of his eyebrow. Flashing neon colors, like blue and orange, highlighted his sharp jaw and made the brown in his eyes turn light. Your eyes traced the sterling-silver chain peaking by his neck then shifted to detailed tattoos hiding under the fabric of the sleeves of his white t-shirt that perfectly fit around his toned arms.

The right corner of his mouth pulled as you maintained those few seconds of eye contact before you turned back around, heading toward the bathroom. You shook your head at yourself, that guy probably thinking you’re a creep because you ogled him for longer than you should have.

Look away now, look away now.

Heat rushed to your face, like a burst of fire slapped your cheeks. Your feet thought before your head, continuing to pace up the stairs; you brushed past strangers coming down. As your shoulder collided with someone else’s, you still persisted to not look back. But, one look was enough to know that there was something about you he found alluring.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going!”

There’s neon lights illuminating the hall as if you were entering a strip club, and you push open the already-cracked bathroom door. As much as you wanted to hide, the bathroom of this frat house was scarier than any embarrassment you could face downstairs. The sink looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months, a ring around the basin and hair products around the space. Not a toothbrush in sight either-- it was worrisome, but not as bad as what could have been behind the shower curtain or behind the toilet.

You shook your head, a chill trailing your spine that made you roll your shoulders and shake your head. Only twenty seconds, then you were going back out there. Taking a few glances in the mirror, then stretching your neck then wipe your hands down your face.

The loudness of the party came back when you opened the door, surprised by the couple pressing themselves against one another by the door. They squeezed behind you and shut the door, the air blowing on your face when it closed.

“Christ…” You muttered.

As you made your way back down the stairs, inhaling the volatile scent of beer and weed, the party only got bigger. You shuffled your way through the thick crowd, the bottom of your sneakers sticking to a mixture of booze on the hardwood floor before you found Sloane at the kitchen bar talking to a guy.

You froze in the middle of the room. She looked so happy, that big smile on her face from ear to ear and her bright eyes could be seen as stars in the dark sky. You weren’t sure who the guy was, but when you saw that familiar smile, you knew she was interested.

“Y/N!” She gestured, sitting on the countertop.

The bass of the music vibrated the floors the closer you got to her, leaning your head down when walking by the cute boy with brown locks. The mysterious yet handsome stranger held his gaze as you passed once more, a cheeky smile painting on his lips then turning back to the conversation with his friends.

“Y/N, this is Christopher. He’s in my French class.” Sloane giggled her arm around his shoulders.

“Nice to meet you.” You smiled. She raved about him since she broke up with Devin, showing you their cute texts and funny photos. Always hearing them gush and giggle to each other, the whole “you hang up first” line back and forth.

He grinned in return, but the two of them continued their conversation while your eyes searched around the room for anyone you knew-- doubtful. You hoped your gaze would fall on the cute stranger again, already embarrassed about staring at him once, but he was nowhere to be found. Wouldn’t have been surprised if he was some illusion, a ‘too good to be true’ moment.

“We’re gonna leave here, go to this bar downtown. I think it’s called Stella’s… Chris said his friends are in a band and they’re playing tonight.” She smiled, “You coming with?... this place is getting too crowded for us.” Sloane furrowed her brow, turning a snarky glare to the group of guys doing a keg stand in the corner.

You hummed, “As fun as that sounds, I’m gonna head back to the apartment.”

“Oh! C’mon, come with us. Have a little fun tonight. I don’t want to leave you alone… especially not here.”

She joked, but it wasn’t far from the truth.

“Well maybe if I hang around, I’ll find a guy too.” You jeered.

“If you smile more too.” Sloane lightly pinched your cheek, “You have such a beautiful face, gonna be on a billboard someday.”

“Haha, very funny. Why don’t you have some fun? But, I think I’m gonna head back to the apartment.” You trailed, not wanting to burden her with being the third wheel even though she wouldn’t mind.

“Alexis is here with her boyfriend if you need a ride.” She told you, holding your hand.

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. Promise.” You comforted, curling your pinky around hers.

In her own giggling fit, Sloane accepted your reassurance, “Okay, text me, call me, anything to let me know you’re okay.”

“Yeah, of course.” You grinned.

As the group left through the party, you sat down in a chair by the wall opening to phone to the Uber app. Even though you barely had enough to your name, you chose an UberX and patiently waited in your seat instead of being outside in the freezing cold. The strong scent of Malibu surrounded you like a cloud, you could probably get a contact-high if you stayed in the room long enough.

People passed by, drinks spilling out of their solo cups and laughter barely heard with the loud bass of the music. You didn’t mean to stare at anyone for too long, but there was nothing else to do to pass the time. A few guys passed that caught your attention, but not the same one you bumped into going to the restroom.

Just as you didn’t think time could be slower, red and blue lights flashed through the front windows of the house. They beamed bright, strobing as if a rave moved outside, but from every one quickly pacing toward the back doors, you assumed it couldn’t have been good.

“Cops! Campus cops! Go out the back doors!” Someone shouted over the muttering voices.

No one was sprinting to get toward the front of everyone, but anyone who had a reason to jump the fence made you worry there was more going on at this party than you thought. People heaved against one another, like waves in a violent sea, bumping by anyone around you until feeling the cool air hit your face. As the crowd dispersed, you decided, on a whim, to follow a group of people exiting around the house to get back to your college down the road.

Instead of continuing to follow this pack of drunks into town, you walked the opposite direction to not get pummeled by the horde clogging the middle of the street and sidewalks as red and blue lights beamed against the windows of all houses.

You looked over your shoulder, the music and noise from the crowd fading into the night. A few people passed through backyards to get to where their cars were parked, immediately leaving as soon as their engines started.

Sighing, you called your friend, Alexis.

The ringing went on until it went to voicemail. You assumed she may have gotten caught up in the mess that happened. But, there was still hope in ordering an Uber. Quickly pulling up the app and buying a ride, you stood there and realized how alone you were. The empty street, not even a stray cat walking by or the sound of crickets.

Freezing, you crossed your arms to insulate the body warmth you had left. As you bounced your legs, your teeth chattered on and off with nothing else to focus on but how cold it was. You hoped that the uber would be here soon, preferably right now, so you checked your phone with your fingers clutched around it.

15 minutes away.

“How was no one else working on a Saturday night when they know drunk people are looking for some way home?” You thought.

With your head arched to the sky, the stars scattered in the dark midnight and the silence was eerily beautiful. The half-moon’s glow was your only way of seeing anything, almost making it less lonely than you felt right now.

“Hey, what are you doing out here?” A voice from behind curiously asked.

Your heart dropped when you saw his face, the cute guy that you passed by to go to the bathroom. Immediately, you turned your attention to him while still practically hugging yourself.

“Waiting to be picked up by my Uber. My friend left and I don’t want to walk this late.” You awkwardly chuckled, “But, it’ll be here any minute.” You lied, heat rising to your cheeks— somehow being the only warmth your body could suddenly produce.

He nodded, “I can give you a ride home or wherever you’re going.”

You turned back to him, hesitant with an answer since it was unprompted.

“Um… no offense, but I don’t take free rides from strangers.” You half-joked, even if the offer sounded better than your moral compass.

“Yet you’re taking an uber?” He asked, his eyebrow cocked and a smirk on his lips.

You chuckled, “Well, I’m pretty sure they have background checks done.”

Tom grinned, “You don’t trust me?”

“That’s exactly something a guy I shouldn’t trust would ask me, don’t you think?” You scrunched your nose a bit, still tightly crossing your arms.

The cute, curly-haired boy half-smiled, “Touche..” He chuckled, both of you sharing it.

“But, I’m actually headed to the city and dropping you off wouldn’t be out of my way.” He shrugged, “Plus, I’m scared that if I leave you here, I’ll come back tomorrow and you’ll be frozen to the sidewalk.” He teased, still trying to offer you a ride. You looked incredibly cold with your body closed off, so much that if enough wind knocked you on the sidewalk, you’d shatter into pieces.

You narrowed your eyes, “It’s not that cold.”

“Oh yeah?” He hummed, “Your knees have been shaking since we started talking.”

Cold or not, your knees would have been shaking regardless. The nervousness in your heart almost tickled, wanting to give into this rom-com like offer. Desperate, freezing and out of patience, you sealed your lips before telling him, “Fine. I’ll take the ride.”

He gave you his hand to shake and when you held it, the heat from his palm felt like it melted the icy frost in your numb fingers.

“I’m Tom, by the way.”

“Y/N… glad we got that cleared up.” You grinned, “So, where’s your car?”

Tom produced a light chuckle, making you furrow your eyebrows.

“About that…” He trailed.

Confused, your eyebrows pushed together once more as he took a few steps down the sidewalk and patted his hand on the leather seat of a motorbike. The streetlight shined against the black finish and the small windshield by the top of the speedometer. Two black, tinted helmets were placed on the top of the slim seat. Still surprised, Tom grabbed one and held it in front of your hands.

“I recommend this.” He joked.

Holding the heavy helmet, you ran your thumb over the worn-out sticker on the back of it before looking at the reflection of yourself on the insulated face field.

“I can’t even ride a regular bike.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m driving then.” Tom joked, hoping to ease your nervousness.

Once more, you faced into the helmet’s shield, staring back at yourself and wondering if this was a good idea. While your conscience was telling you to back away, Sloane’s voice repeated in your head about how you needed to have fun and meet new people; exploring the world of being spontaneous and adventurous.

As Tom gracefully sat on the bike, he pulled the key from his pocket and perfectly jammed it into the ignition. Even the sound of the engine gave you a rush, a tingle coming up your spine-- but that could have just been from the cold. You quickly pulled out your phone, seeing your Uber was 5 minutes away. Your thumb hovered over the cancel button, a hesitant feeling bubbling up in the pit of your stomach.

“Backing out?” He asked, placing the helmet on his lap.

You sealed your lips, quickly tapping the cancel button then shoving your phone in your back pocket.

“Nope. I’d never.” You show him a smug grin before sliding the helmet over your head. It fit a bit snugly, but rather than it flying off your head if, god forbid, something happened… with this complete stranger.

“Well, it’s gonna get chilly so… here, take my jacket.” He trailed, unzipping his black, bomber jacket.

You took it, the scent of a pine-like cologne coming off it, but you didn’t mind the scent. As you put one arm through the other, you replied, “Thanks.” then pulled it up in one zip.

You heard a light chuckle from him before he pulled down the shield of his helmet, squeezing his left hand around the handlebar while the right one lightly gripped around on the right hand clutch. When the bike began moving, you naturally tightened your grip around his torso with your head behind his shoulder.

“It’ll be a smooth ride.” Tom said, a bit muffled under the helmet.

At first, your eyes were squeezed shut, still not processing how you were able to get on the bike. His speed picked up as he turned off sidestreets, driving past a few drunk stragglers from the party before stopping at a red light.

Tom planted both his feet to the asphalt road, antsy to pick up speed, but your heart was beating against the inside of your chest when you couldn’t hear it over the engine. Stuck hearing your own breathing, Tom turned his head around and saw you look off to the distance.

“We’re gonna get on the bridge that goes into the city. Gonna be pretty loud… you okay?” He asked, flipping open his helmet shield.

You nodded, “I’m fine. It’s just a bit cold. I’m not afraid of going fast if that’s what you mean…”

He half-smiled, “Just enjoy it. What could possibly go wrong...”

He was trying to mess with you. Cute.

You cocked your head to him, “I wasn’t planning on it…”

Tom couldn’t help but tease you, it was too easy.

The opposite road’s light turned yellow, both of you noticing and Tom shifted his shield back down. His face was covered by the tinted plastic, his back lowering and your arms wrapped around his toned torso. You laid your weight on his back, keeping your head above his shoulder and staring down the road that led to the merge of the turnpike onto the bridge.

Green light.

You fastened your arms around his waist once again before hearing the sharp rev of the engine. Tom smirked when he felt your light squeeze, but focused on the road and what way he should take that could be the safest. There’s a pang in your chest as you stared at the number on the speedometer quickly increasing.

The cool wind froze your hands around Tom’s waist, making you hold him closer. In that second, you went from fast to even faster, and you were too afraid to see what was around you. As your eyes fluttered open, Tom passed a few cars while speeding down the bridge. A dull, orange tint from the bridge’s lights strobed every second, seeing the view of the lit-up skyline.

As you nuzzled your chin against Tom’s shoulder, he kept a steady pace. You found that if you stared straight ahead, the nerves turned into adrenaline. It made you think about all the times you tried to ride a bike, trying to look down the street to focus, but then everything turned and your skin was scraped on the hot asphalt. Embarrassed and frustrated, you’d always rush into the house and cry about it– swearing to yourself you’d never get on a bike again.

…Well, you didn’t say anything about when someone else was riding the bike while you were also on it.

After the bridge, Tom weaved through the traffic of the city streets. Tom stopped at a red light, putting his feet down and you pushed up your face shield. Blinded by millions of lights from billboards and decorated, tall buildings, a big smile painted on your face. Tom glanced in the side view mirror, seeing your eyes glimmer from the night scene before driving off when the light turned green.

Oddly enough, you felt safe with this complete stranger. You weren’t sure if it was the pine-like scent coming off his skin and clothes, his natural charm and wit or how easily your arms wrapped around him in those seconds of fear.

“How has my driving been, miss?” He jeered.

You tried to conceal your smile, “We're not there yet, so you still have time to impress me.”

He smiled to himself, quickly remembering he had to focus on the road and not how cute your giggles were as they filled his ear. You pulled him closer to you again as he worked his way through the lanes, passing stopped cars before he turned on a left street. There, you saw a group of people standing outside, under an awing as they drank beer from the bottle and smoked weed in each other's faces as they spoke in the freezing cold.

Tom drove into an empty parking garage, halting his bike in one of the many empty spots. The tint of the warm, orange lights under you created a saturated filter over your figures. When pulling the helmet off, a big smile was painted on your face– utterly giddy from the rush that coarse through your veins.

You stood in front of him, “How do you ride this everyday and not get a huge rush?” You giggled, pushing your hair out of your face.

He was a bit mesmerized, but the shield of his helmet covered his big smile.

“Well, when you scrape yourself a few times, you loose the spark in it and understand why people drive cars.” He joked as he pulled the helmet off, carding his fingers through his chestnut curls.

“Driving cars is definitely underrated compared to this. Makes me wish I did know how to ride a bike.” You smile as you give him your helmet.

There was a short silence when your eyes connected, like everything became silent and you felt like the only people in the world.

“Uh, you want to stick around? I can treat you to a drink, it’s the least I could do for the ride since I don’t have actual cash on me.” You jeered.

“Sure. Now I know I wasn’t just being used.” He chuckled.

You playfully, but softly pushed his shoulder, “C’mon, I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

The two of you exited the parking garage and walked down the sideway to the bar’s entrance. Tom moved his way through the small crowd, opening the door so he could let you in while being right behind you. His hand pressed against the small of your back as you walked in, and the bar was oddly somber compared to the people huddled outside.

Chris’ band was playing in the back, the lead singer pressing his lips against the mic to make his voice boom through the speakers around the room. People spun each other around, drinks spilled and dripped, and others kissed to the soft rock playing behind them like they were in the ending of a romcom.

“A huge difference from the raid we just left.” Tom smiled.

You giggled, “Yeah, and it doesn’t smell like actual hell.”

“Y/N!” Sloane’s voice boomed from across the room. She hopped up from Chris’ lap, walking over as fast as one could on wedged heels. An eruption of giggles came from her through the big and natural smile she always had, before shifting her eyes up and down Tom.

“And Y/N’s friend?”

“This is Tom, he gave me a ride here.”

Sloane giggled, “Oh, what kind of ride?” She asked in a seductive tone.

Tom chuckled, but his look was cocky as he rubbed the back of his neck and his tongue grazed the bottom of his front teeth. Such a cheeky smirk.

You rolled your eyes, “Why don’t you get us some waters, yeah? That party gave me a contact high and I need to come down from it.”

She showed a small smirk, and scrunched her nose before walking toward the bar.

Tom hummed, crossing his arms as he watched Sloane stroll then lean her mouth by the bartender’s ear.

“What?” You asked, facing him.

He chuckled, “Just didn’t expect you and her to be… friends.”

You lead in finding a free table, sitting down quickly before any drunken person stumbled into it, “She’s my best friend and… she’s sort of the reason I’m here.”

“Meaning?” Tom said, still smiling as he sat across from you with his elbows against the wobbly, wooden table.

“That I need to get out more… find a guy who might like me.”

“Which you did.” He shrugged.

He had this effortless ability to smile with his caramel brown eyes and a sparkle twinkled at the edge of his irises. Imagining waking up to that dreamy gaze was already planting a seed in your head of some life with Tom; watching his eyes flutter open to see those beautiful orbs first thing every morning.

You half-smiled, “I meant dating wise, but… that’s never worked out for me.”

“Okay, first, I’m offended.” He chuckled, and in return you did as well, “And why has dating never worked out for you… if you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

You twisted your lips, trying to summarize your answer as little as possible. There were plenty of reasons, but the one that left yours lips was, “I never find the right guy. There’s never a click or something that makes me think ‘I can see my life with this person’ or if I can even ask to get lunch with them the next day without it being too forward.”

Tom nodded, “Hmm, do you see that with me?”

Heat warmed your face, “If anything, you’re like a knight with… a nice, shiny steed.”

He smirked, “Oh, so I am your knight in shining armor?”

“More like rusted armor, but armor nonetheless.”

Tom chuckled again. His laugh was soft and charming, something you could get used to listening to.

He took that as an answer to his question before two plastic cups of water were placed on the table. Sloane smiled at each of you, “Enjoy, lovebirds.”

Applause erupted as the song ended. Lots of cheering and whistling before the band played another original song– this one with more of a tempo. Sloane arched her head back, her long locks moving out of her face, “Come dance with me!” She drunkenly whined.

Her hand quickly grabbed yours, giving it a tight squeeze. A small giggle left your lips as you turned to Tom.

“Go ahead, don’t let me stop your fun.” He grinned, “I bet you have some killer moves.”

“Exactly! She’s a great dancer! C’mon, Y/N. Show me off on the dance floor.” Sloane protested yet slowly pulled you out of your seat.

Tom smiled wide, taking a long sip of his water but his eyes watching you two walk to the center of the floor. Sloane gave you a slow turn, displaying your hidden confidence to a room full of strangers, but specifically Tom. She knew you’d never accept a ride from any guy so, something about Tom had your attention and she intended on helping you– without you knowing because she also knew you were too damn stubborn.

“Nice jacket! I don’t think I’ve seen it before.” She smiled against your ear.

Shit. You hadn’t notice you were still wearing it.

“It’s not mine. You giggled, “It’s Tom’s.”

“Your ride?” She happily smirked.

“Yeah…” You trailed, trying so badly to hide your smile.

The mysteriousness of Tom made you believe there would be an empty seat where he sat if you turned around, once again giving up your hopes too soon. But, he couldn’t take his eyes off you and the way you moved your body with grace.

Hundreds of thoughts tried to wrap around his head.

How could someone be so breathtaking in a single moment? He thought.

Simple. When they danced like no one else is watching.

You moved your body to the music with an intensive bass and drums that vibrated the floors. Hot pink and red lights streamed over your face, arching it back as the song continued. It was as if a single light shined over you, only you, and the rest of the room faded to black.

You were the only person in the room as far as he knew.

Tom wasn’t huge on the idea of soulmates either, but he seeked out love. He heard his grandparents’ long stories, watched his parents fall more for one another every day, but he couldn’t seem to find someone. Not because he didn’t want to, but the girls who did pass him by weren’t interested in the commitment he wanted. With tattoos along his toned arms and the piercing above his left eyebrow, it was easy to mistake him for someone who rejected love since, for some reason, he had to do that to his body.

Girls ran their bright acrylic nails grazed over the old ink when he dosed off in bed, but then he woke up disappointed when there was no one beside him when he woke up. It not that he expected there to be a relationship by morning, but it would be nice if they could stay for coffee or tea at least–

“Hey! James Dean!”

Tom shook his head. He didn’t realize he dosed off, but his brown eyes glossed when they looked into yours.

He chuckled, “You look good out there.”

Your face brightened, but you still chose to conceal your smile.

“You want to join us? We can request something slower so you can keep up.” You jeered as you sat in the chair next to him.

“Sorry, I’m didn’t bring my dancing shoes.” He shrugged.

You sneered, “Geez, you sound like such an old man.”

“Dad old or grandpa old?”

You turned your face, narrowing your eyes as if you were judging him.

“Great grandpa old.” You grinned, “Now, are you gonna dance with me or not, geezer?”

He beamed, his light brown freckles shifting as he scrunched his nose from chuckling. You gently pulled his hand toward you, close to your chest, and the two of you moved within the crowd.

There was a warm feeling in your chest when Tom pulled his body close to yours, proceeding to spin yourselves around and dance like nobody's watching. You didn’t know the words to the song, not even keeping up with the beat— But, you didn’t care, for once. It was all about being in the moment and right now, you could imagine dancing in a shared apartment to the sound of a low stereo.

You brushed your nose against his, swaying back and forth through the crowd. Just in the moment where your eyes met, the two of your faces became closer to one another’s before a strong force hit your back left shoulder and made you bump into Tom. It was a woman passing by, quickly apologizing to you before she left.

Flushed with a bit of nervousness, heat slowly rose your face and you gulped from your dry throat.

“Um, I’m gonna… go to the bathroom.” You told him, tucking your hair behind your ear before moving past the crowd. You wanted to hide your face away, looking down as you politely pushed through people blocking the bathroom.

When you entered, it was empty so you sighed in relief. You turned on the sink, then took a paper towel to douse it in cool water. Bringing it to your face, you thought steam would come from it as you pressed the cold compress against your warm skin. You didn’t realize how one guy could make you so flustered, especially not knowing what was to come as the night went on.

As you wiped your face, taking deep breaths, a strawberry-blonde exited the stall behind you and walked over to the sink by the corner. She wore boots with a chunky heel, making her legs look slim and herself taller. Just from looking at her, she had a confidence about her– the fitted leather jacket helped that image. She reminded you of Sloane almost, just by the way she appeared.

Quickly checking the eyeshadow on her bright green eyes, she wiped her thumb on the corner of his lips to fix her dark-nude lipsticks. When she turned to leave, she quickly grabbed a paper towel to wipe her hands then toss it in the trashcan. You didn’t mean to stare, only realizing until she left, but you wondered why she was at some place like this.

After leaving the bathroom, you fixed your hair as you walked back to where Tom was, except he wasn’t. You furrowed your eyebrows as you glanced around, trying to find a guy with tattoos down his arm and dark curls from the back.

