#my brain is just going ‘that was weird. what if it was true?’ except I wish it wouldn’t do it with my best friend

[thedreadvampy]

lmao it is undeniably true that I am Depressi Spaghetti but you know. fuck it we continue.

[lcec0ldheart]

i like how as time goes on frost and citrine are gradually becoming more normal (ish, they’re still weirdos ofc) while violet stays weird because she’s just like that.

[lovieku]

TRUE LOVE ⋆ 정국

when you and jeon jeongguk's paths cross again, you question if having a crush on the school's emo and alternative boy was really just a phase, or if it was true love after all.

⋆⁺₊❅. 5/6 from christmas & chill

pairing tattoo artist!jk x fem reader

genre fluff, smut, grumpy & sunshine, somewhat f2l

warnings jk 24 | oc 24, jk thinks he’s too cool for love, oc suffers from a chronic case of “i can fix him”, she eventually does, oc simps HARDDD and jk only pretends to be unaffected, yea he’s a bit of a dick sometimes but he’s also Very funny, brief description of panic attacks, male masturbation, kissing, idk what else to add i just rly rly love them and will think of them for the entirety of xmas season

word count 10.2k

author’s note hi lovies 🩷 it’s my last time with c&c 🙁 i’m kinda emotional omg… it’s been such a fun, warm and lovely week, and i love each one of you for showing endless support to this project <33 i’ll keep trying to not disappoint… please tell me if you like this!!! thank u always and always 🩷 luv u <3

banner by the gorgeous @awrkive ⊹₊⟡⋆

On the first day of December, your path crosses with thee Jeon Jeongguk’s after enough years for your brain to trip slightly before recognising him. But it would have been impossible not to—there’s likely a whole, well-preserved section of your thinking organ dedicated to that mortifying phase of high school, when your hormones turned life into an endless internal tug-of-war.

The moment your eyes widen at having him stand in front of you, you’re yanked unceremoniously into the past, brought back to buried, locked and left to gather dust feelings that have your teenage self’s screams echoing within you in a chorus of delight and cringe.

Jeongguk, on the other hand, is simply following his duties as a tattoo artist. When he catches sight of you next to his appointed client on such a breezy day, the cold December air starting to find its space even in the confines of his studio, he only nods his chin upward at you in slow recognition.

It’s awkward, at first. Only because you make it.

You’d volunteered to accompany Eunbi, your best friend, to get her first tattoo as an early Christmas self-gift. Your mission was clear: support her, hold her hand if the pain became unbearable (though you’re probably the least dependable person when it comes to making clarity in situations of panic, as seen right now), and be the first to bask in her excitement as she finally sees what she’s always pictured to be inked on the skin of her forearm. A blue whale tattoo, large enough to make you wince just thinking about the needlework.

You’d never go through something like that. Never.

And that’s exactly what’s showing on your face when you’re met with Jeongguk’s full sleeve of tattoos, leaving you rooted to the spot.

You’d always known him to be the different kid, the quiet one with forced sharp eyes that canonically listened to alternative rock and glared at anyone who dared approach, whether to tease him or befriend him. He’d convinced himself that no one could ever understand him.

See, you’d instead fooled yourself into thinking you were the exception. That you did understand him.

Fourteen-year-old you had gone through some weird phases, and the one that resurfaces now at the vision of his adult self is the one centered entirely around him. You unashamedly had the biggest crush on Jeongguk. To you, he was mysterious and edgy—in an effortlessly cool way.

You’d tried everything. Offered him your lunch more times than you were left with any for yourself. Even cut your bangs to have them fall over your eyes to mimic his fringe, dyed a strand in blue, overhauled your wardrobe to align with his back-and-grey one. None of it worked. He never noticed.

But, thinking of it now, there’s no way he didn't. He definitely did. How could any boy turn a blind eye to a lovesick girl’s heartfelt Valentine’s letter, a hopeless romantic girl who almost cried on the spot when she got rejected? Jeongguk just chose to willingly ignore it.

These are all valid reasons as to why your functions seem to slow down in his unexpected presence. And you’re not going to deny nor fake that his calm, almost detached demeanor doesn’t flow through your body and right to your left eye, making it twitch with a slight tremor.

Yet, you must also admit that your teenage self was onto something. Jeongguk has changed drastically but he’s also stayed the same. You think fourteen-year-old him would be proud of where he is right now. Two piercings on his lower lip and one on his eyebrow, intricate ink tracing up his muscled arm, his… muscled arms. Wow. And then, his studio. His own studio, a place for him and his passion, one that he made into his job. That’s undeniably cool.

Maybe just not cool enough for you to be gaping like an idiot as he moves with purpose, adjusting your friend’s arm to position the stencil he had prepared, perfectly fitting in the space she had chosen. His muscles flex with every shift, and it’s impossible for you to go past that with the way the black beater he’s wearing is loose on his torso, but still clinging on his chest.

Eunbi notices, of course. You don’t have time to feel embarrassed and in return she doesn’t even try to hide her amusement when your usual chatter dries up entirely, only gulping obnoxiously noisily and alternating that with nervous silences. Jeongguk, too, catches on.

He’d always known you as obnoxious and noisy. In, huh, a good way. Or whatever.

Jeongguk just agrees that you were (and probably still are, if the pastel yellow skirt softly flowing down your legs paired with a cozy cream sweater and the full toothed grin you shoot at your friend are any indicators) the pinpoint embodiment of his opposite. You’ve always been talkative, smiley, and friendly, eager to help and to receive help, not in the slightest ever turning down the opportunity to blabber on, and on, and on.

Honestly, Jeongguk doesn’t think he ever truly listened to a single word of your rambling back in the day, especially during those times when you’d bounce up to him and launch into enthusiastic rants about obscure alternative bands he himself hadn’t even heard of. He respected the hustle, though. He’d always wondered where you found the time and energy to immerse yourself in music like that.

He much preferred when you were less trying so hard to be him and mirror his tastes, more when you gave up on impressing him and simply stayed true to yourself, the girl whose heart belonged to Justin Bieber and One Direction. Truthfully, he fucked with them. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course. His quiet, brooding image wouldn’t survive that revelation.

What he respected the most was your resilience. After all the times he rejected you and your awkward blurts of confessions, you still didn’t think it was enough of a reason for your villain origin story to take off, and instead remained the same frustratingly positive ray of sunshine you’d always been.

Now, as Jeongguk works on the tattoo in front of him, the very design that caused all these long-buried memories to rise back, his dark eyes flick toward you sitting on a stool in a near corner every now and then, a hint of confusion in his expression each time you take more than five seconds to reply to his small talk.

It’s just, you’re a bit taken aback. Since when does he do small talk? The foreign smoothness with which Jeongguk handles interactions is so far removed from the sullen boy you used to know. You’re not prepared for this version of him. It’s disarming, to say the least.

Enough time has passed for you to settle into the odd scenario, your current best friend and your long-standing high school crush in the same room. Slowly but surely, your curiosity sparkles again, and the signature tendency to let thoughts tumble out of your mouth unchecked returns to you naturally.

“Ouch, that looks painful.”

Jeongguk snorts, eyes trained on Eunbi’s arm as he glides the tattoo needle with precise strokes that have his brows pinching and the tip of his tongue peeking out from the corner of his lips, a habit you remember from the past but one you’ve never found quite so distracting before.

Still, he multitasks and responds without missing a beat, “Wanna try?”

Wow. This is, like, the longest conversation you’ve ever had with him. It spurs you on to do anything it takes to hear more of his voice, the sound of it definitely deeper than the shy tones you struggled to coax out of him ten years ago.

That is probably why you literally lie, “Hm. Maybe. I was thinking of getting one actually. In the future.”

Eunbi chokes on her spit, her chest coughing with the sudden, blatantly fake revelation, and Jeongguk promptly pauses, lifting the needle from her skin as his tattooist reflexes kick in. While your friend apologizes between a clearing of her throat and sinks back into the chair, she doesn’t keep from glaring at you, her expression screaming What the hell are you doing?

You deadpan. You’ll explain everything later and it’ll all make sense. And you know this will inevitably end up being added to the list of the many embarrassing facts she knows about you and threatens you with when she wants to go clubbing and you don’t.

Jeongguk uses the brief interruption to glance up at where you’re perched in the corner of his peripheral vision, just to square you up and down with a skeptical arch of his brow, “Really?”

You scoff, smoothing out the creases on your skirt as if the fabric is somehow responsible for the lie you just told, “Is that shocking?”

He hums, returning to his work with the buzz of the needle filling the studio again, his voice padded the more he gets closer to Eunbi’s forearm, “I just find it hard to believe such a princess like you could handle any pain.”

You gulp.

What you’re getting from this conversation is that Jeongguk has always had an idea of who you are in his mind all along. That he’s always perceived you in some way. As much as your inner fourteen-year-old is swooning at the attention, gobbling up each of the tiny crumbles he’s giving you, it doesn’t sit right with you. What exactly does he think of you?

“Test me.”

He shrugs, eyes fixated on the shade he’s perfectioning with black ink, “Busy now.”

“I’ll go pay for mine. I saw you have one last free spot today,” you announce, the words tumbling out with more confidence than you feel. You’re already on your feet before the sentence is fully formed, betraying the fact that your nosy tendencies had gotten the better of you earlier. You’d discreetly glanced at his appointment book when Jeongguk and Eunbi were finalizing her tattoo details and negotiating the final price at the desk.

He hums, head tilting slightly, “And I wanted to spend it bumming around.”

“Too bad. You’ll have to postpone that.”

You walked into this studio swearing you’d never let a needle even brush you.

Now you’re stretched out on a leather bench, Jeongguk leaning over you with a stencil in hand, gloved fingers moving with careful precision.

The design you’d chosen came from his portfolio—a delicate illustration of two butterflies in motion, their soft threads intertwining. You’d flipped through countless pages of bold skulls and intricate linework before settling on this.

The spot you’d chosen for the tattoo was the flat, firm plane between your breasts. It wasn’t a conscious decision, just a place you’d always liked. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that nature hadn’t exactly blessed you in the cleavage department. Subconsciously, perhaps, you thought that adding something there might give the illusion of more.

“Tehe,” you can’t stop the breathy giggle that escapes as the cool paper brushes against your skin. Your hand is pressed to your bra, holding it in place as best you can, though the situation feels so surreal it’s hard to focus on anything but the ridiculousness of it all.

Jeongguk glances up at you with a glare that’s more exasperated than angry before returning to the delicate task at hand, “What’s funny?”

Your voice wobbles, “I just— I tend to laugh during serious moments.”

“Oh. Weird.”

“Sorry.”

With a small sigh, he smooths the stencil, and once it’s transferred he hands you a square mirror, waiting for your approval. You nod, the butterflies now perfectly poised in their eternal dance, and Jeongguk doesn’t waste a moment.

The buzz of the needle fills the room as he leans closer, one gloved hand resting on the upper part of your chest to steady himself. He’s mere seconds from beginning the inking process when another laugh bubbles out of you.

Jeongguk sits back abruptly, dropping his pen onto the metal tray with an audible clink. Tilting his head, he levels you with a look of thinly veiled irritation. “I really can’t work if your chest keeps moving.”

“Sorry,” you blurt again, turning your head to face the wall. You clamp your lips together tightly, mentally scrolling through every sad memory you can conjure. Think of something awful. Your childhood dog dying. Okay, maybe not that sad—

“You haven’t changed a bit since high school. Always smiling like you live surrounded by flowers and rainbows,” Jeongguk’s mutter vibrates against your chest, warm breath fanning over the cold skin, distracting you from your no-giggling mission.

The unexpected observation has your brows furrowing in a mildly offended frown, and banter is ready on your tongue. “You’re just the same too, Gguk. The emo boy who thinks he’s too cool for a smile.”

“I’m not an emo boy. The fuck,” he scoffs, kissing his teeth and murmuring more of his indignation under his breath.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night. I can teach you.”

The whirring needle glides across your skin with a slightly firmer touch, making you hiss softly under your breath. He seems unbothered by the reaction, and instead bothered by your words, “Teach me what.”

“How to smile a bit more,” you reply, your voice laced with mockery as you keep your gaze firmly fixed on the wall. The smirk playing on your lips is triumphant; he walked right into your little jab, hehe.

Your mind is already racing, piecing together the beginning of a sarcastic rant about how his perpetual scowl probably contributed to his mysterious high school persona. For the sake of his ego, you won’t add how it worked in his favor, how more than one girl (your own self) found his untouchable vibe completely irresistible.

Even though, thinking back, he looked ridiculous. His big, round, slightly scared-of-the-world eyes truly didn’t belong with the heavy black eyeliner.

But before you can get a single word out, Jeongguk straightens his posture, pulling away from your chest. With a practiced motion, he tosses one of his gloves onto the counter behind him, his expression cool and indifferent. “It’s done.”

“Done?!” you exclaim, tilting your chin down to look at your chest. You go slightly cross-eyed trying to catch a glimpse of the design now inked onto your skin. Forever.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t even feel it.”

Jeongguk seems equally done with small talk, transitioning into a professional explanation of the tattoo’s aftercare step. His tone is calm but clipped, and you can’t tell if it’s his usual demeanor or just reserved for you. He also hands you a small tube of cream of which you’re not sure the use of, too enthralled by the vision of his colored sleeve this up close.

And still laying on the leather bed, you almost reach to trace one of the many lines with your finger before he interrupts, “You can pay with Yoongi at the entrance.”

Clearing your throat, you sit up, brushing imaginary dust off your skirt as Jeongguk turns his back to you, his focus already back on cleaning his tools. You still are not over, “Thank you, Jeongguk. Can I— huh. Can I get your number?”

He pauses mid-motion, just long enough for the silence to stretch thin and taut. Turning around to study your features, he stares you up and down with knitted brows and a hostile kind of confusion painting his expression. “… For what exactly?”

“In case anything happens with the tattoo.”

Jeongguk stills for a second, eyes narrowing slightly, then turns back to what’s keeping him so occupied with a noncommittal grunt, “Huh. Sure. Yoongi has my business cards at the desk. You can ask him. Have a good day.”

With Eunbi practically dragging you out of the room, you don’t have the chance to say anything more, though your chest burns with indignation. It’s not that you expect him to fall over himself at the chance to catch up, but the sheer indifference is maddening.

Should you pretend you don’t care either? You could. But really, who are you fooling? You still have those old diaries buried somewhere in your closet, their pages crammed with his name written in looping, lovesick cursive. That little girl in you never truly died.

On the fourth day of December, you finally text him. It’s about your tattoo, of course. There’s not much else to say to him, but when his only reply to your picture of the healing process is a yellow thumbs up, you find your fingers hovering over the keyboard. Words start forming before you’ve fully processed them, and before you know it, you hit send.

You [3:39 p.m]: btw u still friends with kim tae?

jeongguk [3:42 p.m.]: Yes

jeongguk [3:42 p.m.]: He’s my best friend

You [3:43 p.m.]: ohhh, cool

jeongguk [3:45 p.m.]: You want his number?

You [3:46 p.m.]: no… i’m good with yours ☺️

You can’t help but giggle at how his typing bubbles appear and then fade for a whole minute, biting your lower lip with a sheepish grin, savoring the silent victory. You’re doing this for your fourteen-year-old self, who would’ve squealed at the thought of making Jeon Jeongguk flustered. But you’re a different girl now. You’ve changed. No man could ever reject—

jeongguk [3:48 p.m.]: If there’s nothing else about the tattoo then 👋

“Hmph,” your frown is so pronounced that you feel your chin aching and your wrinkles prematurely deepening. Well, this is not the first time you come face first with his sour antics. Only now, you’re prepared.

You [3:48 p.m.]: yall hanging out soon? let me join

jeongguk [3:49 p.m.]: Why lol

jeongguk [3:49 p.m.]: He barely even remembers you probs

You [3:50 p.m.]: who would not remember me

jeongguk [3:50 p.m.]: The only thing i’m now remembering about you is how I couldn’t stand your ass

You gasp, hand coming up to brush against your parted lips. With a huff, you hastily click at your keyboard, “Mean. Sent. Ugh.”

On the sixth day of December, your persistence pays off, and you find yourself at a random bar you’d never been to before, seated with both Jeongguk and Taehyung.

Between Jeongguk’s cigarette breaks—forcing the three of you to brave the cold outside—and brief moments in corners of the cramped place where the music feels muffled against the walls, you manage to catch up with Taehyung. The rest of the time though, the noise inside is so deafening that it makes any kind of meaningful conversation impossible.

Even more when a random girl slides into the booth next to him, capturing his attention entirely, leaving you and Jeongguk in paradoxical silence.

The tattoo artist has been glued to his phone with his head down for the last 20 minutes, and now you alternate between observing his side profile, roughened by the piercings and a more defined jawline, and analysing the weird dynamic that is beginning to form between Taehyung and the girl, sitting in front of you.

Alone with your thoughts and, well, the pulsating music, you feel yourself getting unreasonably closer to symptoms you know all too well, that threaten to have you spiraling. You shake your head, forcing it to stop. There’s no reason for anxiety to visit you at such an inconvenient time.

But of course, the little voice in your head starts listing all the totally valid motives why this is indeed the perfect time for it to visit you.

The bar feels suffocating on your skin.

Your dress clings too tightly.

The couple facing you is shamelessly close to making out.

Jeongguk sighs in visible boredom.

You shouldn’t have come. Hell, you shouldn't have suggested it in the first place. A smarter version of yourself would have brought Eunbi for balance, for comfort. But in your foolishness, you thought this could be an opportunity for you and Jeongguk to catch up. Instead, you feel foreign to him, foreign to this pub booth, and the air begins to feel foreign to your lungs. You’ve never liked bars, clubs, or places with loud music.

You sniffle, looking down at your lap. Then up at the ceiling. Then around the room. It keeps spinning and booming with volume that only adds to the feeling of helplessness. Quick, quick, quick.

What are five things that you can see?

Five. Your gaze falls on Taehyung and the girl, their lips and tongues clumsily entangled as they laugh between sloppy kisses. No help there. The air catches harder in your throat.

Four. Your empty glass, its smudged rim a reminder of the single drink you had, now sitting uncomfortably in your stomach.

Three. Your scuffed heels, their tips worn to the nub despite your best efforts to hide it with a marker.

Two. The swirling lights above the bar, dizzying as they flash brighter and brighter.

One. Jeongguk’s tattooed hand on your thigh.

His fingers dig into the skin, shaking you alarmedly, with a force you’ve never known from him, not even when it came to stopping your shaking stomach as you were laying on the studio’s leather bed.

Head snapping up to face him, you’re met with a perfect resemblance of how you must look right now. Wide eyes, knitted brows, nose flaring and exhaling, and you try to follow the movements of his mouth, but they jumble together annoyingly in your brain. You lean closer, narrowed orbs still fixated on his lips to try and read them. Are… you… ok—

“___, you’re scaring me. Hey, hello? Are you okay?”

Jeongguk moves from your thigh to your shoulders, jolting you gently but firmly from the fog that is threatening to cloud up your brain. The sudden clarity hits you, but you still stumble forward, your weight toppling over his chest. With it, your head dips rapidly, hurtling toward the sharp edge of the table, and before Jeongguk knows it his instinct snaps and he catches you promptly.

The next steps blur together. You vaguely register the boy next to you standing up and pulling you along with him, his broad shoulders supporting one of your arms while his inked one secures around the small of your waist, holding you firmly against him.

Then, it’s nothing but brief flashes. Jeongguk pressing a water bottle to your lips. Sitting you down on the stairs outside the pub. Holding your hair back as you double over, emptying the contents of your stomach onto the pavement. Cracking a smile to make you laugh, showing off his tattoos in exaggerated detail like it’s the grandest tour of your life. Opening the door to his car and gently easing you into the passenger seat, ensuring the seatbelt clicks into place.

Inside his car, you slowly feel your senses come back to you.

At a redlight that you recognise as the one near your apartment complex, you muster a small and hoarse thank you. Jeongguk only hums low, eyes fixated on the road and fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel.

Before a sheepish smile can make its way on your lips and spread across your face, your head twitches back as your brows furrow. Your thoughts suddenly catch up with you, “Hey, how do you know the way to my flat?”

His gaze briefly flicks toward you in annoyance, then back to the road. “You literally just told me.”

“Oh.” A beat passes before you giggle softly. “Don’t remember.”

Jeongguk mutters something intelligible under his breath, and next thing you know he’s turning down your street and slowing in front of the building that matches the number you gave him. Given your current state, he begins to question if that is even the right one.

“This one!” You point at the tall front gate with an almost childlike excitement, back shifting slightly from the seat as your grin stretches wide. Jeongguk grimaces. Why the fuck do you look like you’ve been reuinted with your home after years apart, as if you weren’t there just a couple hours ago?

“Right. Huh, you good with going back on your own?”

“Yes. I’d hate to bother you further. I’m sorry for this, I… was getting better, I guess.”

The sad confession doesn’t land with the weight it should, softened by the smile painted on your lips and the chuckle you let out as if it were nothing. Jeongguk’s eyelid twitches, unsettled by the unnecessary happiness that always seems to drip from you, even when it doesn’t belong.

“‘S okay. Have a good night,” he awkwardly bows his head, waiting for you to exit the car. When you stay still, he clears his throat, adding just to fill the silence, and perhaps because he means it, “Huh, and make sure to rest a lot.”

You take a moment, maybe longer than you should, to study his features up this close. You particularly fixate on the way his eyes dart everywhere but never land on yours. Then, with your signature toothy grin, you bow back and open the car door, leaving with a string of thank yous, and get home safe, and I’ll text you, and please, reply to me, and bye.

