#smirky little guy

[tyresdeg]

logan sargeant | testing 2024

[skinreflectsthesun]

.

[normaltothemax]

Dissociation starters “Hey. Jake? Look at me.” From you know who

One slow blink. Two. It took a hell of a lot of effort to lift his chin enough to actually look at Gillian; felt like he was trying to swim through molasses. But even though he looked at her, he didn’t really see her. His gaze shifted. Staring off into the middle distance, just over her left shoulder, Jake continued on with his slow blinks. It was about all he could manage, at the moment.

Sitting there, on the couch, he wasn’t exactly present. He was there, sure, but he wasn’t there. Like he was standing on the edge of a cliff and was one wrong breath away from toppling over completely; a switch was going to happen, whether he liked it or not, and there wasn’t enough of him there to get up and go somewhere else to do it privately.

She was going to find out about them, and he couldn’t exactly bring himself to care all that much.

“Mm. Laters…gators…”

Between one blink and the next, Jake disappeared. For a beat, it was as if the body was an empty shell, breathing and blinking on autopilot—the lights were on, but no one was home. It took several long moments before someone was, as Jake would say, fully back in the driver’s seat. The slow blinks turned into a few quick ones as he looked around the room, confusion clear on his face. It wasn’t until his gaze landed back on the woman in front of him that he spoke, eyes widening.

“Oh bollocks.”

@youllthinktwice (x)

[liiixsturniolos]

"Pretty..little..noises.."

in which... rapper!chris has a little kink.. for singer!readers moans, wanting to add them into the background of his songs, he has to make you moan just how he wants too.

warnings!: smut (p in v unprotected.. wrap it b4 ya tap it guys!), moaning kink.

Chris always loved your voice, especially when you sang, often even begging you to sing him to sleep. He even put you on his songs, the fans' favourite duo, he claimed your voice was angelic. But more than that, his bigger obsession, the sound of your beautiful, sweet moans, he has a thing for it, I guess you could say. You'd tease him with it too, moaning into his ear in a public place and watching a tent grow up in his pants just from a quiet whisper...

He loved the whines and whimpers that would flow out of your mouth when he fucked you. It was his favourite part of it, the uncontrollable melodies that spewed out of your gorgeous mouth. He took pride in knowing he made you feel like that and wished he could show everyone, and maybe he could...

An idea sprung into his head one night, with you led next to him. He tapped his fingers onto your shoulder to wake you up, "what..?" You groaned awake. "I have an idea.." he mumbles cautiously, explaining his perverted little plan to film a sex tape, in which he'd use your moans in his newest song.

You accept happily, loving the concept of this slightly insane idea, letting Chris take off your panties, set up his phone beside you and start a voice recording.

"kay baby, lemme' hear those pretty little noises," he mutters, lining himself up with your gap, sliding slowly inside of your warm walls. You start to whimper at the feeling of him inside of you, filling you up to the brim. He pumps himself inside of you, your moans getting raspier and louder. "Yes-f-fuck baby moan f'me." He tells you.

Speeding up his pace, he thrusts into you ruthlessly, aiming to make you moan as loud and pornographically as he could, which you do, letting out a high pitched moan, rolling back your eyes and shouting his name, as you come to your high "fu-fuckkk c-hris.." you stutter out, both of your simultaneous releases pouring out from you suddenly.

"Perfect, darling." He says, pulling out of your leaking pussy, and stopping the audio recording, "You did so good baby." He tells you with a slightly smirky smile.

Weeks later as his new song drops, fans notice the faint ad-lib noises playing in the back of his rap verse, and question it on instagram live... to which he responds with a soft giggle, and pulls his hands around your waist, sitting you onto his lap.

thanks for reading darlings! consider interacting, so I can keep posting more of these! Feel free to ask to join my taglist too! <𝟑

taglist: @matthewsroses @chrislilcumslvt @pvssychicken @ivysturnss @chrisfavoritewhore @mattsbitchh @sturniolo-fann @matts-myloverboy @emely9274 @sophand4n4 @uncannyguava

[hacash]

Every so often I think of how the LOTR movies managed to cast a guy as Aragorn who is simultaneously yes, very masculine, very action-hero-y, and also someone who as a woman I would one hundred percent feel safe being alone with in any situation. Not one cynical, alpha male, smirky, appeal-to-the-jerkbros-in-the-audience fibre in his body. Just thinking about Viggo Mortensen’s Aragorn makes me feel a little calmer. Absolutely outstanding.

[captain-huggy-bear]

Practically Ancient

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Insecurities, comparison

Summary: You end up down a rabbit hole of instagram comments and profiles and can't help but compare yourself to all the women who would gladly date your boyfriend. You can't help but wonder why he's even with you.

Notes: Reader is described as not having a flat stomach and being a little older than Quinn, this is quite self-indulgent so sorry if you can't relate :/

Song that totally fits this vibe by the way - Burden by Citizen Soldier

It starts as almost all insecurities do with a instagram post and a series of comments. You really shouldn't look up anything to do with Quinn or the Canucks, you know this. But, the curiosity every now and again wins out, today being a key example.