Sloane, out of breath, smiled at you as she wrapped her arm around your shoulders, “There you are! Thought you ditched us.”

“No, I went to the bathroom… Where’s Tom?” You asked, still looking around the room.

“I think he went outside, he looked like he was making a call or something.” She guessed, shrugging before she sipped her drink.

You nodded, pulling Tom’s jacket around you, not realizing that you were still wearing it. As you passed by, someone opened the door for you on your way out. You turned to thank them, but when you saw Tom, he was standing in the alley next to the bar. He was going through his phone, the brightness of the screen against his soft face, and he looked confused from how furrowed his eyebrows were.

Just as you were about to ask, a girl walked up to him that must have come out the back door on the other side of the bar.

“Hey Tom! I didn’t take you for coming to places like this.” She teased him by the flirtiness of her tone.

You took a step back, hiding behind the corner but enough to see Tom standing with his back against the brick behind him. Suddenly, you felt the heat rising back to your skin even though it was freezing cold outside.

“I came here with a friend.”

“Friend? Like, girlfriend or?” She quickly asked.

You twisted your lips, your heart racing as you wondered what he would say.

“None of your business.” He retorted, sounding cold. It was the first time you heard him like that, suddenly matching his exterior for you. Even worse that she replied with a scoff.

“Oh, C’mon. I’m messing with you. You used to be so soft.” She jeered, but Tom didn’t laugh in response, “Did this friend of yours make you all sweet?”

Just as you wanted to leave, Tom made eye contact with you, instantly wondering how long you had been standing there and what was heard. The mysterious girl also noticed, scoffing as she linked you two together by your lingering stares.

“I assume you’re the girlfriend.”

Heat rose to your face, not knowing what to say on the spot until Tom walked past her.

“We’re leaving.” He calmly, retorted as he stood by your side. You hitched your breath as you felt his palm move around the small of your back, pulling you closer to him– not knowing if he means it or he’s using you as a prop for his manly act.

A scoff is all you heard from the mystery girl as you continued to be pulled with Tom until you turned the corner on the sidewalk. You gently pulled your arm away, but your heart panged as your head filled with so many questions.

“She seemed upset when you told her you were hanging out with me.” You shrugged, turning to Tom.

He appeared annoyed, not wanting to further on with the conversation by the way he lightly groaned in response.

“Just tell me… Is she your ex?” You asked.

Tom licked his lips, “She’s not important.”

“Well, I don’t want to hang around you if it turns out you’re some huge jerk who doesn’t care about other people’s feelings.” You stated, realizing it may have sounded like an ultimatum when you barely knew him.

It struck Tom’s interest, wondering if you liked him as much as he was starting to like you, but he sighed, “We had something, but it wasn't a relationship. She got kind of clingy.” He trailed.

“Wow. What? Did she pay a little too much attention to you?”

“More like she’d call me at every hour of every day and ask what I was doing. It crossed my boundaries.”

“...What are your boundaries?” You furrowed your eyebrows, glancing at your feet.

“Don’t call me at three in the morning and ask me what I’m dreaming about.” He joked, half-smiling.

You nodded, “Okay, that is crossing a boundary.” You jeered back, crossing your arms from the cold.

The two of you overcame the awkwardness of the moment, standing in front of one another with lingering looks. Tom partially felt like he could have handle the situation better, but his defensive instincts came out and didn’t enjoy having his heart on his sleeve. He mostly worried if he did something wrong, seeing how nervous and tense you also became once you saw the exchange.

“I can take you home if you want… unless you’re hungry.” He suggested, shrugging a bit.

You glanced back at him, meeting his brown eyes, the rings of different shades glistening in the streetlight above you. A chill passed by, making him shiver and goosebumps rose over his inked skin.

“Oh, you seem cold.” You tell him, beginning to take off the jacket, but he refused.

“Keep it on… you can give it back to me after we grab a bite.” He smiled, pulling the jacket back over your shoulders.

[snackhobi]

min yoongi is the best shot in the business. you’re the best gunsmith in the city and the only person he trusts to programme his tech; to make his gear. 

he likes your work. it’s a shame, then, that he doesn’t like you.

pairing: yoongi x f!reader / word count: 14.3k / genre + rating: NSFW (18+), cyberpunk!au, smut, frenemies (?) to lovers

warnings/etc: hitman!yoongi. black market dealer/gunsmith!reader. cursing/explicit language. whole lotta tension, sexual and otherwise. mentions of injury/violence. minor character death (no one important, don’t worry, this isn’t an angst fic). brief hurt/comfort. reader has tattoos. sexually explicit content. oral; fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation (f). unprotected sex (please take the necessary precautions irl). rough sex?. choking. creampie. brief mention of aftercare. I think that’s everything but please lmk if I missed any!

a/n: thank you SO MUCH to both @hobi-gif​ and @morndas​ for beta reading this and being so supportive, ily both so much and I owe you my life 🤧💕 as always what was meant to be a short fic turned into a huge one. also this is technically for my 1.1k milestone but it’s a billion years late, oops!​

Yoongi really doesn’t like you.

You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You needle him all the time, dig your fingernails in and squeeze, revelling in the way he sets his jaw, the muted spark of irritation in his eyes. You bat your eyelashes and tilt your head, throw it back whenever you laugh and reveal the easing column of your throat, dragging each interaction out with a kind of sadistic pleasure that has him gritting his teeth. Because you love annoying him, getting under his skin, tapping your fingers against the soft swell of your bottom lip as you eye him up, taking your time before you speak.

Infuriating. You’re infuriating and you know it.

It’s unfortunate, really, because you’re unavoidable. 

Jungkook had asked, once, why Yoongi doesn’t just go elsewhere. They’re more than familiar with the underbelly of this heaving city, underneath all the neon lights and shimmering holograms and towering skyscrapers and legal tech; the scuttling seams of back alley traders and illegal goods, tech or otherwise. There are plenty of black market dealers, after all, plenty of other vendors he could go to to get the equipment he wants. Plenty of other skilled crafters, artificers, artisans, people who would be more than happy to create the things that Yoongi asks for, that he needs. People who can get their hands on anything you want. For a price.

Yoongi’s answer had been short and succinct.

“She’s the best there is,” he’d said, and that had been that.

Because it’s true. You might be exasperating, maddening, laughing in Yoongi’s face where others might cower or genuflect, but no one is as good as you. All of Yoongi’s gear has been crafted by you; each and every single one of his weapons, his tech, the headpiece that fits so perfectly around the back of his skull that Yoongi often forgets that it’s there, hidden in his hair, unfolding across his eyes whenever he lines up a shot to make the kill—there’s evidence of your work across every inch of his body, hidden away under his clothes, day in, day out. Even when he’s not on a contract Yoongi never leaves anything to chance. 

(A walking armoury, Namjoon had called him once.)

(You’d phrased it differently.

You’re always packing, hmm? you’d hummed, rapping your fingernails in a steady beat as you’d leaned back in your chair, smiling with teeth. There was laughter in your words and your gaze, no attempt made to hide your amusement, but after your goading you’d made him a collapsible sword anyway. It’s a beautiful thing, this folding blade, bristling with plasma and energy if Yoongi needs it, lethal and deadly. One of his most prized possessions, something that’s gotten him out of multiple corners, and he owes it—you—his life.)

There’s no one on par with you. You’re a Renaissance woman, a fiercely talented polymath who doesn’t need to rely on anyone else to create the things you create. Low-tech, high-tech, no tech—you make everything from scratch, programme things yourself, hunched over each project in your own workshop with nothing but your mind and your own two hands.

It’s the only reason he puts up with you and your antics, the sharp jibes, the shameless flirting; you’re the most infuriating person he knows, but there’s no one else he would trust with the work that you do.

Unfortunately.

Which is why Yoongi finds himself here, again and again, as familiar with this studio as you are—he watches you work, sometimes, watches you sketch up blueprints and drag your fingers across your array of displays, your world cast in shifting shades of cyan and electric blue from all the tech in here, humming and alive. He likes to see how his equipment is made, after all. It can mean the difference between life and death. He takes this seriously.

It’s the one time you might be quiet. Might be quiet, because you still talk even when you work; flick your gaze between Yoongi and whatever’s set in front of you, that ever present smile spread across your lips, smug and amused. You’re only silent during the hardest jobs. Like right now, you’re intense and focused, a furrow dug between your brows as you survey his sniper rifle—almost shorn in two. (It had been the only thing to hand when he’d had to block a blow from a guard he’d somehow overlooked, no time to draw any other weapons before they’d started to brawl.)

You’d been unimpressed. You’d raised your eyebrows with all the severity of a disappointed mother, bitten words out at him with molten snideness, dripping heat and snark.

“It’s a gun, Yoongi. A gun. You know, something you shoot with? Pew pew? Blammo? I’m not sure what sort of shields and body armour you’ve seen in the past but this isn’t either of those things. Do you want me to sketch some diagrams up for you? Or maybe I could write you a book. Baby’s First Arsenal, Chapter One: The Difference Between Things That Are Guns And Things That Aren’t. Would that be helpful?”

No one else talks to Yoongi like that. No one else would dare. It’s only a rare few that know his birth name and it’s not often that he hears it, more used to the sound of Agust D falling off people’s lips. But that had been part of your price, part of the agreement when he’d first met you and asked for your services: his real name.

Yoongi had let it wash over him, had endured your tongue-lashing before putting the gun down with a heavy finality and thrust it over at you, tired of all your talk.

“Just fix it,” he’d demanded.

You’d laughed in his face.

“As always, your bedside manner leaves something to be desired,” you’d said, taking the rifle from him.

The D-2 Shadow isn’t just a weapon. It’s a piece of art, clean edges and slick lines, and Yoongi is grateful to have it back in his hands. There’s no other sniper rifle like it, made of super lightweight alloy and easy to handle; thermal scope, enhanced stabilisers for accuracy; superior kinetic coils for better shot penetration. Yoongi had asked for the best and you’d delivered. Gone above and beyond, crafted a weapon the likes of which no one else possesses, modified in ways other people can’t even fathom.

And you’d fixed it when he'd almost let it get destroyed. Made it better than new, even, layered it in more alloy to make it stronger without making it heavier, a new material of your own design. If he hadn’t known you as well as he does he’d have worried that it was beyond repair, knows that other gunsmiths would have taken one look at its crumpled body and shaken their heads, but you hadn’t. 

Of course you hadn’t. You never do.

You charge him a pretty penny for your work, make him pay through the nose for everything he asks of you, but Yoongi is more than willing to do so. More than capable of paying, coffers lined with more money than he might need, one of the best contract killers there is—the real price he pays is with his sanity, worn away each time you open your mouth. He can’t help but rise to your bait, as derisive as you are; it’s only the smallest things, a sharpness to his otherwise even tone, an angry spark in his eyes, but you pick up on it all.

He’s not your only customer. You don’t extend your services to many, only to the people you want to—Yoongi’s not sure what set of harebrained criteria you have that lets you choose who you’ll sell to and who you won’t but he can’t make heads nor tails of it. He knows he’s not part of your clientele because he’s got the credits to pay, nor is it because he’s one of the most highly regarded hitmen in his line of business. 

You don’t just choose people who can afford to pay or people who have a level of power and influence in this dark underworld you inhabit. You really don’t care about those things. You just pick and choose on a whim.

(Once, back when he’d first met you, Yoongi had discovered that you’d concocted an entirely new security system—practically incapable of being hacked, crawling with tech, a level of complexity even the richest elites could barely afford—for some small artist who’d worried that their paintings might get stolen. He was an unknown at the time, this V, squirrelled away in one of the dark corners in the lowest levels of the city, and you’d all but given him some of the best work you’d ever done, undercharged him something chronic.

You’d shrugged when Yoongi had asked why.

“He makes me laugh,” you’d replied.)

Yoongi isn’t your only customer but he’s certainly the only one you seem to treat the way you do. There’s a level of irreverence in everything you do, self-confidence settled across every inch of you like the obnoxious stench of a teenage boy’s body spray, but you seem to take particular pleasure in Yoongi’s displeasure. He’d brought Namjoon along, once, inquiring after an imitation greenhouse, how someone might set up the tech to raise tropical plants that wouldn’t survive otherwise (mostly above board, even; Namjoon might grow illicit plants, poisonous and prohibited, but he likes pretty flowers, too). And there had been none of the mocking that Yoongi receives. None of the wind ups. You’d been pleasant, despite your incessant snark, agreeing to take the job with a smile on your face that Yoongi never gets given.

(It had been infuriating, to know that you’re capable of not being an ass, but you just choose not to be. For fun.)

Yoongi really, really doesn’t like you, but he respects your work. Respects you, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

You keep your word. You don’t supply his competitors, although you claim it’s not loyalty to him and it’s only because they can’t pay as well as he does—winnings go to the highest bidder, you’d said sagely, as obtuse and irritating as always. 

But Yoongi knows other sellers will provide anyone who’s willing to pay, freelancers who peddle their wares regardless of affiliation or alliances. You’re beholden to no one and yet Yoongi knows you would never double cross him. Never supply anyone who challenges his work, even if they have the money, even if he’s on good terms with them (it’s not personal, it’s business; Yoongi has no issue with other hired killers as long as they stay out of his way). He knows he can rely on you, which is something to be treasured in these back-crossing back-stabbing backstreets.

So when he makes his way to your door, the details of a new contract still fresh in his mind, he instantly comes to a stop.

There’s something off. He can tell immediately, years of instinct causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, every part of him on edge. Everything looks normal, is normal, but there’s a burning in his gut that has Yoongi’s finger itching for the trigger even though there’s nothing to shoot. 

You’ve granted him the privilege of access to your workshop, to the other rooms, entered the scans of his hand and eye and voice into the security systems, keep him updated on the varying passwords you cycle through, so he can enter whenever he needs to. 

(He’s woken you up on more than one occasion, roused you from sleep for last minute supplies before he leaves for another contract, appearing in the dead of night like a spectre of death, clothing dark and eyes darker, overflowing with weaponry. A looming silhouette edged in strokes of cyan and magenta from the ever present, low-level neon light in your room, so much darker than the bright lights of your workshop. Intimidating. 

And you always just roll your eyes and sigh and tell him to keep a better eye on his cache of equipment and climb out of bed for him. You’re so at odds to him in your sleep rumpled clothing and mussed hair, still unafraid even when he’s fully geared and ready to kill; shirt slipping off your shoulder, swathes of bare skin in the place of Yoongi's all-encompassing outfit, shimmering black light tattoos visible on your legs and arms and bare skin of your collarbones, geometric lines in the palest of blues and greens. You hand over whatever he needs and tell him the creds he owes you.

“I’ve already given you a key to my apartment and you haven’t even taken me for dinner once,” you sigh—dramatic and melodramatic—even as you hand over a bundle of crossbow bolts. The synthesised toxin inside the darts is your own concoction, of course, courtesy of the plant matter provided from Namjoon’s greenhouse.

“I’d literally rather be shot in the head than willingly spend time with you,” he replies.

“You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid,” you say, and just laugh in the face of his unimpressed deadpan. As insufferable as always.)

So he doesn’t need your permission to enter. He’s silent, light-footed as he makes his way inside, scanning each inch of this familiar interior; nothing’s wrong, not yet, but Yoongi can sense something in the air. Something heavy, settled bitter on his tongue, coating the back of his throat.

And then he walks into your workshop.

You’re meticulous. Even when you’re overrun with gear, with parts that have yet to be used, everything has its place. You prefer paper over datapads, too, tack sheets of designs and notes up on the wall, have clipboards and stacks of sheets set neatly in their place, a throwback to a time before tech ruled everything. Yoongi knows the layout of this room as well as he knows his own home, a mental map of straight lines and unwavering coordinates with you in the centre of it all.

Upheaval. Those neat lines of organised cartography have been pulled apart. Ham-handed work, to be sure, more of a statement than anything else; intent to instil fear rather than to destroy (although, Yoongi sees now that one of the monitors has been smashed, display sparking white and blue as it bleeds out electricity.). Even in the darkness of the room—overhead lights off and only emergency lighting on, painting things in shades of dark crimson and pink—Yoongi can tell that whichever interlopers have done this are already gone. The room is empty.

Then the sound of a clatter breaks the silence and Yoongi’s already got his pistol out, drawn without a thought as he approaches the sound that comes from the back room, fleet-footed and silent as he raises the gun and rounds the corner—

And sees you at the end of the barrel.

There’s a first aid kit on the floor. Packs of medi-gel and rolls of bandages and other supplies scattered around your feet. You haven’t even spotted Yoongi yet, in despair at the mess in front of you; he’s never seen you like this, never seen anything other than your veneer of enraging smugness and never-ending energy.

“Y/n?” 

You flinch even as your head snaps around, eyes wide—but the second you see Yoongi you visibly relax, even though he’s still holding a gun in your direction.

There’s a bruise blossoming across your left cheek.

“Ah, Yoongi.” The smile that paints itself across your lips is almost convincing despite the dark flower that’s unfolding on your skin, blood rising to the surface and painting it in hues of pain; you wince, a little, when the smile makes your wound ache. Soldier onwards as you act as though nothing is wrong. “I know you’re always desperate for my attention but do you mind giving me a second? I’m kind of indisposed at the moment.”

Yoongi’s lips are set in a thin line. He only has one question on his mind.

“Who did this to you?”

Your gaze flickers before you break eye contact, staring at the first aid supplies on the floor. “What, this? Have you never dropped something before?”

Yoongi ignores your deflection. It only takes a few moments to reholster the pistol, to step over to you, to grasp your chin and tilt your face towards him.

“Who did this to you?”

Yoongi’s tone is quiet and low, firm and undeniable. For the first time since he’s met you it seems as though you’re lost for words, lips parted around a silent sound of surprise as you’re subjected to the full force of Yoongi’s gaze, cutting through you; past every layer of self-inflated narcissism you put on, past every deflection you might make.

There's a beat of silence.

And then you slowly but irrevocably fold underneath the weight of his stare.

You let him lead you, sit you down, bowing to his hands and his directions. You’re silent throughout, lips an unfamiliar shape as they’re pulled down into the slightest of frowns. He’s only ever seen you smile, seen you laugh, self-assured. Never like this.

You seem surprised, startled when he sits across from you and cracks open a pack of medi-gel. Yoongi’s surprised too, although he doesn’t show it, lets his instincts take over and settles into auto-pilot as he reaches for your face. He’s never seen your eyes so round, so wide, watching the hand that descends on your cheek with all the single-minded intent of a man about to fillet a fish—careful and practiced but menacing, maybe. (He doesn’t like you but you don’t deserve to have been hurt and Yoongi can’t just stand by and not help.)

And you don’t shy away. You stare at him as he stares at his fingers, layers the gel evenly across the pain of your bruise, cool and soothing.

It’s only when he’s reached for more medi-gel and touched your cheek for the second time that you finally speak.

“It was one of the Tang cousins.”

Yoongi goes still, fingers resting across your skin, slick with purple gel. 

“One of the cousins?”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. But—and God knows what he did wrong in a previous life for this to be true—you’re one of his inner circle, one of the very, very few people he trusts. You’re not friends and he doesn’t like you, but he owes you, owes you a hundred times over, owes you for every successful kill, every silent infiltration, every averted detection. All thanks to your tech and the work you put into it for him. He’s indebted to you.

Yoongi always pays his debts.

“I didn’t even catch his name.” You sound dismissive. Normally you’d laugh, deride the person you’re speaking about, but instead you just sound tired. “One of the low down ones. New kid on the block; someone I didn’t recognise, with some lackeys or similar. Trying to make a name for himself, I think. He demanded that I build weapons for him. I said no.”

The Tang family is a big one, a criminal empire that has its tendrils dug in everywhere. You don’t deal with them, have no interest throwing your lot in with them intentionally or not; it’s a big, formidable family, but it’s not the only one around. You’d be dumb to get involved in that mess of generational, cross-family conflict. You’ll sell things to the highest bidder, shift illicit high-tech stock, build generic modifications that people can buy—but you don’t make bespoke weaponry for just anyone.

You don’t even sell to the heads of the Tang family directly, let alone to some back-alley sewer rat who probably barely has the faintest ties to the family, a single vein of Tang blood in his body, just enough to give him an in.

Whoever this cousin was he must be really fucking stupid to not know that. Stupid to think he could demand anything from you. Stupid to think he could hurt you when you laughed in his face and said no. Anyone with half a brain-cell should know not to fuck with you, know that it’s an honour to even be allowed inside your workshop, that to be told ‘no’ by you is a privilege.

Stupid to think that he wasn’t going to pay for that stupidity.

The pack of medi-gel is empty, the deflated pouch forgotten on Yoongi’s knee as he stares at you. The flecks of biomatter in the gel catch the light, sparkling like glitter in the lavender that’s seeping into your skin; all the surprise is gone from your eyes and instead you’re just watching him, stolid and steady. Analytical.

(You’re smart. Yoongi knows you are. For all that you talk shit and play foolish, he never forgets about that fierce intelligence. Never underestimates you or how perceptive you are. He only wonders what’s on your mind right now; what it is that you see in front of you.)

“Next time don’t let someone in unless you’re certain you’re going to sell to them.”

You scoff in his face. “Alright, Dad. Do you want to update my curfew while you’re at it? Make it ten p.m. instead of eleven?”

Yoongi blinks slowly. You’ve got both eyebrows raised, surveying him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief that he’s trying to tell you what to do (because no one tells you what to do; they wouldn't dare). But you don’t pull away, your knees still touching his, body bowed towards him from when he’d coaxed you closer so he could reach your face—so he knows you don’t mind. Not really.

(Knows you don’t care about anyone’s opinions or rules, only sticking to your own. The fact you’d been shaken from that place of confidence by some thug—even for a moment—doesn’t sit right in Yoongi’s belly. That bitter taste is back in his throat and it’s ice cold, icicles prickling through his blood.)

(He doesn’t like you but you’re one of his people and no one fucks with Yoongi’s people.)

The bruise is still there days later, after you’ve rearranged your workshop back to the way it was, sourced a new monitor to replace the one that was broken. You’re back to smirking, already ready for his request, more bullets for his weapons and super-charged plasma to recharge his sword, but the bruise is a stark reminder of what you’ve been through. So is, too, the new blueprint he spies half finished on your open displays: an automated security system that scans thermal signatures, guns unfolding from the ceiling whenever aggressive movement is detected from an unfamiliar person. Anyone who’s not listed as familiar in the security logs. 

(Yoongi used to wonder about that. Why you didn’t have security mechs set in place, programming their AI to protect you, but you don’t like to use mechs. Don’t like to use them, even if you could afford to build them, because you compare it to forced servitude. You’ve never needed them before now, anyway. Safe in your reputation, knowing that you’re in a position of power, that people come here because they know you’re the best of the best.)