Jeongguk has to fight a smile of his own.

On the tenth day of December, you realise you want him. Even more badly than your fourteen-year-old self ever did. Which is frankly insane.

You don’t know if it was the natural way he looked after you during your episode, or his dry sarcasm as he actually started replying to your random updates throughout the day.

But no, it was definitely the selfie he sent you after what he said was a long day. Messy hair, tired eyes, a hint of a smile. You’d struggled to even gulp down your saliva when the picture popped up in your chat, and maniacally stared at it with eyes glued to the bright screen before sending one of your own. He had replied with Cute. followed by Your hair pin is cute.

That is why you find yourself facing… Yoongi? If you remember correctly. The guy at the front desk of Jeongguk’s studio.

You beam at him, and what you’re met with instead is a confused stare. You inhale, “Hi. Is Jeongguk in?”

Yoongi scratches his head, muttering, “He’s busy with a client.”

“Oh. It’s okay,” you wave off his concern. “Can I wait here?”

The boy hesitates, looks unsure the more your interaction develops, and he glances between you and the empty waiting area. He relents with furrowed brows, “Sure… Huh, It’s a back tattoo, so it’ll take him a while.”

You shrug and plop yourself onto the leather sofa, seemingly unfazed, “I like waiting.”

Crossing your legs, you take in the studio’s atmosphere, eyes drifting to the dark walls lined with framed artwork and certificates. You spot Jeongguk’s name on many of those.

For the next fifteen minutes, you try distracting yourself by flipping through the stack of tattoo magazines on the coffee table. You wince at inked heads, faces, butts, and even… more private parts. Deciding this world is definitely not for you, you slam the book shut.

By the time an hour passes, you’re fighting a battle with your lack of sleep. The third yawn you manage to stifle, but the fourth escapes before you can stop it. Yoongi, seated at the desk, doesn’t bother hiding his unimpressed stare. Still, he’s polite enough to offer you a glass of water, a coffee, or even a chance to join him for a cigarette break.

You decline all of it, though your throat does feel dry.

Maybe you should have planned this with a bit of rationality. Or at least gotten more sleep. Now, your every blink is slower, eyelids batting to shut and taking longer to flutter open again. Hm, this feels nice. You’ll just let them rest for a bit longer. And longer. And a bit more.

The next time you open your eyes, Jeongguk’s face is inches away, his warm hand resting firmly on your arm. You jolt upright with a startled yelp.

“Jeongguk.”

He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up in an unmistakably mocking smirk. “Hey. You don’t have a bed?”

You sit up, forcing Jeongguk to step back and straighten to his full height. Your neck cranes upward to glare at him, brows furrowed in what you hope is an intimidating glare, though you sport a pout that is all but menacing, “Shut up.”

He clicks his tongue, turning back to round the desk and fiddle with the appointment book, clearly unbothered. You take the moment to rub your eyes—only to remember, too late, that you’d worn makeup. A quick glance around reveals how much has changed since you last let your eyelids flutter open. The lights in the studio are dim, the hallway is dark, and every door is shut. Yoongi is nowhere in sight. It’s just the two of you in the deathly quiet space.

You gasp, pressing a hand to your parted lips, “Did I fall asleep? I'm so sorry. I was probably really tired from yesterday.”

Jeongguk hums, focus still locked on the book in front of him, eyes narrowed. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t ask why you came here in the first place, and doesn’t acknowledge your apology. Ugh. This is humiliating.

Before you can stand, you feel something heavy draped over your body. It’s a jacket. Definitely not yours, since you never took it off. At least not consciously. No, this is a worn black leather one on which his scent lingers. You tug it closer, puzzled, and then look up at him, holding it out. “Did I steal this in my sleep?”

Jeongguk scrunches his nose, “Ew, are you a sleepwalker?” Locking the till, he strolls over to you and plucks the jacket from you, casually slipping it on. “No, I put it on you. Wanted to see how long someone could feel safe enough to pass out in my studio. Thinking of turning this place into a daycare. I’ll have you play in the morning, get some lunch, nap time...”

There’s a beat of silence in which his sarcasm lingers in the air, and you stare at him, unamused. He shrugs, smirk unwavering.

You huff, “I regret coming here.”

“Yeah, why did you come here?”

Smoothing down your pink wool sweater, you stand up to stretch with zero shame. Then, fluttering your lashes at him, you assert with a smile, “You’re coming with me to the Christmas markets. This Sunday.”

Jeongguk groans like the idea physically pains him, “Oh, I would fucking hate that.”

Ignoring him, you zip up your puffer jacket and rock on your toes, “Pick me up at seven, okay?”

He glares, unimpressed at your excitement, before heading toward the entrance and pulling a hefty set of keys from his pocket, “I don’t even remember where you live.”

You hurry after him, following him outside and shuffling closer in your coat at the cold air hitting you. Watching as he locks the door and pulls down the rolling shutter with its red-and-black skull graffiti, you chirp, “You’ll have to text me for that.”

Jeongguk rises up again, giving you a slow once-over. He seems distracted by your hair before snorting, “You’re talking like I’m the one who spent their afternoon napping in my studio just to drop this bomb and leave. Couldn’t you just text me this?”

You shrug innocently. He sighs, reaching out for you, “Do you need a ride hom—”

“Bye!”

You spin on your heel and skip off in the opposite direction before he can let his own greeting out, waving a gloved hand behind you. Jeongguk stays where he is, arm still held out.

Do you even have a car? He hopes so—it’s freezing out.

With another sigh, he shakes his head and tugs his jacket tighter around himself. Why are you so fucking weird?

On the fourteenth day of December, your arm is looped tightly through Jeongguk’s as you stroll through the Christmas markets, burying your face further in your scarf to shield against the icy air, and with each few step you gasp at things that the boy next to you finds utterly unimpressive.

You stop at nearly every stand, eyes glowing with the warm Christmas fairy lights strung all around, effortlessly picking up conversations with the vendors and melting even the most stoic faces with the scrunching of your nose at every grin and the exaggerated nods following descriptions of their crafts.

Through all of it, Jeongguk remains put at your side, his arm linked with yours and a subtle pout on his lips. When you tease him about it, he simply shrugs, and you figure it’s just his natural expression. You find that oddly endearing.

He still humors your enthusiasm, offering low hums or murmured praise whenever you exclaim you’ve finally found what you’ve been searching for everywhere, and he offers to pay every time, the gesture so casual that he doesn’t seem bothered by it in the slightest.

When you bow to the nth seller, clutching yet another bag of sweet treats tightly to your chest, Jeongguk exhales and resumes slow walking beside you, “I don't like these places.”

You glance up at him, fluffy hat almost slipping off before he promptly secures it back on your head with a gesture so smooth you hardly notice it. You instead wonder, “Then why are we here now?”

He slips his hand into his pocket, “Because you threatened me.”

“With a really good time.”

“If this is your version of a good time, you might as well kick me in the balls. That probably feels better.”

You gasp, halting in your tracks to glare at him. When he lets a small chuckle topple out of him, you think you might forgive him. No, you’re more than sure with the way his smile lingers. You sheepishly look away, muttering, “Don’t tempt me, emo boy.”

“I’m not—”

“Oh yes, you are,” you interrupt, snapping your face back to his. Clearing your throat, you prepare your best imitation of him, exaggerating a frown and lowering your voice, “I’m so different, I hate Christmas.”

Jeongguk scoffs, pulling you tighter to him when a scooter unexpectedly zips past you. You yelp, instinctively shuffling closer to his arm. He continues the conversation casually, unaffected, “That’s the worst impression of me I’ve ever heard. And also, I never said that.”

Releasing the breath you held for a moment too long, you uncertainly keep your slow stroll going, only narrowing your orbs at him, “It’s written all over your face.”

“I love Christmas.”

The admission is small, his voice soft and almost reluctant, like it pains him to reveal something so simple and obvious as loving Christmas. When you lean your chin on the puffed arm of his jacket, he doesn’t look down at you, his gaze fixed ahead, guiding the two of you through the chaos of the busy street.

You chirp, your steps stumbling, “Really?

Only then he shifts his attention to you, steadying you with his other arm wrapping around your figure in what seems like a hug, before he lifts you up by the neck of your coat and retreats just enough to face you. His lips press into a straight line as he nods, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes the more he stares in yours, “Yeah, really. I just don’t like… crowded spaces.”

You can’t help but think back to what happened just a week ago. The exact reason why the spirals in your brain wouldn’t stop twisting and tangling is now slipping from his lips in a voice that quietens as he seems to grasp the delicacy of his own confession.

He doesn’t like the way you’re looking at him. Drawn-up brows over wide and sparkling eyes—the only part of your face visible beneath your scarf—stare at him with something too tender, too focused, that makes him uneasy. He turns his head to the side, the tips of his ears red not only from the cold, and pulls you along toward another stand, an almost nervous distraction.

It’s your turn to frown. Maybe the one that’s permanently plastered on his face tonight isn’t just a reflection of his usual sullen demeanor. With a knot tightening in your chest, you can’t help but feel like you dragged him into something he truly hated, and that he wasn’t just pretending to.

What if this isn’t just your evil inner voice talking? What if this isn’t just overthinking, but the factual truth of your current reality? He’s hating every second of this but still enduring it because— you catch your breath with a long and strained inhale, because—

“Hey, dimples. You okay?”

Jeongguk moves to stand in front of you, his hands settling gently on your shoulders, a stance eerily reminiscent of that night you were just thinking back to. He nods at you, “Breathe with me, hm?”

You find yourself quickly adjusting to his comforting aura, drawn in by the reassurance in his eyes trained on you, never wavering, watching closely as you begin to mirror the measured rise and fall of his chest, your breathing gradually syncing with his until the tightness in your chest starts to ease.

When you feel your feet touching the ground again, you offer a small, apologetic smile. “I’m okay. Sorry. Just…” You quickly scan your surroundings, eyes landing on a colorful stand, “Wait here a second, okay?”

Jeongguk lets you slip away, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. He takes a few hesitant steps closer, careful not to crowd you but unable to tear his eyes away from your next actions, how your grin comes back on your lips with unpracticed ease, lighting up your face as easy talk flows between you and the seller. A few coins trade hands, and soon you’re holding two churros, their chocolate-dipped ends threatening to drip onto the ground.

You don’t hesitate, biting into one of them before it has the chance to make a mess, and with a quick nod of your head you motion for Jeongguk to follow. He does so, only after taking the churros from your hands, and letting you seek his warmth again with an arm snaking under his. He’s only letting you do this because it’s fucking cold, no other reason.

You walk, and walk, guiding him along until you find a quieter corner, away from the bustle, where you two stand isolated from the rest. The dim lighting casts a softer glow, and the distant hum of chatter and music fades into a gentle background noise.

Glancing up at him, you flash a playful smile before leaning in to bite another chunk of the churro he’s holding, your laughter spilling out as he grimaces in exaggerated disgust and pulls the sweet out of your reach. You settle onto a nearby bench, patting the empty spot beside you invitingly.

Jeongguk is unsure of what this means. He takes slow steps towards you, handing you your churro—which you take eagerly, already chewing on it—before tilting his head back in mild confusion, “But… you wanted to visit the markets.”

You shake your head, your bug eyes meeting his as you speak around a mouthful of sugar and chocolate, “There’s no point if you’re not going to enjoy it.”

The look you’re giving him is one he’s seen countless times before—familiar, and annoyingly reminiscent of ten years ago. It’s the same look that, he’s convinced, is solely responsible for making his knees weak and his fingers jittery, no longer something he can blame on the cold. You’re unbelievably frustrating.

He clicks his tongue, looking away, “You’re fucking weird.”

You giggle, humming, “If weird is a synonym for whipped, then sure.”

He has to fight the twitch of his lips. Fakes a gag instead. You chuckle louder. Only then, he hints at a smile, “C’mon. Let’s go check out some other stuff.”

“But—”

He interrupts, pulling you up by your forearm, “I’m hungry.”

The next hour you spend wandering around is made of Jeongguk’s small, imperceptible ways of cracking: his pout less prominent, more replaced by lips pulled into a tight line or in a mildly pursued scowl as you ask him which beanie looks better—the pink or purple one; his so evident sarcasm as he comments on how the old vendor was totally flirting with you, or when he mockingly adds to your over-the-top excitement every time you spot a dog. All in all, he’s more relaxed. More himself.

You then find yourself standing in front of the churros stall from earlier, the warm scent tugging you closer. Without hesitation, you ask the lady behind the counter for another four churros—this time with extra sugar. You add two thank yous.

To fill the waiting, you pick up casual conversation with the woman, until she pauses mid-sentence, wrinkled hand coming to rest over her heart as her gaze flits between you and Jeongguk, her crinkled eyes lighting with a sudden fondness and a quiet, content smile finds its space on her chapped lips, “You two look perfect together.”

Jeongguk snorts, “Oh, we’re not—”

“Thank you, auntie!” You chirp, and your grin is so wide it squeezes your eyes into crescents. You accept the first churro she hands over, biting into it and talking through it, “These are delicious. Is the recipe a secret or can you share it with me?”

The woman laughs, clearly flustered by your energy, and leans in with a conspiratorial expression, though she gives in pretty soon, “It is a secret, but… Oh, c’mon. A pretty lady like you deserves to know.”

You burst into chuckles, joined by auntie’s own rolling and carrying a contrasting warmth to the cold air. Jeongguk, for his part, stands slightly to the side, observing. You still cling to his arm, even as the vendor reaches over to gently smooth her fingers through your curls, complimenting the way they frame your face. You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation, but there’s a dimpled smile stretching on your cheeks that gives you away.

Before you leave, the lady points to Jeongguk, voice growing earnest, “You, handsome. I can see you’re a good guy, so you probably don’t need my advice. But treat her right, yes?”

Jeongguk stills for a second and stumbles over an awkward nod, managing to force a smile that has you stifling a laugh under your scarf. You tug him away with a cheerful wave to your new friend, promising her you’ll come visit again before Christmas.

Once you’re at a safe distance, he mutters, “Why did you not tell her that we’re not together?”

You tilt your head considering his question, “It’s not like she knows us. She looked like she adored you. I didn’t want to ruin that for her. Maybe seeing a young couple like us really means a lot to her.”

Jeongguk observes how the more you explain, the more you’re convincing yourself as much as him, eventually solidifying your reasoning as you nod, muttering some more under your breath. He scoffs, looking away to hide his lips twitching.

When he turns back he’s frowning, though it doesn’t quite match the way he lets you hook arms again, your pastel pink bag hanging from his shoulders. Still, he sulks as though the mere thought of your observation has him shivering, and not with the cold, “We’re not a couple.”

Jeongguk barely gets to let his unnecessarily petty comment out before you drag him with an unusual strength over to another stand, his voice not even touching your ears, “Oh, let’s go over there, Gguk!”

On the twenty-first day or December, you send him a picture of your tattoo.

You had been talking non-stop ever since your… date? Or was it just a hangout? Whatever it was, it’s been a week, and Jeongguk finds himself smiling at a fucking screen too many times a day for his linking. It’s irritating. Even brings his phone with him to the bathroom in case you text him. Not because he cares. No, it’s practical. What if you ever had an emergency and he was the only one who could help?

Most of the time it’s just you sending TikToks, but he clicks on the links with the same urgency he’d reply to a genuine plea for help. He doesn’t really want to think of the reason why.

Now, this picture—it catches Jeongguk off guard.

It doesn’t even look like it’s about the tattoo. Not really. It feels like an excuse, a flimsy pretext for you to show yourself to him. The tattoo—the one he himself inked—is there, yes. But it’s not at all the main focus of the photo that tightens his grip on his phone.

You’re wearing a thin, pink tank top with delicate lace trim, the straps barely clinging to your shoulders. Your fingers hook under the neckline, tugging it down just enough to expose the tattoo nestled between the soft curve of your breasts. The angle of the shot is deliberate, he can tell. Your back arches slightly off what he assumes is your bed, and your face is cropped out, save for your glossed lips, full and slightly parted, catching the dim light.

Jeongguk blinks, hard. Then again. His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, the low light of his phone screen doing little to soften the image burning itself into his mind. His eyes dart upward, scanning his surroundings, just to make sure everything is in place. The shop is empty, the door is closed, the hum of quiet settles over the space.

Looking down, the picture still stares back at him paired with a single message.

Annoying [11:39 p.m.]: do you think it’s healed? idk about this stuff, need your help 🥺

He’s not stupid. He knows exactly what this is. He alternates between the photo and your words, jaw ticking and tightening more with the seconds flowing.

It’s almost cruel, the way you’re testing him like this. He tries to push the feeling down, to reject the buzz of heat pooling low in his stomach. You know him well enough to be aware that he won’t reply to something like this. A stupid, unnecessary message. The tattoo is healed—he told you that a week ago, clear as day. There’s no reason for you to ask again.

What’s the purpose of this?

He gets a distorted idea when he shifts uncomfortably in place, the dull ache tightening his pants almost unbearable now.

Jeongguk groans and locks his phone, tossing it onto the counter as if that will put an end to this. He tries to refocus on his tasks, the last ones before he clocks off. Cleaning needles, tossing used stencils.

But his heavy balls keep sending desperate, silent prayers to his brain, to please let them have this. Just this once.

It’s been a bad day. Two of his appointments canceled last minute, leaving him to sit around bored. The last client showed up drunk and wouldn’t stop trying to flirt with him. His coworkers were loud and distracting, and to top it all off, the heater broke, leaving the studio freezing cold.

It’s been such a bad day.

So, would there be any harm? It’s not like anyone will know. Not you, not his friends. He’s the only one that will. And he’s far more willing to live with this dirty secret rather than with his hard dick straining achingly in its confines.

Jeongguk abruptly snatches up his phone again, unlocking it to the same picture that caused him to brush the device aside just minutes ago. He lets out a shaky breath, thumb hovering over the screen. You won’t get no reply to him. But if you knew what he was up to right now, you would probably geek. Tease him, with your warm smile that digs dimples in your cheek, hopping on your toes to poke at his chest playfully, with those perfectly manicured hands of yours.

“Shit,” his free hand is already pushing the jeans down along with his boxers, and he drops his weight onto the nearest stool as he grips at the base of his thick cock, eyes devouring the image of you in the empty chat.

He doesn’t zoom in. That would feel too shameless. But he finds it oddly better like this. Is it weird that your text, so innocently worded, is turning him on? That the simple idea of you needing his help is enough to have his hips jerking?

What could you possibly need his help for? Fuck. The different ideas that pool his mind have him squeezing harder at his stinging tip.

Jeongguk focuses on your dainty hand, slim pointer finger snaking under the collar of your flimsy shirt to show yourself to him, and your small boobs spill from the sides with a delicious, soft swell. He hisses when he pictures that same hand working on him instead, his warm mouth stuffed with your stiff nipples, visible through the sheer material.

He can’t help the loud groan leaving his lips, wrist flickering up and down in a motion that feels sloppy way too soon, hips jutting up to fuck into his tight fist. Throwing his head back, he sees you even behind closed eyelids.

He pictures your delicate figure sprawled on his bed, long lashes batting up at him as you sheepishly hide with your cheek to your shoulder. Can clearly make out how you’d sit on his lap instead, unsteady breath fanning over his lips, using his long shaft to make yourself cum. The whole time, he sees the tattoo on your chest, the one that is forever on you, eternally a reminder of him.

When he lets his head topple forward again, his bright screen still stares at him, only because a new message pops up in the chat. He startles, and his cock throbs in his hand.

Annoying [11:52 p.m.]: oh, and i miss you.

“Oh, fuck,” the curse is strained through a loud whine, and only followed by more of his full moans filling the room. His brows knit as his hand moves rapidly, palm collecting the precum spreading embarrassingly fast on his tip and rolling it down his length.

He focuses on your parted lips, the soft curve of your breast, your hard nipples begging to be sucked and spit on. Your last text has flashes of your bug-like eyes staring up at him seizing his mind.

That’s what undoes him. He’s delirious as he lets out his every sound, freely, unchecked, not caring about how loud he is, whimpering as he gets closer to his climax. When he thinks of those eyes locking with his, kneeling before him, eager and willing to swallow his every drop, he cums. Hard.

Jeongguk pumps everything he can out of him, and it’s messy—spilling over his hand, staining his clothes, pooling on the floor. His chest heaves with the effort, and the sensation of abandon he feels is so pleasurable, energy drained but leaving him with a lightness that threatens to make his cock hard again.

Fuck. He can’t afford that happening if you’re not the one attending his needs. This won’t be enough, not until it’s you. He’s insatiable.

Jeongguk needs to hear your voice.

It’s an instinct, and he bends to it. He’s careful, making sure not to tap on the FaceTime option, because if you were to see him right now it’d be glaringly obvious.

When he looks to the side, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the long mirror, and he visibly grimaces at the way his cheeks are flushed, the pearls of sweat coating his forehead causing his bangs to stick uncomfortably to the skin.

Guilty doesn’t even begin to cover it.

With the phone to his ear beeping to eternity, he hesitates, contemplates ending the call before you can answer. But just then, you do.

“Jeongguk! Is everything okay?”

Your voice is familiarly soft, but there’s a trace of concern. Blinking, he brings the device closer again and gulps thickly when he can make out your panting breaths. He clears his throat and puts on his best nonchalant act, “Huh— Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know… You just never call. Or text first. This is weird. You sure you’re okay?”

Oh. Is that really what it is like?