The Canucks page posted a still from a recent post-game interview with Quinn, the one where he looks ruggedly dishevelled, hair strands falling across his face. To make it worse he actually has a little smirky smile on his face, the rarest kind for those not close to him to see. You love it, of course you do, he's so handsome and he's yours, you save the picture to your phone immediately...but the comments reiterate your own thoughts.

It shouldn't be a problem all these random fans commenting on how handsome he is, that he's a total smash not a pass. It's not like he's dating them or that he even cares about some random women on the internet but...you can't help but look at some of their profiles, can't help but compare yourself. They're all younger than you, all taller or slimmer or with clearer skin. Some of them are models, some of them are athletes in their own right and it makes you feel inadequate, not good enough. While the majority of comments are just about Quinn or saying how lucky you are, nice enough comments, it doesn't help that interspersed is the odd comment about how he could do better than you, his current girlfriend, or that you were really punching above your weight to have bagged him.

You sigh heavily as you force yourself to stop reading comments, throwing your phone to the other end of the sofa where it'll surely get lost in the pillows. Your eyes flick to Quinn who's emptying the dishwasher, plates clattering as they slide against each other. He looks cozy, handsome in that effortless way he does with his big hoodie swallowing him. Normally it would make you smile, today it just makes you frown.

"I don't get it..." You call out. Quinn immediately turns all his attention to you, putting down the spatula he'd been about to put away. Feet padding nearer as he stands over the back of the sofa, hand reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"What, baby?"

"I'm practically a cougar, i'm ancient, one foot in the grave..." He frowns down at you, confused by the topic of conversation and by your instance that you're ancient when you're not even 27 yet.

"You're a year older than me." His fingers drift from behind your ear, trailing a gentle caress over your jaw as his eyes flitter over your features. Taking in the frown, the sad downturn of your mouth. He's not sure what's brought it on, but he knows he hates it.

"A year and 10 months, that's almost 2 years." When you turn 27, he'll be 25 still...weren't girls usually the younger of the pair? Usually the guy was older? Was it weird that you were dating him?

"My point stands. What's the problem?"

"Well, you could...you could have any woman you wanted, some young model who doesn't have grey hairs already coming in and and doesn't think that a good night out is a book and a blanket." You avoid his eyes, looking at a particularly dusty corner of the ceiling.

"Baby..." He pulls aways, only to come around the side of the sofa, to sit next to you so close your legs are pressed together, his hand reaching out to rest on your thigh, rubbing soothing circles.

"And, I'm not leggy, my stomach isn't flat, I don't have perfect skin and I snort when I laugh too hard...I just...I don't get it."

God, it breaks his heart. The doubt he can see in you, the way your leg is bouncing anxiously under his hand, the bite you're taking out of your bottom lip. It happens sometimes. He knows it does, you've always had the odd bout of insecurity and he counts himself lucky that you always talk it out with him, but he hates it. In Quinn's mind you have nothing to be insecure about.

"I love you." He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world. 'I love you', that's why, that should be enough. But, there's something in your brain right in that moment that can't comprehend it. You understand why you love him, but why would he love you?

"But...why?"

"Do you...do you seriously not see why I love you?" He looks horrified, like you've just told him his childhood dog had died or that he's not being signed to the Canucks next year. You shake your head, tears starting to well a little in your eyes, "Oh, baby...guess, I haven't been doing my boyfriend duties well enough, huh? C'mere." Quinn pulls you into his lap, practically folds you into him, arms tight around your hips and back, fingers toying with the ends of your hair as you press your cheek into his shoulder.

There's a rocking to the hold as he talks, a soothing sort of motion side to side as his voice warms you and puts to bed any doubts you might have. As he starts to list everything he loves about you, as if once he's started he simply can't stop.

"I love how kind you are, that you'll stop to help anyone who needs it or let someone out in traffic even if it makes you late." His fingers brush the back of your neck, soothing circles that loosen some of the tightness you're holding there. "I love that we can sit in silence with our books and our blankets and that you don't want to go partying all the time and that you get that I just want quiet too..."

How many times has he come home from a game or had a rest day where he just wants quiet, where he wants the calm? How many times have you effortlessly provided that? How many people would? He knew most girlfriends probably would have dragged him out of the apartment, demanded he do something more with them on his only day free. Not you, you just wanted to be around him, didn't matter if you were going out for dinner or sitting in front of the television or just curling up in bed.

"I love how your nose scrunches when you're confused by something, especially when it's directed at the refs" He can list 101 times that a bad call has been made in one of his games where you've made that face, like they're idiots for calling a penalty. It was especially obvious that time Boeser got called for tripping, the memory makes him smile, "and I love your grey hairs because it makes me think about how one day we're both going to be old, grey, but happy and together..." His fingers twist thorough your hair, the few tiny strands of silver shining in the light. They're barely there, barely obvious, but they remind him that you're growing together.

"I love your face, it's the one I look for in the crowds during warm ups and I love that you struggle to reach things in stores because it gives me a way to be helpful."