(But it seems like you don’t trust that any more. Don’t feel safe.)

Yoongi keeps as silent as always, bites his tongue when you cut him off mid-sentence with nothing more than a raised finger.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tut, wagging the finger back and forth like the slow pendulum of a grandfather clock. “No more crafting requests. I’m still working on the concentration mod you asked for and I’ll let you know when it’s ready. I don't rush for anyone. Patience is a virtue, baby. Did no one ever tell you that?”

“Don’t call me baby.”

“Okay, handsome.” Your reply is instant, unruffled, and Yoongi grits his teeth. 

But still. For all that you’re acting like normal, workshop set back into place, white lighting shining overhead, as neat and presentable as always—Yoongi can read uncertainty in the way you move. Discomfort. You don’t feel safe in your own space and it’s obvious, even if you don’t realise it.

“Come back any time,” you say coyly, and Yoongi, as always, ignores you. Transfers the creds he owes you in silence before he takes one last look at the bruise that’s still painted across your skin, dark eyes touching yours for the briefest moment before he turns and leaves.

For the first time since you met, Yoongi buys from someone who isn’t you.

It’s not bad. Well made, decent tech, Predator pistol sitting easy in his hands when he brings it to the light and watches it unfold from its holstered state, the way plasma bursts to life in the barrel; weaker than bullets but easier to reload in the field. It’s no surprise that the Yeom family gets their stuff sourced from here. The body armour, too, isn’t bad, engraved with the family crest and cast in their colours.

It’s not bad, but it’s not as good as it could be. Not as good as Yoongi needs his tech to be, demands it to be—but quality doesn’t matter. Not today. He has a job to do.

It’s easy to find his mark. Scum gathers in stagnant water, in the dirtiest and dankest places, and this is where Yoongi finds Tang Lee. Finds him spilling beer and money in the backroom of some grimy strip club where the holograms flicker from age and the strippers are tired, trying their best to scrape a living from the seething riverbed of filth that runs underneath the bright neon lights of the skyscrapers in the levels above.

Lee isn’t alone but it’s so easy to take them out it’s laughable, men drunk from cheap alcohol; Yoongi catches one in a chokehold, smashes another’s face into the glass table with enough force it shatters, faces Lee once they’re the only two standing. The music outside is too loud and the room is sound proofed for privacy and so Yoongi isn’t interrupted as he brings Lee to his knees, thrusting his face into a smear of blood that drips from his now-broken nose, courtesy of a quick jab of Yoongi’s right fist.

It’s not a quick kill. It could be. Yoongi could have ended this in moments, caught Lee off guard and ended his miserable life almost effortlessly—but he doesn’t. He takes his time, makes it count, teaches him a lesson, has Lee on his hands and knees as he sobs out apologies and snivels for mercy before he takes the pistol and blows his brains out. Yoongi doesn’t feel sorry for the man, eyes the body impassively, not even worth his disgust—he only feels sorry for whoever finds the chaos of the room and the bodies inside, the distinct plasma burns he purposefully leaves in the wall with the Predator pistol, the entire scene he’s created here: a scuffle gone wrong, fast.

You’re not the only person Tang Lee has crossed but you’ll be the last. Yoongi checks the pulses of the other two men, finds one dead and the other still alive, barely, just like he’d planned—and his work is done. It’s the Yeom family’s problem now, any fall out from Lee’s death pointed at them, a repayment of a slight Lee had made to a Yeom supplier only a few weeks ago. (Yoongi wagers that neither family will care, will draw a veil over this moment and let this settle without raising arms, no one important enough to go to war over.)

He discards the pistol and armour once he’s done, incinerates it all, no interest in keeping subpar equipment. It’s not even worth dismantling for parts. Hoseok finds him in their basement, eyeing the blue flames that lick their way around the discarded armaments; he just watches Yoongi, inscrutable and calm as he eyes the blood on the clothing before it bursts into flames.

“Not a contract,” Hoseok says. (It’s not a question.)

“A job.” Yoongi replies, watches the cloth turn to ash through the thrumming display of the incinerator. “Something that needed to be done.”

He doesn’t tell anyone what he’s done. There’s no point in it. Yoongi decides something needs to be done and he’ll do it, whether that’s building a new chair for Jungkook after he broke his old one or killing a man who hurt you.

The next time he sees you your bruise is practically gone, faded into your skin. You’re intent on something on a monitor but when you notice him you turn, swivelling in your chair in one smooth motion as you lean back and put your hands behind your head, cross one leg over the other, dripping self-satisfaction, your smile sharp and full of teeth.

“Ah, Yoongi.” You look so smug that Yoongi has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Welcome, once again, to my laboratory. Is this visit for business or pleasure? Either way, you know I'm happy to oblige.”

“I’m here for the mod you promised me,” he says bluntly, and you just keep smiling, even as you hold out a hand for the sniper rifle, handling the D-2 Shadow with as much reverence as Yoongi does as you affix the mod.

It’s perfect, of course. All that Yoongi asked for and more. The software links with his eyepiece, biometric sensors that help him find his target, software to adjust to his pulse and breathing.

“You can even change the colour of the HUD,” you say, as if it’s some sort of buy-one-get-one-free offer, some fun little feature, rather than another helpful piece of software that you’ve created. Dismissive. An afterthought.

(You act like you take nothing seriously. Yoongi is your stark opposite, weighing everything in his hands and treating it with the level of attention it deserves, intent and focused.)

He’s staring down the scope when you speak once more. Light and easy, for once, rather than loud with your usual exaggerated exuberance or silken with unnecessary suggestiveness.

“I hear that they found a Tang family member dead.”

Yoongi just hums in response. Keeps his eye on the scope, wills the colour from dark green to white using the affinity link he has synced with his headpiece, watches the lines of the heads up display of the scope repaint themselves without even a single flicker, transition smooth and effortless. (Perfection.)

“It seems like the Yeom family did it,” you say, tone still conversational.

“Is that so.” Yoongi sounds disinterested, face impassive as he draws the gun away from his face, eye piece automatically folding away from his eyes. “Can I ask about other mods now that this one is finished?”

One of your brows rises, a perfect curve of discontent. “Say thank you first, Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s eyes cut into yours but you don’t back down, watch his blank face as he eventually says: “Thank you. Now I need more mods.”

You throw your head back as you laugh. “You’re insatiable,” you say, but you don’t say no. “What do you want now?”

(It’s not that you never say no to Yoongi. Because you have, and you do, and you will. But never because you can’t make what he asks for—and only because you refuse to make things that might endanger his safety, illicit bio-mods that other hired hitmen use, things that degrade the body from the inside out.)

Yoongi’s just holstered the Shadow, ready to go, when you speak one final time.

“Yoongi?”

He’s never heard you say his name like that, soft and quiet.

“Thanks.” You’re staring at him, regarding him steadily, solemn in a way that he’s never seen. You’re smiling, as always, but the expression is lightyears away from what Yoongi is used to—just the barest hint of an upturn to your lips.

Yoongi stares back at you. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for.”

Your smile grows, a warm thing, unfurling like a flower. Almost affectionate. “Sure,” you say. “Of course. Silly me. Slip of the tongue.” And then, as if your brain’s only just caught up with what you just said, the smile turns salacious. “On the note of slipping the tongue—”

“Bye.”

Your cascading laughter follows him on his way out, cutting and shining with amusement. 

Yoongi’s been getting more contracts. He’s finally buckled under Jungkook’s insistent whining and has agreed to get gear for him, too, to train him how to shoot. Hoseok has more than enough contacts in the underworld to get jobs for them both—he’s the most powerful information broker around, after all, sitting in the centre of a web he’s woven after years of work, all that sharpness and darkness hidden behind his deceptively bright smile.

(Yoongi’s lucky to consider him a friend and not an enemy.)

So that’s why he’s here with increasing frequency. That’s why he finds himself at your door more often than not. To get those orders in place, to make sure they’re progressing as fast as they need to.

You never react when Yoongi steps into your workshop. Well, you do, you lean into your hand and smirk at him, pursing your lips around each snide remark, each suggestive comment—but you never question his appearance. You just go with the flow, unbothered by his presence, even when there are other people there—other customers who eye him with unveiled curiosity and confusion (some Yoongi recognises, some he doesn’t, well-known faces and unknowns alike; none of them know who he is, though, unrecognisable as Agust D without his battle gear on). Yoongi keeps a close eye on their stances, any unchecked aggression or hostility towards you. Keeps a watch on the tension of your shoulders and spine, because of… habit. Battle instinct. Nothing else.

“You know my policy, Yoongi.” You’re analysing something in your hand. It looks like an antique spyglass, something from the decades before technology overtook the world, but it’s jammed full of tech; it doesn’t just magnify to a terrifying degree, it also amplifies sound, connected to an earpiece that’s sleek and easy to overlook. ‘A small project’, you’d called it, as if it isn’t something that people would pay a fortune to own. “If I’m making something for someone I have to meet them first. If you want me to make anything for this ‘JK’ then it’s not happening until you bring him here. Just like with your friend RM.”

Yoongi is lolling by your monitors, half-asleep in your chair (which had moulded to the shape of his body the second he sat in it, designed to be too comfortable for its own good). 

“I know you can’t pull yourself away from me,” you continue, glancing up from the scope. “But you have to spend time with your friends sometimes. I know they’re not as pleasing to look at as me—”

“Stop.”

You shift the spyglass to one hand and lean your chin on the other, regarding him with sharp eyes and an amused quirk to your lips. “I love that you think you can tell me what to do.”

Yoongi resists the urge to make a noise at the back of his throat, opting to keep mum instead.

He’s too tired to argue with you. He’d come straight after a contract, blood still on the edge of his sleeves (not his), watched the way your eyebrows had risen when you’d casually taken in the state of him before offering to wash his jacket. You know the reality of this world you both inhabit, operating in the shadows, survival paid for in blood; you might not be on the high ground, lining the shot up to take the kill, but you craft the trigger that Yoongi pulls.

(You might be aware of this reality but you’re far removed from it, shaken by violence on your own door. You never should have been faced with it. You’re an inventor; a creator. Not a killer. Not like Yoongi is. He’s not going to let that happen again. He doesn’t like you but you shouldn’t have been subject to pain—shouldn’t still have your motions edged with a held breath, as if you’re waiting for it to repeat itself. 

No matter how well you hide it, Yoongi knows that there's a part of you that's still scared.)

“I know you think you’re too important to need to remember things, but we’ve worked together for long enough that you know that I’d ask to meet JK first, Yoongi,” you say. “Did you really have to come straight after murking someone just to be reminded about that? Not complaining—you know I love seeing that pretty scowl of yours—but I just figured you’d rather be resting right now. Don't tell me the infamous Agust D missed me and decided to come here instead.”

“You were on the way.”

(He’d circled around, taken a longer route, descended into the familiar maze of the lower city. To throw off the scent of any potential pursuers. You just happened to be nearby, pure coincidence and convenience.)

You retract the spyglass, collapsing it in your hands. “Either you leave right now and go to your own place to sleep, or you’re going to sleep in my bed. Your choice.”

(If Yoongi took the time to think about it, really think about it, he’d notice that the words aren’t shrouded in suggestion or insinuation. Your brows are raised and you’re looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to decide what he’s going to do—unimpressed at how tired he is, how he’s come here instead of sliding into his own bed for the rest he so clearly needs.)

Of course, Yoongi leaves. He returns home without his jacket, strips his shirt off as soon as he’s in this safe place, this base, sheds pieces of his body armour as easy as anything (you’d designed it to be lightweight and easy to don and doff, the perfect defence for someone who relied on stealth and speed); he’s just removing the last greave when Hoseok appears, rapping his knuckles against the open door.

“You’re finally back.”

Yoongi looks up. Hoseok is dressed for work, Hope Broker persona in place, tailored suit that sits perfectly with the lines of his body, handsome and stylish and entirely put together. He oozes poise and power. Elegance.

“Yeah.” Yoongi lets the greave drop, silent as it falls to the floor. “Job’s done.”

Hoseok smiles. It’s a genuine one because it’s for Yoongi. “I know,” he says, even though scarcely any time has passed since Yoongi put a bullet in the back of the target’s skull. Nothing happens in this world of theirs without Hoseok finding out about it, always sooner rather than later. “Just wanted to check in and make sure you were okay.”

“All good.” 

“Good.” Hoseok is used to Yoongi’s blunt nature, his short responses when he’s tired. “Get some sleep.”

Hoseok’s elegant even as he adjusts his cufflinks. It’s just the briefest of moments, the crisp edge of his perfectly white sleeve contrasting with the shining silver, the design inlaid in them—but Yoongi recognises that design immediately.

Because it’s yours.

It’s the same emblem on each piece of his gear, small and understated, hidden away, easy to miss—but Yoongi knows it intimately. He doesn’t say anything. Lets Hoseok leave without a word. Each one of the men that Yoongi considers family, the tiny collection of people that stay in this same home as him, know that he only gets equipment sourced from you—but Hoseok had never mentioned that he’s been in contact with you, too. 

It’s not important. Hoseok might be his friend and a staunch ally but there’s plenty that he gets up to that none of the others are privy to, trading information to the highest bidders, head of a huge network that Yoongi can use to his advantage but isn’t technically a part of. The people Hoseok deals with—buys his information and resources from, keeps perfectly balanced in comparison to his own power—is his own business and not Yoongi’s.

Yoongi moves to gather his armour, the hardsuit he wears like a second skin, and spots that insignia that he knows so well branded into it. To have Hoseok wearing it at his wrist—the Hope Broker, renowned trader of secrets—is a statement. You could have made the cufflinks plain and unadorned. But you hadn’t.

When Yoongi climbs into bed that night, he finds that his sleep is restless.

The smile on your face fades. “You know I don’t talk about business with other customers.”

Yoongi’s staring at you across your workbench, the light from its surface going dim as you take your hands off it, disassembled stun mine forgotten.

No one knows about his genuine friendship with Hoseok, but they do know that Agust D and the Hope Broker have an agreement; a professional working relationship. “I know the Hope Broker,” Yoongi says. 

Your eyebrows rise so far they seem to threaten to ascend into your hairline, you’re so incredulous. “Everyone does. What’s your point? Do you expect me to give you information about everyone you ask about? I get paid to keep people’s privacy, Yoongi. Do you think I sell the information of your equipment, how to dissemble every defence you have? Do you think I give your name out to everyone who asks?”

There’s no touch of amusement to the line of your lips, no sparkling irreverence in your eyes. You’re genuinely displeased.

“He’s wearing your symbol.”

You scoff. “You wear my symbol too. Why, are you jealous? Your armour has exactly the same technology. Better, even, because I can fit more tech in there.”

The cufflinks generate a kinetic barrier, then, a layer of invisible shielding that lays just atop Hoseok’s skin. But no one sees Yoongi’s armour; no one sees the workmanship of your weapons, no one except him. Your insignia isn’t emblazoned on his wrist for all to see.

Yoongi isn’t jealous.

“Hope is a powerful man,” you continue. “Everyone knows that. Even people who haven’t met him know that. Even people who aren’t sure he exists know that. If I want to sell to him then that’s my business.”

Everyone who’s anyone recognises your logo, no matter how rare it is to spot it (you only craft for a select few, after all). And Hoseok’s influence is far reaching and powerful; no one would dare cross him, dare to cross anyone who’s associated with him. 

“I’m looking for a new workshop.” You rise, moving away from your workbench to your monitors, touching a display with your fingers to bring it to life. Ignoring Yoongi’s presence, not even looking at him. “I haven’t got the space to modify the systems in this one as much as I want to. The walls are already full enough as it is. Do you know how hard it is to find somewhere with the specifications I need?”

Yoongi realises, then, why you’re doing this. The bruise is long gone and your skin is unmarred but you still don’t feel safe. You’ve always worked alone. Until now. Now you’re making moves to settle down, settle in, make a statement of allegiance to someone who can offer you a level of protection with their influence.

Someone who can offer you somewhere new, away from this inadequate place you’ve outgrown.

Hoseok laughs lightly when Yoongi asks about it, mentions it in passing as the two of them drink soju side by side, Hoseok in his suit and Yoongi girded in the armour under his unassuming clothes, both in the upper city for work; they stare down at the myriads of tall buildings and huge holo-boards and rainbow array of neon lights, far above the place they call home.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, utterly relaxed (and faintly amused). “I know you respect her work so I thought I’d reach out. I’m surprised she can make the things she does in that tiny workshop. You’re right; she’s very good.”

You are. The next time you meet, you give Yoongi his usual shipment and more besides, more than he’d ordered, reflected in the amount of creds he has to pay—because he won’t be able to just drop in for a while, your workshop dismantled and scraped empty in preparation for the move. Where to, he doesn’t know, but you say you’ll pass on the information once everything is up and running again.

“If you break any of your gear while I’m gone then you’re on your own,” you say. “I’m not shipping anything before my new workshop is finished.”

Two days later, Yoongi spies a new watch on Hoseok’s wrist. It looks low-tech, old style, metal strap and round clock face—but he sees the silhouette of your logo under those ticking hands and knows there’s more tech in there that meets the eye.

He looks away.

It takes a week for the message to appear, encrypted: your new location. Levels above your former workshop, one of the higher strata of the lower city—still hidden and out of the way but away from the dirt and darkness. 

Yoongi goes. He finds the door panel, scans his palm, leans forward for the light to flit across his eye, murmurs a word, watches the door slide open. He’s already programmed in. New workshop, new security system, but he’s still allowed in, still one of the people you consider familiar, trustworthy. 

(He doesn’t know of anyone else who fits that category. Has only ever seen you manually allow people inside, granting your permission each time, rather than giving them free run of the place. No one has as many complex orders as he does, he’s certain. It’s for ease and practicality’s sake.)

He’s unfamiliar with the layout of this new building, first corridor already longer than he’s used to; he pauses for a moment but then hears something, faint—your laughter. Follows that sound, makes his way forward, through polished corridors with lines of light underfoot, leading him down some stairs and towards the sound of you.

Your new workshop is beautiful. There’s enough room in here for everything, no need for a backroom: a central worktable, benches lining the walls, tech displays built in, everything edged with lighting, dark surfaces shining bright, large floor panels underfoot emitting a low glow. Your former home had been that underground workshop and a locked door to a ladder to your micro apartment up top, tiny kitchen and single bed in a small room with a shower cubicle in the corner. Yoongi already knows that this building is far, far bigger, and you have more space than you’ve ever had before; you’d never been discontent with your smaller home, comfort from familiarity, until that comfort had been stripped from you.

You’re smiling. The snark woven into your words that Yoongi is used to is muted, light comment falling from your lips as you sit on that central table, perched on its edge. And Hoseok, he laughs, grinning so widely his teeth are on show—he’s wearing a suit but his jacket is resting on his shoulders, tie undone and cast around his neck. A stance of relaxation, one Yoongi’s never seen from him, not when he’s working. Not when he’s The Hope Broker and not Hoseok.

He’s still smiling when he notices Yoongi, the two of you looking over when the hitman speaks.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Hoseok.”

That ever-present smirk freezes on your face for a split second, eyes widening at the sound of Hope’s real name. Hoseok just takes it in stride, his smile not dimming even for a second.

“Hey, Yoongi.” His greeting is as warm as it always is. “Just checking in. Have to make sure everything is up to scratch. What’s the verdict?”

You’ve hidden your surprise, wiped it off your face, eyes on Hoseok as you answer him. “It’s perfect.” A pause. “I take it you two know each other?”

“Sure. Yoongi is an old friend of mine.” Hoseok is still smiling, looking at Yoongi with creased eyes. Unafraid of revealing this information to you, still at ease despite the tension that’s bubbling in the air, Yoongi’s impassive face. Hoseok is always an unshaken pillar of positivity. “I didn’t realise he was coming. Am I interrupting an appointment?”

You stare at Yoongi. “No, you’re not. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

(You’d sent the message less than an hour ago. Yoongi had taken one look at the address, memorised it, pulled on his jacket and headed out; clearly you hadn’t anticipated how fast his arrival would be.)

“A happy coincidence, then.” Hoseok sounds like he genuinely means it, is pleased to see Yoongi here, his smile unwavering. There’s a languid set to his body, the easing line of his spine, hands in his pockets. A glittering in his eyes. (No one ever gets the drop on Hoseok, never surprises him, catches him off guard, no matter what they do.) “But I’ll let you conduct your business and we can catch up another time.”

He takes a hand out of his pocket as he walks past Yoongi, pats his shoulder amicably. His palm is relaxed against the tense set of Yoongi’s shoulders before he ascends the stairs and disappears out of sight, the sound of his polished shoes fading until he’s gone, one of the monitors on the wall flickering to indicate the front door is shut once more.

You’re still staring at Yoongi. The atmosphere had been heavy, even with Hoseok there—and now that he’s gone there’s nothing to alleviate that pressure, nothing to dissolve the strange twist to the air.

“Who,” you start, measured but sharp, “do you think you are?”

Yoongi returns your stare, looks back at you with his dark eyes. Doesn’t respond to your question; an unnecessary, unprompted thing, razor-edged for a reason he can’t discern. 

“Can’t you hear me?” You slide off the table, stalk towards him. “I said—” you raise a hand— “who? Do? You? Think? You? Are?”

You emphasise each word with a sharp jab to Yoongi’s chest, driving your finger forward with so much force it must hurt. You keep it in place, keep it dug into the centre of his ribcage. There’s no laughter hidden in the corner of your lips. He’s annoyed you again, somehow, a familiar guest turned unwelcome interloper.

“You say that you know Hope and yet I just watched you treat him like dirt.” Your eyes are piercing, cutting through the soft frame of your curled lashes, boring straight into him. “You come into my workshop as if you’re meant to be here; like there’s something you’re owed. Do you want me to treat you like a child, send you to your room? Not let you back in here? Because I will.”

“You sent me your address,” Yoongi points out.

You let out a bark of laughter. “Please.” Your hand drops back to your side and you turn, stepping away. “I’ve sent this address to all my business associates. I can’t sell or buy unless people can find me. You’re the only one who’s taken this as an invitation to just turn up and waltz in. At least when Hope turns up he warns me beforehand. Oh, and he doesn’t say stuff like he’d rather blow his own brains out than be forced to see me. I know you just love being contrary but has it ever occurred to you to be more polite to people? You’d make a terrible waiter. You’d get fired on your first day.”

You’re in front of one of your cabinets. You reach inside for something, hefting it in your hands before returning, handling it in a way that’s completely unceremonious, dropping it to the bench at his side like you want to be rid of it. Like you don’t even want to hand it directly to him, to interact with him. “There. Nothing but a pleasure doing business with you, Yoongi, even if your customer service still needs improving.”