Jeongguk never realized this was how he came across—so detached that a simple phone call feels out of character. Your naive honesty hits him square in the chest. God, he needs to get better at this. The irony stings: he just fucking jerked off to your picture and the simple thought of you, while you’re on the other side thinking he’s just a careless piece of shit who doesn’t even know how to call.

The long stretch of silence registers in his brain, and he coughs to buy time, “Yes, I’m sure. I— huh,” he thinks of stuff you usually ask to keep the conversation flowing. Not out of courtesy, but out of genuine interest, the curiosity that makes people want to open up. He’s still not used to that. Still finds it weird.

“How… How was your day?”

It must be equally weird for you because it takes you a longer beat to reply. In that quiet moment, he clenches his eyes shut and feels his jaw tick with shame. And embarrassment. And this icky feeling that makes him feel too mushy for his liking. Hell, what is he doing? He’s never been like this, he’s not supposed to be like this.

But you recover quickly, as you always do, and you smooth over the moment. Fix it all for him like you were born to be just that. Make him feel like he fits in ways that have him exhaling shakily.

Jeongguk senses a foreign drumming in his stomach, and it’s warm but odd, and he loves it but he doesn’t want to.

On the twenty-fifth day of December, cheekily under a mistletoe, Jeongguk realizes he wants you. There’s parts of him that probably knew way sooner. But the parts of him that didn’t, fighting tooth and nail to suppress the mere thought, are just now finally surrendering.

Jeongguk has always found you admirable, back in high school. You had this determination to you. Not only when it came to him. It shone particularly when you catered to others, always finding ways to help, to mend, to offer yourself with nothing less than a fully toothed smile.

But he’s also always thought you two were—and still are—too different to work. He can’t be what you want, let alone what you deserve: someone who can match your enthusiasm and unwavering smiles, your frustrating positivity; someone who sees the world the way you do. No black, no grey, no shades in between. Just bright, hopeful white. Blinding white.

It’s the white making him dizzy, shifting his perspective, having him believing the opposite of what he’s always known. Pushing to be a little more egoistical, deceiving himself that he’s right for you. Because he wants to be. He oh, so selfishly wants people to know he’s the one who finally gets to have you, the one gifted with such a light, unfairly deserving of all the love you carry into every room you walk into.

Just a few days ago, during another one of your increasingly frequent phone calls, you asked him what he was doing for Christmas. He could have lied, come up with something on the spot.

But with how you so easily, and always coax the truth out of him, he let it slip. He told you he’d be alone, words subtly heavy. But they didn’t have the chance to even drop their weight before you were already inviting him to your friend’s party, insisting that he would be the most welcome.

And he’s here, and he sits beside you, and every time you laugh you lean your weight over him, and the room vibrates with the energy you fill it with, and each one of your friends is so enamoured with you, and for reasons he can’t fully understand it fills him with a sense of pride that shouldn’t belong to him. But it does, and it comes with so many other feelings.

You don’t push him to talk. You never force him into the spotlight when he takes a step back, quietly observing, choosing to stay in the background. Because you read him like it’s in your nature to do so, your soul seems to intuitively melt with his, and it intertwines in such a tight knot that he feels it constrict his throat. He knows he’s still alive because his heart is beating, just a little faster with each time you flash your dimples at him.

“Dimples. What are you doing, hm?”

Now, he’s in front of you, a small smile on his lips as you stand on your tiptoes, trying to dangle the mistletoe over both your heads. You’re struggling just a little, your hand unable to reach high enough, and the fake plant awkwardly brushes his hair, the tickling sensation causing his nose to scrunch. You laugh.

Looking up at your swinging movements, you lose your balance for the slightest second. Jeongguk’s hands move instinctively, catching you promptly by the waist to steady your body. But even after that, he doesn’t shift, his warm palms stilling. And when you face him, he’s closer and his chest brushes against yours. From this proximity, he witnesses the Christmas lights painting a galaxy of their own in your orbs.

You beam, “What does it look like? We have to kiss now.”

Jeongguk stares in your expectant eyes, brows wiggling and all. The more his mouth keeps in a straight line, the more the wiggling slows. You eventually come down from your tiptoes, letting the mistletoe fall to the side, tilting your head.

He snorts, looking away briefly to hide an embarrassingly wide grin behind his hand. When he turns back to you, your pout is enough to have him scrambling to meet your gaze.

“On one condition, though.”

You chirp, “Yeah?”

He licks his teeth, reserving you with a smug look, “Admit that you were scared to get your tattoo.”

Your smile vanishes in an instant, your expression falling into mock offense. With a dramatic roll of your eyes, you turn on your heel, pretending to walk away from him. Pretending, only because you know he won’t let you. And you’re proven right when his fingers wrap around your arm, tugging you back with enough force to spin you into him. Suddenly, you’re pressed so close you can feel the heat radiating from him. Your chin nearly touches his chest as you glare up at him, narrowed eyes meeting the mischievous glint in his.

He bites a smile, lips twitching, “C’mon, princess. You wanted to act all tough and shit, but I could feel you shaking.”

Your scoff is loud and incredulous, “You’re such a bitch.”

He only shrugs, “You want my kiss, no?”

“Oh my god,” groaning, it’s your turn to face the side to hide a grin, “Are you always this cocky?”

His chin tilts upward slightly, and you can tell he’s enjoying this, “Say it.”

You whip back around to meet him with a seriousness he hardly ever sees on you, and you even clear your throat, channeling every ounce of the determination he knows you for, every drop of resolve that makes you you. “Yes. I was scared shitless, Jeongguk.”

Foreign excitement brims out of him, not before his eyes widen just a fraction, and his nose scrunches the more he leans closer to you, inches from you, swinging side to side with exaggerated mockery and a grin splitting his face, “See! I knew—hmph.”

There’s no other second to waste.

The condition has been met, and now all the requirements for you to claim what you were promised, your reward, are there. Even more when kissing him means catching him mid-taunt and silencing whatever teasing remark he had ready.

Your lips touch his in effortless ease, breaking the air as they press together. It’s tentative at first, almost uncertain as you feel Jeongguk remain still.

But it doesn’t take him longer to move, mouth molding against yours in a sickeningly sweet hug, tasting each other with quiet curiosity, taking your time to adjust and melt, instructing your bodies to imitate the dance.

Your arms lock around his neck, his stronger and tattooed ones circle your waist, and the way you click together feels so right, almost too perfect, so perfect it scares you. When you arch yourself further into him, even the non-existent space between you unbearable, he accompanies the motion with his wide palms gliding along your back, squeezing you into him, feeling the curve of your hips.

The soft whine that scratches your throat and vibrates against his lips betrays you, along with the useless effort to contain the intensity of what you’re feeling. The emotion disarms you, the sound gasping in your chest, but in Jeongguk’s arms it feels safe to let go.

On Christmas day, you crown a youthful fantasy, the kind you’ll look back to even when you’re older. Jeongguk feels like he’d be the right person to stand by you to do so.

When he reluctantly detaches from you, his face keeps at a safe distance that’d allow him to go back and taste you, not before resting his forehead on yours and whispering, “Merry Christmas.”

You giggle. “Merry Christmas, Gguk.”

[sosa2imagines]

My doll...

Disclaimer- Something my pervert brain thought about, I hope you all enjoy. Warning- Soft dark Bucky, smut, possessiveness, jealousy, 5.3k words.

Bucky Barnes had always been a man of few words. A soldier by nature, a soldier by habit. But it was something about you that had always made him feel like he was at a crossroads with himself, like his life could go one way or another depending on whether or not he could ever find the courage to speak up.

The first time he realized he was in love with you, it wasn’t a dramatic moment. There were no bells, no grand gestures. It wasn’t like he had a clear, defining thought of this is it. It was quieter than that. He was sitting next to you in the Avengers’ compound, watching you work on some new project you had thrown yourself into, fingers deftly moving over wires and circuits. Your brow furrowed in concentration, lips parted in that way that made him want to reach out and touch you.

He never had before, of course he was too afraid of ruining the friendship, too afraid of making things weird.

And that was how it had always been. Quiet. Unspoken.

But even with those feelings slowly building, Bucky stayed quiet. He watched you from the edges, from the safety of his distance, telling himself that if you ever really loved him, you’d say it first. He couldn’t risk the possibility of losing you altogether. So, he waited. And waited. And waited.

Tonight, was supposed to be like any other. A rare night off from their duties. No mission on the horizon, no danger lurking around every corner. The team wasn’t together, except for you. You suggested going to a bar nearby for a drink and a break from the constant grind of life in the compound. Bucky had decided, almost reluctantly, to say yes.

Bucky had, of course, known you cared. In all the small moments, like how you would always check in on him, ask him about his dreams or how he was really feeling. And the way your eyes lingered on him when you thought he wasn’t looking.

I know you love me, he thought. I know it.

But Bucky never had the nerve to say it out loud. And now, here he was, sitting across from you at the bar, staring into his glass of whiskey, wishing he could just reach out and touch your hand without the world falling apart around him.

He was far too aware of how close you were, and yet how far away you still seemed.

You were laughing, your voice light and full of life. You always seemed to shine brighter when you were in this mood, the weight of the world lifted, even if only for a moment. But Bucky could see the flickers of doubt in your eyes. Could see the way you kept looking over at him, waiting for something.

Maybe tonight was the night you’d say it. Maybe tonight you’d do what Bucky couldn’t bring himself to do.

But as he watched you, a strange feeling began to take hold. A spark of jealousy. It was a ridiculous thing, he knew. But it wasn’t about you. It wasn’t about the way you looked at other people—it was about the way you looked at him and didn’t say anything. Didn’t do anything.

It was then that a woman approached him.

Bucky didn’t want to be rude. He’d never been the type to just turn someone down, but when the woman slid onto the seat next to him, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him, he didn’t feel the usual discomfort. Instead, he felt an odd sense of power and control, maybe.

She was bold, confident. The way she laughed, the way she touched his arm, the way she spoke to him, it all felt like a challenge. A test. And before he could stop himself, he realized something. He wasn’t afraid of this woman. He wasn’t uncomfortable.

But you were.

He saw the way you stiffened in your seat, the way your smile faltered. You hadn’t said a word, but Bucky could tell, he knew. You were jealous.

And for some reason, that made his heart pound. A dark thought crept into his mind, ‘Maybe this is how it’ll happen. Maybe I can make you admit it. Maybe I can get you to finally say what we both know is true.’

The woman leaned in closer, her fingers brushing his. Her breath was warm against his ear as she whispered, “So, what do you say? Care to dance?”

Bucky glanced at you once more. You were still staring at him, but now, there was a mix of frustration and hurt in your eyes. His breath caught in his throat. He should stop this. He should turn away. But a dangerous impulse surged through him.

“Sure.” he said, standing up without another word, letting the woman take his hand and pull him toward the dance floor.

He could hear your breath hitch from across the room. He could feel your gaze burning and intense. But he didn’t break. Not yet.

They moved in close as the music shifted, her body pressed against his. It was all a game now, a game Bucky wasn’t sure he wanted to play but couldn’t help himself from continuing. Every move he made, every gesture, was designed to make you feel something. To make you feel what he had felt for so long ‘the ache.’ The longing. The desperate desire for something more.

But as they danced, his thoughts were on you. Only you. And all the ways he had hurt you without ever realizing it.

You were standing now, getting your things, heading for the door. And Bucky’s chest clenched as he realized something. He couldn’t let you go. Not like this. Not anymore.

“We are done!” he said to the woman, his voice sharp as he brushed past her, heading toward you.

The cool night air hit him as he caught up to you just outside the bar.

“Doll, wait,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. “Where are you going?”

You didn’t turn around, didn’t even slow down. “I’m going back to the compound, Bucky. I’m done.” Your voice was quiet, but it was laced with finality. “I’m done pretending. Done watching you with her.”

“I’m going back to the compound,” you repeated, your voice a little too calm, too controlled. “I need to clear my head. I think I’ll go check in with Steve.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you felt the shift in the air. Bucky froze.

You hadn’t expected it, Bucky was always so controlled, so guarded. But there was something in his eyes now. Something darker. The breath you’d taken in to steady yourself suddenly caught in your throat.

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice was low, tight with barely contained emotion. His grip on your wrist tightened, and you could see his jaw clench, the muscles beneath his skin rippling with barely restrained anger. “You’re going back to Steve?”

You nodded slowly, avoiding his gaze. You had no idea why, but you couldn’t meet his eyes right now. Maybe it was because you could feel his anger building, and it made you uneasy.

“Yeah,” you said, trying to sound indifferent, but even to your own ears, the words felt hollow. “I’ll be fine, Bucky. I just need some space.”

You tried to pull away, but his grip on your wrist tightened, pulling you back toward him. His eyes locked onto yours, and there was something in the depths of his gaze something primal that made your breath catch.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled, his voice rough, his tone clipped. “You’re not going back to Steve. Never ever!”

His hand moved to your other wrist, and before you could protest, he spun you around, backing you up against the cold brick wall of the alley. You gasped at the suddenness of it, the sharp heat of his body pressing against you. The force of it left you breathless, but it wasn’t just the physical contact that left you feeling winded, it was the storm swirling in Bucky’s eyes.

“I don’t care about your games, doll,” Bucky continued, his voice now a dangerous whisper. “I don’t care if you’re trying to protect yourself or play it safe. You don’t get to walk away from this. Not after all these months. Not after I’ll final say what I should’ve said the first goddamn time I saw you.”

Your heart hammered in your chest as Bucky’s breath came faster now, his face inches from yours. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the anger and frustration practically crackling in the air between you. His hand was on the wall next to your head, caging you in, his body pressing into yours like he was trying to hold you there, to make you listen.

“Don’t you dare go back to Steve!” he snarled. “I know what you’re trying to do. I know what you’re hiding from. But don’t you dare tell me you’re choosing him. Not when we both know what’s between us.”

Your stomach twisted at his words, a jolt of panic rising up in your chest. You had to get away from him, from this. But somehow, the words felt wrong. He was right. Something had shifted tonight, everything had shifted tonight. And the more you tried to run from it, the more you realized that you were just as tangled up in it as he was.

You shook your head, trying to pull away from his grip. “Bucky, stop. Just stop.”

But he didn’t. His hand moved from the wall to your face, cupping your jaw with surprising gentleness. His thumb stroked over your skin, the touch almost tender despite the fury that was still burning in his eyes. It was like he was trying to hold on to you, trying to keep you from slipping away.

“I’ve spent months pretending I didn’t want you,” Bucky muttered, his voice low and raw. “I’ve spent months watching you with him, keeping my distance, telling myself it was enough just being close to you, just being around you. But it’s never been enough, Doll. It’s never been enough, and I can’t do it anymore.”

“I love you, Y/N. I’ve always loved you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. For a moment, neither of you moved. The world stood still.

You swallowed hard, fighting the surge of emotions that were building inside you, fighting the tears threatening to break free. You had never seen Bucky like this so raw, so vulnerable, so… angry. It terrified you, but in a way, it also made you realize just how deeply he cared for you. How much he had always cared for you.

His grip on your face tightened, but there was no anger in his eyes now, only something softer, something that made your heart beat even faster. “I don’t want to claim you, Doll. I want to have you. I want you to choose me.”

Before you could respond, Bucky’s lips crashed into yours again, desperate and urgent. It was no longer a question, no longer a plea. It was an answer. His hands slid to your back, pulling you into him with such force that you could feel his heart racing against yours.

The kiss was everything every unspoken word, every hidden desire, every emotion they had both kept buried for so long. Bucky was done hiding, done pretending, and as you kissed him back with equal fervor, you knew there was no going back from this.

“Don’t go back to him,” Bucky whispered against your lips, his voice thick with need. “I’m not letting you go.”

You didn’t know what to say. The words felt like they were stuck in your throat. You had always thought you’d have time to figure this out, but now that the truth was out there between you, out there between him, you knew that there was no more time for pretending. No more time for games.

You pressed closer to him, your hands threading through his hair as you kissed him again, and in that moment, you realized there was only one thing that truly mattered.

Bucky dragged you in the room at the backside of the bar.

Without warning, he pins you against the wall, his body pressing against yours. His hands cup your face, holding your gaze captive.

He presses himself closer, one thigh between your legs. His hands move from your face to your hips, gripping them firmly. His lips graze your ear as he speaks, his voice a low grumble. “I'm going to show you exactly how much I want you, right here, right now.”

His mouth closes on your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin. You feel his fingers slipping under the hem of your tee, tracing a path of fire along your waist. “I've wanted you for so long, you have no idea. Watching you, smelling your scent, feeling your touch... it's been driving me crazy.”

His lips move down the column of your throat, leaving a trail of hot kisses along the way. One of his hands moves up to cup your breast, his thumb gently circling your nipple through the thin fabric of your bra.

You let out a gasp, arching into his touch. Your body is responding to his every move, awakening a need you've kept buried for far too long. Bucky smiles against your skin, enjoying the way he's unraveling you piece by piece.

“You like that, don't you? Feeling my hands on you, my mouth on your skin.” He whispers in your ear before capturing your earlobe between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to send a shiver down your spine.

His other hand slides under your skirt, trailing up your thigh, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

Your breath hitches, your legs growing weak as Bucky's touch becomes more and more brazen.

He chuckles lowly, satisfied to see you coming undone under his hands. “You're so responsive... so sensitive. I love seeing you like this, completely at my mercy.”

He spins you around, pressing your front against the wall. You feel his weight press into your back, his hands roaming everywhere, claiming you as his own.

“I'm going to make you mine, here and now. There's no stopping this, no denying what's been boiling between us for so damn long.”

His lips find the nape of your neck, kissing and sucking on the soft skin. His free hand slides down your stomach, resting just at the waistband of your panties. The contact is almost too much, your mind reeling from the barrage of sensations.

“I want you so badly... Can I have you? Right here, right now?” He asks, his voice a deep, raspy whisper. He's poised on the edge, waiting for your answer, his body tense with anticipation.

You can't find the words to speak, too overwhelmed by the storm of emotions and sensations he's stirring within you. Instead, you respond by arching your back, pressing yourself against him, wordlessly signaling your consent.

Bucky lets out a guttural growl, the sound filling the air. He doesn't need anything more than that. His hands move with newfound urgency, peeling away the layers of fabric separating you from him.

He turns you around, his expression darkened with desire. He looks at you hungrily, taking in every inch of your exposed skin. His hands run up your sides, tracing the curves of your body, committing every detail to memory.

“You're so beautiful... So goddamn perfect.” His words are punctuated by small, lingering kisses along your collarbone, across your chest, down along your stomach. You're lost in the sensation, your body on fire under his touch.

He sinks to his knees in front of you, his lips continuing their exploration of your body. He kisses and nips at the tender skin of your inner thighs, teasing and tantalizing you with every touch.

“I want to taste you... I need to taste you...” He husks, his hands wrapping around your hips, pulling you closer. You can feel his breath on your core, hot and eager, making you shiver in anticipation.

His tongue darts out, tasting you lightly, just enough to send a rush of pleasure through you. You gasp, your fingers threading into his hair, holding him close. Bucky smiles against your flesh, enjoying how responsive you are to his ministrations.

He alternates between soft, almost chaste kisses and more firm, calculated licks. He's enjoying the taste of you, the sounds of your moans and gasps. His hands grip your thighs, holding you firm while his mouth works magic, making you moan obscenely.

“You taste so good... Better than I ever imagined.” He lifts his gaze, meeting your eyes. The raw hunger in his expression takes your breath away.

You want to speak, but your mind is a jumbles mess, unable to form a coherent word.

“You're driving me crazy, doll. I want to devour you, to make you mine in every way possible.”

And then he does. He dives in, his mouth devouring you in a frenzy of passion determined to bring you closer to the edge.

Your gasps turn into cries of pleasure, your body writhing under his skilful mouth.  Bucky's hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he brings you closer to your climax.

The world seems to spin around you, your senses overwhelmed by the pleasure Bucky is giving you. He's relentless, pushing you higher and higher, determined to give you more than you ever dreamed of.

His tongue works relentlessly, applying just the right amount of pressure to drive you wild. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails biting into his flesh, anchoring you on the ground.

Just as your were about to come, Bucky suddenly pulls away, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. He climbs to his feet, pinning you against the wall once again

“I need to be inside you... Now.”

He's barely able to get the words out, his voice thick with need. He captures your mouth in a fierce kiss, his hands already pushing your skirt up around your waist.

His body presses against yours, the hard length of him rubbing against your core. You can feel the heat and strength of him, the evidence of his desire poking you.

“I need you, need this... I need you now..” He repeats the words like a mantra, his lips trailing along your jaw, your neck, your ear.

He pulls you around, turning you to face the wall once again. You feel the cool surface against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his body behind you.

“I'm not going to be gentle.” He warns, his hands gripping your hips, pulling them back against him.

You feel him against you, hard and eager, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His hips move against yours, and you can feel just how much he wants you, how badly he needs you.

“Can you take it? Can you handle me like this?” He asks, one hand traveling up your spine, his fingers tracing the line of your vertebrae. His touch is demanding, possessive, but somehow still tender, as if he's afraid he'll hurt you.

You manage to nod, too far gone with pleasure to form words. Bucky lets out a low, satisfied sound, his mouth nipping at your shoulder as his hand slides around to your front.

He cups your breast, his thumb grazing over your nipple, teasing and provoking.

“I'm going to take you, right here, just like this.” He growls, his hips pressing against yours.

You can feel him against you, his body poised and ready, the tip of his cock, teasing your entrance. “Are you ready for me?” He asks, his lips against your ear, his breath hot and urgent.

You can only manage a small, breathless moan in response, your body yearning for him to take you, to make you his own.