"Quinn..." Your eyes are tearing up for a different reason entirely now, pulling back to look at him as he smiles at you, hands cupping your cheeks and thumbs brushing against the softness of them.

"I'm not done, baby... I love that you steal any jersey I come home with and I love that your stomach isn't flat, that you feel like a fucking cloud to cuddle." He wipes away a rogue tear that escapes, tracing a track down your cheek as your heart fills with love for him, for this man who never lets you suffer alone or second guess yourself.

"I love that you're close with my family, that you have your own group chat with Jack and Luke, even if it means you make fun of me together." He huffs out a laugh, the amount of times you've planned a prank or some sort joke on him with his brothers... "I love that you think to leave the rink before me and get something for us for dinner and I love that you know how to make me feel better when i've had a shit game. But most of all? I love loving you, I love being able to be your person and seeing the most amazing person I know smile because I did something."

In Quinn's mind he has two purposes in life; Hockey and you, providing you with anything and everything you could ever need. The idea that he'd failed to meet your need for reassurance, that you'd doubted his love for you stung, felt like a loss, a failure.

"You're making me cry...Quinn..." God, you love him, the way he holds you tighter, the way he wants to meet your every need and want, the care he takes to validate your feelings and his desire to fix any problem.

There's a comfortable silence in which you press kisses to his shoulder, breathing in his cologne, as he continues to rock you gently from side to side, lips pressing into the crown of your head.

Your tears aren't sad now, they're the sort of tears that come from an aching love for someone, a depth of emotion you'd never felt until Quinn. You know he's it for you. You know in that moment that he's ruined you for any man who comes after and you hope you never have to experience life without him.

"You should know every single day that I love you and why I love you...and if you don't i'm not working hard enough, baby...I'd do anything for you."

"Anything?"

"Anything, i'd even give up hockey." He means it to. If you asked him to retired tomorrow, he'd do it if it made you happy, it scares him a little...that someone who used to be a stranger means that much to him.

"No..." The idea that he'd give up the one thing he's loved his entire life for you...it strikes you then, that he means it. He loves you just as much as you love him and maybe he has options but you're the option he's picking, wholeheartedly and without reservation.

"Yeah, but I know you'd never ask me to and I love that about you too, sweetheart."

There's another short silence, this one heavier as he considers how to word his next question.

"...Did...did I do something to make you doubt how much I love you? You can tell me if I did." There's a reticence there, almost a fear that he's the cause and it hurts to see that your own insecurities have made him doubt himself at all.

You sigh heavily, pressing a kiss to his cheek that lingers a moment before admitting the reality of the situation, "It's not you, I just...I got in my head a little...you know I always see those instagram posts and comments about how handsome you are and how...how you have always these options and I..." Quinn presses his forehead to yours, noses brushing as he catches your eye and holds it, face serious, eyes unblinking as if that would make you truly understand what he's about to say.

"You are my only option. You. You now, you tomorrow, more you, you when your hair is a mess, you when you're sick and gross...you when you're actually ancient..." You lightly slap his shoulder, even as the two of you laugh in each other's personal space, Quinn purposefully rubbing the tip of his nose against yours, "I don't want anyone else, I don't even notice other people anymore. The guys' point out a girl and I just think how she's not you."

"I love you, Quinn...I love so much."

"I know" You hit him again as he pulls back to laugh loudly before pulling you close again. "I love you too. Always."

[wakebymoonsleepbysun]

Dogday!! Trying to figure out a way to send a Y/N in there to help him.

Rambles under the cut.

(I drew my sona in these cuz self-indulgent, but if I ever write anything it'll be a reader insert with little to no canon design.)

Design notes: Took some elements from his game model as well as his cartoon design. I think when we see him, he is emaciated and/or stretched out, the way CatNap is said to be able to stretch. Don't know if that's an ability all Smiling Critters have though. For now I'm saying it is SOMEWHAT but CatNap is the better at it by MILES. In any case, that's why he's not quite as lanky as he is in game, and is also a bit shorter.

I also he can be bipedal or quadrupedal, much like CatNap seems to be able to switch back and forth. A bit more animalistic than his cartoon counterpart, but part of that is just him not wanting to tower over the children and employees all the time, so drops down to all fours quite a bit.

The fur texture on his ears in the game cave him a floofy cocker spaniel look so I went with that instead of the less floofy ears he has in the cartoon and his original plushie.

The white pupils being absent when we see him I believe is a sign of how weak he is. When healthy, all the Bigger Bodies Smiling Critters have them, much like CatNap does.

Trying to actually keep his huge open-mouth smile at all times, unlike with my FNAF stuff where I give them more of an ability to emote. That said trying to get him to look angry or sad was a challenge. Sad I think worked okay but the one where I meant him to look angry he looks more cocky or smirky than mad. Tender moments are a bit harder too, as keeping that huge grin with more tender eyes results in him looking either drunk or horney or just like he's not taking the moment very seriously, haha.

And the story? Not sure yet, bouncing around a few ideas, though I don't think I'll have the reader and the player be the same person. Reader might be someone who came up in PlayCare alongside Dogday. Perhaps they knew each other as kids when Dogday was still human. Haven't decided how much of this Dogday remembers or at what point the reader realizes Dogday is their old friend who got "adopted".