It looks like a flat, hexagonal panel, the same colour and material as his armour. Something to be locked into it, wired in, trailing veins of unattached tech spilling from it. He’s seen you working on this for a while, seen you draw up blueprints with a bruise fresh on your cheek, seen it turned in your hands as that mark had faded and left your skin. 

It’s not something he ordered.

“What is this?”

You wave a dismissive hand. “Auto medi-gel distributor. It syncs with your armour and senses when you’ve been hurt and disperses gel in the affected area. Your armour’s always been too lightweight to have extra mods on but I’ve been working on this for a while.”

It’s an astonishing piece of tech. Usually one that’s reserved for heavier armour, restricting and hard to move in but easier to mod—but this thing is slim, compact, the same technology crammed into a smaller package without losing any of its punch. He doesn’t know what materials you’ve had to use to circumvent this, the level of tech you’ve layered into this, the amount of time and thought you’ve put into this.

“How much is it?”

The wrong thing to say. The smile that spreads itself across your lips is an echo of its usual curve, brittle and flaking around the edges, a baring of teeth.

“It’s a gift, Yoongi. Usually when someone does something for you, you return the favour.” Your lips are still upturned but your eyes are unsmiling even when your tone seems whimsical and light. You’ve got on your usual flippant façade, but there’s a pointed undercurrent to it. “You know, I don’t understand you at all. You remind me that you don’t like me but then you always hang around. You kill someone who threatened me and pretend that you didn’t do it. You say you don’t like me, but I thought you at least respected me, and yet here you are. Lying to me and treating me like I'm a fool.”

“I do respect you,” Yoongi says. 

(Because he does, and as much as he would hate to inflate your ego, he doesn’t shy away from telling the truth.)

“Sure you do.” An unimpressed eye-roll, cutting under his words, knocking his feet out from underneath him. You don’t care to believe him. “This is my fault for not treating you the same as all my other business associates.  Next time you come in you’ll have to have an appointment, just like everyone else. It’ll minimise the amount of time we have to spend together.”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. He finds, though, that he likes the sound of this even less; finds it pulling at his brows, his mouth, impassive expression turned to one of disapproval.

And his mouth opens. The word falls from his lips before he has a chance to think—years of battle intuition, years of following instinct, moving as he needs to in the moment.

“No.”

A raise of the brows. A purse of the lips. Incredulous. “No?” you parrot it back, mocking. “Oh, okay, sure. Never mind. You’re welcome to come in whenever you want and act like you have free rein of the place. There’s nothing I enjoy more than your scowling presence.”

Sharp tongued, sharp eyed, narrowed at him: a confrontation. For all that you needle him you never mean it, really (even if it’s still infuriating, aggravating). But right now? Right now each of your words is barbed, your sarcasm a defence, an offence. You’re running your mouth not just to rile him, but to ward him away. 

“You’re really not as smart as you think you are, Min Yoongi.” You wield his name like a weapon. “You tell me right now why I should listen to you. What do you come here for? And don’t say it’s for my work because it stopped being just that a long time ago. And if it is just for my work then take it and go. Then I’ll take you off the security system and we’ll only see each other as much as is strictly necessary. In fact, you could pass your orders along via Hope—then we won’t have to even see each other at all. ”

“And then he’ll be the only one allowed free rein?”

It comes out before he’s even really thought about what he’s saying, which isn’t like him at all. Yoongi is two parts: pure, honed instinct, and careful, wary vigilance. He’s not like you, saying the first thing that comes to mind—not normally, anyway—but the words jump from his lips, from some near-silent part of him that balks at the idea. Of Hoseok stepping into your space the way that Yoongi does, appearing without warning, to be greeted with a curled smirk and glittering eyes.

“You’re a fucking idiot if you think that you’re not the only person with security clearance. My God. You’re infuriating. Seriously? I didn’t realise you were genuinely this dense. You’re the only one I’ve ever allowed in without prior agreement.” You emphasise this statement with another jab to his chest, your finger a sharp knife that cuts into him as you stab it forwards.

He catches your wrist. His grasp is firm but there’s no pressure to it; doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t tighten his fingers, just holds you in place. You’re staring at him with a challenge in your eyes, one that he finds himself rising to match, never one to back down.

“Is that so?”

Your hand unfurls, fingers splayed across his chest; he’s still holding your wrist, shifting with your movement. “Don’t be obtuse.” An irritated exhale. “Normally you complain whenever I talk and now you’re trying to get me to repeat myself. Again with the inconsistency, Yoongi. Make up your mind.”

He could do what you do whenever you’re feeling particularly aggravating. Play dumb, ask more questions, drag out the interaction until you’re bordering on snapping—but he doesn’t. He looks at the set of your jaw, the way you’re staring at him. Unflinching. You’ve never been scared of him, and you aren’t now, not with how he’s got a hold of you, how close he is to you.

He toes the line. Shifts closer. Notes the way your pupils dilate, how the tips of your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt; how the air grows heavier, a frisson of electricity crackling through it. Yoongi doesn’t like you, but he likes that feeling—how the tension in the air shivers from indignation into something different.

Because you’re still staring at him, and there’s still that hard set to your jaw, but there’s not just anger in your eyes. There’s that warm thing he’s grown used to seeing, smouldering in near silence until he’d coaxed it to full flame, thrown gasoline onto the coals when he’d shot plasma into the back of Tang Lee’s skull. He’d protected you even though he hadn’t needed to, doesn’t need to, but does anyway—because he trusts you and there’s no one else he trusts to keep you safe.

And there’s no one else you trust, either.

“You talk too much,” Yoongi says, like he so often does—but there’s no irritation in it, touched instead with a simmering heat, the faintest edge of a bite.

You tilt your head. There’s a provocation etched into the twist of your mouth, the way your lips lift. Because no matter how much you needle him, dig your fingernails into every crack of his armour and twist—no matter how annoying you are, how angry you make him—you know that he’s not mad. Not really. Not in a way that makes you afraid, but in a way that thrills you, makes you want to see him snap, to wipe away that level facade he maintains.

“Maybe you should shut me up, then,” you reply, a murmur. A challenge.

A beat. Yoongi’s fingers tighten around your wrist. A warning.

And in response?

You just smile.

The way your eyes widen just seconds later is delicious, though, when Yoongi lets go of your wrist—because he’s moving faster than you expected. Your surprise melts into delight, a spark of glee that says you’ve gotten exactly what you want when Yoongi threads his fingers in your hair, tilting your head back to bare the column of your throat. He holds you firmly in place, crowds you back against the workbench so hard its edge must be digging almost painfully into your back but not once does that glee dim, written over every line of your smile, eyes bright and teeth sharp.

Yoongi likes to take things slow. There’s the part of him that never steps into a situation without knowing every angle, every escape route, each one of his kills planned meticulously. But, he thinks, the two of you have been waiting long enough, and he’s never been patient around you—has found his composure worn thin faster than anywhere else, by anyone else. It’s this part of him, frayed into non-existence by you, that rises to the surface now, makes him move as quick as he does.

And you respond just the way he knew you would. When he presses his mouth to yours you kiss him back like you have a point to make (you always do), fast and almost reckless, all lips and teeth and tongue. There’s no finesse to it. When he presses his tongue into your mouth you part your lips so prettily, let him take his fill, slide your tongue against his and tilt your head to get even deeper—and just like always, you're vocal, letting out small noises that are caught and muffled in the kiss, lust filled. But when you try to nip at his lip with the edge of your teeth Yoongi tightens his grip in your hair and swallows down your gasp before he pulls away, holding you in place so you can’t chase after his mouth. Your lips are kiss swollen and under the bright lights above they shine, slightly parted, pupils blown as you stare at him. 

(You look good like this.)

Your eyes slide shut when Yoongi lowers his lips to your neck, across your throat. There’s nothing gentle about it. He moves with single-minded intent, lips and teeth harsh against your sensitive skin—and you take it all, little sounds falling from your lips as Yoongi drags his teeth towards the hollow of your neck. And when he takes his hand from your hair, takes both hands and digs his fingers into your waist and lifts you, you go so easily; a mimicry of your earlier position when he’d stepped in, perched on the edge of the table. Legs spread so Yoongi can stand between them. He’d be surprised at how pliant you are if it wasn’t so obvious that this is exactly what you want: lifting your hips so he can strip your lower half bare. 

Your bare thighs press against the surface of the workbench, tech displays coming alive under your body heat. You’ve shrugged your cropped jacket off and you’re just reaching for your top when Yoongi stops you; splays a hand in the centre of your chest and presses you back, slow but undeniable. You’re not the one setting the pace. He is. He’s the one in control, with you spread out in front of him, only a thin layer of fabric keeping you from being completely bare—thin cotton underwear, dark and damp between your legs, betraying your arousal.

“Wet,” Yoongi murmurs.

Your retort stutters on your lips when he drags his fingers upwards over your slit, barely dulled by the material in the way. “No shit,” you say, and then suck in a breath when he presses the pad of his thumb across your clit.

It’s no good, the fact you’re still talking. But that’s okay. Yoongi’s planning on changing that.

It’s lewd, the way your legs are spread, parting further at the urging of his hands. Your hands slide across the bench, papers scattering, palms flat on the work surface and white light shimmering on dark blue in reaction to your touch; an unnecessary distraction that you both ignore. There’s nothing graceful about this, the peel of underwear away from your core, already slick even with the barest of attentions; he drags his fingers down the inside of your thighs, all that soft skin, and then under, urging your hips up and towards his mouth. No foreplay to this foreplay, no dragging out this moment—he bites at that soft skin of your inner thigh, sinks his teeth into it and listens to the way you gasp in surprise—and before you have a moment to ground yourself, he presses his mouth to your cunt.

You’re wet and warm under his tongue and the smell of you surrounds him, musky and heavy, and he feels how your entire body goes tense as you arch your back. He’d normally take his time with this, have you strung out and begging, but he has different plans today—knows exactly what he wants from this, sucking your clit between his lips and feeling your thighs tighten around his head, legs slung over his shoulders as he listens to the way you moan. Each sound shudders out from your mouth like you tried so desperately to keep it in but couldn’t help it. Yoongi loves eating pussy anyway but this is even better, the way all your witty ripostes die in your throat before you can shape them on your lips, turned into breathy gasps instead. 

The taste of you fills his mouth and it’s so fucking good. You’ve been watching him, how his head moves between your legs, but he can tell you’re close; you’ve given up, eyes shut as you lean into the sensation building up in you, and Yoongi thinks he likes you better like this. Forced into speechlessness under his hands and tongue. Your pretty mouth softened from sharpness into urging noises of pleasure. He slides one arm across your stomach and holds you in place, a hard line that you can’t overpower and you’re left squirming in place, hips trying to kick up each time he draws his tongue over your slit, every part of you sloppy with your own arousal and Yoongi’s spit, flushed and lovely. One of your hands is in his hair and you’re pulling, pulling hard, unaware of how tight your grip is as you try to buck your hips and sob. 

You’re so sensitive, and it only takes one, two fingers pressing into you and curling just right as Yoongi slides his tongue over your clit before you’re cumming, hot around his fingers as you come apart all wet and messy. He’s never seen you so undone, back arched as you ride out your orgasm, hair swept away from your forehead as you throw your head back. Keeps his mouth open on you, feels you under his tongue, until you’re flopped on your back and your chest is heaving, legs untensed and loose over his shoulders.

You shift an arm. Your fingers barely brush the medi-gel mod you’d made him, a loose sheet of paper sliding away and joining the others on the floor.

“Just moved in and it’s already a mess,” Yoongi says, and he doesn’t just mean the paper; fingers and chin and mouth covered in your slick, your core soaked. He’s still knuckle deep and when he curls his fingers again your entire body jolts, your mouth parting almost wantonly before you seem to struggle back to reality, surfacing from a haze of arousal and post orgasmic bliss.

“That’s your fault,” you say, voice weaker than usual. “I’ll send you the cleaning bill.”

“Mm. Not my fault you’re a messy girl.”

“Fuck you.” The blunt words are softened by your breathlessness, your bonelessness; the way your breath catches in your throat when he calls you a messy girl, even if you try to hide it. Trying not to let him in on exactly how much power he holds in this moment. 

“I was planning on it,” Yoongi says, as calm as ever, even if arousal is simmering through his veins and gathering in his gut—has been this entire time, the taste of you on his tongue and the heat of you under his lips and the sound of you in his ears. “Want to make your workshop even messier?”

You dig your balls of your feet into his back, legs still over his shoulders. His fingers shift inside you and you shiver. “I don’t think so,” you say. “Bedroom.”

“So you’re giving me a tour, then?”

You don’t dignify him with a response, although the noise you make when he finally pulls his fingers out of you is more than enough to satisfy him. He’s still fully dressed and you’re only half so, and it would be comical if the sight of your bare legs and slick on your inner thighs wasn’t so hot, barefoot on the glowing and pristine (papers notwithstanding) floors as you reach for his hand and lift it to your lips, sucking his fingers into your mouth and licking your arousal off his fingers with your tongue, warm and wet, before you grab his wrist and pull. 

He watches the movement of your hips as you lead him, your bare ass. Shameless as ever. Confident in yourself, even now. It’s not until you’ve stepped over the threshold and into your new bedroom that your tattoos become visible, as bright as the low lights in the room, those geometric lines and stylised circuitry on your legs shifting as you step forwards.

Even with the relative darkness Yoongi immediately notices something. Cast over the back of a chair near the bed, there’s his jacket, blood stains at the edge of the sleeves gone. Cleaned. Yoongi shifts his hand so you don’t have your fingers wrapped around his wrist any more. Instead he’s the one shackling you, holding you in place as you look over your shoulder.

“Were you ever going to return that to me?” He tilts his head at the chair. 

You pause. Glance over. Look back at him, all amusement and provocation, recovered from your earlier breathlessness. “But Yoongi, I get so cold.”

There’s something about the idea of you in his clothes, clothes that you know he’s worn when he’s been getting his hands dirty—he ignores the curl to your lips and moves you towards the bed, ignoring the sound of your self satisfied laughter when he reaches for your shirt and pulls, with you lifting your arms to help him, grinning at him the whole time. Even when he’s thrown your bra aside and kicked his boots off and pushed you onto the mattress, trapped you underneath him, completely naked against his completely clothed body you’re still smiling, like the cat who got the cream.

You’re stunning. There’s no doubt about it. You always have been, annoyingly so, even when Yoongi’s wanted to wring your neck; not just because you’re pretty but because you’re intelligent and confident and in control, staring up at him without a lick of fear or concern, even now. Never with him, never. He can see your tattoos in all their glory, nothing hidden away from his gaze; he sees one he hasn’t been able to see before, a sunflower bursting across your ribcage, curved under the swell of your breast, glowing red and orange in the midst of all your other cyan and teal lines, glowing in the black light. He’s pressing you down, trapped under his body, and you’re just waiting. Waiting and still smiling, smirking, letting him take you in, preening under his attention.

He wants to eat you alive.

So he does just that. Shifts back down the mattress on his knees, keeping his hands on you, pulling his hands down the easing lines of your ribs and waist and hips, before a firm tug has you lifting up—your smug facade shakes when you’re left with only your shoulders and head against the bed, the rest of your body pulled towards Yoongi’s waiting mouth once more, held in place with fingers that dig into your hips, thighs soft against his ears, your hands scrabbling at the linen underneath you when Yoongi’s lips press into the crease of your thigh, off balance.

“Safeword?” He murmurs into your skin, and you pause.

“Hoseok,” you answer, and Yoongi responds by biting into your thigh again, soothing it with his tongue when you squeal.

“Shameless.”

You’re still wet from before, slick with cum, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate before he dives back in. He can hear more than he can see the way your fingers curl into your sheets and rumple them in your hands, anchored helplessly into place by Yoongi’s mouth and the fingers cupped under your ass, digging into the soft skin, undignified and at his mercy. 

“Yoongi!” You gasp, almost a whimper as a breath gets caught in your throat. “Y-Yoongi—”

You’re so helpless like this. It’s a little hard for Yoongi to breathe, your legs tightening around him, but it’s worth it for the way he can see you shaking apart. He presses his tongue as deep into you as he can, sucks your swollen pearl between his lips and circles it with his tongue, notices the way you jolt at those wet kisses, still sensitive from before, and he doesn’t let up. Keeps going and going and going until you’re gasping for air, sensations rippling through your body as you buck and writhe; you’re trying to keep yourself together, he can tell, but you’re unravelling, smirk wiped off your face and your mouth in a pretty little circle whenever you choke out oh, oh.

You cum faster than he expects, shoulders lifting away from the mattress as you arch your back so far it must hurt and tighten your legs and he feels the way your pussy throbs under his tongue, practically gushing when you reach your peak. Your eyes are unfocused when they flutter back open but you’re reaching for him, for the waistband of his trousers, trying to touch the hard length of his cock—he’s been ignoring it, how he’s leaked so much precum he can feel how wet it is in his boxer-briefs.

He keeps ignoring it now. He catches your hands, stops you in place, stares you down with an unimpressed tilt to his brows.

“What,” he says levelly, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Want you in my mouth,” you say. You seem almost desperate for it, fingers flexing in his hold, letting your tongue linger against your lips longer than necessary. “I want your cock in my mouth, Yoongi.”

He tightens his grip around your wrists. And then, for the first time all night, he smiles.

“No.”

You look stunned. Just for a moment. Then you’re squirming in his hold, but you’re trapped, nowhere to go. “What do you mean, no?”

Yoongi’s still smiling, mirroring the self satisfaction that had been written all over your face earlier. “I mean no. You don’t get what you want. You get what you’re given.”

There’s nothing he’d like more than to sink into that wet heat, to see your smart mouth put to good use, lips spread over his cock, but this is better. Seeing the genuine frustration and disbelief written across your features. 

He doesn’t give you time to line up another angered retort on your tongue. Doesn’t give you time to breathe before he’s flipping you over, the wings of your shoulder blades and curve of your spine emphasised by the lines that are traced symmetrically and shining across your skin. They shift when you move, hips lifted from the mattress by Yoongi’s hands, on your hands and knees as he fumbles his waistband and zipper and pulls his cock free. He’s painfully hard, flushed head with precum that beads at the tip, and when he tugs you back he watches the way the head drags across the curve of your ass, leaving a shining line of wetness on your skin.

And when he sinks into you he barely gives you time to adjust, barely has time to adjust himself, to all this hot tight wetness after his cock’s gotten no attention at all—you let out a moan that almost sounds like you’re singing, long and high with pleasure, the slide eased from all your cum.

 You take it so well, always so good to him no matter how irritating you are, so lost in the sensations that you don’t say anything about the hard edges of Yoongi’s clothes whenever he drives his hips forward and it presses into the soft skin of your thighs. It’s messy and choppy and fast and you slump onto your elbows, entire body shaking as you take everything Yoongi is giving you. Caged underneath him when he follows you forwards, presses his front to your back, feels the way the sweat on your skin is caught against the fabric of his clothes. Grinds his hips deep and feels the way you gasp, sucking in a shaking breath, your entire body lost in it. He bites his lip and keeps his own sounds caught behind his teeth, not letting you know how you’re pulling him towards his own edge.

He’s not done with you yet.

Your clit is slick under his touch when he lifts his fingers to touch you, to layer another sensation on top of the cock inside you, and you’re sobbing. You don’t ask him to stop, never know when to quit, face every challenge thrown at you—and Yoongi can tell that you love it even if your body is crying out, that you love this oversensitivity, pulled taut and strung out. You’re beyond speech, words slurred, barely recognisable as his name and pleas of more, please, more. He can feel when you’ve crested the wave of too much sensation and fallen back into that rippling sea of pleasure, and when you cum it’s with a soundless moan, mouth wide open but no noise escaping. No more sharp retorts, no smart words, fucked into incoherency, trembling and quivering as you go tight around him and Yoongi struggles not to lose himself then and there, in your scorching, wet cunt, fluttering around him.

The noise when he pulls out is slick and lewd, just like all the other noises that have been filling the room, the slap of skin on skin temporarily halted when Yoongi rolls you onto your back. There’s sweat beading on your skin, shimmering, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes and glistening like tiny jewels in the multi-coloured low light of this room. Your lips are parted and your gaze is bleary and you’re everything Yoongi has never seen from you before, fuzzy and quiet, entirely pliant. When he reaches for you again, runs his hands over the rise of your hipbones and down the side of your thighs, you whimper.

“One more,” Yoongi says. “One more, you can give me one more.”

You’ve never known when to quit, and now is no different, even if you’re on the verge of being entirely fucked dumb. Those tears pool in your eyes and stream down towards your hairline, but you let Yoongi move you, try to help by lifting your hips but almost too gone to move at all. Yoongi almost cums when he sinks into you, your willing body; he thinks you’ve never looked better than you do now, smelling like sweat and sex and so soft under his hands, taking his cock like you were made for it, and you’re so gorgeous when you’re falling apart. 

The attitude you wear normally—the one that chafes at Yoongi’s nerve-endings—has been entirely wiped away, forced out of you by mindless pleasure. But still, you know what you want, even now, even when you’re barely coherent—Yoongi feels your hand slide across his and pull weakly, guiding it across your chest and up, circling his fingers around your neck.

He swears. Snaps his hips forward hard, watches the way your eyes roll back when he gives an experimental squeeze around your throat. Yoongi’s choked people before, knows exactly how much pressure to give, how much it takes to cut someone’s airways completely or how to just leave them reeling; he lets you linger on the edge of breathlessness, feels the way you go tight around him. When you orgasm it rips through you, your thighs tightening around Yoongi’s hips as you hit your peak and cum hard, and the feeling of it has Yoongi cursing and bending forwards to shove his face in your neck and kiss the salt-sweat taste he finds there as he falls off the edge. He cums wet inside you, keeps rolling his hips through it all, lets his cum mix with yours and watches the way you just keep taking it, even when your whole body is trembling from how much it is.

And when Yoongi calls you a good girl, you don’t snap back like you normally would, don’t deride his praise. You bask in it, as tired as you are, letting out a soft noise when he pulls his softening cock out of you, unbothered by the wet patches on your sheets and how the whole room stinks of sex. When he moves to lift you, to get you clean, you go easily and without argument, every one of your honed edges dulled, and you make no move to sharpen them again, to drag them over Yoongi in the way he’s so familiar with by now. Even when you’ve lifted out of your haze and you’re back in the moment, the way you watch Yoongi is no less calm than normal, but still different.

“Stay.”

He’s in the middle of reaching for his boots, discarded on the floor, a discordant note on the clear floor. You’re wearing clean underwear and a loose t-shirt and you’re looking at him with something verging on surprise, like you hadn’t expected to see him moving to pull his shoes back on to leave.