“I need to hear you say it. Tell me you want me... That you need me...” His words are a needy, almost desperate plea, his self-control hanging by a thread.

You find your voice, forcing the words out despite the overwhelming pleasure coursing through you. “I want you... I need you... Please...”

“That's all I needed to hear.” The words are a rough, guttural grunt, the last vestiges of his restraint snapping. He positions himself behind you, the head of him rubbing against your entrance.

His hands grip your hips again, holding you in place. He's so close, so very close... But still, he waits, wanting to make sure you're ready for the next step.

“Just tell me if it's too much, okay? If I go too far, I want to know.” He whispers the words, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability, a hint of doubt, despite the powerful, animalistic way he's holding you.

You nod, your body thrumming with anticipation. You trust him, trust him not to hurt you, and that trust makes all the difference. You push back against him, signaling your readiness in the most primal way possible.

He lets out a low, gravelly moan, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. He needs this as much as you do, maybe even more. “God, I can't wait any longer...”

He pushes forward, slowly, carefully. He's being as gentle as he can be, wanting to give you time to adjust to the intrusion. But it's torture for him, the heat, the tightness, the way you're clenching and squeezing him, enveloping him in a way he's never felt before.

“You're so damn tight... So perfect...” He groans the words, his body moving involuntarily, the pleasure too much to resist. His hands grip your hips tighter, his mouth trailing kisses along your back, your shoulders, your neck. He can't get enough of you, his body moving in a rhythm that's old as time itself.

“You feel so good. I never knew it could be like this.” He mutters the words against your skin, his voice thick with ecstasy.

He picks up the pace, his body moving more urgently now, following the pull of pleasure that's driving him onward. His hands are everywhere, caressing and touching, worshiping every inch of you like a man possessed.

“I could stay inside you forever. I never want to let you go.” He murmurs the words into your ear, his voice ragged and broken. He's lost in the moment, in the pleasure, in you.

You reach a hand back, tangling your fingers into his hair, holding onto him like an anchor in the storm. All the rights and wrongs, thrown out of the window.

“Don't let go... Don't ever let go.” He whispers, his lips finding your neck, the skin there already tender from his earlier attentions. His movements become rougher, more frenzied, as if he's desperate to get even closer to you, to merge himself with you in every way possible.

“I need you... I need you so damn much...” The words are a broken chant, gasped into your ear, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

He's moving even faster now, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the air, the only break in the silence apart from your moans and gasps. The pleasure is building, growing stronger and stronger with every thrust, threatening to consume you both. You can feel yourself close to the edge, teetering on the very precipice of ecstasy. Bucky knows it too, he can sense it, sense the mounting tension in your body.

“You're close... I can feel it. I'm so close...” He growls the words, his voice tight with the effort to hold back, to keep control for just a little while longer.

“I want to hear you say it... I want you to let go... Tell me you're mine.” His voice is harsh and ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding back his release.

You struggle to find the words, to form a coherent thought amidst the haze of pleasure. “Y-yours.. I'm... Yours...”

The words send a wave of pleasure through Bucky, his hips twitching involuntarily at the sound of your surrender. “Say it again... I need to hear it again…”

“Yours... I'm yours, Bucky... All yours...” You gasp the words, your voice quivering with the force of your ecstasy.

That's all it takes. Your surrender, your declaration of ownership, it breaks the dam that's been holding him back. “Mine... You're mine... All mine...” He repeats the words like a mantra, his body moving with a new fervor, a new intensity.

“Steve won’t take care of you like I can.” He thrust, “All I have to do is…” he hits you with another powerful thrust, messing up with your senses. “Make a sad face and remind him of my past!” He hits another powerful thrust, and the voice you make is between a cry and a moan. “He will happily give you to me!”

He buries his face in your neck, his lips finding that sensitive spot just below your ear. When he speaks again, his voice is a possessive, guttural growl, thick with desire. “And don't you ever forget it.”

His lips find yours again, claiming your mouth in a kiss that's hard and demanding. He's drowning in you, in this moment, the world around you reduced to nothing but the heat and the friction and the pleasure.

He's close, so close, but he won't give in, won't let go until he's brought you to your release, until he's given you everything he can give.

“Come for me, doll... Let go... Give yourself to me... I want to feel it, feel you...” His words are a rough, ragged plea, a demand made out of pure need. He's holding back, waiting for you to reach your peak, his body taut and trembling with the effort to hold back his own pleasure.

You can feel yourself teetering on the edge, balanced between light and dark, pleasure and pain, sanity and madness.

“Let go... Just let go... I've got you...” The words, the promise, they're enough to push you over the edge. You shatter, your body arching against his, a cry of ecstasy tears from your lungs. The world spins around you, your release crashing through you like a tsunami, leaving you breathless and trembling.

Bucky's there, holding you against him, his arms wrapping around, holding you up, keeping you from collapse. He's still hard inside you, so close to his own climax.

“God, you're so perfect... I've never experienced anything like this before...” His voice is gruff and broken, his breath hot against your neck as he pulls you flush against him. He lets out a low, guttural moan, his body trembling with need and restraint. “I need you.... I need to let go... you will let me come in you, won’t you? You will be a good girl for me, right doll?”

You nod, your body still thrumming with pleasure as you push back against him, signaling your absent-minded consent.

“You're going to be the death of me, woman...” His words are a rough whisper, a promise and a threat all at once. His grip tightens around you, his body tense and coiled like a spring. “Just a little more... just a little longer... I need to give you everything...”

He buries his face in your hair, his breath coming in jagged pants now, his body taut and trembling with the effort to hold back just a little longer.

“Almost there.... almost... I'm so close...” The words are a ragged gasp.

He let out a low, guttural groan, his body tensing against yours, his arms pulling you tight against him. “God, I... I can't... I'm...” he doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, he buries his face in your hair, muffling his moan against your shoulder as his body tightens and spasms, his release washing over him like a tide, powerful and consuming.

He holds you close as he comes down, his body trembling with the aftershocks, his breath warm against your skin. “God... that was... incredible...” The words are a rough whisper, his voice thick with emotion. He presses a tender kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering against your skin, as if he can't bear to let you go for even a moment.

He tightens his arms around you, pulling you flush against him, as if he can't bear to have you any further than an inch away from him. “You're amazing, you know that?”

He nuzzles your neck, his lips leaving tender kisses along the sensitive skin there. He's so gentle, so different from the rough, desperate man who'd been consumed by need a few moments ago. As he sees his release dripping from between your legs, his eyes darken, making him feel more possessive about you.

“Mine...” He mutters the word against your skin, his voice thick with possessiveness. He knows it's probably a bit irrational, but he can't help it. He needs to express his claim over you, his desire to protect and own you in every way imaginable.

He then moves his fingers on your thigh, collecting some of his release on his fingers, bringing them closer to your mouth, a silent order.

You know what he wants, what he's demanding, even if he doesn't say the words aloud. Your eyes meet his, holding his gaze, as you slowly bring your hand up to wrap around his wrist, drawing his fingers into your mouth.

“Good girl…” He murmurs the words as he watches you, his eyes darkened by a possessive, primal need. He loves how submissive you are in this moment, how willing and eager you are to please him.

He holds your chin, his fingers tracing the outline of your lips, feeling the glide of his own release against them. “You have no idea what you do to me, doll. You make me lose all control. And I love it…”

He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that's equal parts tender and possessive. He can taste himself on your lips, and the thought just makes him want you more, more fiercely than before.

He pulls back enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath coming faster now, his body stirring once more. “I swear, doll, you're going to be the death of me...”

He captures your lips again, kissing you deeply, his tongue delving into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, marking you as his in every way he can think of.

Little do you know, about the real possessiveness he feels about you. Bucky is already planning to take you far away from everyone. To keep you all to himself. While you are already lost in the kiss and afterglow of the sex, Bucky is already planning about the future.

He kisses you again, with a fierce intensity, his hands roaming over your body, as if he's trying to memorize every inch of you. He's thinking of all the ways he wants to have you, all the ways he wants to make you his. He's already made up his mind. You're not just a passing fancy, or a distraction. You're his now, and he's not going to let you go. Not ever.

He then sits on the couch with you, while you rest in his arms, he picks out his phone preparing to take you away. He types out a quick message, his hands still caressing your skin, his eyes never leaving your face.

He's arranging for a secure location, somewhere remote, somewhere he can keep you safe and, more importantly, all to himself.

“My doll.”

Taglist- @imyourbratzdoll @blackhawkfanatic @ordelixx @sapphirebarnes @ilovetaquitosmmmm

@differenttyphoonwerewolf @vicmc624 @thezombieprostitute @nekoannie-chan

@mrvl-addict @mercurial-chuckles

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@bucks-babe @lolzies123r @kandis-mom @purplecolordeer @avioletkurt

@unaxv @pattiemac1 @lovely-geek @hzdhrtss

[voiceshearingyouloud]

Been having a ‘fall in love and have a relationship with someone other than my partner’ dreams a bunch recently and idk how to feel about it :/

[lupinqs]

CHAPTER FOURTEEN ━━ Show a Little Loving

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 6.4K

❀ ━ warnings: detailed make out but it doesn’t go any further

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: think TATBILB

THE NEXT MORNING, Jo woke up feeling like she was in a completely different reality.

Nothing looked different—the room was the same, the dim winter light slipping through the curtains, the soft weight of the blankets tangled around her legs. The air in the cabin was cool, and the scent of coffee and something sweet, maybe cinnamon, lingered in the air from downstairs. Normal. Everything was normal.

Except for the fact that Jo was—and still is—decidedly not.

She’s never been less normal in her entire life.

Because for the first time in her entire life, she likes someone who isn’t Asher Davis.

And that someone is Paige.

When she woke up, Jo stayed frozen under the covers, trying to process it—like if she just laid there long enough, she could force her brain to make it not true. But the weight of it merely pressed down on her, undeniable, suffocating. She felt like she’d just unlocked some secret part of herself she wasn’t supposed to find, like she’d just opened a door that can’t be shut.

She spent the entire night tossing and turning, hyper-aware of every single thing Paige did.

The way Paige curled up beside her like she always does, shifting close like she’s drawn to Jo in her sleep. The way her breath tickled against Jo’s neck, steady and warm. The way she tucked her face into Jo’s shoulder, lips brushing against her skin. Jo barely slept because of it. She just laid there, rigid, heart hammering against her ribs like a drum, panicking.

And then later this morning, when they were brushing their teeth together in the tiny bathroom, Paige kept nudging her shoulder. Jo doesn’t even know if it was on purpose—Paige is like that, casual and comfortable, always touching Jo like it’s second nature—but Jo noticed. She felt it. And it was so stupid, so small, but it sent a wave of something through her, something warm and unbearable and foreign.

And now—now they’re on the ski lift, and Jo is trying so fucking hard to act normal.

It’s not going well.

Paige is sitting way closer than necessary, thighs pressed against Jo’s even though there’s a whole chunk of space open on the other side of the lift. The cold metal bar rests against their laps, and the mountains stretch out below them, snow-covered and endless, but Jo can’t focus on any of it.

She can only focus on Paige.

She doesn’t get it. Paige has always been touchy with her. They’ve shared a bed countless times, always leaned against each other, always sat too close. This isn’t new. This isn’t different. But now, it feels different. It’s like Jo’s senses have been turned all the way up, like she’s suddenly attuned to every single point of contact, like her body is tracking Paige without her permission.

And she doesn’t like it.

She shifts slightly, just enough to put some space between them, but Paige only grins and leans in closer, bumping their shoulders together. “You’re quiet,” Paige says. “Cold?”

Jo forces a shrug, not trusting her voice. She knows it’s uncharacteristic, but everything about her seems to be that way today.

Paige hums like she doesn’t quite believe her, but she doesn’t press.

Jo bites her tongue inside her mouth and stares straight ahead, pretending to be interested in the scenery, pretending her heart isn’t trying to climb out of her throat.

She cannot be weird about this.

She won’t be weird about this.

Because if Paige notices something is off, Jo has no explanation. What the hell is she supposed to say? Sorry, I just realized I have a thing for you and now I can’t function like a normal person anymore?

Absolutely not.

And worse—what if her family notices? They know her better than anyone. If she doesn’t get her shit together, they’ll realize something’s up.

Jo swallows hard, stomach twisting. She can hardly survive herself knowing this—if other people did, she doesn’t know what she’d do.

So she keeps her mouth shut, keeps her body still, and hopes to God this feeling will go away before she completely loses her mind.

And then, thankfully, they reach the top of the lift. Meaning Jo has something else to focus on.

Getting off of it on a snowboard isn’t hard, not really, but it’s definitely not something you want to mess up unless you enjoy face-planting in front of a bunch of strangers. Jo angles her board as the bench slows, pushing herself forward with practiced ease, gliding down the short slope leading away from the drop-off point. She turns just in time to watch Paige follow behind her, arms slightly outstretched, knees stiff.

Paige doesn’t fall—which is honestly impressive for a first-timer—but Jo can tell it’s more luck than skill.

They then make their way over to the side, where Jo’s family is already securing their bindings. Jo sees Paige watche, then follows suit, crouching down and clipping in her back foot like she’s done it before. For a second, Jo thinks maybe she has—that maybe she totally overestimated how difficult this was going to be.

Then Paige stands up.

And just stands there.

Jo doesn’t even have to say anything—she can see the exact moment Paige realizes she has no fucking clue what to do next.

The thing about snowboarding is that, once both feet are strapped in, there’s no casual shuffling around like with skis. You have to commit to your movements, shift your weight with intention, trust the board to follow. Paige, currently, looks like she doesn’t trust anything. She’s frozen in place, weight too evenly distributed, arms slightly hovering like she’s trying to counterbalance pure fear.

Jo’s family doesn’t notice. Of course they don’t. They’re already pushing off, racing down the slope like they forgot they just dragged a complete beginner onto what is definitely not a beginner run.

Which means it’s entirely Jo’s problem now.

Jo sighs and turns back to Paige, who immediately schools her expression into something completely nonchalant, like she wasn’t just panicking a second ago.

“I’m good,” Paige says, nodding.

Jo lifts a brow. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Paige insists, overconfident. “I ski all the time. How hard can it be?”

Jo snorts, shaking her head. “That’s like saying, ‘I can ride a bike, so how hard can a unicycle be?’”

Paige glares. “That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s exactly the same thing.”

Paige groans but doesn’t argue further, which is good, because Jo is pretty sure that if she lets her go down the slope without at least trying to teach her something first, she’s going to have a very injured best friend by the end of the day.

Which—yeah, Paige doesn’t need any more injuries.

Jo drops down onto the snow, motioning for Paige to do the same. “Okay, before you kill yourself—”

Paige sighs. “Very encouraging, thanks.”

“—I’m gonna teach you the basics.”

Paige rolls her eyes but listens as Jo explains how to shift her weight, how to stop using her heel edge, how to not immediately die the second she starts moving. She nods along like she gets it, but Jo knows she doesn’t, because when she tells her to try stopping, Paige just stares at her.

“Like this,” Jo demonstrates, digging into her heel edge and coming to a smooth stop.

Paige squints. “I don’t think my feet can do that.”

Jo gives her a look. “They can. You just have to actually try.”

Paige glares at her, then attempts it—and immediately wobbles so hard she almost eats it.

Jo bites her lip, trying so hard not to laugh, because she knows if she does, Paige will shove her straight into the snow.

Still, watching Paige struggle is… entertaining.

Actually, no, it’s worse than entertaining, because Jo is finding it way too endearing, and that is a problem.

But it’s hard, because Jo is stuck here watching Paige, her flushed cheeks, her concentrated little frown, the way she huffs whenever she messes up but refuses to ask for more help.

Jo has to get it together.

She clears her throat and moves on to the next part—teaching Paige the “falling leaf” technique, which goes just about as well as expected. Paige flails. A lot. She makes little frustrated noises, glares at Jo when she tries to help, insists she’s got it even when she absolutely does not have it.

Jo grins, probably too much, but she can’t help it. She’s never seen Paige like this before. Paige is good at everything—basketball, school, literally any sport she tries—but right now, she’s an absolute disaster.

And Jo finds it so ridiculously cute, it makes her chest constrict.

Why, why, why, why, why?

By the time they move on to full turns, Paige is mildly competent. She’s still wobbly, still too tense, but she starts linking her turns together, starts actually looking like she knows what she’s doing.

Jo watches her, nodding approvingly. “Look at you.”

Paige looks at her, grinning wide, blonde hair slipping out from under her beanie, flushed from the cold, happy.

And Jo—Jo feels something tight in her chest.

Something warm and annoying and confusing and—

She tears her gaze away before it turns into something worse.

Eventually, they decide Paige is ready for the slope.

Jo isn’t entirely sure that’s true, but there’s only so much practicing they can do before Paige gets impatient and wants to actually go somewhere. And Jo gets it. She does. Paige isn’t the type to sit around mastering the basics—she’d rather dive in headfirst, figure it out on the way down.

Which is how they end up at the top of the easier slope—the one Jo’s family didn’t go down.

It’s still not technically beginner-friendly, but it’ll have to do.

Jo studies Paige as she shakes out her arms, shifting her weight back and forth like she’s hyping herself up. She’s still pretending she’s not nervous, but Jo can see it in the way she breathes in deep, lips slightly parted, exhaling like she’s about to take a game-winning shot instead of just… sliding down a hill.

Jo shakes her head, telling the blonde, “You’re gonna be fine.”

Paige doesn’t meet her eyes. “Yep,” she says, sounding uncharacteristically unenthusiastic.

“Mhm,” Jo confirms.

Paige rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. Instead, she pulls on her goggles. And then she takes a final breath, gives Jo one last I’m totally calm and confident nod, then pushes off.

Jo follows immediately, ready to intervene if Paige immediately eats shit.

She doesn’t.

In fact, Paige actually does an okay job.

She’s still stiff, still a little too tense, but she’s making turns, shifting her weight properly, keeping herself upright. Jo even hears her let out a small whoop at one point, though it quickly turns into something that sounds suspiciously like a scream before she regains control again.

Jo has to laugh. “Not bad, huh?”

Paige breathes out hard. “I’m doin’ great, thank you.”

Jo grins but doesn’t argue. Paige’s balance is still shaky, but she’s improving with every turn, her confidence visibly building—until they get too close.

Jo realizes it a second too late.

She shifts left, trying to create space, but Paige is still a beginner, and she wobbles at the exact wrong time. She catches an edge, stumbling forward, and Jo barely has time to react before she gets caught in it.

“Shit—”

Then, they’re both tumbling.

Jo crashes backward into the snow with a heavy thud, the impact sending a jolt up her spine, her board kicking up powder. Paige lands right on top of her, effectively knocking the air out of her lungs.

Jo groans, blinking up at the sky for a second before lifting a gloved hand to shove her goggles up.

“Shit, bro, that hurt,” Paige mutters against her chest, fumbling with her own goggles, breath puffing out in visible clouds.

Jo exhales sharply, trying to process—not the fall, not the pain, but the fact that Paige is on top of her, head pressing into her heavily layered chest like it belongs there.

She’s too close.

Jo feels it everywhere—Paige’s weight, the warmth of her breath against the fabric of Jo’s jacket, the way her hand is braced against Jo’s sides as she tries to push up, but she’s still struggling with her goggles, fingers catching on the strap.

Jo shakes her head. “You’re a mess—”

Without thinking, she reaches up, gloved fingers brushing against Paige’s cold skin as she pushes her goggles back, slipping them up over her helmet.

Paige shakes her head a little, her other hand dropping to Jo’s side to keep herself balanced.

The world is quiet around them—just the muffled sounds of distant snowboarders, the crunch of powder under shifting weight, the occasional gust of wind.

Paige blinks down at Jo, blue eyes so blue in the snow-bright lighting, her face flushed from exertion, from the cold, maybe from something else too.

And Jo—Jo can’t look away.

Her chest tightens.

Her fingers are still against Paige’s face, and Paige isn’t moving, isn’t pulling back, just watching her with something unreadable in her expression.

Jo’s gaze flickers down—to Paige’s lips, slightly chapped but still soft, still way too close to her own.

And for a second, for one reckless, impulsive, insane second, Jo thinks about leaning in.

The thought sends a jolt through her.

She shoves it down so fast it makes her stomach churn, immediately pushing Paige off of her before she can even fully process what just happened.

“You’re too heavy to be laying on me like that,” she says, trying for humor, but the words come out a little strangled.

Paige grabs her own bearings, letting out a startled laugh, sitting up on her knees. “Hey!”

Jo rolls over, sitting up quickly, dusting snow off her sleeves, trying to act normal, trying to breathe properly, trying not to think about how she almost—

God.

She can’t do this.

PAIGE STEPS out of the bedroom, rubbing at her arms as a shiver wracks through her. She knew changing into just a t-shirt and sweatpants was a bad idea, but her sweatshirt is still damp from falling in the snow earlier, and putting it back on felt like asking for hypothermia. She’ll have to live with it, she guesses, even if the cold air nips at her skin, goosebumps rising along her forearms.

The day has been long, another one spent out on the slopes. Since Paige’s first time on a board yesterday, she’s improved tenfold, and today had been much much more enjoyable, only a few falls to round it out.

She hears movement in the kitchen as she rounds the corner, the soft clinking of mugs and the faint hum of Jo moving around.

Paige slows her steps.

Jo’s back is to her, standing at the counter, stirring something in a mug—hot chocolate, probably, based on the rich scent of cocoa that lingers in the air. The sight of Jo, standing there so effortlessly domestic, makes something warm curl low in Paige’s stomach.