Reader grows up the Playcare and is given a job once they're an adult. (Something something starting the brainwashing and normalization of bullshit early to make employees who are more willing to look the other way?)

Dogday somehow kept them hidden during the Hour of Joy and the reader's been living in the caves ever since. (The caves open up so much possibility for people being hidden in the factory. Much easier to say there's an unknown offshoot of a natural cave system than an unknown part of the factory.)

How are they staying fed? Uhhhh...cave mushrooms? Trips to the surface? Moss? Stale vending machine candy? I don't know yet.

Not sure how to pull a happy ending out of this horror but I'm trying. Maybe the reader convinces Dogday to leave after Ch 3 because he'd be too weak to help anyway or something? And uh...I'm just gonna pretend since he's kinda a plushie he can be sewn back together even though I'm PRETTY SURE canonically the inclusion of blood and guts makes that...not a thing.

Just remember guys...all winds blow away...eventually.

[takes1]

daichi forgetting his manners

hey pookies :O i'm baaack! this is just a drabble i had in reserves that i spruced up when i got back from training! i'm backed up on requests rn so i will be trying to get those up in the coming weeks! thanks for all the interaction while i was away aahh! <3

warnings. lite!nsfw / minors dni. info. fem!reader / kinda wifey!reader / horny kissing / public displays of affection / sweaty!daichi / gruff daichi / 761 words full haikyuu collection/more daichi here. more links. my ao3. masterlist.

You waited, patient in the doorway, your tied up present clasped in your neatly folded hands.

"I'm sure he'll love it," Kiyoko told you at once, when you revealed that your boyfriend had no idea you were going to show up today.

Even though you weren't hiding, he still didn't see you while they finished up their intense practice match. He was lazer-focused into the game. He called some plays, shouted at others to direct and organize the court. You had watched countless matches, but you could never hear him speak so clearly before from the stands - his Captain voice was an exciting sound, to say the least.

It was so impressive on the ground level. You leaned on the entrance, completely satisfied lingering for a while to observe.

They gathered on his command, exchanged a few words, then shouted and dispersed to jog over to their waters.

It looked like a tie, from what you could tell. Neither of the 'teams' looked done yet, but they were all huffy and puffy, with glazed-over expressions and soaked shirts.

You watched from a curious angle, still unnoticed, and drank up the way Daichi slicked his drenched hair back, chest heaving at irregular intervals while he balanced breathing and hydrating.

"They've been really pushing themselves, huh?" You spoke off-handedly to Kiyoko.

She nodded, "It takes a lot."

"Yeah..." You sighed, smiling, "It makes me tired just watching them."

Daichi's glanced over the others, gauging their energy levels. He counted as he did this, then threw his attention over and shouted at two freshmen to get away from the net and drink their water.

It was evident that he had to think the most out of everyone there. He was never off-guard, even when they took breaks.

"(Y/n)'s heerre," Suga was the first to notice your presence.

He gave a smirky, hard elbow to his friend's side and motioned to the door before he could get mad at his unnecessary force.

You waved back to a few guys who heard him too; a smile filled your face at their all of their sweet, small greetings from a few feet over.

Daichi threw his head back, a big, beautiful grin capturing all of his built-up exhaustion well. His shoulders stooped, his body language already more relaxed at the sight of you in your cute little outfit.

There wasn't a time you could recall him looking more happy to see you. It left you very glad that you decided to pop up, today.

"I thought you might need something extra, since you've been practicing longer," You managed to squeak out.

It was difficult now that everyone was watching, sitting, standing, stretching. They drank their waters, all curious to see what you brought their captain.

Though, it seemed like it was only your concern.

Daichi didn't slow down when he walked up on you. You only had a moment to prepare yourself for a kiss.

"Fuuck, I love you so much," He groaned, quiet, but not quiet enough.

He was hot and heavy as he wrapped a strong arm around your middle and pulled you forward into a clumsy, passionate kiss.

There was no option to evade it-- a powerful hand guided you up, up, up to his lips, the other slipping carelessly under the back of your blouse.

"Mmhn," He giggled onto your soft, glossy lips.

He tasted like salt- like liquid salt. You didn't mind that part-- your tenseness derived more so from the fact that he was slipping his tongue past your teeth and fisting your shirt up your middle back.

His shoulders were red-hot to the touch when you pushed back on them. Your heart raced at the risque public display.

Before he finally pulled away, he made sure to suck all the gloss off of your bottom lip.

"Whadd'ya bring me?" His voice was low, and his eyes only something you saw in the bedroom.

"Uh-," You shuddered.

Your delicate top was now a little wet from being pressed into him, and you handed the cute, tied up box to him.

Mouth still parted, your panicked eyes darted around his sleepy-looking face, and you caught your breath, fingers shakily wiping the spit from the corners of your mouth and chin. It was impossible for you to not look to your right, where you met a dozen pairs of eyes before they all looked away at once.