He hadn’t been planning to.

“Just moving them out of the way,” says Yoongi, putting them upright by the base of your chair, and then he makes his way back to you. You don’t attempt to hide your pleasure that he’s listened to you,  pulling him onto the bed despite the fact he’s still dressed.

“I don’t cuddle,” he says, even as you tuck yourself into the crook of his arm, and he shifts to make it more comfortable for you.

You press your face into the hollow of his neck, touch your nose against his throat, breathing in the smell of sweat that still lingers—because you’re shower soft and fresh but he isn’t, and weirdly enough, you seem to enjoy it. Seem to enjoy that contrast, the one that’s always existed between you, Yoongi immersed in blood and sweat and tears while you’re away from it, one degree of separation from it all. “You know, I like it when you do things for me.”

Normally he’d protest, say that he doesn’t do things for you, but the truth is that he does, even if he’s only just admitting it to himself. 

“Like that time you killed someone for me,” you say, and Yoongi’s fingers tighten, soft skin of your waist yielding under his touch.

“I kill a lot of people.”

You let out a laugh against his skin, quietly amused. “Just admit it. You like me, Min Yoongi.”

A pause. 

Then: “Against my better judgement, I do.”

And he does. Even if you’re irritating and maddening, he does like you, and not just because of the work you do for him. He thinks that even if you weren’t so good at your job that he’d find himself here anyway, caught in this push and pull you have, magnetised.

“No need to sound so begrudging,” you say, but there’s no real annoyance behind your words. 

Yoongi finds that he likes that note in your voice, like you’re indulging him and his stubbornness and you’re unmoved by it. He hums in response. Feels the way you shift back, lean on your elbows to look down at him, lips curled up at the corners.

“Kiss me.”

Not a question. A demand. Yoongi stares you down, just for a second, before he lifts a hand and weaves a hand back into your hair, tilting your mouth against his. He can feel your self satisfied smile against his lips and he doesn’t mind it at all, sees it spread across your face when you eventually pull back, all flushed lips and warm eyes.

You’re still sharp, a weapon in your own right, but you willingly hand yourself over to be held in his skilled hands, let yourself be worn smooth by his touch. He weaves his fingers between your own, your palm soft and warm against his, and he likes this. That you’re unafraid of what he is, that the fact he’s a killer isn’t something that scares you or thrills you.

Yoongi likes your work. He likes that he knows he can trust you. He likes that he knows of your loyalty, to the people you choose and to yourself, your unwavering principles, as unpredictable as they might seem. He likes that you’re unashamed to be yourself and to be confident, no matter how people react to that cockiness. 

What he likes even better than all that is this, though: the way you’re pressed against his side, evidence of his touch written into your skin. The feeling of your hand in his. Despite all the odds, all the months of drawn out and simmering exasperation and tension coming to a head like this, Yoongi likes you.

“I’m not going to give you a discount, you know,” you say suddenly, and for the first time since you met, Yoongi allows himself to laugh at you.

“I’d be offended if you did.”

(You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You love to irritate him just for the hell of it, because you think it’s funny and you love knowing that you can rile him up—but he can rile you up too, and you both know it.

Yeah. Yoongi likes you.)

tagging: @beyoncesdragon @vensulove @gyukult  @swinginpicklesuitcaseapricot @kpopheart2 @loveyoongles @muzikabijou  @katbonv @jaxx-7 @yeojaa

[whumperooni]

Oh to be aizawas favorite student that gets stuffed on the regular, during class breaks, after school and special visits to his room at night. He baby's her quite a lot. He can't help it. And she gets favoritism but no one actually suspects he's teaching her how to be such a good girl behind doors.

yes yes yes

we all just want to be Sensei’s favorite student and have him teach us how to suck his cock just right

uh, nsfw rambling under the cut. and ye student has been aged up

It’s something that doesn’t happen on purpose or right away- first, you arrive at UA and you’re blessed with Aizawa as your homeroom teacher. And lucky, lucky him- you’re a wonderful student. Smart and polite and eager to learn. Your quirk is similar to his- erasure but by touch instead- and you’re always so respectful and attentive when you come to him for advice on how to use it, how to improve, how to be better. Sensei, I just want to do my best.

You quickly become his favorite the more he helps you and it’s a pleasant surprise when he finds the two of you have some common ground beyond quirks. Movies, books, shows, food- your tastes are similar and it’s easy to talk to you about things beyond the strict realm of what he should stick to.

You’re just so...easy to get along with. Relaxing. And, god, it’s such a nice change to have a student that is constantly working on improving, that lights up so much when given praise and absorbs every bit of advice that you can. You’re malleable, but not brainless and it’s no surprise when he realizes that he has a soft spot for you.

Your second year is a little rough- new homeroom teacher, internships, work studies, all the competition that comes with making a name for yourself in the hero world. Even though he’s not your teacher anymore, you can’t help wander back to him for advice and a familiar comfort. Aizawa, for his part, is content enough to keep guiding you along- will listen to you as you fret and worry and question yourself. His calm words and solid advice are always enough to raise your confidence again and the little sessions you two have will end with you nodding in determination and saying Sensei, I promise I’ll make you proud.

He already knows you will- you work hard and you’re so eager for his approval, always chasing after success and the reward of a pat to a head and your favorite sensei telling you good job. you did well. i’m proud of you. (He never doles out praise like that but, god, do you work hard to earn it- you deserve your sensei’s approval and compliments. You always work so hard. for him.)

The third year is a bit easier, but it’s tiring- you’re working properly as a hero now and juggling balancing school and being an acting sidekick. You still come to your sensei for help and it fills him with satisfaction whenever he hears how you’ve blossomed under his instruction.

This is the year, too, when his gaze keeps trailing after you, when he finally realizes just how much he enjoys your eagerness and your wide eyes, the way you nearly melt when he gives you praise.

Like any good teacher, he feels disgusted by himself. Disgusted but...interested. He swears to himself that he’ll never be inappropriate with you, that he’ll keep being there for you as always and keep the relationship respectable.

He tells himself that, but...

But his hands start brushing against you when you walk next to each other. But he begins to tuck your hair behind your ear and brush it from your eyes, trail his fingers along your check. But his touch becomes more frequent during training- experienced hands moving you to get your stance to perfection and lingering as he explains technique, giving the lightest of squeezes before dropping away.

And you...you never pull away or balk or do anything- you just look up at him with wide eyes and cheeks holding the lightest, sweetest flush and nod along to whatever he’s saying, keep following his instructions until you’re perfect.

You trust him so much and respect him to the highest regard- Sensei is important to you in every sort of way and you’d follow him into hell if he asked.

You’d do anything if he asked.

With your third year and all your hero work comes attention, popularity. Boys keep hounding after you and, honestly, it’s flustering. Embarrassing whenever they put their hands a little too low on your waist while chatting you up and look over you with hooded eyes. Their touch is nothing like Sensei’s- you don’t want to melt into and you don’t want more; all you want is to shy away.

The attention troubles you and it’s something that Aizawa picks up on. You almost don’t want to tell him about it whenever he asks, but you can’t not answer your sensei and, besides, he’s given you so much advice before- he’s sure to guide you through this confusing time in your life.

So you tell him, shyly, about the boys and their touches and their crude remarks. You blush and mumble that it’s overwhelming, that it’s embarrassing. You’ve never dated anyone before- you’ve never even kissed anyone before. You don’t know how and...and you’re nervous about it- what if you’re bad? What if they laugh?

Seeing you blushing and embarrassed would be a KO to Aizawa- one quick snap of his already frail self-control. He’d tell you that you just need practice, that it’s not something you need to rush. And, god, sweet fretting you who has danced through his fantasies and turned a respectable man into a closet pervert would be helpless when Aizawa- when the man you look up to with stars in your eyes, when the man whose every word you hang on to, when the man you’ve had such a sweet little crush on since day one, when Sensei- places a hand to your cheek and tells you that he could teach you.

How could you pass it up?

So it starts with that- his lips pressing against yours and your mind going dizzy with wonder and giddy, anxious disbelief. So, so chaste at first- slow to keep you from growing skittish and pulling away. And when it gets deeper, more hot that’s when he starts to tell you how to angle your head, how to use your tongue, how to mold your lips perfectly against his. Less tongue this time. That’s better. Try biting my bottom lip like this.

You listen to his instructions like a lovesick puppy- cheeks flushed and eyes hazy and the need to please him flooding through you stronger than ever before.

It starts with kissing and then it’s him teaching you how to ride his thigh, how to get off with just that grinding pressure and his murmured praise, his hands running over your waist. Then Sensei teaches you about pleasuring yourself- long fingers stroking over your cunny and curling deep inside, little whimpers and mewls leaving you while he explains your g-spot and how to stretch yourself for a cock, how to rub your little clit and make yourself come. He’ll get you off and suck your juices from his fingers, sit back in a chair and then make you do everything he just did- telling you when to add a finger, when to stroke your clit, encouraging you when you whine and say that your fingers are too small and they don’t feel as good as his.

So, of course, if you’re fingers aren’t good enough then he has to teach you about sex toys. He buys you a vibrator and uses it on you until you’re shaking, makes you stuff it in your panties before class and has you hurrying to him on break so you can show him that you’re soaked, that you can come now and please let me come sensei, i need to- it’s so much.

He’ll have you stuff your fingers into your soaked, throbbing pussy and he’ll let you come whenever you mewl a “Sensei, please.” And then he’ll have you suckle your juices from your fingers, teach you how good you taste.

Which, of course, will lead to lessons of him eating you out- face burying between your spread thighs and tongue flicking over your clit until it’s too  much and you try to squirm away on instinct. That gets his wraps around your wrists and you sat on his face- his hands gripping your bum and making you hump against him until he’s soaked with your cum and you’re too tired and sore to give more than a twitch of your hips.

Then, of course, it’s your turn to learn about pleasing someone else with your mouth- you get to see Sensei’s dick for the first time and it’s so, so flustering to watch him stroke it while he explains blowjobs and how to run your little tongue over his head, how to suckle his balls like a good girl. Just like that- you’re doing so good. Watch your teeth, okay? Remember to breathe.

This particular lesson gets repeated again and again- it’s hard to take his length fully at first and he has to let you train your throat until you can take him down to the root and swallow his cum without choking and gagging.

It becomes a habit of yours to suck your sensei off at the end of the day- you sinking to your knees and swallowing him down while he grades papers; his hand petting your hair and a serene look on your face as you bob your head along your sensei’s length, make him come.

The biggest lesson- the most important one- is when he finally, finally fucks you.

Aizawa knows he has to do it right- he knows that it has to be good for you. He wants it to be good for you- you’ve certainly earned it with all the hard work you’ve put in so far.

It happens during a break when he actually has time to dedicate to a good, proper fuck. You’re nervous at first, heart fluttering with anticipation, and he’s quick to soothe you with doting kisses, pull you into his lap and make you dizzy with his touch, his lips. He kisses you until pleasure is smoldering down low and then he carries you to the bed- cradling you gently and laying you out, taking a moment to soak in your flushed cheeks and adoring eyes, the way your lips move with a shy, needy murmur of “Sensei.”

He gets you off once, twice before stripping down and crawling over you. It hurts a little when he slides into your wet, warm cunny but he soothes that sting with kisses and hummed praises of how good you’re doing, how you’re such a good girl for him. You’re taking me so well. You’re doing such a good job. Good girl- you’re such a good girl. Honestly, the praise is enough to have your eyes watering and your already overstimulated pussy squeezing around him.

You come before he’s fully in and he takes advantage of that wave of pleasure to slip in the rest of the way, bury himself completely in that soaked cunt that he’s been starving for. You’ll have time to sob a “sensei” but then your mind will get hazed over by the feeling of being full, by how good it feels to have your teacher rocking into your needy pussy and pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along your neck.

The first time you come on his cock it’s with his lips pressed to your forehead as he murmurs for you to come for him- to come for sensei.

The next time you come on his cock is when you’re riding him the following night- his mouth sucking on your soft breasts and your back arching as he shoots hot ropes of cum into your spasming pussy.

He’ll show you how to clean yourself after and he’ll make you come again- face buried between your thighs and his tongue eating out the creampie he had nestled deep into your cunny.

After that, it’s fair game for him to call out of class for “just a word” or to drag you from regular training for some “one on one” training. And you’re just as bad- coming to him like a bitch in heat as soon as you feel your cunny begin to tingle and begging him to fuck you, let you suck him off- sensei, please!

Of course he spares the time to do that for you- you are his favorite student after all.

[nolpat0]

something like this | s. crosby

summary: sidney has always wanted someone like her and confess as much to her

wc: 1,573

warnings: mentions of hospital/injury, one sexual innuendo

The low, metronomic beeping of the monitor keeps a steady, consistent beat to the familiar, dulcet hum of a female voice. In his drugged, cloud nine-like haze, Sidney does his best imitation of a grin, the gloriously soothing tone of her words easing him out of his concern.

"Sid?" her whisper is followed by the warm press of her fingers against the skin of his upper arm, a sweet reminder of her unwavering support. "Are you awake?"

He is; but the boy fights the grin that is sure to give him away in order to keep the easy flow of her rambles going, enjoying her vivid stories and the giggle at the end of her words as she confesses the minuscule details of her day to him. She believes him to be fast asleep, for her words to be nothing but a useless hum, and he enjoys the unexpected imtimacy of the affectionate gesture.

"I see what you're doing," she speaks again, the edge of her words exploding into the melodic tumble of her soft laughter. However, she doesn't cease her talking. "I'll just keep talking and making a fool out of myself so you can pretend you're asleep."

Sidney can't help the glimmer of love that warms his hospital blanket-clad body, a small, tender smile tugging at the edges of his full lips, revealing himself. Her fingertips trail over the carved outline of his cheekbones and brush against his hair as he finally opens his coffee-colored eyes. He gives her a earnest smile, the edges of his eyes crinkling as his dark eyes travel over her face, his full, pink lips splitting open into a wide grin to reveal shining teeth. She mumbles a soft, calming greeting and caressed his cheek a second time with the tips of her fingertips.

“So you gonna fall asleep again so I can tell you what Mat did next?” She asks, the edges of her lips curled into a playful smirk as she teases him, fingers still running agaisnt the midnight strands of his short hair in a loving manner.

Sidney can’t help the gentle, genuine laugh that rumbles from his chest, his grip on the pale blue hospital blanket loosening as he lets his palm fall flat on the curve of her knee. He nods quickly, eager to keep hearing her soft speech and tease her back, “Yes of course. My bad.”

He doesn’t catch the small smile that lights up her face because his dark lashes are already falling flat agaisnt his faintly flushed cheeks. She doesn’t waste another second launching into a detailed discription of her colleague, Mat’s experience with a particularly awkward run in with their boss. As she gently lulled him farther into the comforting clutches of sleep, Sidney tried his very best to keep his facial expressions netural but failed quite badly, which propelled her further into making him laugh. As the tall hockey player felt sleep finally take him, he felt overwhelmed with the buzzing, delicious feeling of love. He was consumed by the complete love he held in his heart for the girl still talking and running her fingers through his hair. He was too deeply in love to even think properly. And Sidney loved every minute of it.

———

Sidney couldn’t feel the light press of her palm agaisnt his as the white lab coat clad doctor filled the couple in on his prognosis and what the steps leading them forward would look like, a detailed, and frankly terrifying process that would have Sidney recovering and ready to return on the ice in a month or so. His breath was strained through his lungs, his jaw dancing with a clenched muscle as he tried to reign in his fears and desire to lace up his skates without a practical thought about the nasty consequences. Sidney just wanted to return to the locker room and resume being captain, and knew the only way to that was through the plan the doctor was currently laying out. Which scared Sidney to his bones if he was allowed to be completely honest.

“Sid,” she called, eyes watching her boyfriend closely as the hospital room door clicked closed in the wake of the doctors exit. Nerves clung to her limbs but she shook them off in order to ease Sid and his tense posture. She tried again, more forcefully. “Sidney.”

His chin dips and he finally slides his cinnamon coloured eyes to lock onto hers, trying to mask his evident fears. But she knows him far too well to skip the flicker of fear shining in his irises or the slight quiver of nerves that shook his large hands. Instinctively, her palms slide over his, fingers knitting tightly with his in a subconscious attempt to ease his shaking.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she nods, refusing to break eye contact in order to get her confidence across. She could tell he was scared, as was she, but she understood that in the end, all would work out. And they would be ok.

“I know.” Sidney tries again, blatantly deflecting.

Her lips quirk into a soft, knowing smile, her eyes flickering up distractedly as she brushes his hair back from his forehead. She smiles deeper absentmindedly, a smile that Sidney adores with all his heart. He felt a tiny fraction of his terror fading away like ice thawing in his veins.

“You don’t have to act like you’re not worried, Sid.” her eyes dropped to hold his loving gaze, her lips set in a firm line. “You don’t have to always be the strong one. That’s what I’m here for.”

A tight breath eases from his lips as his eyes close lightly, his heart settling back into its former steady pace of calm at her carefully chosen words. He was grateful, for her presence and the pressure of her fingers in his and the weight of her words. He’d never experienced a love like hers, where she loved him wholly and unconditionally, allowing him to remove all his amored layers and bravado. He revealed his true self to her and she had only kissed him passionately and grinned like he’d given her the best gift she could receive, repeating her daily mantra of how much she loved him. Sidney had never felt more loved than he did at that moment. His heart swelled fondly at the memory, the edges of his lips turning up in a doting smile.

“Thank you,” he breathed, a little unsure of what exactly he was thanking her for, but the statement was truthful.

She responded with a light, fleeting kiss pressed to his temple, her palms reaching up to softly cup the sharp curve of his jaw. He waits with baited breath, but soon relaxes fully under her loving gaze content with just staring at her.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, the syllables falling softly from his chapped lips in a unintentional audible confession.

She blinks at the unguarded, genuine compliment she knows he must mean, when she’s been curled up in the uncomfortable hospital chair beside his bed for the past two days, sleepless nights smudged under her eyes and dressed in his old clothes. She feels the burn of her cheeks under his gaze and the compliment. Sidney catches the slight embarrassment and reaches out to brush his thumbs under her eyes. “You’re cute when you get flustered.”

She rolls her eyes in response, mouth curving into a mirthful grin.

“Yeah, yeah, why don’t you fall back asleep?”

Sidney reaches out and hooks his fingers the the belt loops of her jeans, pulling her closer and onto the narrow mattress, shifting his own body to accommodate hers. “Only if you sleep with me.” he replied, coffee coloured eyes gleaming with flirtatious mischief. His fingers don’t loosen their hold, instead going to grip her hips and pull her flush to his side, savouring the warmth radiating from her smaller figure now dwarfed by his size. She curls tightly to his side, fingers digging into the material of his shirt and leg falling over his as his palm cups the underside of her thigh before it gave away to her knee. She hums with a soft laughter, commenting that she’ll think about his desirous proposal, ignoring the fact they both knew she’d already complied. Sidney settled in with a long, adoration filled kiss to her hair that didn’t hold a drop of lust. He grins at the tired lilt to her voice as she mumbles softly into his thin shirt, the reverberations flowing through his chest. His fingertips smoothed over her hair as he breathed deeply, catching her familiar scent. “I love you so much.” Sidney whispered into the layers of her hair as she promptly fell asleep to the barley audible confession, meaning every syllable with his whole heart.

When her breathing has evened out, a soft almost imperceptible whistle of her breath as she falls into a deep, dream-less sleep upon his chest, fingers tightly curled in the material of his thin shirt, as if she can’t fathom letting him go, even in sleep, Sidney reveals his truest confession.

“I’ve always wanted to be loved by someone like you.” his words are hot and hit the top of her forehead before he kisses her skin. Sidney is quick to brush a stray eyelash from her cheek. “And now I have you. And I’m not letting you go.”

[spencersawkward]

*house call // wes (Dollface)*

ssummary: when her pet cat gives her a scare, Reader decides to call the vet to make sure everything is going to be okay. 

pairing: Fem!Reader x Wes

word count: 5.4k

content warnings: discussion of cannabis/cannabis consumption, unprotected penetrative sex, use of nicknames (baby, sweetheart), SoftDom!Wes, breeding kink, creampie. 

request: can you do a wes smutty one shot if you’re down?! 

A/N: to be fair, i haven’t watched Dollface in a minute, but i’m obsessed with the domestic vibes that Matthew gives off when he plays Wes and i just thought it would be super cute. anyway, this was super fun also i wanna fuck Wes. ok enjoy!

masterlist

the absolute best part of your day is when the package arrives at your doorstep. you impulse-purchased it about two weeks ago while you were hanging out with one of your close friends, and you've been looking forward to trying it every day since. 

or, really, for your cat to try it. 

you've read reviews and been extremely diligent to make sure the stuff is completely safe, and everything you've seen or read was singing the praises of this cat weed (which isn't actually cannabis at all, but catnip made to look like it).

as you take the cardboard box to the kitchen table and pry open the top with the help of a Swiss army knife, you're grinning. Klimt comes scampering into the room to see what all the fuss is about, sitting at your feet with his tail curled around his legs. 

"no peeking." you scold him gently. your kitten, the friendliest little rescue tabby around, simply stares blankly back. when you remove the wrapping from the glass jar and stare at it up close, you're impressed by how realistic it looks. the label shows cat-friendly ingredients only, but you unscrew the top and get a whiff of catnip. 

Klimt begins to weave in between your legs, nudging them affectionately and beginning to purr. you giggle and bend down to give him a few pets. his nose twitches; he tries to sniff at the foreign object, but you put it back on the table. 

"don't be greedy, babe." you scratch between his pointed ears and he lets out a whiny meow. 

it's about his dinner time, and you were hoping to give him his treat tonight after he finishes his dry food. so you make yourself something simple with the leftovers in your fridge and do some more work on your laptop while you two eat together. 

you've had Klimt for a while, now. you call him a kitten even though he's a full-grown cat-- he's just as playful and enthusiastic as any newborn. his eyes are the color of meadow grass, and his nose is scattered with tiny freckles. it makes him look like he's just come from digging around the backyard, but it really just adds to his charm. 

not to mention his ceaselessly social tendencies: Klimt is always around when your friends come over, worming his way in between you or sitting on one of the free chair cushions to listen. you wonder if he knows what you're saying sometimes, because when you talk about the embarrassing things you've done that day or the failed interactions you've had, he always lifts his head to give you something of a judgmental stare. 

once you've settled down for the evening and turned on the TV, you decide that now is the time. Klimt is aimlessly poking at a few of his toys. he bats at a fake mouse between his paws.