Paige is used to it, at this point. It happens constantly, the unshakable heat that rises whenever Jo does literally anything. Yesterday, it had been on the slope, when Jo helped her up from the snow, when she brushed Paige’s hair out of her face, when she looked at her with something so unreadable, so intense, that Paige had felt frozen in place.

And now—now, it’s just the way Jo stands there, all soft and warm and anything but hers in the low light of the kitchen.

Paige hesitates for a second, then smirks to herself, an idea forming in her head. She moves quietly, barely making a sound as she steps up behind Jo, hands flexing at her sides, anticipation bubbling in her chest.

Then, before Jo can realize what’s happening, Paige strikes—

Cold hands pressing firmly against the back of Jo’s neck.

Jo screams.

It’s high-pitched, startled, and absolutely hilarious.

She jolts forward, nearly sloshing cocoa over the counter, then whirls around, eyes wild, before smacking Paige’s arm, sending a weak but retaliatory shove into her shoulder.

“What is wrong with you?” Jo yelps, voice still breathless from the shock.

Paige is cackling, clutching her stomach. “Oh my God, your face—”

Jo glares at her, rubbing at the back of her neck with a dramatic shudder. “You suck. I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Paige grins, stepping beside her, nudging her lightly with her hip. Jo just mutters something under her breath and turns back to the counter, still grumbling as she grabs another mug and pours some hot chocolate for Paige, shoving it at her without another word.

They end up drinking together, leaning against the counter in a comfortable quiet, warmth settling between them.

Paige takes a sip of her cocoa, sighing into the comforting heat, before glancing over at Jo—only to immediately snort.

Jo blinks at her, confused. “What?”

Paige just shakes her head, grinning. “Joey, you got a little—”

She gestures vaguely, but Jo just frowns, not getting it, so Paige doesn’t think much before she lifts her hand, reaching out, swiping her thumb carefully across Jo’s upper lip to wipe away the hot-chocolate mustache.

And Paige—Paige really should’ve thought about what she was doing before she did it.

Because suddenly, Jo is looking at her.

Really, really looking at her.

Those wide, dark eyes staring up at Paige, so open, so deep, so endlessly fucking beautiful, and Paige’s breath catches somewhere in her throat.

Her thumb lingers at the corner of Jo’s mouth, pressing lightly into the soft skin there, and Jo doesn’t move. Paige doesn’t even think she breathes.

Her lips part, and Paige’s gaze drops, just for a second, just long enough for something unspoken to crackle between them, thick and heavy and—

The sound of footsteps breaks them apart.

Paige jolts, snatching her hand away so fast it’s almost unnatural.

Jo takes a sharp breath, blinking rapidly, stepping back, shifting away.

And then Peyton waltzes in, completely oblivious to the moment she just shattered, announcing cheerfully, “I’m making cookies, and you two are gonna be my helpers.”

Paige’s heart is still racing, and she shoots a glance at Jo, who looks… composed, somehow, like she didn’t just—like they didn’t just—

But Paige knows her.

She sees the way Jo’s fingers twitch against the mug she’s holding, the way her jaw clenches just slightly, the way her shoulders are drawn just a little too tight.

And Paige knows.

Whatever that was—Jo felt it too.

It doesn’t really undo anything in Paige like it should. Because, recently, things have just been like that. It’s weird.

Paige swallows hard, turning back to Peyton with a too-easy grin. “Oh, yeah, we’ll totally help.”

Jo lets out a quiet laugh beside her, and when Paige glances over, she finds her smirking too, They both know they’ll be no help—if anything, they’ll be a nuisance, eating all of the dough before Peyton can even put it in the oven.

For now, the tension’s been almost buried under something playful, something safe.

But still—Paige knows.

She felt it.

And no matter how hard Jo tries to act normal, no matter how hard Paige tries to shove it down—

It’s still there.

JO LEAVES Mia’s bedroom, closing the door softly behind her as she rakes a hand through her hair. The faint scent of strawberry-scented hair chalk clings to her hoodie, and her fingertips are slightly stained pink and blue from helping Mia color streaks into her light brown hair. It had been cute, how excited she was about it—sitting cross-legged on the bed, practically vibrating with energy as Jo carefully twisted sections of her hair and dragged the chalk down in soft strokes.

Jo’s family does their gifts on Christmas Eve—Jo’s parents are firm believers in the magic of sleeping in on Christmas morning, rather than waking up at the crack of dawn to open presents—and tonight, was just the same as always. The living room had been a mess of ripped wrapping paper and scattered boxes just an hour ago, Jo and her sisters laughing over their gifts, their parents watching with fond amusement. Paige had fit into it like she belonged there, pressed beside Jo for the entirety of it.

Jo frowns slightly as she steps into the hallway, suddenly aware of the quiet that’s settled over the cabin. It had been loud earlier—Peyton arguing with their dad over the rules of a board game, Mia showing off her new gifts, Christmas music playing softly in the background—but now, it’s peaceful. Dim lighting, the distant hum of conversation from the living room. She wonders where Paige went.

She heads toward the kitchen, where her mom is finishing up the last of the dishes, running water humming over the faint clatter of plates. “Where’s P?” Jo asks, leaning against the doorway.

Her mom doesn’t even glance up as she says, “Oh, I think she went out to the hot tub.”

Jo nods, but her chest tightens, just a little.

She turns on her heel and makes her way to the room she and Paige are sharing, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. She exhales, standing still for a moment, debating.

She thinks about joining Paige. Thinks that it’s normal for best friends to do that, to sit in the hot tub together after a long day, soak in the warmth and relax. But she also knows herself, and she knows the way her thoughts have been slipping these last few days, the way she catches herself looking at Paige for too long, noticing things she shouldn’t be noticing. She knows that if she goes out there, if she lets herself be alone with Paige like that, she might not be able to control the way her mind wanders.

Whatever, she decides. She wants to get in the hot tub.

So, she grabs the bikini she packed, changing quickly before wrapping herself in a towel. The air in the cabin is warm, but she knows the second she steps outside, the mountain air will cut through her like a blade. Still, she forces herself forward, padding toward the back deck, bare feet light against the wood floor.

When she opens the back door, the cold hits her immediately, biting at her exposed skin. She shivers, hissing, “Shit, it’s freezing out here.”

Paige startles slightly, turning her head. She’s sitting in the hot tub alone, the water bubbling gently around her, steam rising in wisps. Her eyes catch the deck light for a second, flickering bright, and she huffs a quiet laugh. “It’s warmer in here.”

Jo rolls her eyes, setting her towel down on a nearby chair. “Oh, really?” she says, sarcastic, before stepping into the hot tub.

And then her gaze fully lands on Paige, and—well, fuck.

She looks good.

It’s not like Jo hasn’t seen Paige in a sports bra, in oversized sweats, in all kinds of casual, effortless outfits. But this is different. Her blonde hair is down, slightly wavy, damp at the ends. Her bikini is turquoise, standing out against her skin, making her eyes even more blue in the soft deck lighting. And—shit, Jo shouldn’t be looking—her biceps. Jo knows she’s been training through her ACL recovery, knows she’s been getting stronger, but she hasn’t let herself really notice until now. Hasn’t let herself register the way Paige’s arms look, the lean muscle in her shoulders. And then there’s the cross chain hanging at her collarbone, resting against her skin, catching just enough light to make it glint faintly.

Jo swallows hard, forcing herself to look away, sinking into the water as she exhales. The warmth is immediate, a contrast to the crisp night air, and she tries to focus on that instead of the low, lazy grin Paige is giving her.

“You finally decided to join me,” Paige murmurs, shifting slightly, the water rippling around her.

Jo smirks, because it’s easier than letting anything real show. “Yeah, well, I figured you’d get lonely.”

Paige rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue, stretching her arms along the edge of the hot tub, tilting her head back slightly. Jo catches herself staring at the curve of her throat, the faint glisten of water against her collarbone, and quickly looks away.

This is fine.

Paige doesn’t seem to notice the way Jo’s whole body is too tight, too aware, too much as she leans back against the edge of the hot tub. Instead, she shifts slightly, gaze flickering away from Jo, looking out toward the mountains. Jo follows her line of sight, letting herself focus on the view instead of the heat curling in her stomach, the undeniable feeling of wanting something she isn’t supposed to want.

The view really is something.

The mountains stretch high and dark against the night sky, the peaks dusted with snow, the stars scattered above them like someone spilled glitter across the horizon. The air is sharp with the scent of pine and frost, the only sounds the occasional distant rustle of wind through trees and the soft bubbling of the water around them. Jo’s been coming here since she was a kid, since before she could even really appreciate how incredible it was. It never gets old.

Paige exhales, voice quiet, almost reverent. “It’s kinda perfect here.”

Jo glances at her again, at the way the dim deck lights reflect in her eyes, making them almost glow. And for a second, Jo doesn’t think she’s talking about the view at all.

“Yeah,” Jo agrees, looking away, looking anywhere else. “It is.”

Silence settles between them, thick but not uncomfortable. Jo tries to let herself relax into it, but then she hears the shift of water, the subtle movement before she feels it—before she realizes that Paige is moving closer to her.

She tenses before she can stop herself, her fingers curling under the water.

And then Paige is looking at her again, something soft in her gaze, something almost vulnerable, like she wants to say something but isn’t sure if she should. It’s a rare look for Paige, whose confidence is as natural as breathing, who always seems to know exactly what to say and when to say it.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Paige says, and her voice is quiet but serious, enough that it throws Jo off for a second.

Jo swallows, holding eye contact with her for a long moment before looking down at the water, watching the way the steam curls off the surface. Her face suddenly feels warm in a way that has nothing to do with the hot tub. “Well, it’s not like I’d ever let you stay at campus by yourself on Christmas,” she murmurs.

Paige tilts her head slightly, considering that. “Yeah,” she says slowly, “but a lot of people wouldn’t have just let someone tag along with their family for the holidays.”

Jo looks up again, furrowing her brows, because the way Paige says it—like she was expecting Jo not to invite her—rubs her the wrong way. “You’re not just any someone, though, P,” she says, voice firm. “You’re my—”

She stops short, the words catching in her throat, because—well…

She doesn’t actually know what this is anymore.

She’s never let herself think too hard about it, about the way they slipped into each other’s lives so fast, like gravity pulling them together. Her roommate, her teammate, her best friend. But none of those words feel right for this, for the way her heart is hammering, for the way Paige is looking at her.

Paige shifts closer still, the movement rippling through the water, stealing the air from Jo’s lungs.

“Hm?” Paige hums, like she’s waiting for Jo to finish.

Jo forces herself to breathe, gripping the edge of seat in the hot tub just to have something to do with her hands. She exhales sharply, shaking her head once, barely. “You’re just—my person,” she settles on, because best friend doesn’t suit the way her pulse is thrumming, doesn’t suit the way her entire body is tuned into Paige’s every shift, every breath.

She makes eye contact again, and—Paige isn’t looking at her eyes anymore.

She’s looking at Jo’s lips.

That’s definitely not something best friends do.

Jo’s stomach flips violently, her entire body going stiff with tension, with awareness, with want. Paige’s gaze flickers back up, just for a second, and Jo swears she sees something shift in her expression—like realization, like something clicking into place, like maybe, maybe she’s been thinking about this just as much as Jo has.

The air between them is heavy, electric, charged with something neither of them are saying.

And then it snaps all at once when Paige shifts even closer, so close Jo can feel the faintest brush of her knee against hers under the water, and Paige says, “Jo?”

It’s quiet, almost hesitant, and it’s the first time Jo has ever heard Paige say her name like that, like it means something more.

It undoes her completely.

She doesn’t think. Doesn’t even hesitate.

She just moves.

Leans in instead of pulling away, lets her eyes flicker shut as she presses her lips to Paige’s, her heart slamming against her ribs.

And Paige—Paige doesn’t pull away.

Paige kisses her back.

It’s soft at first, like they’re both testing the waters, and Jo melts into it, lets herself get lost in the warmth of it. Paige’s lips are soft, gentle against hers, and Jo feels like she could drown in the way Paige tilts her head just slightly, deepening the kiss.

And then—something shifts.

The hesitation begins to fade. Paige moves in closer, her hands finding the skin of Jo’s waist under the water, and Jo exhales shakily against the blonde’s mouth because oh.

Paige kisses like she plays basketball—effortless, confident, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Like she’s taking her time memorizing Jo, mapping her out piece by piece. Jo barely has time to process it before her body reacts on instinct, her fingers reaching out, finding Paige’s shoulders, gripping just tight enough to keep her as close as possible.

The heat between them rises, spreading through Jo’s chest, making her lightheaded. She’s hasn’t felt something like this in a long time—if ever, really. This dizzying, overwhelming need. She can’t remember if it was ever like this was Asher. Jo was always just so used to him—but Paige… Paige is entirely different.

Paige kisses fast yet slow, soft yet rough, the perfect mix. She shifts again, pressing in closer, and Jo can’t help but chase her, tilting her head, her fingers slipping up from Paige’s shoulders to thread into damp blonde hair. Paige makes a soft, pleased sound against her lips, and Jo swears she feels it all the way down to her toes.

Jo’s needy now, desperate in a way that catches her off guard, but she hardly finds it in herself to care. She tightens her grip on Paige, her nails digging into her scalp, pulling her impossibly closer because it’s still not enough.

Jesus fuck, Paige is a good kisser.

The blonde lets Jo take control for a moment, lets Jo press her back against the edge of the hot tub, but then—just as quickly—Paige is taking the lead again. Her grip on Jo’s waist tightens, fingers pressing into slick, warm skin as she shifts them, pulling Jo forward, guiding her onto her lap. Jo’s breath stutters as her bare thighs press against Paige’s, her knees pressing into the edge of the seat on either of Paige’s hips.

Paige’s grip is firm, her touch sure and steady in a way that makes Jo’s skin feel like it’s burning.

She should say something, do something, anything other than let out the small, helpless sound that slips past her lips as Paige pulls her in tighter.

But she does. And Paige hears it.

And something about it—about that quiet, desperate little noise—seems to spur Paige on, because then she’s tilting her head, chasing Jo’s lips again, capturing them in a kiss that’s deeper, hungrier than before. Her tongue slips into Jo’s mouth, licking around, and Jo inhales sharply at it.

Jo’s mind is a mess, spinning wildly, but all she can focus on is this—Paige, the way she tastes, the way she feels, the way every press of her lips, every swipe of her tongue, sends electricity straight through Jo’s veins.

The second Paige’s lips leave hers, Jo almost whimpers at the loss.

Her breath is uneven, chest rising and falling rapidly as moves beneath her, her lips ghosting away from Jo’s mouth, trailing down, down, down—until they’re pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against the sharp line of her jaw.

Jo swears she forgets how to breathe, her hand tightening in Paige’s hair, half-gripping her chain, as well.

Paige doesn’t stop. She presses a kiss to the spot just beneath Jo’s ear, and Jo shudders, her fingers tightening in Paige’s hair. She can feel the heat of Paige’s breath against her skin, feel the way Paige’s lips part just enough for her tongue to sweep out.

Paige’s hands grip onto the skin of Jo’s waist before one begins to slide up, fingertips tracing Jo’s spine before settling firmly at the back of Jo’s neck, holding her in place. Paige’s other hand trails from her hip, down to the curve of Jo’s ass, palming and kneading it in a way that makes the brunette feel the need to clench her thighs together—anything to relieve the ache growing between them.

Instead, she makes a noise—something soft and high-pitched, something that she doesn’t even realize she’s made until Paige reacts to it.

Paige groans a little, exhaling sharply, her lips nipping along the column of Jo’s throat, her tongue sweeping across the skin to soothe it. Jo’s head tips back before she can stop herself, before she can think, before she can do anything other than feel.

And God, she feels everything.

Paige’s mouth, Paige’s hands, the firm grip keeping her exactly where Paige wants her.

Jo’s heart pounds, and she doesn’t know if it’s from heat of the water or the heat of Paige, but she feels like she’s burning from the inside out.

She tries not to think about what this means, about how everything is changing, about how she’ll have to deal with this later.

She tries not to think about whether Paige wants this the same way she does.

Paige has a roster. That much, Jo knows. She’s seen it, heard it, talked to some of it—mostly just Celeste, but still. Jo knows that all of this stuff is casual and fleeting for Paige, just another part of her life.

But Jo isn’t like that. She doesn’t do this kind of thing. She doesn’t let herself get swept up in the moment, something that could be nothing, in something that might not mean anything to the other person. Seriously, she literally dated the same person for nearly six fucking years.

But then—what could this be? Paige is her best friend, her teammate, her roommate. If they became something more, they couldn’t fuck it up because it could ruin everything. Not to mention the fact that it hasn’t even been a month since Jo and Asher broke up. She’s still trying to mend that crack in her heart.

All of these thoughts should make her pull away. It should make her stop.

But they don’t.

Because right now, with Paige’s lips on her neck and her hands holding Jo so close, it feels like none of that even matters.

Right now, Jo doesn’t care if this is just another fleeting thing for Paige or if she should even be doing this with a break-up so fresh.

Because right now, Paige wants her.

And Jo wants Paige.

So, she lets herself have it.

She tightens her grip in Paige’s hair, tugs just slightly, just enough to pull Paige’s mouth back to hers, just enough to draw another satisfied sound from Paige’s throat. Paige’s nose nudges Jo’s as she tilts her head, pressing into the kiss again, deep and slow and absolutely devastating.

And Jo lets herself get lost in it.

That is, until the sound of the back door opening shudders around them.

Jo feels her entire body jolt like she’s been electrocuted. The heat from the hot tub is nothing compared to the fire scorching under her skin, the way her heart slams against her ribs like it’s trying to break free. Beside her, Paige reacts just as quickly—springing away, water sloshing violently between them, the absence of her warmth immediately and startling. Jo doesn’t dare look at her, doesn’t dare move, because if she does, she’ll have to genuinely acknowledge what’s just happened. She’ll have to process the way her lips still tingle, the way her chest is still heaving, the way Paige was just kissing her like she fucking meant it.

But she doesn’t have time for that, not when Mia—innocent, unsuspecting Mia—is standing by the back door in her little Rudolph-themed swimsuit, eyes bouncing between Jo and Paige like she’s trying to put the pieces together.

“Hi…” the little girl says slowly, tilting her head.

Paige is the one that moves first.

“Um,” she stammers, her voice higher than usual, her hands flexing uselessly at her sides as she stands up too fast, nearly slipping in the water. “I’mma—uh, I’m just gonna—shower. Yeah—shower.”

Jo watches, still slightly frozen where she sits, as Paige snatches up her towel with more urgency than necessary and books it inside without so much as a glance back. The door slides shut behind her, leaving only the ghost of her presence and the realization of what’s just occurred.

Jo is still stuck, still trying to catch up, still trying to make sense of the fact that she kissed Paige—she kissed Paige—and Paige kissed her back—and—

And then Mia lowers herself into the water, grinning.

That fucking grin.

Jo narrows her eyes before Mia can even open her mouth. “Don’t.”

Because… yeah, she just—can’t talk about this yet. Maybe never.

Jo clenches her jaw, her teeth grinding together as she stares down at her hands as if they hold all the answers. Maybe they do—because just moments ago, they were holding Paige.

Jesus, what has she gotten herself into?

[beekeeperspicnic]

Can't believe this blog has existed THIS long, and I've somehow never shared this Sherlock Holmes fanfic by PG Wodehouse. As far as I know it predates Conan Doyle publishing any stories which mention Holmes retiring to keep bees, which presents the delightful possibility that ACD discussed his future plans for Holmes with his young friend Plum, whose first reaction was to go off and write (and publish) a cute parody of it.

The Adventure of the Missing Bee

Sherlock Holmes is to retire from public life after Christmas, and take to bee-farming in the country.

"It is a little hard, my dear Watson," said Holmes, stretching his long form on the sofa, and injecting another half-pint of morphia with the little jewelled syringe which the Prince of Piedmont had insisted on presenting to him as a reward for discovering who had stolen his nice new rattle; "it is just a little hard that an exhausted, overworked private detective, coming down to the country in search of peace and quiet, should be confronted in the first week by a problem so weird, so sinister, that for the moment it seems incapable of solution."

"You refer—?" I said.

"To the singular adventure of the missing bee, as anybody but an ex-army surgeon equipped with a brain of dough would have known without my telling him."

I readily forgave him his irritability, for the loss of his bee had had a terrible effect on his nerves. It was a black business. Immediately after arriving at our cottage, Holmes had purchased from the Army and Navy Stores a fine bee. It was docile, busy, and intelligent, and soon made itself quite a pet with us. Our consternation may, therefore, be imagined when, on going to take it out for its morning run, we found the hive empty. The bee had disappeared, collar and all. A glance at its bed showed that it had not been slept in that night. On the floor of the hive was a portion of the insect's steel chain, snapped. Everything pointed to sinister violence.

Holmes' first move had been to send me into the house while he examined the ground near the hive for footsteps. His search produced no result. Except for the small, neat tracks of the bee, the ground bore no marks. The mystery seemed one of those which are destined to remain unsolved through eternity.

But Holmes was ever a man of action.

"Watson," he said to me, about a week after the incident, "the plot thickens. What does the fact that a Frenchman has taken rooms at Farmer Scroggins' suggest to you?"

"That Farmer Scroggins is anxious to learn French," I hazarded.

"Idiot!" said Holmes, scornfully. "You've got a mind like a railway bun. No. If you wish to know the true significance of that Frenchman's visit, I will tell you. But, in the first place, can you name any eminent Frenchman who is interested in bees?"

I could answer that.