Daichi followed your eyeline straight to Ukai's stern frown.

He cleared his throat and stood up straighter; a soft, "Damn," left his still-glistening lips.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 09

˗ˏˋ rules ˎˊ˗

"Rules are funny things. You make them thinking they'll keep you safe, keep everything contained. But sometimes the person you're really trying to protect yourself from… is you"

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 6.5k

content: candle shop shenanigans, friend group dynamics, rules and boundaries

✧ author's note ✧

OKAY FIRST OF ALL—who absolutely LOVES Yeji? Because ME. The way she clocked Jungkook within seconds and had NO filter??? Like, I'm obsessed. Mans was genuinely SHOCKED that someone told him to sit his ass down. The audacity of this woman to not immediately melt under his smirky, tattooed menace energy?? I respect her so much. A feminist icon, if you will.

And IRYA. Ughhh, my precious girlie. The way she’s just casually vibing with Jungkook? Like?? They are NOTHING alike, and yet she’s over here just mingling with him, being friendly, unbothered, meanwhile Yeji is foaming at the mouth in the background. I love that contrast so much. It’s like, she doesn’t see him as a threat, just another guy in the room, which makes Jungkook (who is used to either being hated or obsessed over) lowkey confused. You can see the gears turning in his head like “Wait. Why aren’t you scared of me. Or pissed at me. Or flirting with me.” HAHAH POOR BOY.

And let’s talk about Jimin, because HELLO, my quiet support KING. He’s not even saying much in this chapter, but he’s there, next to Y/N, just in case. That kind of silent loyalty? The “I know you can handle yourself, but if you need me, I’m already here” type of presence??? I eat that up every time. Their friend group is everything to me.

Speaking of menace behavior—Jungkook. Are we surprised? He’s so unserious about everything. I loved giving him Kuko as a contact name for Y/N because in every fic, it’s always Kook or Kookie or Koo and I just—I wanted something different. Something slightly sharp and weird. Like, why does it sound like a pet name and an insult at the same time 😭😭 It’s PERFECT for their dynamic.

And finally, Y/N. My messy, mouthy, disaster baby. She is THEE representation of someone who’s barely entered adulthood, fresh into uni, kind of immature, kind of figuring it out, but loud as hell about it. Like, I KNOW some of y’all are probably reading this chapter thinking “girl, seriously??” but THAT'S THE POINT. She’s got so much personality, she’s a walking contradiction, she’s flawed, but she’s HER. I love her for it.

I also stuffed this chapter with SO many Easter eggs. Like, the foreshadowing is right there at the end, but I know y’all aren’t catching everything yet. You’ll come back later, reread it, and be like “OH MY GOD, KIKI???” And I’ll just be sitting here like 😌✌️ I love when a plan comes together.

Anyway, here’s Chapter 9, babes. Enjoy the mess. I’m off to go prep for my therapist session because, let’s be real, I probably projected a little too hard in this one LMAO.

⋆｡°✩ read on ✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

You don't know why you agreed to go shopping with Yeji. 

She texted at ass o'clock in the morning about "needing your expert opinion," and honestly? Your sleep-deprived brain just went sure, whatever without processing the implications. You just mentioned having to buy something for Emma — her birthday's in two weeks — and it was downhill from there.

"This place smells like a Pinterest board threw up," Yeji announces as you enter the third candle store of the day. Some fancy boutique with mason jars everywhere and prices that make you want to cry. "Who names a candle Whispers of Moonlight?"

"Someone getting paid way too much," you mutter, checking the price tag. Jesus. "Forty dollars for—is this supposed to smell like grass?"

"Rich people grass." Yeji picks up another one, face scrunching. "Autumn's Last Kiss. What does that even mean? Like, trees making out?"

"Pretty sure it's just pumpkin spice trying to be fancy."

"Capitalism is wild." She moves down the aisle, combat boots squeaking against the polished floor. "Oh shit, look at this one. Midnight Jasmine's Secret Rendezvous. That's not a candle, that's a Mills & Boon novel."

You snort, trailing after her. "Speaking of reading material—"

"We are not starting a book club book chat right now."

"I'm just saying, if you actually showed up to Victorian Lit—"

"And listen to Professor Stevens cream himself over Dickens for two hours? Pass." She picks up another candle, this one in black glass. "Dark Temptation. Bet you five bucks it smells like axe body spray."

She's not wrong. You wrinkle your nose as she waves it under your face. "Why does everything 'dark' and 'masculine' smell like a frat house?"

"Because the straights are not okay." Yeji sets it back, wiping her hands on her jeans like the scent might be contagious. "What did Emma say she likes again?"

"Anything except roses." You pause at a display of seasonal scents. "Her roommate burns those generic rose ones from the dollar store. Pretty sure she's traumatized."

"Valid." Yeji's already moved on to the next shelf, picking up random ones and reading their names in increasingly dramatic voices. "Summer's Sweet Embrace. Woodland Mystery. Oh my god, Bachelor's Button? What the fuck is a bachelor's button?"

"It's a flower," you say, distracted by a actually nice-looking sage and cedar one. Still overpriced, but... "My mom used to grow them."