"kitten," you click your tongue and get up to grab the jar. "are you ready to try this stuff?" 

as if he's going to answer. he hears your footsteps coming back his way and watches patiently. it's only when you pour out a little bit in front of him that he gets curious about the stuff. you admire his movements as he bends down and examines. 

although you keep an eye on him while watching your show, you don't notice much of a change in him. he starts to roll about on the floor, which is to be expected, but it's only when he starts to chase around his fake mouse that things get interesting. 

you laugh as Klimt goes nuts, jumping back and attacking the thing like he's ready to come in for the kill. it's really funny, but you're interrupted by your phone buzzing. you told your friend that you were doing this tonight. 

"hi!" you answer the FaceTime call right away. 

"how is he?" you can hear the smile in Andi's voice as you turn the camera. 

"he's loving it." 

"oh my god," she laughs. Klimt arches his back, leaping so highly in the air, you raise your eyebrows. "I wonder how long it'll last." she muses. 

"I'm guessing we'll get about an hour more of this before he passes out for the next two days." you joke. he gets strong bursts of energy usually, but they only last so long until he's curled up on the window sill or in your bed. 

Andi and you talk for a while as Klimt tires himself out and plays with all of his favorite toys. you dangle a string in front of him for a decent amount of time, too, just to make him get up on his hindquarters. he's a natural entertainer, a lithe little thing who lets out a few irritated meows to demonstrate his impertinence. 

after about forty-five minutes, however, you notice your cat's behavior change. he keeps raising his hackles and rolling about, and something about it makes you nervous. he doesn't usually act like this, not even when he plays with the other catnip toys he's accumulated. 

"what's wrong?" Andi notes your furrowed brow as you look past the camera of your phone and at your pet. 

"he's just acting really weird," you pat the couch cushion to call him over, but he doesn't even glance up. "I don't know why." 

"maybe it's the cat weed." she suggests. you purse your lips and try to think. 

"yeah, but nobody in the reviews ever mentioned anything like this."

"I'm sure he's fine, Y/N."  

"yeah, I know..." but you're worried. Klimt is your pal, your cuddle buddy. as he rubs his cheek against the wooden floor, you feel guilt pool in your stomach. if he's hurt because of some dumb online purchase, you're never going to forgive yourself. "I'm gonna call the vet just to be sure."  

"oh, okay," she sounds surprised, but doesn't try to stop you. "let me know what they say." 

"I will." you hang up the phone and stare at your companion for a few seconds. he leaps into the air and does a somersault before letting out some deeply disturbing whine that reminds you to call the vet. better safe than sorry.  

...

when the doorbell rings, you're practically twiddling your thumbs anxiously. Klimt hasn't settled at all, and you haven't even bothered to change out of your lounging ensemble. you're pretty sure you look a mess, but hopefully the person won't care too much. 

you don't know who to expect-- your usual vet is an older woman who is friends with your mom, but her receptionist said she was out tonight and would send over another vet to check it out. 

when you swing open the door, you immediately regret the decision to stay in sweatpants. 

"hi, I'm Wes." the guy gives you a friendly smile and holds up his bag. it's almost comically old-fashioned, something out of an old movie, and you half-expect him to be wearing a stethoscope around his neck. 

he's gorgeous, though. definitely a good amount older than you, tall with brown curls and stubble. his features stand out to you even under the porch light, and your mouth guppies idiotically. 

"hi," you manage. his eyes flicker to your hand, which is seemingly blocking him from coming inside the house, and you jolt back a little to let him in. you clear your throat. "sorry." 

as he steps inside and you close the door behind him, getting one tiny moment to yourself, your eyes widen. way to make yourself look like a bumbling fool. 

"I heard that there's a tabby who got into some catnip?" you catch him looking around the front of your house, eyes catching on the framed photos before finding yours again. you can feel the heat creeping up your cheeks, but nod confidently.  

"yeah, Klimt. he should still be in the living room." 

"Klimt? like the artist?" he chuckles and follows you into the rest of the home. his voice has a nice timbre to it, something low and gentle that fits well with his occupation.  

"yeah, exactly." you turn to smile at him. 

you hear the cat before you see him. he's climbed to the top of his cat tree and leaps down onto the ground, paws hitting the surface in a way that can't have been comfortable. he chirps and looks up at Wes, whose lips are turned up with amusement.    

"are you the man of the hour?" he asks, approaching the cat. Klimt's pupils get enormous and he prepares to pounce on the newcomer. 

"careful--" you start to warn him, but the cat launches himself right into Wes' arms. the vet turns to you, holding him to his chest, and grins. warmth spreads over your skin with embarrassment. "sorry." 

"no need to apologize," he starts to pet Klimt, who is only slightly struggling to escape. he wants to go wild again, but Wes isn't going to let go. "they call me the Cat Wrangler at the office." 

"really?" you snort. he brings your pet over to the couch and sets him on the cushions, careful to keep him in place. 

"no way." he shoots you a dazzling smile. the joke makes you giggle, and you feel yourself become even more self-conscious about the outfit you're wearing. this is just your luck, having hot guys come over when you distinctly look your worst. 

Wes scratches between Klimt's ears and glances up at you again. "is there any reason in particular you're worried about the catnip?" 

"yeah, actually," you nod, brought back to reality. "I know it's supposed to make them more playful, but he's just been acting weird and I got worried that there was something in it that messed with his head." 

"can I see the container for it?" he asks. you go to grab the jar, only to remember that it proudly announces itself as cannabis for cats. profound embarrassment causes you to hesitate with the stuff in your hands. 

it's not like he's here for you to flirt with, but you're still thinking about how stupid and young you're going to look with this stuff in front of him, a hot older guy who seems to have his life under control. you peek at him once more from the kitchen, at the way he smiles and starts to talk softly to Klimt as if he were a peer. 

he's kinda crazy, and it makes you smile. 

"it's cat weed." you hand him the glass container, and Wes breaks into a grin as he looks at the front. 

"oh my gosh, I've heard about this!" his eyes move quickly over the label. you're in shock. 

"really?"

"yeah, it's hilarious. here, can you make sure our friend here doesn't move while I read the ingredients?" he gestures. the knot of anxiety within you loosens a bit. you nod obediently, going to scoop up your pet and sit him on your lap. he's still squirmy, but he doesn't look ready to attack either of you, thankfully. 

"hey, you." you greet your pal affectionately. his tail is wagging impatiently while Wes kneels on the ground beside the couch. there's a silver ring on his finger, but you notice with relief that it's not on his fourth one. 

when he sets the jar down on the coffee table with the kind of smile that hints at some secret amusement, you frown. "what?"

"nothing," he shakes his head. "Klimt is gonna be totally fine."

"are you sure?" you pet the feline's smooth coat. 

"definitely. you know how drugs affect people differently?" he asks. you want to say no, you don't know that because why would you, but then you remember that there is quite literally a glass-blown bowl sitting on your kitchen table. 

"sure." you reply honestly. 

"it's the same with cats: some just feel the effects a little more." he shrugs. you think this over for a second. 

"that makes sense." 

"yeah, I'd estimate about an hour more of this wildcat behavior before he takes a ten-hour nap." he cracks another joke and you find yourself totally charmed by him. something about the way he talks just makes your heart beat like crazy.  

"that's a relief." 

he chuckles and stands up, grabbing the bag (which he never even had to use) and starting to walk out of the living room. you can smell his delicious cologne as he moves past you.  

"sorry for making you come out here so late." you apologize from the couch. Wes turns to look at you with an easygoing expression. his free hand is tucked into his pocket.  

"no worries. you have a lovely home." he gestures to the kitchen, and then at the bowl sitting there in the open. you have to fight the smile on your face.  

"thanks." you're smirking. right before he's about to head back out, you ask a question that's been wriggling around in your mind since he arrived. "why no title?" 

"you mean, like, Doctor or something?" he stops in the threshold. one hand leans against it while he answers your question. you still can't get over how tall he is. 

"sure. I mean, you are a doctor, right?" it comes out more dubious than you intended, but he doesn't get offended, only smiles. 

"yes, I'm a doctor. I went to Davis." he points like the school is right outside your door. you nod.  

"cool." 

there's a silence where you just look at each other, and you forget that you look like you just rolled out of bed. he clears his throat. 

"to answer your question, I just go by Wes because you're not my patient-- Klimt is." he points to the kitten, who is now chasing his own tail like a dog. you snort at the sight. 

"how humble of you." 

"I know, right?" he's joking. you find yourself not wanting him to leave, even though you've really just met. he's so sweet and funny and handsome... your stomach is flipping over and over like a schoolgirl. 

and it's stupid that you can't think of one plausible reason for him to stay, but every step he takes shortens your time to think. so you just blurt, instead. 

"would you want a beer?" 

Wes pauses and looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face. "a beer?" 

"yeah, I mean... you came all the way out here and I just feel bad for causing a fuss over nothing." you scramble slightly to justify your words. you don't ever drink beer-- do you even have any? god, this is embarrassing.  

the vet checks the watch on his wrist, then smiles at you with a halting kind of enjoyment, before nodding. "sure." 

"okay, great." you turn on your heel to hide the grin on your face. he follows you again to the kitchen area and leans against the counter while you open the fridge. the best form of flirting you can manage right now is bending over shamelessly and taking your time to poke around. 

thankfully, there are three cold bottles left towards the back. you take out two and use the tool in one of your drawers to pop the tops off. he watches patiently, takes a sip when you hand the drink to him. your eyes meet. 

"so, what prompted the cat weed purchase?" he starts the conversation effortlessly, and you try to keep your eyes from wandering over the shape of him. now that he's just standing in front of you, you're noticing the way his sweater sits against his frame, his long legs and the way his head rests on an elegantly-proportioned neck. 

"I just saw it and thought it would be fun." you shrug honestly. he smiles.  

"do you think you're gonna let him try it again another time?"  

"I don't know," you cross your arms over your chest. "I'm a little nervous, but he also was having a lot of fun until I made him sit still." 

"fair enough." you both turn your gazes to the cat. he's nudging a little toy ball with his nose and watching it roll across the floor. there are tiny bells inside that jingle. Wes turns back to you. "what do you do?"

"graphic designer." 

"an artist." he raises his brows, impressed. 

"not exactly saving animal lives, but I get by." you take another sip of your drink. 

"it's not like that, mostly." he rolls his eyes playfully. 

"then what's it like?"

"I just see and talk to people's pets all day. it's a pretty great job, even when it's not. you know?" he's optimistic about it. you're drawn to his positive energy, to the way he smiles when he speaks like he's preparing to deliver a witty joke. 

 you're hopelessly attracted to him, and the space between you is becoming unbearable. even though he's a guy you just met, you can feel in your gut that something about this is just right. you want his body against yours. 

 "you okay?" he breaks what you only now realize is a silence, and you blink to clear the dirty images from your mind. 

"yeah." only thinking about you fucking me against a countertop. it must be the fact that you haven't gotten laid in a while or something, because you usually aren't this attracted to people within the first hour. it takes longer for you to even want to kiss them.  

"what kind of stuff do you design?" he seems genuinely interested as he shifts and continues to nurse his drink.  

"I work for a tech startup downtown, so it's a lot of website work to make sure it's navigable and pretty." you try to sum up your duties, but it's hard when his hazel eyes are so intent. he listens to every word.  

"do you do personal work, too? like, just for you?" 

"actually, yeah!" this sparks your excitement. 

"can I see?" his smile widens. "only if you're comfortable, of course."  

"sure." you're beaming.  

he stays put as you start to go out of the kitchen, but then you smile. "you can come with." 

"oh." he sets his beer down on the counter and follows you, slightly surprised. but you don't care; you were nervous before, but he's stayed for this long. maybe he wants you, too. 

once you get to your bedroom, you're grateful that it's been freshly cleaned. there's even a bouquet from the flower's market sitting on your dresser, and you head over to the desk to sift through the drawers for what you want. 

"cool room." he compliments from the threshold. he's careful not to make you uncomfortable, but also can't resist the curiosity that draws his gaze from wall to wall. you find the stack of papers and smile. 

"thanks," you place the folder in his hands. "these are some printed versions of stuff I did last year." 

Wes immediately begins to flip through the art. him seeing your stuff makes you nervous, so you pretend to focus on straightening up the few items that sit on your desk. you wipe your fingertip over a nonexistent film of dust. 

"these are amazing," he says, holding a card stock copy in between his index and middle fingers. "holy shit."

"thank you." you're trying to keep from smiling too hard. you can tell that he's being genuine with his compliments, and it makes your heart swell. 

"definitely. are you showing anywhere?" 

"at an exhibit downtown a couple months back, but I've been so busy with work that personal stuff hasn't really been on the table, you know?"

he nods in understanding and continues to go through until the end. when he's finished, he looks up and sees you, his eyes concentrated. he doesn't speak at first, and an undercurrent ripples across the room. there are about three feet between you, and you have no excuse to lessen it. 

he licks his lips slowly. you purse yours, unsure of what to say. 

"I'm glad you called tonight." his voice is lower, slightly uncertain, like he's testing the boundaries. except you don't want boundaries right now. you want to go wild on him. 

"me, too." you reply. it's in your eyes, that begging for him to do what you're scared to initiate. 

your tongue is pressed to the back of your teeth in anticipation. and when he sets the art back on your desk and comes closer, you feel yourself give in. bubbles of excitement travel up your body as he grabs your face and bends down to kiss you. 

it's full, passionate, not the kind of kiss you give someone you've just met. laced with desire and longing, you respond immediately. hands immediately run to his forearms, over his shoulders as he imposes beautifully on your form. it's so hard, you lean back slightly. your torso presses against his until he pushes you against the wall. 

the slight gasp that escapes your lips causes him to smile, followed by your moan and clutching fingers. the material of his sweater, the taste of him mingled with that sophisticated, gentle smell of cologne that you want printed all over your skin. 

"come here." he murmurs against your mouth and reaches down to the back of your thigh so you can hook your leg around his waist. you whine at the easy access he has to grind against your core, both of you desperate. 

"Wes." you pant into his open mouth. he sucks on your bottom lip before finding your cheek and jaw. his fingertips tighten around your flesh. 

"this feel good, sweetheart?" he checks in. coincidentally, his jeans grind against your panties at exactly the right spot and your hips jump. you release a pleasured yelp. 

"mhmm." 

"sounds like it." he latches onto your throat with a possessive excitement. you can feel him sucking and biting at the skin until you're positive there'll be marks tomorrow. you hope there are; purpled evidence of his touch. he digs his nails into your thighs. "you like it when older men touch you, baby?" 

he blows over your tender throat before attacking it again. you sigh contentedly at the way he mingles sensations for your pleasure. "yes." 

he grunts and nips at your collarbone, sliding the strap of your top down your shoulder so that he can effortlessly flutter his lips over the skin. you grip at him and toss your head back against the wall. his weight on yours is divine. it makes you weak, but that doesn't matter. he's practically holding you up at this point. 

when his hand pushes under the hem of your shirt and dances over your stomach, you arch your back for more. he's gentle yet firm, pulling you close like he wants to breathe your oxygen. he's tracing over your ribcage, all the way up to the valley of your breasts, before cupping one and moaning into your shoulder. 

he kisses you again with an aching hunger that can't be satiated. your tongues meet and Wes finds your hardened nipples beneath the thin fabric of your bralette. you sigh while he starts to circle one with his thumb.  

"you're perfect." he breathes. 

you want to bask in this moment, to enjoy the shock across your skin when he reaches his hand back down between your bodies to dip below the waistband of your sweatpants, but you're just so greedy. he could make you cum over and over and it would never be enough. 

"what do you want me to do to you?" Wes is hovering over your lower stomach, dangerously close to where you need him most. he's teasing. the warmth of his skin drives you mad. his breath brushes over the shell of your ear. 

"fuck me." it's the only response you can fathom. every other instinct in your body flies out the window and is replaced by a craving to sink your proverbial (and literal) teeth into him.

but he loves it, apparently, because he pushes you back against the wall with a nearly bruising force. "I can do that." 

with those words, he quickly grabs your other leg and lifts you into his arms, bringing you to the bed and laying you delicately on the mattress while you giggle. you stare up at him with an almost daydreamy lust. his cheeks are flushed. 

you only get a second of that heavenly sight, though, before he dips down and pushes your shirt up to see your tits and kiss up the chasm between your ribs. his stubble tickles your skin, which causes you to smile. 

by the time he's pulled your sweatpants off and tossed them to the side, you're whining for him to strip down as well. 

"what is it, pretty girl?" he murmurs against your tummy. when you try to squeeze your thighs, he pushes them apart. 

"I wanna see you." your fingertips touch at his sweater. he chuckles and pulls the garment over his head. it messes up his perfect hair even more and you love it, tangling your fingers in it. he bites his lip. 

"do you want me to taste you first?" he keeps stroking the inside of your thighs and staring down at the skimpy lace that you're positive that you've already soaked. you're making him crazy with the way you roll your hips against air, against nothing, seeking any kind of stimulation. 

"I can't wait." you shake your head. as nice as it would be, you're going to implode if he doesn't fill you up soon. he drags his fingers down your clothed slit and groans when he feels just how ready you are for him. 

"let's take these off then, okay, sweetheart?" he hooks his fingers in the panties and waits for you to nod before tugging them down your legs. you whimper at the cool air that hits your core, soaked and needy. Wes stares at your body on display for him. 

as he gets back up from the floor to kiss you again, you both work to remove the rest of his clothes. his skin is perfect under your hands. his chest is warm, solid, and when he climbs on top of you, his arms rest on either side of your head.

one hand comes down to grab his own cock and stroke it a few times before lowering himself to rub it against your throbbing clit. you whimper at the pressure; he's mindless when he feels how easily you cover him in your essence. 

"so fucking wet..." he groans while rutting against you. 

"Wes, please--" your breath hitches. "put it in." 

"begging?" he teases your entrance with the head and smirks. "good girl." 

"mhmm." you're smiling, but your mouth drops open when he pushes himself inside. 

it's a heavy feeling, him filling you up. he's thick and the stretching of your walls makes him groan and rest his head on your shoulder. he kisses the skin there while diving deeper into your body. 

you're shaking slightly from the mixture of pain and pleasure, his size forcing your body to work quickly to accommodate. your eyes are squeezed shut, but you run your hands over his back and shoulders to stay grounded. it feels like a dream. 

he starts to pull out, coated in your wetness while you whimper below him, and he grabs your face with one hand in a dominant, soft gesture. "okay?"

"yeah." 

he pushes back in. the air in your lungs is practically gone at this point, he's so deep inside. your eyes roll back and push your hips up to take him at a new angle. Wes finds his pace easily, rocking into your body at a manageable pace to let you get used to the sensation. 

every time his hips roll down and he buries himself in you, he presses on your clit and sends a new shock through your body. he leans on his elbows to get closer and feel every undulation of your body. you love how his thrusts force your legs apart, how he moans your name and causes the headboard to repeatedly hit the wall while maintaining eye contact. hazel irises that rake over your features with lust. 

"you feel so good." he speeds up a little when he hits a certain spot. you can feel him deep and hard, causing a small bump to rise in your stomach with each stroke. his voice is husky and dark. like a man starved. 

"fuck..." you drag your nails down his back. he groans at the red marks that you will no doubt leave for him. 

"clingy thing, huh?" he sucks at your throat affectionately. "I come over for one thing and you can't help yourself." 

hearing Wes speak through his own panting is like listening to a secret, and you never want it to stop. he's reveling in the sordid crush of his own wants, and the way he shoves into you shows you that he has no intention of slowing down for a while. 

"I'm impatient." you smirk. he pulls away to admire your expression. 

"so am I." he kisses your lips and starts to pound into you. the juxtaposition of his tenderness and the sharp snap of his hips to yours fills you with butterflies. you love how much he wants to ruin you. 

"Wes-- oh my god!" you whimper. he grabs your hips and yanks them closer to him so he can go as deep as possible, so he can hit your cervix. 

"that's right, sweetheart," he pants. you can tell that he's starting to lose control. "say my name. I want everyone to know what a good little slut you are for me." 

the commanding tone makes your body shake. "I- I'm cumming, Wes, please--"

"please what, baby?" he taunts. his index finger is tracing over your jaw. 

you don't know what it is that you're wanting, except more. as your form shudders and tightens, walls fluttering around his cock, you lose the capacity to speak. you grind your hips against him and cry out pathetically while he pushes you back down and slams ruthlessly into your pussy. 

"cum inside-- please, I need it--" you writhe. he groans at the request. 

"fuck, yes..." he sheathes himself. "take it."

you gasp as he repeatedly hits your weakest point and spills hot ropes of his cum inside you, still thrusting in and out and whimpering into your shoulder at the clenching sensation you give his cock. it's warm, strangely delightful, nearly sending you into another orgasm sheerly from the sight. 

he mutters unintelligibly as he empties himself in your pussy, but you catch a growled "so needy," between deep moans. you're clinging to him like you'll never have it again. you might not. 

he slows down, giving shallower thrusts while riding out his high and shoving his cum deeper inside. it turns lazy and messy, both of you panting, before he finally pulls out and rolls over next to you. 

you press the back of your hand to your forehead. it's sweaty from all the work he just put you through, but you feel amazing at the same time. your eyes keep flickering from the ceiling above to his rising and falling chest beside you. his nose twitches; he turns his head to look at your face. 

although you expect him to say something, he doesn't. instead, you just stare at each other. the air conditioner rattles gently in the background. you're not sure how long this lasts, this soaking in, but he's the first to break it. 

"hey." 

you find the corners of your lips turning up. "hi." 

"do you mind if I go get something to clean you up?" he asks softly, his fingertips finding your forearm with ease and drifting over it.

"sure. bathroom is the first door on the left." 

he gets up and you watch him gather his clothes, eyes glued to his perfect form. you can't believe you just had sex with your veterinarian. you don't regret it at all. 

he wanders out of the room and your eyes follow, only to see Klimt sitting patiently by the door. 

"what are you doing, perv?" you tease as he comes over and leaps up onto the bed. his kitten paws pad over the blankets and settle into the crook of your arm. you smile to yourself, recalling how sweet the vet was with him. "hey, Wes?" you call out. 

"yeah?" he comes back into the room with a warm washcloth and a small smile on his face. 

"would you wanna get coffee or something sometime?" you bite your lip. maybe he doesn't want to go on a date, but it's worth a shot.