"Maeterlinck," I replied. "Only he is a Belgian."

"It is immaterial. You are quite right. M. Maeterlinck was the man I had in my mind. With him bees are a craze. Watson, that Frenchman is M. Maeterlinck's agent. He and Farmer Scroggins have conspired, and stolen that bee."

"Holmes!" I said, horrified. "But M. Maeterlinck is a man of the most rigid honesty."

"Nobody, my dear Watson, is entirely honest. He may seem so, because he never meets with just that temptation which would break through his honesty. I once knew a bishop who could not keep himself from stealing pins. Every man has his price. M. Maeterlinck's is bees. Pass the morphia."

"But Farmer Scroggins!" I protested. "A bluff, hearty English yeoman of the best type."

"May not his heartiness be all bluff?" said Holmes, keenly. "You may take it from me that there is literally nothing that that man would stick at. Murder? I have seen him kill a wasp with a spade, and he looked as if he enjoyed it. Arson? He has a fire in his kitchen every day. You have only to look at the knuckle of the third finger of his left hand to see him as he is. If he is an honest man, why does he wear a made-up tie on Sundays? If he is an upright man, why does he stoop when he digs potatoes? No, Watson, nothing that you can say can convince me that Farmer Scroggins has not a black heart. The visit of this Frenchman—who, as you can see in an instant if you look at his left shoulder-blade, has not only deserted his wife and a large family, but is at this very moment carrying on a clandestine correspondence with an American widow, who lives in Kalamazoo, Mich. — convinces me that I have arrived at the true solution of the mystery. I have written a short note to Farmer Scroggins, requesting him to send back the bee and explaining that all is discovered. And that," he broke off, "is, if I mistake not, his knock. Come in."

The door opened. There was a scuffling in the passage, and in bounded our missing bee, frisking with delight. Our housekeeper followed, bearing a letter. Holmes opened it.

"Listen to this, Watson," said Holmes, in a voice of triumph.

"'Mr. Giles Scroggins sends his compliments to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, an' it's quite true, I did steal that there bee, though how Mr. Holmes found out, Mr. G. Scroggins bean't able to understand. I am flying the country as requested. Please find enclosed 1 (one) bee, and kindly acknowledge receipt to 'Your obedient servant, 'G. Scroggins.

'Enclosure.'?"

"Holmes," I whispered, awe-struck, "you are one of the most remarkable men I ever met."

He smiled, lit his hookah, seized his violin, and to the slow music of that instrument turned once more to the examination of his test tubes.

Three days later we saw the following announcement in the papers: "M. Maeterlinck, the distinguished Belgian essayist, wishes it to be known that he has given up collecting bees, and has taken instead to picture postcards."

[asbealthgn]

wrote this goofy thing as an expansion of this post

It’s very surprising when the door to Eddie’s trailer opens and Eddie is standing there with flowers.

It’s even more surprising when he says, “Happy one month!” with a big grin.

Steve looks back and forth between Eddie and the flowers—wildflowers by the look of them, probably picked around the edges of the trailer park. “Uh, one month of what?”

Eddie gives him an uncertain smile like he’s not sure if Steve’s being serious or not. “Of our relationship,” he says, the last syllable tilting up almost like a question.

Huh. Kind of weird, but at the start of summer Steve and Robin had an ice cream party to celebrate the year anniversary of when they started at Scoops together. So it’s not like this is completely unheard of. Except—

“You and I have been friends for longer than a month,” Steve says, “It’s been like—” he tries to count the months since spring break in his head “—at least four? Unless you don’t count when you were unconscious in the hospital, but that was only a couple weeks, so—”

“I mean one month of our relationship,” Eddie says, putting emphasis on the word. And now his eyebrows are drawn together. Face concerned. And Steve is clearly missing something here.

Did something significant happen a month ago? Some moment where they moved from friends to best friends or something? It was probably about a month or so ago the first time Steve spent the night at Eddie’s trailer, but that wasn’t a huge deal. Steve has spent the night at the Byers’ house before and it’s not like he and Jonathan are breaking out the balloons to commemorate it. 

Steve feels guilty, because clearly there’s something that Eddie thinks he should know that he doesn’t. He doesn’t like this nervous look on Eddie’s face. Steve tries to think like Nancy, tries to put the clues together. But he’s not Nancy. So he’s lost. 

“I’m sorry, dude,” Steve says, “I don’t get what you mean.”

Eddie deflates.

“I know we haven’t necessarily defined it.” His voice is wavering, eyes getting watery. Shit shit shit, what did Steve do? This is so completely out of nowhere and Steve doesn’t know how to fix it. “But I didn’t realize it was actually that insignificant to you.”

Steve shoots his arm out to stop Eddie from closing the door on him. He needs to figure out what’s going on so he can make it right, and that’s not gonna happen if Eddie shuts him out. “Eds, seriously, you’re gonna have to fill me in,” he says, “‘Cause I honestly don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Seriously?” Eddie asks, anger over taking the sadness in his voice, “You’re gonna act like you don’t know?”

“I don’t!” Steve nearly shouts, desperate. “Please, man, I’m not trying to piss you off here. Whatever it is, I wanna make it right. You just have to tell me what you mean.”

“You and I,” Eddie says. Looking at him like it should be obvious. When it’s so, so not. It makes Steve want to scream. “We’re—I thought we were together.”

“Together? Like…together how?”

Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen Eddie look this pissed off. “Use your goddamned brain, Harrington,” he spits, “Like together.”

Oh. Okay. That’s…something. It’s not that Steve would necessarily be opposed, or even that he hasn’t thought of it. It’s just not true. They’re not together. And he’s not sure why Eddie thinks they are. Yeah, they’re close, but it’s not like they’re closer than Steve and Robin. It’s not like they’re closer than Steve was to Tommy back in the day. He and Eddie haven’t done anything that feels outside the realm of friendship to him. And he definitely didn’t realize that Eddie saw it any differently.

“Um,” Steve says, aware that he’s standing like an idiot on Eddie’s doorstep and needs to answer. “Why?”

“Oh my God,” Eddie says, making as if to close the door again. Steve barely catches it in time. It makes Eddie glare at him. “There’s no way you’re being serious,” he says.

Keeping one hand on the door, Steve throws up the other one in a gesture he stole from Robin. “I really am,” he says, “You know what the kids say. I’m an idiot. You really have to lay things out for me.”

That at least makes Eddie soften a few degrees. “You’re not an idiot, Steve,” he says, “You’re just—oblivious, apparently.”

“Yeah, that too.”

Eddie sighs. “Just come in. We can talk about it.” He steps back and lets Steve come inside. The flowers are still clutched in Eddie’s hand, starting to wilt. Eddie sets them on the table before joining Steve on the couch. 

“A month ago is when you stayed over for the first time,” Eddie says. Steve nods. “And you kissed me.” Steve nods again. Eddie lifts his eyebrows significantly. “You’re not seeing the connection?”

Steve shrugs. “I mean, I guess there’s other ways you could construe that,” he says, “But I thought it was, like, a friend kiss. A goodnight kiss.”

“A friend kiss,” Eddie says flatly. “You kiss a lot of your friends?”

“Sure,” Steve says, “Well, Robin prefers forehead kisses and Jonathan’s more of a hug guy, but I used to kiss Tommy and Carol all the time.”

Disbelief is the main emotion on Eddie’s face. And a whole lot of other ones that Steve can’t quite parse out. “So—everything we’ve done,” Eddie says, slowly, like he’s trying to come to terms with it. “It’s all just…been normal friend shit to you?”

Steve thinks back over the last month, trying to think if anything stands out in his head as non-platonic. Maybe there’s been a time or two when he was kissing Eddie or cuddling up to him in bed or sitting on his lap during D&D where Steve’s felt a sort of stirring deep in his belly. But he figured that was one-sided. His body’s reaction to whatever was happening and not a manifestation of, like, feelings or something. After all, the same thing used to happen with Tommy when they’d do similar stuff. And clearly they were just friends.

After a full twenty seconds of Steve not answering, Eddie drops his head in his hands. “Holy shit,” he mutters. Then he lifts his head. “This—you—the other day. You slept over. We made out. You—you took my fucking shirt off, Steve.”

Yeah, that did happen. And Steve doesn’t have a great explanation for it. “I don’t know,” he says, “It was the heat of the moment or whatever.”

“The heat of the moment,” Eddie repeats, and Steve can’t tell if he’s on the verge of tears or the verge of laughing. Eddie puts his arm on the back of the couch and leans toward Steve. “Can you honestly say that you’re not attracted to me at all?”

Annoyingly, Steve can feel his face start to heat. “I never said that,” he mutters.

For the first time, Eddie looks triumphant. “So you are attracted to me?”

“Yeah, man,” Steve says, squirming uncomfortably. Of course he’s attracted to Eddie. What’s not to be attracted to? He’s smart, funny, hot, good with the kids, good on the guitar, good at kissing. Helped save the world. “You’re, like, it for me. I definitely think about you that way. I just didn’t think you thought about me that way.”

Eddie laughs, the sound containing more disbelief than humor, but still overall a good thing. “I can’t believe the guy who’s been sharing my bed for the past month didn’t think I was into him.”

“Hey, you’re not the only person whose bed I’ve shared.” Shit, that was a bad way to put it. “Platonically.”

Shaking his head, Eddie laughs again. “Clearly, your idea of platonic does not line up with mine,” he says. “But you mean it? You’re into me?”

“Yeah, Eds,” Steve says, “I’m into you.”

“So, does that mean you’d want to be my boyfriend?”

“Apparently I already have been for the past month,” Steve says, grinning.

Eddie grins back. “Doesn’t count if you didn’t know.”

“Then we can count from today,” Steve says, “Starting now, I’m your boyfriend.”

He hasn’t finished saying the last word before Eddie is surging forward and taking Steve’s face in his hands. He shifts onto Steve’s lap, kissing him deeply. 

And it doesn’t feel platonic at all.

[bibbityboppitybillyharvgrove]

All Thanks to You - T.Nott

Summary - At first, Theo found her gifts sweet and kind but the longer they went on the more they annoyed him. He had the false assumption that she was chasing after his money and status but he was very wrong. He didn't realize how wrong he was until he overhears her sticking up for him in library.

Pairings - Theo Nott x Fem!Reader

Warnings - Use of Y/N, female reader, profanity, stress

Author's Note - I'm getting through all of my requests slowly but surely, this will probably be my first and last post of the day. I'll try my best to keep banging these out but unfortunately today was my last day of spring break and my vacation from work. Thank you for being patient!

Based off the request by an anon

Expect delays in my posting! My semester has started and I am taking 4 classes! Please be patient with me!

My requests are open!

my masterlist

Feedback is welcomed and encouraged!

Enjoy!

It was almost disgustingly obvious how much she liked Theo, except to the boy himself. It had taken him ages to figure it all out. He thought it was weird at first, he was always getting baked treats, a seat saved, books that he ended up loving and notes sent to him. Then, it started to annoy him, he thought that she was just trying to get to him because of his status and money. That of course wasn’t her intention but he didn’t figure that one out until he overheard a conversation, one revolving around him and all of his flaws and untrue rumors.

He was about to jump in himself until the sweet voice of the girl sending him all of these good things chimed in. 

“That’s not true at all. Theo is so kind and sweet. He cares so much about his friends and only acts cold to people like you because you believe and spread all of these bullshit lies. He’s not rude, he’s not unnerving, he especially isn’t ugly or gross to girls. He’s sweet and kind and loving and a great person and if you can’t see that, then don’t consider me your friend anymore,” She ranted before packing up her books and walking away, not expecting to bump into the boy himself. “Oh shit, I’m sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going, I’ll get out of your way.”

“Wait,” He pleaded, having every expectation of her walking away but she stopped in her tracks and turned to face him, “Thank you for sticking up for me. I know I said your gifts were annoying but I don’t really think that. I honestly thought you were after me for money or to boost your status or something, I shouldn’t have assumed that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. You’re a good person Theo. I’d love to talk more but I really have to go study for the potions exam,” She told him.

“Study with me, I have an O in the class, I can help you.” The smile on her face brightened the room, making his heart skip a beat, a smile finding its way onto his own lips.

“Okay! I know the best spot in the library,” She chirped, grabbing his hand and leading him to the top floor into a quiet corner. The two of them studied together for nearly an hour before she spoke again, “How in the fuck do you make a draught of the living dead again? I can’t remember anything right now, my brain is fried,” She groaned, resting her forehead on crossed arms.

“You need a break, love. Let’s go to the kitchen and get some food from the house elves,” Theo offered.

“Won’t we get in trouble?”

“No, I’m friends with the prefects on duty, let’s go before they change shifts.”

The whole way down to the kitchen, the two were holding hands, neither of them had even noticed until Draco stopped them in the stairwell leading down to their destination. “What do we have here? The infamous Theodore Nott holding hands with his admirer?”

“Oh shove off, we need you to cover the kitchen while we get food,” Theo told his friend, still holding onto her hand even though they were caught.

“What’s in it for me?” Draco asked.

Before Theo could open his mouth, Y/N answered, “Pumpkin pasties, green apples and cauldron cakes. I see you eating those a lot so I assume you like them?”

“You assume correctly, fine, let’s go lovebirds.”

Holding up her end of the promise, she got Draco his favorite sweets, snacking with the two Slytherin boys. The blond boy had taken a liking to her, finding her genuine, funny and observational. The bond between Theo and Y/N had grown and only got stronger by the day. It was no surprise to any of their friends when they started dating not long after studying together. 

They continued to have study dates until the day of the Potions exam. She was extremely nervous and Theo was nervous for her. They didn’t get to see each other until dinner that day. Taking her usual spot next to Theo at the Slytherin table, casually sliding a paper to him. He furrowed his eyebrows before opening the paper, the red ink stared him right in the face.

“You got an O?! Bellissima, that's amazing! I’m so proud of you!” Theo exclaimed as he hugged her tightly, placing kisses on her head.

“All thanks to you, handsome,” She smiled at him.

Theo kissed her deeply on her lips causing groans and gags around them. Neither of them having a care in the world other than her O.

[puck-luck]

moving along | john marino

warnings: established relationship, general complaints about Jersey, minor brat!reader but it’s not part of the sex, untraditional sex in the sense that they do not have furniture, unprotected p in v, sex as means of resolving an argument i guess?, fingering (fem!receiving) (sometimes i wonder if i need to clarify that because i personally am not into fingering my man’s ass and i doubt it’ll ever make its way into my writing), reference to oral (m!receiving), eating come (so true) pairing: John Marino x fem!reader request: “Could I request John Marino smut where after he’s traded to the Devils from Pittsburgh his girl is upset about the move but when they get to New Jersey he decides the best way to handle the move is for them to christen the new apartment to make it feel like home?  Like literally no furniture has arrived yet and they’re already going at it.” wc: 2570

Pitt had been your home since John first signed his contract with the Penguins in the summer of 2019. You’d moved there with him because he asked, you two had curated a shared apartment space that you loved and considered your first real home as an adult. You were happy in Pittsburgh and John was happy with the Penguins. You hadn’t really known about the trade until it came, just ten days shy of the three year anniversary of Pitt becoming your home base, your foundation.

You knew that the NHL was a fickle business when John first joined. Injuries were abundant, trades happened more often than you thought they would, and at weird times. Hell, people lost their teeth all the time in hockey. It was a weird sport, but for three years you and John had made a place for yourself in Pitt. 

John had just signed a six year contract extension with the Penguins a year and a half ago– so, yeah, you were still in denial about leaving Pittsburgh. It just didn’t make sense and you couldn’t wrap your brain around it.

You had packed up in what seemed like lightning speed, ditched the town that you knew, and now you’re arriving in Jersey. You don’t know anyone or any places except your new apartment complex, your new home. 

You’re cranky because you’ve been in the car for six hours. Not because you hate New Jersey and everyone there for uprooting your life in a mere instant.

Obviously.

John has been a saint about the move and the trade. It’s not his first– since he was originally drafted with the Oilers, he’s been through this process before. The difference, as you’ve reminded him multiple times now, is that he never played with the Oilers. He was picked, but he went to college. Then, he went to Pitt. And Pitt, John, was home. Not New Jersey.

That’s the gist of the same argument you’ve been having with your boyfriend over the past week or so. It’s never escalated because John is patient with you and so great, but you’ve noticed the tick in his jaw when you huff and puff and tense up in his arms. You don’t want to be angry at him, of course you don’t, because you know that it’s not his fault he was traded. It’s just the way the cookie crumbles. However, his presence has been a reminder of the fact that you were so happy in Pennsylvania and you’ve been nothing but bitter about New Jersey.

And now, standing in your empty apartment with a frown on your face, John has reached his limit.

He sneaks up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and hooking his chin over your shoulder. He presses a kiss to the side of your neck and one of your hands finds its way to his curls. 

“Thank you for coming with me,” John murmurs into your ear, another kiss adorning your neck.

You scrunch up your nose and side eye him. “Duh,” you reply. John knows that you two have been together long enough that you’d damn near follow him to the ends of the Earth, even if the end of the Earth is in New Jersey. 

Your response causes him to chuckle, kissing you again. He turns you in his arms and smiles down at you. 

You glare, pouting, but John can tell that you’re more upset than angry. It’s been a lot of change over the past few days, and even though you’ve been a little bit of a brat, your behavior has been justified. John’s heart clenches a bit when you reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug.

It’s quite the sight– a sweet, long embrace between partners in their newest home.

At least, it’s sweet until John ruins it.

“I have an idea about how we can make this place feel a little more… homey,” John says. You know the lilt in his voice by heart, having been with him for years. 

Pulling away, you roll your eyes and making sure John sees, knowing exactly where this is headed. You play along anyway. “What’s your idea?”

John grins and whispers conspiratorially, “We need to christen the apartment. It’s not a home until it’s been christened.”

You hold back a laugh, but a smile slips through. “We don’t have a bed yet.”

“We don’t need a bed,” John says. He slides his hands down to your hips and walks forward, only stopping when your back hits the wall and he’s crowded into your space. His head dips down and he mouths over your jawline. “I can fuck you right here, against this wall.”

“Mmm, dreamy,” you quip, your hands smoothing over John’s shoulders. You tilt your head back so he has more access to your neck and he rewards you by sucking a hickey near your pulse point. “You really know how to woo a girl, Johnny.”

John’s hips press against yours and you can already feel him stirring in his pants, growing harder as he continues to suck bruises along your skin. His hands have found your waist and hold onto you desperately. His lips make their way to yours and you share a brief kiss before he pulls away. “Just want to make my girl feel better,” he says, blinking innocently at you with his beautiful brown eyes.

Oh, how you fall for those eyes over and over again.

You draw out a sigh, looking around the apartment. One of your hands returns to John’s curls and pets through them, making him wait for your response. John, patient as always, waits for your response with an attentive smile and a tiny tilt of his head. His eyes rake over your face, taking in all of the details. His thumb comes up to your chin, tilting your head up. He leans in for a kiss.

You offer your lips up willingly, letting him control the pace. When he pulls away, you relent. “I guess we can christen the apartment,” you faux-complain, like it’s a job to keep up with John and his libido. 

John growls, teeth finding your bottom lip. “Let’s see if I can convince you to be a little more enthusiastic,” he teases, sneaking his hands up your shirt and lifting it over your head. He tosses the fabric behind him. Out of sight, out of mind. 

You hadn’t worn a bra today, since all you had done was sit in the car all day, and John reaps the benefits of that fact almost immediately.

He latches onto your chest, licking over one of your nipples and pinching the other. You pull on his hair, arching your back away from the wall. Your mouth opens in a silent moan as you puff out your chest, chasing the sensation of his tongue swirling against the peak of your nipple. He switches sides, looking up at you with hooded eyes.

“Johnny,” you say, and he smiles against your skin. You bring him back up to your lips, groaning when his tongue finds its way into your mouth and makes contact with your own. 

He runs his fingers all over your body, cupping your breasts and tracing your sides. He takes a handful of your ass and squeezes, making you jump against him. His length is fully hard now, still pressing into your hips, and he breathes out a moan when you roll your hips, grinding against him. 

You tug at his t-shirt, a wrinkly old stained thing from college, and he pulls away from you just long enough to get the offending clothing over his head before reconnecting your lips.

Now, your hands are the ones roaming his body, mapping his details through feel alone. He’s always been lean, but his skin is warm against yours and he’s defined in all the right places. He’s also soft and solid and he moves with your hands, making sure you’re always touching him in some way. You place the flat of your palm against his stomach, and the other against his chest, and you can feel John’s heart beating underneath your touch.

John sinks to one knee, pulling your shorts down and kissing over your stomach as he does. He removes your shorts and your panties, leaving you bare against the wall. He holds you steady, completely unnecessarily but sweet nonetheless, helping you step out of the clothing. He kisses his way back up your body.

Pecking your lips, he runs a finger through your folds. “So wet,” he mumbles into your mouth, pride filling his tone. He brings his finger up to his mouth and sucks it clean, then traces his tongue over yours. You can just barely taste yourself and it makes your knees a little weak. 

You lean into him, pulling him close. John works his finger back into you, pumping it slowly into and out of your entrance. It’s barely enough contact, barely fulfillment, and it isn’t long until you beg John to add another finger.

You’re scrambling, holding his bicep with a vice grip as he hikes your leg up onto his hip to give himself more access. You’re fucking against his hand, chasing the feeling of the orgasm that’s just out of reach, and it makes your eyelids flutter shut.

You moan aloud when John crooks his fingers and traces the spongy spot inside of you, teasing it. When you open your eyes, you find his trained on your face, lips parted and eyes wide. He never gets tired of seeing you like this, seeing you come apart on his hand.