"Sounds fake, but okay." 

She’s quiet for a second. Then:

"What about this one?" Yeji holds up a purple candle, squinting at the label. "Lavender Dreams. Sounds pretentious as fuck."

"Put that down before you break it," you mutter, scanning the shelves. The prices are criminal. “And aren't you supposed to be in Art History right now?"

"Professor Wang's doing that thing again where he talks about his divorce for two hours." She shrugs, setting the candle back with surprising care. "I've already heard all about Karen three times this semester."

You roll your eyes, picking up a sage-scented one. And no, you're not lingering in the candle section because you love them, okay? Emma likes candles too. It's completely reasonable research for a birthday gift. Nothing to do with how your apartment could use some—

"These are boring anyway," Yeji declares, already moving on. Her attention snaps to something across the street. Barnes & Noble, its windows displaying the latest bestsellers. 

"Wanna check out some books?" she asks, hands stuffed in the pockets of her worn-out grey zip-up. The one she definitely stole from Irya's closet.

"Since when do you read?" You snort, following her out of the candle store. Because you know damn well Yeji's idea of "reading" is skimming SparkNotes twenty minutes before class.

"Woah, judging a book by its cover?" She gestures to her whole aesthetic: combat boots, ripped jeans, that stolen sweater. "Just 'cause I look like this doesn't mean I don't read."

"You told me last week that Romeo and Juliet was, and I quote, 'straight people nonsense.'"

"It is straight people nonsense." She pushes open the bookstore's door, a blast of air conditioning hitting you. "But we need books for the club."

"You mean the chat group you named 'Fuck The Patriarchy Book Club' that's basically just for rambling and complaining?" Like how you ended up here today, victim to Yeji's class-skipping schemes. "That club?"

"Yeah?" She flashes that smile that you’re starting to associate with trouble. "C'mon, I need to check if they have Pride and Prejudice."

You trail after her into Fiction & Literature, past towering shelves and that distinct bookstore smell. "Pride and—hold up. Weren't you just shitting on romance classics?"

"Yeah, and?" She's already scanning the 'A' section with laser focus. "My girl wants to read it, so we're reading it."

"You're buying it because Irya mentioned it once in the group chat."

"And?" Yeji doesn't even pretend to deny it, moving purposefully through the aisles. "My girlfriend has taste. Unlike some people who waste their time reading..." she picks up a random book, "The Art of Corporate Finance."

"That's not even—"

"Found it!" She pulls out a leather-bound edition, definitely not the cheapest version available. "Look at this fancy shit. Irya's gonna love it."

You're about to point out how whipped she is when something catches your eye. A "Now Hiring" sign at the front counter, clean white letters against dark wood. Huh. You've been meaning to look for a job, something to get you out of the apartment more. And to help your finances. too. God knows you’d rather avoid having to ask mom and daddy for more money. 

"Earth to Y/N?" Yeji waves a hand in front of your face. "You good?"

"Yeah, just..." You gesture vaguely at the sign. 

Working at a bookstore wouldn't be the worst thing. Plus, employee discount.

"Oh shit, you should totally apply." She examines the sign with newfound interest. "Then you can hook me up with discounts on all the books Irya wants."

"I haven't even—"

"Excuse me?" she calls to a passing employee, ignoring your attempt to shut her up. "My friend here wants to apply for the job opening."

You're going to kill her. Slowly. With one of these hardcover books.

But the employee's already turning around—young guy, probably another student, name tag reading 'Mark'—and you can't exactly bolt without looking insane. Perfect. Just perfect.

"Oh, yeah?" Mark brightens. "We're actually pretty desperate for people who can work weekday afternoons. You have any retail experience?"

"I—"

"She's great with books," Yeji cuts in, because apparently she's your agent now. "Like, literally will fight someone over their trash literary takes. You should hear her rant about Hemingway."

You shoot her a death glare, but... well, she's not wrong about Hemingway.

"That's actually perfect," Mark says. "We get a lot of students asking for recommendations. Here—" He heads to the counter, returning with an application form. "You can fill this out now if you want. Manager's still here."

And somehow, because the universe hates you, you end up at one of the reading tables, filling out your work history while Yeji "helps" by suggesting you list your special skills as "roasting bad authors" and "setting pretentious men straight about their Joyce opinions."

Your phone buzzes. Group chat.

6B Hell

Yoongs 🎧: 𝙲𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜? 𝚆𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚛𝚗

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔

Yoongs 🎧: 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞

Yoongs 🎧: 𝚆𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝟷𝟻𝚝𝚑

Yoongs 🎧: 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚝𝚑𝚡 𝚖𝚊𝚗

You're about to reply that you'll grab some later when another message pops up.

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡 𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? 𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖

What the actual fuck?

You: 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜?

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚌 

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 

You let out a disbelieving sound. Yeji, who's been "helping" by pointing out every minor spelling mistake in your application, peers over your shoulder.

"What's up?"

"My roommate being a jerk as usual." You know for a fact Jungkook's probably sprawled on the couch right now, doing fuck-all except maybe killing brain cells on his PlayStation. But sure, you should get the coffee.