"sure." he breaks into a grin that makes you giddy. thank god, because you really were hoping to see him again. 

you can't wait.  

taglist (lmk about adding/removal or add yourself to the list here!): @jareids @reidsconverse @xoxomgg @may-b-a-u-shewritestoo @la-vie-en-amour1 @g0lden-cth @treat-winchesterswith-kindness @kisseslikecoffee @spenxerslut @slutforthegubes @spookydrreid @depressedgothgrl @flipper-kisses @multixfandomwriter​ @willowrose99​ @gingeraleluke​ @chasemoonlight​ @spencerreid9​ 

[drspencerweed]

Dreams Do Come True

Summary/Request: from anon: CONGRATS ON HITTING 500 ILYSM!!! random request,, having a wet dream about spencer while sharing a room on a case (i know, super original) and him getting all hot and bothered hearing you moan 🙈😁

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

W/C: 3484

Content: smut, fluff, friends to lovers, oral sex (both receiving), premature ejaculation, wet dream, sub!spencer

A/N: Hi! So this probably isn’t exactly what you asked for, but I started writing it and it kind of took on a mind of it’s own. I banged this out in two days, it practically wrote itself. I hope you enjoy! 

Masterlist

read on ao3

Sharing a hotel room with her was normal. It was. Sure, they had never done it before, but that was just because Hotch had never randomly assigned the two of them before. So okay, it wasn’t normal by definition. But he wasn’t going to make it weird. Just because he had a small crush on her did not mean that he would let it be weird. They were colleagues, and they even spent time together outside of work too! She would come to his apartment to watch old movies, and he would go to hers so she could cook for him. So he knew he could spend time with her alone, that wasn’t the problem. 

It was the sleeping that was potentially the issue. 

His little crush had been invading his subconscious almost constantly nowadays, and he was known to talk in his sleep. He was so scared he would say something wrong in his sleep. If she overheard something like that, he knew their friendship would never recover. How can you act normal around someone who said your name in their sleep? 

He had been avoiding going to sleep before her, so he had taken Derek up on his offer for a drink in his room to talk about anything but the case they were working. 

“So when are you going to tell [Y/N] that you’re into her?” Derek asked out of nowhere. 

Spencer stuttered around the sip of his drink. “W-Who says I’m interested in her?” 

Derek just laughed and clapped Spencer on the shoulder. His cheeks were burning, a sure sign of his embarrassment at being called out. “Pretty boy, you give her heart eyes every time she walks in a room.” 

His blush deepened. “Even if I was interested, there’s a very low probability that she is also interested. So the answer to your question would be never, obviously.” Derek stopped his giggling and gave Spencer an incredulous look. 

“All that genius and you don’t see how she looks at you?” Derek asked. 

“How she looks at me?” 

“She looks at you like you hung the stars, man.” 

Spencer scoffed, brushing off the comment. “No she doesn’t.” 

Derek started laughing again, “Yes she does! Oh my god, the genius can’t read basic body language?” 

“Even if, occasionally, her body language reflected an attraction to me, it was probably because she was thinking of someone she actually was attracted to.  Statistically, most women find me awkward and-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, none of this negative self talk. You’re a catch!” 

Spencer just waved his hand at the comment, taking a long sip of his whiskey and coughing a bit as he swallowed. Derek eyed him curiously. 

“I’m telling you, you’re never gonna get anywhere if you never shoot your shot. The worst thing that could happen is she says no.” Derek advised. He shook his head and finished his drink . 

“The worst that could happen is she thinks I’m an absolute weirdo and never wants to talk to me again.” Spencer explained.

“That’s not going to happen.” Spencer rolled his eyes and shook his head. 

“I can’t risk losing her.” He insisted. Derek sighed and accepted that he was a lost cause, leaning back in his seat and changing the subject. 

~~~~

Spencer made his way back to the room a few hours later, saying a silent prayer to a God he didn’t believe in that she was already asleep. The light was off, so he clicked on the bathroom light so he could see but hopefully not wake her. 

“[Y/N]?” He called quietly into the dark. All he got in response was a small whimper. He thanked his lucky stars and made his way to the bathroom to get ready for bed. 

Once he was all cleaned up and in a pair of sweatpants and a tshirt, he made his way to climb into bed. Just as he swung the sheets off, he heard a low moan from the bed next to him. It stopped him in his tracks. He turned towards her bed, looking at her face for any signs of distress. Nightmares could be debilitating; he knew from experience. But her face was peaceful, beautifully restful. He stopped again for a different reason, taking in the way her face looked as she slept. 

Then it scrunched up as she let out another moan. His eyebrows furrowed, wanting to wake her in case she was having a bad dream, but not wanting to disturb her. He swallowed thickly. 

Another moan. This one was followed quickly by a quick, “Spencer!” He reeled, unsure where his name had come up. Was she dreaming about him? Was she having a nightmare about him? Or was she calling out for his help?

She let a long, drawn out, “Oh,” and rolled from her side onto her back. He took a step forward, planning to shake her awake from what was clearly a nightmare at this point. But suddenly, “Go on, lick me.” 

Spencer stopped with his hands out above her shoulders, inches from waking her. Lick me? He mouthed to himself. What could she possibly be dreaming about? 

“Fuck, Spencer, I’m gonna cum!” She exclaimed, rolling back on her side. And-oh my gosh. Spencer took three quick steps back, realizing far too late exactly what was happening. He was entirely unsure how to react. [Y/N]? Having a sex dream about him? It was unbelievable. On his third step back, he ran right into his bed, and lost his balance. 

He fell to the floor with a crash. 

Her eyes blinked open, and he didn’t have any time to get up or move at all, so her eyes met his immediately upon waking. “Spencer? What happened?” Her voice was tired from sleep.

Spencer blinked, and immediately panicked. He was never good at lying under pressure. “I-uh. You were having a, uhm, dream. And I thought, thought it was a nightmare so-” As he spoke, [Y/N]’s face got redder and redder, and she sat up in bed and placed her face in her hands. 

“Oh no, you didn’t hear anything, did you?” She asked cautiously, barely chancing a glance up at him. He swallowed tightly and nodded. “Fuck me!” She said, throwing her head back on the pillow. Her voice sent something through him, and all he wanted was to say Okay and kiss her. But Spencer knew one didn’t control their own subconscious. Just because she had a dream about him didn’t means she actually wanted it to happen. He scrambled to his feet and cleared his throat. 

Before he could say something, anything really, she was sitting up again with a groan, rubbing her hand over her face. “Well I guess now you know about my stupid crush.” 

“Your crush?” He asked. She looked at him incredulously. 

“You heard me moan your name in my sleep. Yes, obviously, my crush. On you.” She explained matter of factly. He stuttered, trying to allow his brain to process the amount of information he had just been given. It didn’t make sense to him. [Y/N] was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, not to mention one of the most confident. She carried herself with such authority he never thought she’d look twice in his direction. Clearly, she’d want some confident alpha male who could match her energy, not his insecure nervous self. But here she was, telling him point blank that she had a crush on him. 

He didn’t know what to do. While he was standing there, stuttering, trying to gather his thoughts, [Y/N] made her way out of her bed to stand in front of him. She was only wearing a tank top and a pair of small shorts, and he could barely keep himself from staring at her body. “I had no idea.” He finally settled on saying, and she let out a loud laugh. 

“Really? Profiler extraordinaire? No idea? Why do you think I cooked for you so many times?” She smiled at him while she said it, like she couldn’t quite believe he didn’t see it. 

“I thought you just wanted to be friends!” He exclaimed, running a hand through his hair. She seemed to deflate at this, her face falling and wringing her hands together. 

“I did! I do! But I was always open to...more. I just wanted to spend time with you.” She explained, sitting back on the edge of her bed and staring down at her hands. “But you clearly have no interest in that-” 

“No! No.” He corrected quickly, and then realized with a sudden clarity that since her confession he’d done nothing to imply he felt the same. She stared up at him at his exclamation, unsure what he meant. 

“No?” 

“No, you’re wrong, I do have interest in that. In more.” He explained, sitting next to her. He awkwardly reached for her hand, which she offered with a small smile. Lacing their fingers together, he looked her in the eye with purpose. “I also have a crush on you. I stayed out of the room tonight because I was trying to avoid, uhm. What happened to you. I thought that might happen to me.” 

She stared at their entwined hands, and then looked back at him. “Really?” 

“Yes, really.” He smiled at her, and her face brightened immediately. She turned completely towards him and pulled him in by the neck, pressing their foreheads together. Spencer let their noses rub together, both of them still beaming. 

“I’m going to kiss you now.” She whispered, her breath fanning over his lips as she said it. Before he could even nod, her lips pressed to his. It was magic. Her lips were soft and urgent, catching his bottom lip between them. Her hands pulled him closer to her by the neck, and he let his hands find her waist, urging her closer. She climbed into his lap with his guidance, and he let his tongue slip into her mouth as she did it. Her hands roamed into his hair, pushing it off his head and carding her fingers through it, causing him to moan. She giggled into his mouth. 

��You like having your hair played with, baby?” She asked, pulling away to watch his reaction as she tugged on his roots. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he let his hands drop to her ass. He squeezed and pulled her down onto him, letting his lips find her neck. She let out a loud groan as he sucked a mark into her pulse point, but she pushed him away with both hands on his cheeks. 

“Not above the collar,” She reminded. He smirked at the idea of everyone on the team knowing what they were doing. At everyone on the team knowing that she wanted to do this with him. 

“But what if I want people to know you’re mine.” He asked, pressing a quick kiss to her lips as he said it. She smiled at him. 

“I think you’ve got this whole thing wrong then.” 

He furrowed his brow at her, unsure what he could have possibly misunderstood. 

“You, Dr. Reid, are mine.” She said, and then pushed him down onto the bed. He stared up at her perched on his lap, and let his hands roam her body. Now that he had free reign to touch, he never wanted to stop. She sighed and ran her hands down his chest, going to the bottom of his shirt and pulling it off of him. Her hands lit fires under his skin, as he gripped her by the hips and rolled his hardness into her. She chuckled at him. 

“Hard already, baby?” She teased. He moaned and threw his head back as she rotated her hips on him. “Use your words.” She ordered, gripping his face to make him look at her. 

“Yes, miss.” He answered on instinct. He immediately froze up, trying to take back the honorific when they had never discussed anything like that. It just slipped out, his little experience with being a submissive taking over because of [Y/N]’s naturally dominant role. But her eyes lit up, and she simply smirked at him. 

“Good boy.” She whispered, and pressed down hard with her hips. 

He came in his pants. 

With a loud groan and a thrust upward, he shot into his sweatpants. She chuckled as he shuddered through his orgasm, and leaned down to kiss him. As soon as he came down from the high, embarrassment overtook him. He had a chance with his dream girl, and he literally blew it not five minutes in. Because she called him a Good boy. He brought his hands up to cover his face, but she caught his wrists before he could reach. He closed his eyes and turned his face away, not ready for the ridicule that was sure to follow.

“Awh, did I make you cum?” She rolled her hips a few times, and he hissed at the oversensitivity.  “That’s so hot.” 

“W-What?” He asked, turning back towards her slowly. She was beaming at him. 

“You were so overwhelmed with me that you came so quick, what’s not hot about that?” She said, stroking his cheek. “The cutest boy, all worked up, just for me.” 

He blushed again, and swallowed as he smiled back at her. “But what about you?” 

“What about me?” She asked. His hands danced along her sides, cupping her breasts and teasing her nipples through her shirt. 

“Wanna make you feel good.” He said while she gasped. 

“What’s stopping you?” She asked with a smirk. He surged upwards and began kissing her again, only stopping to finally rip her shirt off of her and get his hands on her bare breasts. Her hands found his hair again and tugged on the strands, causing their mouths to break apart as he panted. 

“Wanna taste you.” He requested. She moaned and pulled him into another kiss, guiding his hands to touch her under her shorts. His fingers trailed through her wetness, and she moaned against his lips. Then he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked on them, while her eyes watched through hooded lids. He moaned around his fingers, the taste of her so intoxicating he wanted more of it.  

“You’re so fucking hot. Such a good, good boy.” She whispered, stroking his hair. Then she crawled off his lap and laid out on the bed next to him. He turned to watch her as she shimmied off her shorts. Her eyes fell to where he was still sucking on his fingers. She gestured him over to her, and he quickly crawled between her legs. She nodded towards him. “Go on then, taste me.” 

He dove in tongue first, with broad licks up and down her pussy. Her hands immediately laced through his hair, pulling him closer to her. His tongue traced from her hole to her clit. He wrapped his arms around her thighs and pulled her in, letting his lips latch onto her clit and sucking. Flicking the tip of it with his tongue, she moaned and threw her head back on the pillows. 

“Oh!” She cried, and it sounded just like when she was having the dream earlier. Spencer had a quick thought about making her dreams come true,  but brushed it to the side as idealized thinking. Then she lifted his head off of her and looked straight into his eyes. “Go on, lick me.” 

Whether she remembered her dream or not, she was clearly living out her fantasy. He lolled his tongue out of his mouth and leisurely licked over her pussy, his tongue flat and wide. She canted her hips up towards him, and he let his tongue form rapid circles around her clit. Her moans fueled his motions, and he moved one of his hands down to pressed two fingers into her. 

She whined as he entered her, and let out a quick “Spencer!” He curled his fingers while sucking on her clit again, and her thighs began to clench around his head. He found the right spot inside her by listening to her moans, and then focused all his attention there while flicking his tongue against her clit. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum!” She cried, tugging on his hair. He kept doing everything exactly the same, pushing her over the edge with a loud shout. He kept up his ministrations until she pushed him off from the oversensitivity. She let out a loud sigh as he pulled off, and her hands went up to clutch at her own hair for a change. Staring up at the ceiling, she let a grin cross her face as a few aftershocks rolled through her. He admired her as she came down from her high, and then moved to the bathroom to wash his hands and get a rag to clean her up. 

When he came back he went to wipe her down, but she took the rag from him. “Sit. I get to take care of you, now.” She wiped herself down and then kneeled in front of him. She pulled down his sweatpants, which stuck a little to his cock which was hard again. Smirking up at him, she began wiping him down while he hissed, the gentle touches not enough for him. Suddenly her hot mouth wrapped around his head, and he groaned out. She made quick work of him, throwing her all into the blowjob from the start, taking him as deep as possible over and over. His hands clenched in the sheets as he came for a second time, this time down her throat. 

She swallowed as he watched in awe, and then wiped down his softening cock and stood up. Silently, she made her way to the bathroom and got rid of the dirty towel. 

When she came back Spencer was still sitting on the edge of the bed. He smiled up at her and reached out a hand, which she took gladly letting him pull her in for a hug, with her standing between his knees. 

“I really like you, you know.” He said, his chin resting between her breasts as he stared up at her. 

“I know. I really like you too.” 

“Would you like to get dinner with me, when the case is over?” 

“As long as we can keep doing what we just did before then, absolutely.” She said with raised eyebrows. He let out a laugh which made her smile, and he pressed a kiss to her chest. 

“Of course.” 

“You can make my other dreams come true.” She smirked. 

“I’d love to.” 

~~~~

When they walked into the precinct the next morning, [Y/N] was wearing a scarf, despite the hot Texas heat. She hadn’t quite caught Spencer in time, and he had in fact left a mark. Of course the whole team noticed.

“Oi, Pretty Boy, was [Y/N] in your room last night?” Derek asked at the coffee station. Luckily Spencer was facing away from him, so Derek didn’t see how his immediate reaction was to blanche at the memories from the night before. He gathered himself quickly.

“Yes, of course, why?” He asked as he turned around, stirring his coffee. Derek’s attention was on [Y/N], who was talking to an officer on the other side of the precinct.

“That scarf is only there to hide something, I think our lovely lady might’ve got some last night.” Derek said with a smirk. “Don’t let it break your heart, you still have a chance!” He turned to Spencer and clapped him on the shoulder, who was blushing intensely at the tease. [Y/N] had, in fact, ‘got some’, and he was the some she got with. Derek noticed he was off. 

“C’mon, I’m just teasing. She probably didn’t get a chance to-” While he was talking, Spencer caught [Y/N]’s eye from across the room. She smirked at him and waved, and he smiled and waved back. Derek cut himself off when he saw Spencer’s wave, turning to see just as [Y/N]’s face turned back to the officer she was talking to. “Oh my god. You crazy man, you actually did it!” Derek exclaimed, shaking Spencer. 

Spencer spluttered, shaking his head. “N-No, it’s not like that, I-” 

“I don’t need all the details, I just need to know it happened. Because it did happen, didn’t it?” He asked, trying to look Spencer in the eye, but the latter was aggressively avoiding eye contact. Spencer pursed his lips to try and contain his smile as he nodded. “My man!” Derek exclaimed, pulling him into a hug. 

Spencer caught [Y/N]’s eye again over Derek’s shoulder, and the smile she gave him made him smile right back. 

They had dreams to realize tonight.

Final A/N: thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! 

taglist: @rusticreid​ @itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto​ 

send me a message or comment on this fic to be added to my taglist!

[asterlark]

ok. samwell college of music au. i wrote all four years let's go babey

eric bittle is this lovely southern tenor (sounds kinda like mitch grassi or ben j pierce) who posts covers (& sometimes originals, but always with neutral or no pronouns because he can't post anything that says he or him ☹) on his youtube channel and has major stage fright but is very talented; he also plays ukulele

he got into samwell college of music on a voice scholarship and his dad doesn’t exactly approve but eric was never the 6′2″ masculine football player he wanted anyway so why not go for his dreams

he auditions for the very competitive samwell men’s contemporary chorus (there’s like 20 choirs; chamber choir, jazz choir, a cappella groups (lax bros do a cappella), combined choirs, etc- smcc does contemporary pop/rock music) and while he’s very very nervous and shaky as he auditions, directors hall & murray see a lot of potential in him (with major grumbling from student director jack)

(the rest of this ridiculously long au under the cut)

the group is small, for a chorus, because the point of the group is not a wall of sound but a focus on all of the very talented guys’ voices coming together in these gorgeous harmonies and basically they’re like one of the best choruses on campus and all the male singers want in

so there’s jack zimmermann, who of course eric knows because everyone knows who he is, he’s the son of bob and alicia zimmermann, both incredibly talented and famous musicians, and basically those genes were in his favor because he’s mega fucking talented

(jack was supposed to sign a recording contract to be in a band with his best friend kent parson when he was 17 but something happened between them and the pressure was too much and jack overdosed on something- there’s so many rumors no one knows what’s real- and kent signed solo in LA & went on to win grammys for his albums about a mysterious ex and jack disappeared for a few years to be a counselor at a music camp and reappears at samwell, knocking everyone’s socks off again like he’d never left, except with a renewed vigor and intenseness that freaks everyone out)

jack is a contemporary writing & production major, freaky talented and sings like a modern day frank sinatra, and he plays like 20 instruments and can read music like breathing air and writes songs like if he stopped he’d die; his music is folksy and mournful and he plays all the instruments on his tracks himself- guitar, piano, strings, drums- it sounds like a full band but nope. just jack. he’s intense

“we all get nicknames in this choir,” justin informs eric on his first day, “we’re those kinda guys.” so he’s bitty, which he finds vaguely offensive (bc he’s not that short!) but still cute, & the rest of the group is introduced to him:

“shitty” knight (voice like colyer) is a musical education major and an enigma of a singer with this awesome, earthy, raspy voice that’s really interesting to listen to and a very.... unique style & look; he writes cheesy but shockingly good raps about social justice topics and he will sing-lecture you if you’ve said something offensive (he also plays banjo)

justin “ransom” oluransi is a music business & management major with an angelic voice you can’t help but listen to; he’s sultry and has an incredible range and does runs like nobody’s business (with a voice like daniel caesar or leslie odom jr UGH)

adam “holster” birkholtz is a voice performance major, wants to be on broadway and it’s all he ever goddamn talks about basically, he’s a belter and has a lot of charisma and starpower and he’ll charm the pants off of you within one note; can also play piano and irritates everyone constantly because his regular volume is like a level 11 (voice like the frontman of my brothers and i combined w/ x ambassadors lead singer)

larissa “lardo” duan is at the local art institute because performing arts is not her jam and she’d much rather paint; she’s a barista at annie’s and supervises open mic nights and keeps the annoying choir dudes from driving away all her patrons

“i’m not even in your dumbass choir,” she says when the group gave her her nickname. holster just told her that she was an honorary member and then started sing-shouting a song at her about how good she is

bitty’s first year is hard because he’s talented and he works hard but he shies away when anyone asks him to sing outside the group and like, he can sing to a camera by himself but being on a stage with everyone looking at you and the sole responsibility of the song on your shoulders is terrifying and no thanks

jack does not. understand this. he’s been performing practically since he came out of the womb and he doesn’t really get performance nerves (what he gets is anxiety about how he did after he gets off stage that follows him home and makes it so he can’t sleep) - so he bothers bitty about it constantly like “you just need practice, you just have to sing by yourself a lot and then you’ll get over it” which like.... that’s true but it’s also hella scary and bitty’s like “no thanks!!!!”

but jack’s annoying and intense so he makes bitty do open mic with him every saturday night and it’s going okay and bitty loves his choir and loves his school and these new friends he’s making and he finally feels comfortable enough to come out to them during his second term

then during their spring choral showcase at the end of his freshman year bitty has a solo and he’s worked really hard on it and he’s feeling good- okay he’s completely freaked out but he’s trying to feel good- but when he gets up on stage there’s so many people and the stage lights are so hot on his face and he flips out a little and maybe he passes out from anxiety and stress right on stage and it’s terrible and he’s so embarrassed and ashamed that he ruined their set at the showcase

of course jack blames himself because “we shouldn’t have given you a solo before you were ready, i misjudged it, i’m sorry” - and they all feel kinda bad bc holy fuck they didn’t know his stage fright was that bad like they didn’t know someone could pass out just by being anxious to sing

he practices all the time over the summer and goes to his local open mic at jack’s insistence and it actually helps a lot because instead of a sea of strangers judging him it’s a bunch of people he knows and they’re all smiling at him and when he finishes his song they cheer for him and it boosts his self-confidence a lot

his sophomore year they have three new members- chris ”chowder” chow (voice like ieuan), an excitable music education major with impressive rapping skills, derek "nursey" nurse (frank ocean or leon bridges type), a songwriting major who can also play violin and guitar, and will ”dex” poindexter (like tom west), a production & engineering major who tried out with chowder bc he needed moral support and didn't expect to get in but impressed the directors with his voice

the year’s going pretty good, bitty’s still pretty scared of singing alone but more confident now and the open mic nights with jack haven’t stopped, so he’s getting better. and one night they’re hanging out at annie’s after closing waiting for lardo to be done so they can walk her home, and bitty suggests that jack sing with him one of these nights, and jack says he doesn’t know any of bitty’s songs and bitty says they can write one together half jokingly but then jack is like “yes.” with that Intense Look