“Please,” you breath out, voice cracking. You know you can come anytime, whenever you’re ready, that you don’t need permission, but you need John to give you just a little more.

“Touch your clit for me, baby,” John replies, kissing just under your earlobe.

You reach around and pet over your bundle of nerves, the contact making you clench down on his fingers. John groans at the feeling, sagging against you. You’re trapped between the wall and his warm, solid, strong body. 

“Make yourself come,” John encourages, voice soft. “Wanna see you.”

A wanton whine rips from your throat as your climax overtakes you. You arch into John as much as you can and he brings his mouth to your nipple once again, sucking harshly as the waves of your orgasm overtake you. It elongates it, makes your mind reel with pleasure, and you’re shaking in John’s arms by the time you come down.

He kisses you until you’re on solid ground again, the hand that’s not covered in your come crading your face. The other hand pushes at his shorts until they’re low enough that he can kick them away, then he does the same with his boxers. John grinds against you, his cock twitching against your oversensitive folds, but not breaching your entrance just yet.

He rubs himself against you until you pull away from his kiss and blink up at him, eyes hazy. Both of your hands find his cheeks and you smile at him, a little dopey. He returns the smile, goofy and oh, so pretty before dropping a kiss on your forehead.

“Gonna let me fuck you?” He asks, rolling his hips forward again with a bite to his bottom lip.

You nod, a quiet “please” falling from your lips. Your arms loops around his neck again and John brings his hands to your thighs, lifting you until your legs wrap around his waist.

“I’m gonna fuck you in every room of this apartment,” John promises, lining himself up with your entrance. You sink down on him as much as you can, as soon as his tip pushes into you. “Make you come over and over again, until you love our new home–” He thrusts his hips forward. “Just as much as you love me.”

“Impossible,” you reply. “Love you too much.”

John grins, a hand on your hip and the other bracing himself against the wall. “We’ll see.”

He drills into you, the sound of his hips slapping against yours filling the empty apartment. It seems to echo off the walls, surrounding you. John’s grunts and moans fill your ears, and your whimpers fill his. He bites your neck, then soothes the skin with a pass of his tongue, letting his saliva cool over your throat. It’s almost as satisfying as the weight of his hand would be.

He fills you so well, and he’s pent up, having been waiting to fuck you for hours. His favorite way to satisfy you, to make you content, is to fuck all of the negativity away and make it so your head is full of thoughts about him and the pleasure he’s giving you, nothing more and nothing less. The move was the perfect excuse to fuck you hard and fast and dirty, the way John knows you love.

As evidenced by your walls clenching down around him, the wet slick dripping from your cunt and gathering at the base of his cock. God, if he can get you to come before he does, he’ll have you lick it all off until his come paints the back of your throat.

Just the thought has him fucking you harder, faster. You’re barely able to make any noise because it’s just so good, and John relishes in the feeling of your fingernails digging into his back. Back in its favorite place, one of your hands pulls on his curls, grip so tight that his head has to follow. 

John brings both hands to the globes of your ass, leaning into you so that your back against the wall supports you both. He presses into you, fucking so deep that he swears he can feel the tip of his cock against your cervix with each thrust. 

You cry out, tensing against him as he fucks you through a second orgasm, your legs shaking around him. You’re breathless and despite the overstimulation, you’re still fucking down onto him, rolling your hips to meet every thrust. 

John ditches his other plan on a whim, burying his face in your neck and allowing his hips to stutter, his warm seed shooting off inside of you. You moan aloud at the feeling and John almost buckles, and would have if the wall behind you hadn’t been holding the both of you up. He catches his breath, his thrusts slowing as he continues to fuck his come deep inside of you, feeling the way your walls drag against his shaft. 

“So good,” you sigh as John lowers you to the floor.

He slips out of your warmth with a wince, his cock softening. His mouth waters as he watches the come slide down the inside of your thighs, a milky mixture of both of your releases.

You laugh a little at the feeling, dragging your hand over the skin to stop the flow and licking the liquid off your palm to clean yourself up. 

John groans at the sight. “Fuck, baby, don’t do that,” he complains. “I can’t go again yet.”

“Mmm,” you hum around your fingers, drawing them out of your mouth with a pop that has John wilting. You smile, sickly sweet and teasing. “Just like at home. Nice to see that a change of location doesn’t affect your refractory period.”

[cameronspecial]

Hey! Your writing is a masterpiece can you please write one where reader is a kook (a good one who actually enjoys being a kook) but is dating JJ but he tries to change her and at some point they argue and he brings up Rafe(who is readers best friend) and tells her that Rafe is in love with her but reader is like “no he’s not” and then JJ asks her if she love Rafe and she’s like “of course he’s my best friend” and Jj is like “Let me ask you something else I love you do you love me?” And she just stands there and then happy ending with Rafe 🫶🏻

Who Do You Love?

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings:  N/A

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.6K

Masterlist

“JJ, what do you want me to do? Not go? I have to. It’s an event honouring my dad,” Y/N yells. JJ shakes his head, “Of course, I don’t want you to go. That shit is the Kookiest thing I’ve ever heard.” “I’m a Kook, JJ. What do you expect? You don’t have to go with me if you don’t want too,” she argues back. Her boyfriend lets out a low chuckle, “I expect you to spend time with me. I swear, you spend more time with Rafe than you do me.” “What are you talking about? I spend most of my nights with you. Rafe has nothing to do with this,” she replies. He steps closer to her, towering over her. “Rafe has everything to do with this. He’s in love with you.” It’s Y/N’s turn to laugh as her head moves from side to side, “That’s ridiculous. No, he isn’t.” “Yes, he is. But what I want to know, is if you love him?” JJ asks, looking up at her with tears in his eyes. Her eyes avoid his gaze, “Of course, I love him. JJ, he’s my best friend.” 

JJ’s hand removes his hat and runs his fingers through his hair. He knows he shouldn’t ask this question. He knows he won’t like the answer he receives; however, he needs to know the answer. “So let me ask you something else. Do you love me? Because I love you and I’ve said it so many times, except you haven’t said it back. Maybe you just needed time, but maybe it was something else. Someone else.” She can only stare at him with her mouth open. Her brain is taking in all the information. The breeze coming in from the poorly insulated house causes goosebumps to run up her arm. JJ first said he loved her a few weeks ago and she wasn’t able to say it back. She knew that she felt it; she was just scared of saying it. Though JJ’s words make her rethink her previous beliefs. What if the true reason why she couldn’t say it was because her heart belonged to someone else?

———

Rafe opens the front door in his suit, ready to go for the charity event where Mr. Y/L/N is being honoured. His smile drops when he sees Y/N in her dress, tears streaming down her face. “Sweet girl, what happened?” he worries and pulls her into a hug. He doesn’t care that her mascara is going to stain his clothes. All he needs to do right now is to make sure Y/N is okay. She bruises her head into his chest, “JJ broke up with me.” The hand on her back tightens into a fist. “I’m going to kill him,” he threatens. Y/N places a hand on his chest to stop him, “No, don’t. It’s not his fault. It’s mine.” “Nothing is ever your fault,” he says against her ear. “You are perfect.” He pulls back from the hug to look into her eyes. “You do love me,” she mutters; nevertheless, he hears her. He takes a step back and awkwardly coughs. “You’re my best friend. It would be weird if I didn’t love you,” he covers up. Y/N shakes her head, “No, you love me.” She reiterates, emphasizing the word to distinguish the difference. Rafe doesn’t know what to say, he can’t deny her accusation. She can sense his worry and takes a step closer to him. She lets the tip of her fingers graze his. His heart flutters at the feeling and he hesitantly laces their fingers together.

When she squeezes his hand, he brings his lips closer to hers. They can feel each other's breaths on their faces. “D-do you love me too?” he stutters out. It’s the question he’s been wanting but has been afraid to ask. He thinks he might explode if she says no. “I love you too,” she breathes out. Rafe feels butterflies and he has to feel her lips on his. Their lips connect, making everything perfect in the world.

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @nonbullshit-toleratingkindagirl

[brisquad-unit-4402]

technical guide and example scenario to kissing with a tongue piercing

this started as a shitpost style warmup/hc and then spiraled into a fic which spiraled into a style experiment. p much everything is deliberate except for the lowercase because i don’t believe in capitalization on my phone. now here’s a pretentious makeout scene where neither reader nor claude get the big 4k 120fps big picture at all

tags: gender neutral reader, pre-relationship, requited unrequited pining, oral fixation, making out, implied sexual/suggestive content, yeah i guess claude comes across as a sub here idk i didn’t really consider those dynamics much for this fic but if that means something to you then power to you

⚠ claude and reader jokingly call each other whores

⚠ implied piercing kink, hand/mouth play

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

reader: what’s it like to make out with a tongue piercing

claude: huh

good?? question??? he isn’t a prude but he doesn’t kiss and tell either. that shit stays locked up. he’s a private person no matter how much he likes the one asking questions. unfortunately

claude: why do you ask?

but he does like the person asking the questions. regret courses through him the second he says it aloud.

reader: just curious

reader: it’s just a stud so sometimes i forget you have one but when you’re kissing it’s hard to not notice isn’t it

claude: it could be

reader: can you stick your tongue out?

claude: [he does so]

regret! regret! regret! it’s turned to a flood washing over his thoughts. he chides himself. why are you so obedient, claude, why are you so eager to please, and for the love of god quit thinking like that before you get any ideas!

great. now there’s a nasty little thing called hope twisting through his brain and making it feel emptier than usual.

reader: i guess you’d have to be pretty into it to feel it

claude: [closes his mouth.] i guess

reader: so what’s it like?

reader: kissing, i mean

claude: that’s just your lips so it’s whatever

reader: no, dummy, i mean with tongue

claude: it’s just making out

claude: even i forget it’s there

reader: there’s no difference at all?

claude: woah woah woah woah i didn’t say that

reader: so you do notice it?

claude: well i don't but other people do

reader: is it good?

claude: i hope

claude: i mean

claude: well i don't think it's bad and no one's told me it's bad and i'm not bad [he thinks]

claude: so it's probably good. but i wouldn't know

reader: i should have guessed

claude: [a little.] yeah

claude: i mean

claude: yeah

he feels like he went outside in only boxers and got roped into an all-day affair. admitting things is already too much exposure. there’s so much he wants to say but it’ll take up all the space, ruin the mood. true feelings tend to come out clumsy according to claude.

the shred of hope lingers.

claude: i guess

claude: it’s smooth?

claude: because it’s so small?

claude: and the metal is just like that?

reader: [understanding, theorization]

claude: if it was a hoop it would be different

claude: but it’s not

claude: [unelegantly.] so it’s not

reader: i’m going to ask something stupid

claude: [gets a grip.] hey, i’m stupid

reader: no you aren’t

reader: i wonder what it feels like

claude: is this the question

reader: now it is

reader: can i try?

claude: getting a tongue piercing?

reader: no, kissing you

claude: [a brief sound]

claude: me?

reader: yeah

reader: i want to know how it feels

reader: i won’t be weird i promise

reader: and if not that’s cool

reader: i shouldn’t have brought it up i don’t want to make you feel weird or anything

reader: but i’m

reader: really curious

this is a bad time for his mouth to go dry. claude presses his lips together, only to pry them apart after remembering your request. he needs a swift bonk to the head. cold shower. 50,000 years of solitude. fuck he needs to stop thinking about this.

or keep thinking about this. it’s the best chance he’s got. it hurts his heart thinking about it. it’s indulgence. he can’t let himself pretend but he can’t let go of it either

claude: how are we doing this

reader: i guess we could try kissing first

claude: like frenching or

reader: lips first?

claude: oh right right

aaaaaaaaaa.

he feels giddy and heartbroken. and anxious. and it’s over before he really figured it out

claude: wait

why are lips so malleable? why do the tiniest presses make him feel so? so? giddy-heartbroken-anxious-dirty. this is out of order. friends don’t kiss friends with tension like this. but they are now.

reader: we forgot about the piercing

claude: right

reader: i guess that was a warmup. ha-ha

claude: yeah

claude: here goes nothing

reader: you’re such a dork—

he knows. he could always use the reminder. not now though. instead he refamiliarizes himself with lip on lip, slightly ajar, then rising. a gap between for hot breath to escape. the air grazes the slope of his cheek.

reader: mmh—

anxiety and dirtiness outweigh the other two, and the latter more than the former. he’s kissed before. reader has too. it doesn’t have to mean anything. it doesn’t have to mean anything. he repeats the thought but the message gets lost along the way.

claude: —.

reader nips so claude opens more. predictably so. and traitorously fervent. doesn’t mean nothing. his heart begs for some honesty but he can’t speak, mouth’s a little busy at the moment, not a great time to talk about feelings and whatever. he’d like to but, you know, clumsy words

clumsy tongues

the one over the bite, he means; warmth follows the lick at the tip of your tongue and down his throat and straight to his belly

claude:

you make yourself right at home. the breath is interrupted before it grazes his cheek because your hands rest there instead. claude follows your movements, shadowing as you explore, marking the depths before lulling at the entrance

reader: stay still

claude:

reader:

dammit, obedience, like a subservient dog. trembling like one while reader reenters. he nearly forgot the whole reason they were doing this until it prodded at the soft tip of his tongue.

claude: []

he’d nearly ignored the instruction. he tries not to think of it as a command, not while you trail up his tongue. little swirls that set him at ease and on fire. down onto the central. the answer at the top of the stud.

do NOT hit teeth, claude clawmark. do not hit teeth. he knows how it’s done but it’s so over if he messes up with you. fuck, this is wrong. you can’t be this hot and claude is so going to hell after this.

the metal preserves body heat but it tends to feel cooler to unfamiliar tongues. it’s important to be gentle with this. he licks low and languid, beginning a rhythm. simple circles. shouldn’t be difficult for you to predict the bead. god. what is his life

his laps are simple enough to pick up on. you lay your tongue on his in different positions to feel the stud. at this point claude’s done trying to analyze. his notes are minimal: sometimes you’re flat on his and that’s a strange feeling. the tip seems to have no effect on you, but it hits the space usually glossed over because of the metal so that’s exciting. when you press the sensitive side to the stud, you twitch back, and claude’s urge to chase rears its head.

reader: .

the challenge is taken. and now that the rhythm’s established claude speeds up. the sensation helps filter out the thought that this is an error. not on your part, of course, you’re just curious. that’s exactly why he should have denied: this is never going to happen again and he’s never going to admit how tragic that is.

but you nudge the piercing more, and the pressure makes his heart lurch.

he tilts your chin to his in a moment of surrender.

you play him like a damn instrument. his throat is full of lava boiling over with your touch, each hungrier than the last. the shivers just give you more openings to eat him up

claude: [needs to breathe.] hold on

reader: nngh?

claude: gotta

claude: gotta breathe

claude: christ,

claude: you’re shameless

reader: [between kisses at the corner of claude’s mouth.] yeah, i’m the whore here,

reader: said the guy with a tongue piercing

claude: hey since when are tongue piercings a whore thing

reader: since you kissed me like one

he’d been extremely polite, what the hell. at least, polite compared to what he really wants. still. you’re the one kissing me even when we aren’t using tongue, he thinks. the emotion behind it is unrecognizable.

yet you hum with muffled laughter as you kiss him. for not the first time it registers that he likes making you smile, even at his expense

he likes you but that’s never been a revelation.

and he quite likes how this feels when he tells his conscience to shut the hell up already. he takes your hand

reader: [with curiosity. you'd call it unrecognizable too]

thoughtlessly he holds it to his lips

claude: this is what it feels like when you touch it

the piercing, indeed, feels smooth on your fingertips as it rolls by the pads. his tongue lingers not far behind. those fingers twitch at the blend of tongue and lip; one of them sweetly curls at the stud. it’s always been easy to forget that the piercing is there but especially now as the plush of his lips closes. open-mouthed kisses become closed, leaving the true motions of his tongue—and the piercing, and the finger coiled beside it—they're obscured.

reader: [does it matter?]

reader: [Do the stage directions matter?]

claude: [looks up]

he quite likes the sight too

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

✧. ┊ masterpost ✧. ┊ kofi

[fiapartridge]

gabe perreault imagine please 🙏🙏

long time coming | gabe perreault 💌🌊⭐️

gabe perreault x fem!reader

summary: you're sick and the only person who can cure you is your best friend, gabe!

warning(s): fluff, fluff, fluff

author's note: eee this is my first gabe fic! thank u anon for suggesting him, i was in a huge writers slump so ty ty ty! enjoy!

You had heard stories of people falling in love with their best friend; it happened to your parents, your older sister and her boyfriend, all of your cousins, but to you, love just felt unattainable, like maybe you were the exception. The love bug skipped a generation and was already preparing for the next—but now? Now you felt it. You felt it crawl underneath your skin and bubble in your stomach. You felt your chest tighten and the heat rise to your cheeks. 

You were in love, true love.

“Gabe,” you groaned over the phone, his breathing sounding staticy over the line. You had been sick for a few days, only a slight cough and an itchy throat, but today felt 10 times worse. Your stomach was aching, your head felt like it was getting hit by a basketball every couple of seconds, and you sniffled so frequently you were sure that something was going to go up the wrong pipe and straight up to your brain. 

And you felt bad, not only because of your illness, but because it was nearly 2 AM and you could hear Gabe shuffle underneath his dark blue sheets in the dorm he shared with his best friend, Will Smith. You knew it was late and this was wrong. I mean, the boy had a game against Boston University in the morning, now was not the time to wake him, but you just didn’t know what to do. You felt like you were dying and all you needed was one of Gabe’s famous hugs and maybe a back rub (he was really good at those).

“Hey,” he said quietly, trying not to wake the snoring Will on the other side of the room. His eyes were fighting to stay open, determined not to lean onto his fluffy white pillow and fall back to sleep. “You okay?”

You sniffled, grabbing another tissue from the box that laid beside your bed. “I feel like I’m dying,” you responded, your voice sounding congested and nasally—not in the slightest like your normal tone.

You could hear shuffling on the other side of the phone. Then, you could hear keys jangling and his closet door opening, a hoodie getting thrown over his body, and then the door to his dorm being pulled open. You wanted to protest because you knew what he was doing, where he was going, but you had no energy to speak. Instead, your stubborn voice turned to loud coughs that made Gabe want to pull you in his arms and hold you until they faded into oblivion.

But he couldn’t. It was too much for you. It would be weird. You wouldn’t feel the same. It was the exact same thing he’s been telling himself for months (really what he’s been telling himself since the moment he met you). It would ruin your guys’ friendship and you will never want to speak to him again. If only he could hear your thoughts because then, maybe he’d be thinking differently, and it wouldn’t be so hard.

Three soft knocks on the door of your dorm signaled exactly what you suspected would happen. Gabe was your best friend and if he caught the flu, you would be there holding his hand and making him a bowl of chicken noodle soup. If you were crying about a failed test, he would buy you ice cream and agree to watch countless episodes of The Bachelor until you were feeling okay again. One time you were sick with Covid and Gabe didn’t even care. He stayed with you during quarantine, snuggled under mountains of blankets, watching movies until you were sick of them, and gossiping about anyone and anything. It wasn’t a surprise that he caught the sickness a couple days later. Your moms laughed about the memory, finding it endearing that you two loved each other so much that you were willing to be sick together. 

Gabe settled some medicine on your bedside table before lifting your light pink covers and crawling into bed with you. You fit perfectly into his arms, like this spot was made just for you. Despite your sweaty forehead and aching body, he held you tightly, placing small kisses on the crown of your head. Your parents had always joked about you two getting married someday, but sometimes you wished that it was real; that you would grow old with him and live in a big white house with a white picket fence and a large rose garden in the backyard. You truly couldn’t see your life with anyone else. 

But that was silly. Gabe was your best friend. That would just be weird—right?

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. He walked all the way from his building to yours in the middle of the night despite having a ginormous game tomorrow. He felt unreal, like how could a person be so perfect and somehow be yours?

“Don’t be,” his words were just as soft. His chin resting on the top of your head as yours fit in the space between his neck and shoulder, leaving delicate kisses on his adams apple. This isn’t what best friends do, you told yourself. Best friends don’t kiss each other. Best friends don’t cuddle underneath sheets and hold hands to “warm each other up.” It was confusing and you hated it. You hated not knowing how he was feeling when you knew exactly how you felt about Gabe.

“You didn’t have to come here.”

“You called.”

You laughed. “That doesn’t mean anything. You could’ve stayed in bed and slept longer and had good dreams and—”

“Hey,” he smiled down softly at you, lifting your chin to look up at him. His hand lingered there for a while, not wanting to move away from you. There was something about you that made Gabe want to be closer and closer. There was something that made him want to parade you around campus, telling everyone that you were his. He wanted to see you in his jersey and kiss you after games and hold you tight at parties. He wanted to take you with him to New York when he plays for the Rangers after college and introduce you to his family as his girlfriend instead of just his best friend. Gabe was ready for more, but he hated thinking that you might not be. “I wasn’t just going to let you die, okay?”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, like that one time you pushed me down that water slide at Hurricane Harbor.”

“Pft, you wanted to go down that.”

You chuckled incredulously. “There is no way you just said that.”

“‘Oh, Gabe, please take me on this waterslide. I’ve been dying to go with you.’”

“I don’t sound like that.”

He grinned. “Yeah, you sound like this,” he said, pinching his nose with his fingers, his voice sounding blocked and nasally.

You pushed his hands away, hiding your face in his clothed chest. “Shut up.”

“C’mon, you love it.”