You: 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎

You: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘, 𝚒’𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚊𝚠 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚡

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 

Yoongs 🎧: 𝙲𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝?

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚘𝚝 

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎? 

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard. That asshole.

You: 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗? 

You: 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡 

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝…

You: 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 

You: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎?

Yoongs 🎧: 𝚈/𝙽.

Something about Yoongi’s message makes you pause. That's... weird. But before you can think about it:

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 :)

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚢𝚊 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠?

"I'm assuming he means video games," Yeji says, still reading. "Not the fun kind of grinding."

You elbow her in the ribs.

You: 𝚔 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝

You: 𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚘

You: 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎? :)

Yoongs 🎧: 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚝, 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 

Yoongs 🎧: 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚗𝚊𝚑 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕 

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚡? ;) 

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜? 

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 :)

You're going to murder him. You're actually going to commit homicide, and Yoongi's going to have to find a new roommate, and you know what? He'll probably thank you.

You: 𝚛𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕

You: :)

"So," Yeji says as you aggressively save his number under 'Kuko🖕🏻', "this is fun."

"I hate him so much."

"Uh-huh." She glances at your phone, where he's still sending coffee emoji spam. "You know what this means though, right?"

"That I need better roommates?"

"That you're definitely getting this job." She taps the half-completed application. "Can't spend all your time at the apartment if you're working retail hours."

She... might have a point.

Kuko🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘 

Kuko🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚢 

Yoongs 🎧: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 

Yoongs 🎧: 𝚈/𝙽, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝚆𝚎,𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛.

Your phone buzzes again, but this time it's the other group chat. Thank fuck.

Fuck The Patriarchy Book Club 📚

Irya 🌸: 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜?

Irya 🌸: 𝚓𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗

Jin ☕️: 𝙲𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

Jin ☕️: 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚜.

Jin ☕️: 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝟻𝟶𝚔𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝟻.

Jin ☕️: 𝙶𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎.

Your phone keeps vibrating with notifications from the other chat. You peek at it. 

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Jesus fucking Christ.

Yeji 🖤: 𝚙𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊 𝚊𝚝 𝚢/𝚗’𝚜?

Yeji 🖤: 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 

Your head snaps up. "Excuse me?"

"What?" Yeji doesn't even look guilty. "You keep complaining about him, might as well know what we’re working with here."

You: 𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝

You: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

Irya 🌸: 𝚘𝚘𝚑 𝚢𝚎𝚜!! 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗??

Irya 🌸: 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 

Irya 🌸: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚓𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎?

You let out a loud sigh, now considering Irya’s question. Because part of you thinks about bringing unwanted guests to the apartment, about how that could disturb the peace, especially for Yoongi.

But also? Also, Jungkook brought his friends last time. No warning, no group chat message to let you know you’d meeting random dudes in your pokemon PJs.

So he can suck it, honestly. 

You: 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎

You: 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘

Jin ☕️: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙹𝚘𝚎’𝚜.

Jin ☕️: 𝙽𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎.

Jin ☕️: 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘, 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗.

Another cascade of coffee emojis floods your notifications. You switch back to the apartment chat.

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡𝚡𝚡𝚡𝚡

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: 𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: 𝚒𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝟿𝟶% 𝚌𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚎

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

You hit mute so fast you nearly crack your screen.

You: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎

You: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚈𝙾𝚄’𝚁𝙴 𝚋𝚞𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚎𝚓𝚒

Yeji 🖤: 𝚕𝚖𝚊𝚘 𝚗𝚘

Yeji 🖤: 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝟻𝟶 𝚋𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚢 𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔

Yeji 🖤: 𝚒𝚖 𝙱𝚁𝙾𝙺𝙴 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎

Irya 🌸: 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔? 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚎? 👀 

Irya 🌸: 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔?!?!?! 💘

Jin ☕️: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐.

Jin ☕️: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚜.

Yeji 🖤: 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢

Yeji 🖤: 𝚐𝚘 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜

"So," Yeji says, watching you aggressively fill out the availability section of your application. "Should we warn your roommate about pizza night or...?"

You think about the endless coffee emojis. About how he's probably still spamming them, the notifications piling up in your muted chat.

"Nope."

She grins. "Chaos it is."

You make it to your apartment after what feels like the longest trek ever, juggling the coffee capsules bag and your dignity. And no, you didn't buy them because of him, okay? You bought them because Yoongi deserves his caffeine fix. Yoongi, who actually helped you carry boxes up flights of stairs when you moved in. Yoongi, who warns you when the hot water's acting up. Yoongi, who—unlike some people—doesn't blast music at 3AM.

"Still can't believe you actually bought them," Yeji says for the fifth time, trailing behind you up the stairs. "Like, you're really just gonna enable his bratty ass?"

"They're not for him." You dig through your bag for your keys. "I got the regular ones for Yoongi. The vanilla ones are mine."

"Uh-huh." She's got that look again. "And you got the vanilla ones because...?"

"Because I like vanilla coffee." Your keys jangle aggressively as you search. "Not everything is about him."