SO they get together a couple days later in jack’s room at the house they all live in together (bitty moved in at the beginning of the year after previous smcc member john johnson called him- how’d he get his number?- and told him he could take his room if he wanted), jack with his guitar and bitty with his ukulele, and it’s a little awkward until bitty says jack should play him one of his songs

and, okay, he doesn’t really know what to expect because the only music jack ever released to the public was that one single he did with kent parson when they were 17 so bitty doesn’t even know if he has anything to play him, but he does- he starts playing these soft, sad notes on the guitar and opens his mouth and sings about being lonely and scared and unsure, about false starts and shaky ground and not knowing where you stand with someone, about expectations and lying awake at night and wishing so hard you were someone else, and bitty watches him sing and just kind of... realizes he’s head over heels for this boy and internally Freaks Out a little

he tries to put that aside and they start to write this song, at first it’s weird because jack’s like “all your songs are love songs i can’t really relate to happy love songs” and bitty’s like “listen... i’ve never even had a boyfriend i just write a bunch of sappy love stuff because it’s not about me it’s about whoever’s listening to it, they’re gonna project their own experiences on my music anyway so it doesn’t matter if it’s my real life or not” and jack’s like “alright while fake af that’s smart and i respect you” (what bitty doesn't say is that he writes about what he really wants which is to fall in love & be in a happy relationship)

they say they’re just gonna write this kinda vague sad song but they both secretly write lines about their actual lives so it ends up being really personal and real and raw for the both of them

they sing the song at open mic that saturday and the crowd at annie’s is never that big but they’ve never got a standing ovation here before, and some girl shouts “MAKE AN ALBUM” (it may or may not be lardo) and they both blush furiously and bitty’s like “... that was really nice, jack” and jack’s like “... yeah it was good good job you’re really getting some confidence out there nice work” (bitty: “THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT AAAAH”)

around this time jack’s really thinking about what he’s gonna do when he’s done at samwell, talking with his parents and his agent and looking into different record companies and deciding if he wants to sign with anyone or possibly start his own company- the head of a small company called falcon records in rhode island has been talking to him a lot, and jack talks to bitty about how he thinks it’d be nice to start small, and the record exec georgia and the producer marty had both been really nice and welcoming, and bitty’s so happy for him but also just... sad that he won’t be around jack every day after he graduates

THEN at a haus party celebrating their win of a local choral competition, who shows up but none other than pop star kent parson to Ruin The Fun

bitty sees the way jack pales when kent walks in, notices them disappear upstairs together and feels a little sick worrying about jack but chalks it up to the highly alcoholic concoction shitty and lardo had cooked up but nonetheless decides he’s sick of the party and goes up to his room and hears.... a little too much

and YIKES he’s standing right there and kent parson, pop star, two-time grammy winner, is looking a little rumpled and staring right at him and he puts his hat on and clears his throat and snaps at jack- “hey. well. call me if you reconsider. but good luck with rhode island. ...i’m sure that’ll make your parents proud.” and jack’s shaking, and bitty doesn’t know what to do but jack goes back into his room and bitty’s just kind of standing there like What The Fuck

so.... he kind of stews over winter break but tries not to think about it too much and he and jack text a bit and jack tells him to practice and bitty’s like “oh, you” and jack’s like “im serious” and bitty’s like “>:( it’s christmas”

spring semester starts and they're doing well in competitions and they go to semifinals and then finals for a prestigious collegiate choir competition and the pressure is mounting but they all are so optimistic and really feel like they're on the same page and bitty’s confidence is better than ever and then.... they don't win

jack especially takes it very hard, but then he also has signing to worry about, which everyone helps him with and he decides to sign with falcon records and start work on an album after graduation

speaking of graduation, shitty and jack graduate and it's hard for them but harder for bitty who feels like he's losing jack in a way, he knows how intense jack gets when he's making music and it doesn't feel like he'll have any time for bitty anymore so when they say goodbye bitty goes back to the haus and listens to his and jack's song and just cries

but, like in canon, dadbob has words of wisdom to impart and jack has an "oh" moment and races across campus to kiss bitty

they get together and the next few months are spent with jack working nonstop on his album (which tbh, he'd had many of the songs written already so it's mostly recording and producing) and texting bitty constantly and coming to visit him and playing him demos of all the songs

jack also asks bitty if they can record the song they wrote together & have it as a bonus track on his album & bitty says of course, so when jack visits they set up an impromptu studio and record vocals in the guest bedroom and this deeply personal song they wrote before they were ever together means so much more to them now

and bitty is so happy but so scared and sad too because jack is playing him these songs telling him "they're all for you bits, & a lot of them are about you" and he just doesn't know how he's going to keep all this love inside even though it feels like jack's career is at stake

he tries to shove it down and stay strong though, especially since he's now an upperclassman and they're taking on new members- connor "whiskey" whisk (voice like finneas or the male singer in valley), a music business/ management major who seems to hate bitty's guts and tony "tango" tangredi (like chaz cardigan), a jazz composition major who astounds everybody with his endless questions but also his ridiculously impressive composition skills & naturally perfect pitch (he can also play saxophone??)

i want ford in this au so fuck it she is a composition major with dreams to write scores for musicals and she stars training as a barista at annie's (aka training to corral the smcc)

the pressure of it all proves to be a lot and bitty and jack have their hi, honey moment where bitty's like i can't be this deep in the closet!!! and so they tell the smcc and also jack's label that they're together and that eases things a bit

jack's album comes out to much critical acclaim and shouting in the groupchat ("#1 ON ITUNES BRAHHHHH!!!!!!!!") and several months later, when smcc has already been eliminated from choral competition in an earlier round, jack is nominated for SEVERAL grammys including best album, song of the year, and best new artist

when the time comes he takes his parents and bitty on the red carpet which, everyone keeps being like "who are you here with jack?" and he's like "my family and my good friend :)" and yes it is awkward

jack wins... all three awards. it's the comeback everyone is stoked to see and when his third win is announced, he and bitty are so elated that they kiss before he goes to accept the award

his speech is basically just "um... wow. thank you. i just kissed my boyfriend on live tv. this is amazing and i'm so humbled. i'd like to thank my boyfriend and georgia and marty and my parents and my friends and my boyfriend"

obviously the press has a FIELD DAY with this but bitty & jack are honestly vibing and so happy that it doesn't matter untiiiillll bitty's mom calls and he has to tell her "mama i'm gay and i'm going on tour with jack this summer okloveyoubye"

the last few months of bitty's junior year pass quickly and he's voted student director which is a huge honor considering how much he struggled with stage fright and confidence & how he'll now be stepping into ransom & holster's shoes

r&h and lardo all graduate (the smcc basically crashes the art school graduation and all scream when lardo gets her diploma lmao), which is a bittersweet occasion and they all do a bit of tearing up

that summer bitty goes on tour across the u.s. & canada with jack and his touring band (snowy is a bassist, tater is a drummer and poots does backing guitar, he also brings nursey to play violin on a few songs) as well as georgia who's there to manage logistics

and tour is so fun & chaotic with many bi and rainbow flags in the audience that end up thrown on stage and draped around jack's neck and they spend so many nights in the bus drinking and laughing and fooling around on the guitars and bitty's uke and exploring new cities bitty has never been to before and it's the freest bitty has felt in a long time

summer ends though, and jack leaves for the uk/europe leg of the tour, and with the new school year brings a few new members- river "bully" bullard (voice like gregory alan isakov), a music therapy major who draws his own cover art for his songs, lukas "louis" landmann (like jr jr), an electronic production and design major with a penchant for EDM, and johnathan "hops" hopper (like keiynan lonsdale), a film scoring major who wants to write music for movies and video games

bitty meets and befriends some of the other student directors- shruti, sd of the women’s contemporary chorus; sharon, sd of the chamber choir; and edgar, sd of jazz ensemble (even chad l., sd of the all-male a cappella group)

senior year passes similarly to the comic; coach visits and sees one of bitty’s competitions, jack comes to madison for christmas, smcc does well in competition and goes to regionals etc

however… bitty keeps putting off and putting off gathering the songs for his senior recital

he has a hard time doing that because he’s so focused on the group and making sure they’re performing well and as they advance in competition, everything else starts to fall away

eventually the rest of the smcc has to lock away his uke and change his youtube password and FORCE him to choose songs for it and start preparing because he cannot graduate without doing this recital and doing well on it

he chooses (of course) a beyonce song, a few of his own songs, an ellie goulding song, and an adele song

with all that his breath hitches and his hands shake before he goes on stage, he does really well and his voice instructor prof atley tears up a little in the audience as does his mom

meanwhile smcc goes to semifinals, then finals, of the national collegiate choral competition they participate in

and i imagine bitty faces somewhat less homophobia in this au because i mean, he’s in the performing arts, but i think it’s still there and he also faces a good amount of classism from richer students and performers who think they’re better because they had the resources and money to be performing professionally from a very young age, and he has been practicing via filming himself on a shitty camcorder and posting it to youtube

but they still get there! and the national finals are fucking HUGE and a big deal and a little overwhelming

bitty’s stage fright is Present because this is the biggest stage and the biggest stakes he's ever had and he has a big solo in one of their songs so if he fucks up, he fucks up a national championship for his whole group and school

luckily though, when he steps on the stage with his best friends and sees his boyfriend and family and smcc alums in the audience and they perform their first song, a high-energy pop medley that always gets the crowd going, everything seems to melt away and it's just him living in this moment and singing his heart out

when it gets to the next song and his solo, he forgets to be nervous and belts it out, getting screams of approval from the audience when he finishes

(dex and nursey do have a duet together that they had to practice for many long nights in the practice rooms alone but that's neither here nor there)

their time on stage seems to last both hours and no time at all and then they're done, the crowd gives them a standing ovation and it's at least 30% r&h & shitty's hooting and hollering and jack's enthusiastic clapping that makes bitty & the others beam with pride

then it's just waiting, giddy and nervous beyond belief in their green room, for the judging to be over

after what feels like forever they're back on stage, arms linked together waiting and hoping for their name to be called and it is, they win and it feels like years have built up to this moment, and bitty tears up because years ago when he was fainting from anxiety at having to perform in front of people he never could've imagined that he'd do this, that he'd be the student director that led them to a championship

they get the trophy and a ridiculous amount of flowers from their loved ones and they all are just in giddy disbelief that this is happening, they're national champs!!! they are the best choir boys in the nation!!

they come home and the rest of the school year passes by so quickly that it's very suddenly graduation and bitty can't believe his college career at samwell is over 😢

(he and ollie and wicky take pictures together, o&w talk about how excited they are to devote full time attention to their band & wedding planning and bitty's just like wait you're gay??)

bitty got plenty of offers from record companies but he likes his freedom of creativity and he has a built in fanbase from doing youtube all these years so he decides to make an album independently (jack helps him produce & master it 🥰)

when bitty's album comes out about a year later, full of bops about being gay and in love and having struggled but come out the other side more confident than ever, it doesn't get any grammy nominations- and he didn't expect or need that.

what it does do is it resonates. it makes the rounds in youtube and queer internet circles; people his age reach out to him saying this is the music they wish they had as a kid and kids reach out to him saying he's a role model and they're so glad to have his music to listen to. his album is written about as an underrated gem that shines with queer brilliance and is sure to start a party when it comes on.

his parents may not fully understand the road he's chosen for himself but they're still so proud and promote the album as hard as any of his loyal fans (especially the one country-inspired song on the album that he wrote and dedicated to them).

and jack, jack who saw this album from its infancy to its release date, who took the film photo that ended up being the album cover, who worked with bitty to make sure his vision was realized exactly how he wanted it to be, is proud beyond words.

jack starts using his semi-abandoned twitter again to tweet "stream [album name]" every day and bitty retweets them sometimes, with just a "this boy. ❤"

and they're happy. they're good. they have come so far and they are reaping the rewards of all the hard work they put in to make the music that they truly love.

the end :)

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Everybody Talks Too Much (Cassandra Dimitrescu/Mute!Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language, brief violence Summary: Whenever Cassandra gets angry, no one wants to deal with her. Well, no one but you, that is. Thankfully, the middle child appreciates your company... not that she'd ever admit it. Notes: Another self-indulgent fic with a selectively mute reader. This one's a lil different. Sections in italic are mostly indications that the reader is miming actions in order to communicate, though there are a few internal thoughts that are marked as such. Unlike the past two I've done, this takes place pre-relationship, so there's some mutual pining of sorts. I think that's the word.

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Among the many servants of Castle Dimitrescu, there were a number of secret rules to be followed. Guidelines that were never written down, only spoken in hushed whispers, for specific (and dangerous) circumstances. Most could be divided into one of two categories: 1, how to reduce the chances of a Lady of the house killing someone. 2, how to make sure that if they kill someone, it will not be you. Of these rules, there was one that you knew best of all, despite never having been told it. Why? Because you have observed it time and time again. After all, the rule revolved around you. To put it plainly… If Cassandra Dimitrescu was in an awful mood, but had yet to draw blood, send in the mute.

Even now, as you rushed down a corridor, you did not know why this rule was in place. You simply knew that you had been summoned countless times by frantic maidens, to go serve their volatile mistress. Admittedly you did understand their eagerness to thrust the task upon someone else. Cassandra was often considered the deadliest of the Dimitrescu daughters, for she was the quickest to anger, the one with the deepest bloodlust, and took the longest to calm down. Personally, you disagreed, believing that it wasn’t terribly hard to know what she did and did not like. All it took was some observation. It was Daniela who scared you, seeing as she was unpredictable. She didn’t even need to be in a bad mood to want to kill you.

Of course, that didn’t necessarily mean that you saw no danger in working with Cassandra. In fact, you saw a fair bit, such as now: Right as you round the corner, a shiny object hurls past your head, embedding itself into the wall. Had you been walking ever so slightly faster… Well, you preferred not to dwell on such things, especially not when the one who threw the thing was still nearby. Based on the howling laughter and swarm of insects that moves around you, the intended target was Lady Daniela. Across the room is the markswoman herself; Cassandra stood tall, huffing in anger, staring at the spot her sister had just vacated from.

“Damn it!” She yelled, stomping her foot as if the resulting shockwave might do what her weapon had not. Oddly amused, you’re quick to remove the sickle from the wall, careful as to not damage it. It’s a tad dirty, but nothing you can’t fix with your handy pocket cloth. Cleaning as you walk, you slowly move towards your employer, not even bothering to spare her a glance. After all, you had your own rules for dealing with her.

(1: Avoid eye contact for at least one minute after an outburst.)

By the time you make it to Cassandra, the minute has come and gone, allowing you to ever-so politely look her in the eyes when you return her blade. She scoffs, then practically rips the sickle from your hands. This was your job, however, so you made no complaints. Not that you could, at least not verbally. Instead, you gave a short bow of acknowledgement. Afterwards you stood still, awaiting either instructions or a dismissal. Neither came.

“I can’t believe that little shit tried to take my favorite dagger and thought she could get away with it! Agh, the nerve of her! Can you believe this?” Cassandra snapped, turning to you as if you might agree with her. Nod, simple yet effective. “At least you know how to handle a blade. Damn Daniela is lucky she didn’t get any scratches on mine.” Then she pulls the knife in question from its place on her belt, letting it gleam in the light. A soft exhale, head tipping to the side, wow is it pretty. So is the one holding it. Your mind wanders but your gaze does not. Always polite, always ready to serve.

(2: Do not get distracted; she is no patient lover, rather a demanding boss.)

“Cassandra! What was all that noise a minute ago?” Someone called, interrupting your ‘conversation’. The speaker soon appears, being none other than Lady Bela, the most reasonable of the castle residents. Though that meant little, considering the nature of her family. As if to prove your point, Cassandra merely rolls her eyes in reply, refusing to divulge the truth. And so Bela turned her gaze to you, perking a brow. “Feeling up to talking today?” She asked, already knowing the answer. Of course, your hands are already moving, not even waiting for her to finish speaking. This is a game you know intimately.

A hand goes to your belt, moving to pull a nonexistent blade from its sheath. Raising it, moving it forward then back several times, launching it towards the wall- towards the hole left behind. Then shifting, waving your hand in front of your face while exhaling a sharp breath. Flinching. An exaggerated gulp, pretending to check if your nose is still attached, sighing in relief. Lastly, an inclination of your head towards the culprit. Cassandra.

“I was aiming for Daniela. Not that it matters, nobody got hurt,” she stated, confident. Both hands clasped together, then tapping the palms together, mimicking a heartbeat at a reasonable pace. Suddenly a stomp. The beating stops, and you hold your hands next to your ear, as if listening for signs of life. Pause. Three seconds. Worried expression, eyes wide. Finally, fast as a gunshot, the heart beats again, wildly. At this, Bela shoots her sister a look of doubt, as well as judgement. Hoping to change the subject, Cassandra looks to you. “What are you doing here anyway?”

Rubbing your chin, thinking. Squinting for effect. Ah, got it! Both hands go to your sides, lifting the imaginary hem of a dress you aren’t wearing. Waltzing forward, yet in place, with the poise expected of a professional maid. Then the focus shifts to your face. Fear. A silent scream, a hand at your forehead, feeling like you… might… faint. Falling backwards, making a step at the very last second to prevent a real collapse. End scene.

“Someone was scared?” Bela asked, sounding uncharacteristically unsure of herself. When you nod, she does as well, considering the implications. “Why would they send you?”

“I hardly care why, I just want to know who so I can kick their ass,” Cassandra interjects, taking a step closer to you. All you do in response is shrug. Unsurprisingly this is not enough to please her, and before you know it she’s wrapped a hand around your throat. “Give. Me. A. Name. Now.” A perked brow. Thoughts practically telegraphed. ‘What do you expect?’ Opening your mouth, slightly, then wide, back to almost closed. No sound comes out. Obviously. It’s not like you wanted to break your own rule, but in this case you had no choice.

(3: Give her whatever she wants, consequences be damned.)

Luckily for you, Bela acts as a foil to Cassandra, there to smooth the seas. Moving behind you, she reaches into your back pocket and retrieves the notepad you keep there. Then she’s handing it to you while making eye contact with her sister. Cassandra promptly releases you, though she’s clearly not pleased, going so far as to push you away in one last act of anger. Internally you roll your eyes. On the outside, however, you quickly write down everything you know… which isn’t much.

“I don’t remember who it was. A lot of people have asked. This happens a lot.” Then you hand the paper to Bela, who soon looks back up at you in confusion. Too antsy to wait for her own turn, Cassandra yoinks the notepad from her sister’s hands, reading it over several times before reacting.

“What the fuck? Why would they send you to me because somebody pissed their pants in fear? I’m going to kill someone. Ugh, I don’t- this doesn’t make any goddamn sense,” Cassandra ranted, pacing back and forth, looking like she wanted to destroy something immediately. To your surprise, Bela doesn’t look the slightest bit concerned. If anything, she looks amused, and smiles when the two of you make eye contact. Something tells you that she knows something that you don’t. Before you can react, she quietly retrieves your notepad and returns it to you. Then she pauses, thinking, eying you with curiosity.

“Why don’t you go for now? See if anyone thanks you for stepping in, hmm?” She suggested, tone implying that this was absolutely about something else entirely. Still, you don’t care to disobey, and so you bid the two of them farewell with a deep bow. As you leave, you can almost make out part of what they say next. But you’re certain that you must have heard incorrectly. “Showing your favoritism a little too much, sister? If even the servants can see it-” the rest of the sentence is cut off by angry muttering from Cassandra. After that you’re too far away to hear anymore. What a strange day...

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“Hey, you know where Lady Cassandra’s room is, right?” Ygritte asked, casually, definitely not having just been told by someone else that you were the solution to her problem. Pretending that you were unaware of this, you give her a smile and a nod. Later, behind her back, you will mentally add her to your list of people to watch out for. Maybe even decide to refuse to share your biscuits with her. In the meantime, you pretend that you don’t mind whatever task she’s about to dump on you. “Can you bring these books to her? I really have to get back to the kitchen soon, and that’s in the opposite direction…”

Technically true. Something told you that the real problem was that Cassandra had been extra loud the past few days. Regardless, you accept the books from her, leaving before she even finishes thanking you. Why do people do this? I don’t get it, you think. It’s like they think I’m immune to her rage. If that were true, I’d gladly throw myself between her and others. But no, that’s not the case. Hmmph, if only they saw my scars. Shaking your head to clear your thoughts, you keep walking, subconsciously rubbing the spot on your arm where Cassandra had cut you. Well, the worst spot. Being pain tolerant had made her take interest in you, during your first few weeks, but it’s what allowed you to learn her rules. Your rules, really.

Knock. Knock. A pause… three more, much softer. The door swings open, revealing your Lady, whose eyes widen at the sight of you. Tipping your hat (which you are not wearing), you greet her, forcing another smile. Then you present the books, free hand gesturing with a spiral motion towards them. She doesn’t respond. No, wait, she glances at the door hinges, considering closing the door in your face. Now both of you are staring at each other, daring the other to move.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she finally said. There’s a gruffness to her voice that you hadn’t expected. It’s unlike her usual tone, less angry, more tired. Were those bags under her eyes?... No, just smudged makeup. “Don’t just stand there- tell me why you’re here.” Again, you gesture to the books, extending your hands further towards her. This time she takes a half-step backwards to avoid you. Peculiar. “Someone else was supposed to bring them, dipshit. Fucking hell, why can’t anyone around here do their damn jobs?” At last, she takes the books from you, carrying them deeper into your room. Though she does not close the door, you assume that your job is done. Or maybe you simply do not wish to deal with a Cassandra who’s frustrated by your specific presence. Either way, it breaks one of your rules, though you do not remember until it is too late.

(4: Do not leave until dismissed by a member of the family.)

“Where the hell are you going?” The sound of buzzing flies, a blur of motion around you, then the form of Cassandra solidifying in front of you. One of her hands is raised, pressing against the center of your chest. She pushes you, hard, making you stumble backwards into her room. Next thing you know you’ve crashed onto her floor. A tad stunned, you bring a hand up to hold your head, blinking rapidly for a few seconds. There’s the sound of a door closing, and then someone’s trying to help you stand. “I didn’t say you could leave yet. Now c’mon, I’ve got stuff for you to do.” Then she’s guiding you to her bed, making you sit down on the end. Panicked thoughts race through your mind one after another. What exactly was she intending? Thankfully you don’t have to wait long to find out. “Read through these, and-” a pause, like she hadn’t known what she was going to say until she was already speaking- “take notes. Make a summary of the bookmarked sections, or whatever.” Handing you a couple books (neither of which being ones you had just brought to her), she sits on the other side of the bed, refusing to look at you. She does, however, say one last thing, voice barely above a whisper. “Just stay for a while, okay?”

Inside your head, you make a mental note to amend your list of rules.

(4.b: Do not leave until dismissed by a member of the family. If Cassandra asks you to stay, you stay, no matter what. It’s worth it.)