“I will fight you.”

He ran his hand up and down your arm, your eyes fluttering closed and your breathing steadying. He held you tighter, wrapping both arms around you and snuggling deeper into the bed. His last words before you fell into hypnosis lingered in your mind as you couldn’t even escape your lovestruck dreams of the perfect boy. “Keep telling yourself that, sicko.”

By the time the sun rose, you were sure that he would be gone; that his hoodie would be collected from the carpet, that his legs would no longer be intertwined with yours, and that his belongings would be gone, but he was still there and you were still in his arms and everything was still perfect. His breathing was soft and slow, his little curls were a bit tussled, his cheeks were pale, and you wondered what he was dreaming about that left a ghost of a smile on his face.

You wanted to wake up like this everyday and everyday after that. So yeah, maybe you were in love. Maybe you were in deep. And maybe you were ready to tell him.

He rustled around before lifting his eyes open, his smile growing wider when he saw your pink face, knowing he caught you staring at him as you glanced around the room, trying not to make eye contact with the boy.

“Feeling better?” he asked, turning to his side and facing you. 

A strand slipped through your loose ponytail and settled on the front of your face, covering your eyes as he allowed his hands to work faster than his mind. He slowly brought his hand up, carefully moving the strand behind your ear. And you would expect the moment to be over but when his hand lingered on your cheek, his thumb lightly running over the smooth skin of your face, you knew that maybe just maybe there could be something more.

You nodded slowly. “I’m okay.”

“I’m glad. I hate seeing my girl sick,” he spoke softly as if speaking any louder would shatter the calming atmosphere. 

My girl. You wanted to allow your mind to toss and turn, investigate the meaning behind those two words, search for his thought-process, his feelings, anything, but for the first time in forever, you felt serene and calm with him. You didn’t feel the need to wonder what this meant for the two of you. You were perfectly content where you were now, where you were going, and what you were going to do next.

You placed your hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat fast yet gentle. His eyes wandered down to your place of connection and when they met yours again, you could’ve sworn you saw something: a spark, hope, clarity, confirmation.

And when he leaned in, holding your face close with the hand still resting on your cheek, his lips hovering over yours, desperate to connect, you knew nothing would be the same. He would never be just your best friend anymore. And you were perfectly okay with that.

As Gabe leaned in, his lips met yours in a tender, yet passionate kiss. It was a moment that felt suspended in time, where every sensation was heightened—the warmth of his touch, the softness of his lips, the racing of your heart. In that instant, all doubts melted away, replaced by an overwhelming sense of certainty and bliss.

The kiss deepened, as if both of you were pouring all the unspoken feelings and desires into this one act. Your hands found their way to his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you pulled him closer, wanting to feel every part of him against you. His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer as if he never wanted to let go.

Time seemed to stand still as you lost yourselves in each other, the outside world fading into insignificance. When you finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, you found yourselves gazing into each other's eyes, the realization of what had just happened sinking in. But there was no fear, no uncertainty, only a profound sense of connection and joy.

“I’m sick,” you said, making Gabe chuckle softly. Of course your first words after a long-anticipated kiss would be that. But that’s what Gabe loved about you. You were you in every sense of the word. You are the reason his stomach hurts from laughing every time he comes back to his dorm, staring into space as he thinks about your giggle and your smile and your stupid humor. You are everything. You’re the world. 

I just kissed the world, Gabe thought. My girl.

With a smile that spoke volumes, Gabe whispered, "I don’t care." 

“You will when you get sick.”

“And will you be here? When I get sick?” he asked, his thumb running back and forth on the exposed space of skin on your pelvis. 

You nodded. You would be there for him through anything no matter what. “Always.”

“Then I’m okay with it.”

And in that moment, as you nestled into his embrace once more, you knew that the stories were real and true; that love is real and true, because you just fell in it and you couldn’t be happier.

[rigginsstreet]

@runraerun made some wheels for @harringrovekinktober prompts (here in case anyone wants to play around and write something even after october) and my 3 prompts were rimming, ghost hunting, and bennys burgers which made me laugh so i decided to write something aaand here it is happy halloween 🖤

-

"this is such a bad idea."

"quit your bitching."

billy's hunched over the padlock blocking entry into the now desolate diner, trying to pick his way in with a bobby pin he stole from max's side of the bathroom.

"it's weird, billy!" harrington's whining behind him. "a guy died here, have some fucking respect."

"aha!" billy shouts as he gets the lock open, pulls out the chains holding the door closed and kicks it open before turning around to face steve. "and that's why we're going to see if all the rumors are true. so stop being a pansy ass and come in. wanna see if there's still any brains left over."

the rumors, of course, are that the place has been haunted for the past 40 years ever since the Benny of Benny's Burgers was found by the counter with his head blown off. and billy, being billy, has been itching to get out here ever since steve made the mistake of mentioning this to him as part of the town lore when he was trying to impress the hot new guy a few weeks ago... (it worked, of course, because steve got himself a new semi-boyfriend out of it, it's just that said boyfriend is kind of a psycho maniac, turns out.)

"you're a sick weirdo freak," steve deadpans, slightly disgusted.

billy just grins at him, tongue between his teeth. "that's what makes the sex so good."

billy steps in without further notice, and there's a split second where steve thinks about ditching his ass and just going to tina's party or something. find himself a nice normal somebody to hook up with instead.

he follows billy inside.

the place smells like old grease and mothballs. can't see shit inside until billy clicks on a flashlight and they're treated to a view of fallen bits of ceiling, cobwebs, and old graffiti.

"cute," billy says as he walks up to a wall with a satanic goat head painted on.

"okay! we came, we saw, no ghosts, let's go." steve is not freaked out, he just doesn't want to stay in this place any longer than he has to. he also doesn't want to risk tetanus.

the front door slams shut then, and billy starts cackling like some evil witch when steve jumps from the noise, because it's loud, not because he's scared.

"god, you really are a pussy," billy's still laughing, and steve wants to deck him in the nose.

"ok, you know what? fuck you. i'm leaving."

steve's had enough. he's not putting up with this the rest of the night. he's got better places to be, better company to keep. except.

billy's grabbing him by the waist as he tries to make his exit. pulls him til his back is flush against billy's chest, and billy's got his arms wrapped around him tight, faces pressed cheek to cheek in an oddly intimate pose for someone like billy hargrove who, in steve's short time of knowing him, hasn't really done much of intimate at all.

"hey, hey, i'm sorry, alright? i'll protect you from the big bad monsters..."

steve rolls his eyes because of course billy can't help himself from being a prick about it, but like.

the embrace does feel nice. maybe steve's a sucker. but he's fine with that fact as billy's turning him in his arms and suddenly they're face to face.

"only monster i need protection from is you."

"aw, baby, now how can you say i'm the bad guy when i treat you so good..."

billy takes steve's chin between his thumb and forefinger, guiding their mouths together at a tortuously slow pace that leaves steve's knees feeling like jello when their lips finally touch.

steve kind of forgets where they are after that. for as annoying as billy is, he's frustratingly a really fucking good kisser.

so steve lets himself get lost in it. has his hands fisted in the denim of billy's jacket and walks them back until billy hits the old diner counter with a grunt. makes billy kiss back harder, biting at steve's lips like he's some rabid animal. it's how it always goes with them.

"thought we were s'pposed to be ghost hunting?" steve asks between kisses. not that he really gives a shit. this is much better than disturbing restless spirits.

"got something else for you to hunt."

steve groans at the horrible joke, but then billy's whispering all husky against his mouth "want you to fuck me," and then steve's groaning for a whole different reason.

steve kind of wants to object, because this is not the place he wants to be doing this. but the thing is... billy hasn't actually let steve fuck him yet. all their hook ups have been the other way around and like, that's been all fine and great, but steve's kind of been itching to have his go at billy. and if this is his opportunity being handed to him on a silver platter, then, well...

"god, yes."

he's maybe a little more enthusiastic than necessary when he goes to undo billy's jeans. would be embarrassed about it under other circumstances, but he's a man possessed. maybe it's all the jitters from earlier. fuck if he knows.

but before he can pull billy's jeans down billy's stopping him with a hand to his chest, all calm and slow like the biggest cocktease in the world. for a second steve thinks he's been played, that billy's gonna start laughing in his face and tell him as if. but he doesn't.

"first thing's first, cowboy."

he tugs on steve's shirt, forcing him down to his knees as billy turns around, back to him. ass to him, really, once steve's in the desired position. and it takes steve a second to process it, what billy's wanting. but then billy's bending forward and planting his forearms onto an old vinyl cushion of the counter stools, and he's giving his ass a little wiggle right in steve's face and... yeah, okay. he gets the message. fuck.

he's done this before, just not with billy.

well, not to billy. billy's usually the one doing it to him, and he's fucking good at that, too. so. no pressure or anything.

"c'mon, harrington, i wanna wake the dead."

"ew, don't talk about that right now."

billy laughs while steve shakes off his disgust. refocuses on billy's ass in front of him and how he needs to remove the current barriers between them.

billy's ass is kind of glorious up close. not that steve would tell billy that, like the guy needs an ego boost. but seeing it stripped bare right in front of him he can better admire how taut it is, how golden it is, somehow, just like the rest of billy (an imagine springs to mind of billy sunbathing naked and it's got steve all kinds of things.)

there's a light dusting of hair that steve can see and feel as his hands make slow, methodical work of massaging him, getting him nice and relaxed before steve spreads him open and goes to work.

the tiny gasp billy let's out does wonders for steve's own ego. spurred on by all of billy's pleased noises he really sinks his teeth in - so to speak.

"fuck, harrington," billy breathes. "and everyone says i've got the wicked tongue..." he's cut off by a moan, and steve can't help but smirk to himself.

"they don't call me king for nothing," steve quips before going back in and fucking his tongue into billy's hole, relishing in the whimpers billy's letting out.

if only everyone at school could see big bad billy hargrove now, reduced to a whimpering mess all because of steve harrington. it sends a little jolt straight to his dick, he can't lie.

"wanna fuck you so bad..." steve breathes, brain going foggy as he bites into the meat of billy's ass.

"no one's stopping you." billy's trying to sound like his usually cocksure self, but the effect is hindered somewhat by the desperate rasp of his voice.

steve's all set to get on with it, getting ready to pull himself up to his feet when there's a loud crash coming from the kitchen.

"the hell was that?" he asks.

billy looks up, almost like he, too, was spooked, but of course he won't just say that.

"probably just an animal or something. get back to fucking me."

"i haven't started," steve mutters, back on his feet.

he's halfway to zipping down his fly when there's another crash, except this time it's from a rock, he assumes, hurling right past them til is cracks on the wall behind them.

"that's not a fucking animal, billy!" and, okay, maybe steve's kind of losing himself a little here, but, like, can he be blamed?

even billy's shot up, staring into the kitchen with wide eyes. "it's gotta be the wind or something... it's fine."

billy tries to tug steve closer to him to get on with the show, but it's in that moment a piece of the ceiling comes hailing down next to them, and steve's had enough.

"nope! no way! im out of here!"

even billy seems to have finally gotten his sense and is pulling his pants up, running out of the place right behind steve.

"homophobic ass ghost," he's mumbling to himself as they reach the door, and another rock flies by and cracks the glass.

"don't antagonize it, billy!" steve grabs billys arm and hauls him outside. "sorry mr. benny, sir! won't happen again!"

billy flips the diner the bird as they're running away, and steve will swear on his life he actually heard the bellowing sound of a man's voice yelling at them. nothing distinct, just... unsettling howling of sorts.

steve doesn't want to think about it.

only when the diner is out of view do they finally stop running.

steve's heart feels like it's about to leap out of his chest as he glares at billy. his lungs are gonna explode. "next time you want someone to fuck you, try taking them somewhere normal like a motel 6. asshole."

billy, despite his own look of fear, starts laughing. "you gotta admit this makes for a better story, though."

steve just shakes his head, still trying to catch his breath. "asshole."

[aurorasgate]

Hiya Luna, I hope you’re doing well 🥰! I saw your requests were open and decided to send one in, I hope thats alright! If I may, may I ask for Sephiroth and the prompt “It’s weird. I never thought I could feel like this, but you showed up. Now, it’s like I don’t wanna go on knowing I might lose the feeling.” please? Ngl I was going to ask for Cloud or Zack because they’re my faves, but I got too nervous 🙈!

Thank you so much and I hope you have a lovely weekend 🥰!

lyra!!! it is more than alright! i am so so happy that you did🥰🩷 and PLEASE LOVELY YOU CAN ABSOLUTELY ASK FOR ZACK OR CLOUD!! - I'D LOVE TO TRY WRITING SOMETHING FOR THEM💕 thank you so much for submitting this one🥺 - i'm down bad bad this also got longer than i planned whoops 🤭

🌙 prompt event

“it’s weird. i never thought i could feel like this, but you showed up. now, it’s like i don’t wanna go on knowing i might lose the feeling.” | sephiroth x reader with no pronouns used

it’s safe to admit to himself that love is very unfamiliar. 

growing up sephiroth was taught that such feelings make you weak, softens the heart that should be hardened and cold and calculating. over time he had learned for himself how not necessarily true that was. maybe it wasn’t love, at least not in the capacity in which he feels it now, but he’s cared for comrades and friends even when others might argue it made him weak. but what’s before him now, and slipping through his fingers each day that passes, is something he has never experienced. 

something he never saw coming and hasn’t known what to do with but also doesn’t know what to do without. 

and he was going without considering you were actively avoiding him and hadn't spoken a word to him in what felt like weeks. even in meetings you were forced to attend together, you always left swiftly and without another glance his way, finding one reason or another to deny him a moment of your time and when he almost caught you alone in the hallway, your eyes meeting for but a moment, you were gone as quickly as he had blinked. 

he has been wrecking his brain on what he had done wrong that would make you avoid him, his mind wandering to the chest aching distance between you every chance it got. he had almost lost to angeal in training two days because of it and nearly again to genesis today before his friend looked knowingly into his eyes and recited loveless; ‘the wandering soul knows no rest’

the words echo in his mind, in genesis’ voice no less, when he spots you in the distance. restlessness doesn’t quite begin to describe what your absence was doing to him. it was an uncomfortableness he had never felt before. one he had to do something about because every day it grows worse and if it stays like this he fears you’ll be torn from him entirely. 

it already feels like you are. he looks as collected as he always does but inside his heart stirs and he knows he cannot let this go any longer. 

you swear you saw him down the hall in your side view. he was impossible to miss for so many reasons but the most prominent of them all being your eyes were always evidently drawn to him, just like your heart had been and you cursed them both when they made you stall in your sprint to run away and avoid him right now.

it’s not as though it’s what you wanted but it is what you felt was best when you could feel yourself not being able to hold back your emotions. he couldn’t know, even though you’re sure it was written all over your face everytime you stole a glance but stolen looks weren’t the same as saying the words i love you and being rejected by someone you couldn’t bear to lose. 

so you started your plan of avoiding him until those feelings disappeared. except the distance had not made them go anywhere, leaving them to simmer uncomfortably in your chest like they might burn you. when you saw his lips fall each time you made an excuse to get out of his vicinity, you felt nauseous for upsetting him. it wouldn’t be forever, you keep telling yourself but you don’t know how true that actually is. you cannot picture a life without these feelings; without the way his smile makes your insides buzz with warm incomparable to the sun, with how safe and cared for you feel in his proximity and how utterly gentle shinras strongest soldier is whenever he touches you.

you turn around to make your escape just in case your peripheral vision is not playing tricks on you but before you can make it two steps, you’re staring at his half hidden chest, hardened leather around soft skin your hand aches to touch. so it’s like that, using his actual speed to not let you get away. perhaps you had made him more upset than you initially thought..

“sephiroth!” you smile up at him and it nearly reaches your eyes if it weren’t for the shake of your voice that accompanies your eagerly beating heart. 

“you’ve been avoiding me.” it’s not a question but a very obvious observation that fills you with guilt, though he hadn’t said it in an accusing tone.

your smile falls and you swallow the lump building in your throat, unable to meet his eyes but you don’t try to deny it. “.. i’m sorry. i just..” you can’t find any words that aren’t just the truth.

taking a step back, to run or just put a little more distance between you and find your strength to push back the emotions, you really aren’t sure for which but within an instant his hands are on your face, cupping your jaw like you’re made of glass but in a steady hold that told you he didn’t want to let go, bringing your gaze up to his. you could pull away if you really wanted, you knew he’d let go without you having to ask but you don’t do anything of the sort.

thin slitted pupils stare back at you, swirling in a sea of blue and green and glowing with mako and your brain screams for you to bite your tongue while your heart urges the words forward but he looks at you like he’s going to say something, staring at you with an expression you can’t decipher nor look away from while he pauses.

he says your name, breaking the silence between you, and you hope he can’t feel the heat of your cheeks and neck with the way your body reacts to the way he says it. then he chuckles a bit breathlessly, like it’s helping him let go of something that was holding him back before. 

“i cannot stand being away from you. it’s weird..” he says, his thumbs brush along your cheeks and you swear the world around you stops, like the goddess is leaving this moment only for the two of you. “i never thought i could feel like this,” he smiles fondly and you feel your eyes soften in time with his, your hearts beating with sync. “like i have something to care for. someone i can be my true self with. but you showed up and now, it’s like i don’t want to go on knowing i might lose the feeling.” 

your heart is somehow tearing and mending itself back together at his words and you finally let yourself touch him in return, feeling the wetness of your tears dripping from your lashes before you realize you’re crying. 

his expression falls to worry as he wipes every tear that falls but all you can do is smile and shake your head, closing the distance between you and letting your worries crash to the ground as you reply to him in earnest.

♡♡♡♡♡

main masterlist

[lizhly-writes]

hi. we're back to svsss again. i read Asymptotical's Many an Ill to Cure yesterday. There was this line that sort of caught in my head:

If this bit of lore was true, then Yue Qingyuan was married to Shang Qinghua of all people, and that was about the only matchup he could think of that was possibly worse than pairing Shen Qingqiu with Liu Qingge.

and my brain.... ran with it. not for very long, because i really don't have a GREAT grasp of these characters and also i should absolutely be doing something else. but here you go.

At the ripe old age of twenty-something, Shang Qinghua had successfully lied and cheated his ass off to become the An Ding Head Disciple. It absolutely didn't mean his troubles were over -- it was still An Ding, and An Ding always meant backbreaking work, no matter how high up you climbed, and haha also there was still the entire fucking plot left. But at least he had a really nice house now! At least people had to pretend to respect him! At least the System wouldn't keep that fucking countdown clock in the corner of his eye about how he had X months to make Head Disciple before it nuked his brain into a crisp!

Overall, things were going about as great as could be expected!

Except for, you know, this... this one little thing.

"What???" Shang Qinghua said, when Shizun had first lobbed it at his head.

The Lord of An Ding Peak looked askance at him. Shang Qinghua cleared his throat and tried again. "Begging this one's pardon, but... but could Shizun repeat that?"

"You'll be engaged to Yue Qingyuan," said the An Ding Peak Lord.

Yeah, that's what Shang Qinghua thought Shizun said.

FUCK!

This was his fault. Like, literally everything was his fault, seeing how he was effectively God, but this was a mistake that he didn't have to make! You could argue about the violence and the papapa, but in the end, he was speed-writing a stallion novel for money so he didn't starve.

But the engagement.

Airplane-Shooting-Towards-The-Sky had been trying to explain exactly why so many young, beautiful, cold cultivators were so eager to get with Bing-ge, even if they seemed to hate literally any other person ever. He'd eventually settled on the idea that in PIDW, even cultivators weren't truly respected as adults until they were married. In other words, marriage was a requirement! A spouse was a job position! Of course Bing-ge's wives would sell out for the best possible candidate, even if they were ambitious power-hungry snakes without a romantic bone in their body! Especially if they were ambitious power-hungry snakes without a romantic bone in their body!

In fact, even the Peak Lords of Cang Qiong did it! They were even married to each other! Even the Sect Leader! Haha, it wasn't so weird after all!

God. It would have been fine if he left it without explanation. It wasn't even like he kept the explanation -- no, he wrote it and forgot about it, just like how he did with half of the shit he wrote sleep-deprived and running on caffeine alone. And now he was stuck with this.

"Do you have any objections?" Shizun said, and then Shang Qinghua had to go noooo, of course not, Yue Qingyuan was a mighty and handsome cultivator who topped the unofficial rankings for most eligible bachelor on Cang Qiong for three years straight! How could this lowly Shang Qinghua possibly have any objections?

It was super lucky that Shen Qingqiu was too busy being engaged with Liu Qingge to murder Shang Qinghua for the affront.

Anyway, that was how Shang Qinghua had ended up here -- alone with Yue Qingyuan, sitting across from each other and drinking tea. There was a plate of delicately shaped cakes sitting between them that Shizun had heavily suggested Shang Qinghua should make. You know, to show off his culinary skills to his... his fiance.

“Shang-shidi," Yue Qingyuan said, turning a cake over in one hand. There was some muffled yelling in the background. Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge were clearly having a great time of their own scheduled courtship meeting session.

"Yue-shixiong," Shang Qinghua said. "Hi."

Yue Qingyuan's smile didn't waver. "These are very good," he said politely.

Of course they were good. Shang Qinghua wouldn't have been able to successfully suck up to Shizun if they weren't good. It had taken a lot of practice! And sabotage! Practice AND sabotage!

"Haha, thanks," Shang Qinghua said.

Faintly, an explosion sounded in the background. Yue Qingyuan's brows furrowed slightly. "Shidi," he said. "Could you perhaps open the door?"