"I offered to spike them," she reminds everyone, way too loudly for a hallway. "Could've made it look factory-sealed and everything."

Jimin looks slightly concerned. "Do I want to know why you know how to do that?"

"Probably not," Irya says cheerfully. "But that's why I love her."

You finally locate your keys, jamming them into the lock. It sticks—because of course it does, these old-ass doors—and you have to do that weird wiggle thing to get it open. "The last thing I need is a lawsuit for attempted murder by coffee."

"It wouldn't kill him," Yeji argues. "Just, you know. Mild poisoning. Character building."

"Pretty sure that's still illegal," Jimin says.

"Only if you get caught."

The door finally gives, swinging open to reveal... nobody. The living room's empty, thank fuck. No sign of Yoongi or—more importantly—no sign of him. Maybe they're both out. Maybe you'll actually get through this pizza night without any—

"Yo, this is actually nice," Yeji says, already making herself at home on the couch. "When you said 'bros' cave' I was expecting, like, beer pong tables and stolen street signs."

"Those are in Jungkook's room," you mutter, dropping the coffee bag on the kitchen counter. Not that you've seen his room. You haven't. Obviously.

Irya's examining the vinyl collection by the TV. "These are good albums. Your roommates have taste."

"Those are Yoongi's." Probably. You're like 90% sure they're Yoongi's. You've never actually asked.

"The place is surprisingly clean," Jimin notes, still hovering politely by the door. "Need help with anything?"

"Nah, just—" You pause as something orange streaks past. "Oh, shit, wait—Griffin, no—"

Too late. Your cat roommate's already winding between Jimin's legs, purring like the attention whore he is.

"You have a cat?" Irya drops to her knees immediately. "Oh my god, he's gorgeous."

"He's not mine." You dump your bag on the counter. "He's Jungkook's emotional support menace."

"Like owner, like cat," Yeji says, watching Griffin charm his way into Jimin's arms.

"True." You roll your eyes. "Demanding, dramatic, and constantly in the way."

Griffin headbutts Jimin's shin, purring louder.

"Should I..." He looks uncertain. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah, he does that." You start unpacking the coffee capsules. “He's harmless. Just attention-starved and thinks he owns the place."

"Again," Yeji says, "like owner, like cat."

"Pretty much.”

"At least the cat's cute." She stretches out on the couch, combat boots definitely leaving marks. "Makes up for the personality."

"Tragic how the genes weren't distributed evenly," you mutter, strategizing about how to arrange the coffee capsules in the cabinet. Normal ones for Yoongi, vanilla ones hidden in the back where grabby hands can't reach them.

Irya's still on the floor with Griffin, who's now rolled onto his back. "I don't know, he seems sweet."

"The cat? Yeah." You slam the cabinet open. "The owner? Walking nightmare."

"Speaking of nightmares." Jimin's still by the door, ever polite. "Should we maybe warn him we're having pizza here? Since it's his apartment too..."

You think about the forty-seven coffee emojis still sitting in your muted notifications.

"Nope."

"Absolutely not," Yeji agrees. "He can deal with it like she dealt with having his dudebro friends over last week."

Irya looks up from scratching Griffin's belly. "Oh yeah, didn't you say you ran into them in your—what was it?"

"Pokemon pajamas," you groan. "Look, they were clean, okay? And it was like, Saturday morning. Who has people over at Saturday morning?"

"Douchebags," Yeji supplies helpfully. 

You're about to agree when you hear it. A door opening down the hall. Footsteps.

Of-fucking-course.

"You bought the coffee, phoenix?"

The drawl comes from behind you, and you briefly consider whether jail time for murder would really be that bad. Jungkook's leaning against his doorframe in—are those fucking Sonic pajama pants?—looking like he just rolled out of bed. At 7PM. Because of course he did.

"Nice little reunion you got going on here, by the way." 

He yawns, running a hand through his messy hair as he saunters into the kitchen. Like this is totally fine. Like having your friends over without warning isn't exactly what he did last week with Hoseok and Taehyung—who, by the way, apparently has keys to your fucking apartment. 

You pointedly ignore him, which would work better if he wasn't literally heading straight for you. He reaches around you to rummage through the shopping bags, and you slap his hands away. 

“Get out of my stuff."

"Oh," he pulls out the vanilla capsules before you can stop him, "you actually got me the vanilla ones?"

"They're not for you." You snatch them back. "Get your hands off them."

He grabs for them again. "Pretty sure you bought them because—"

"I bought them for me." You yank them away, but he's already going for the other bag. "Oh my god, can you not—"

"So this is the pain in the ass?" Yeji's voice drips with disdain from the couch. 

Jungkook quirks an eyebrow, still trying to get his hands on your shopping. "Who's Cruella de Vil over there?"

You elbow him away from the bags. "None of your—"

"Another candle?" He snatches it up, holding it over his head where you can't reach. Dick. "Seriously? After last time?"

"If you'd stop making everything smell like balls and nachos—" You jump for it, but he just stretches higher, "—I wouldn't have to buy them, Rogue."

"I don't smell like—"

"Wait," Irya interrupts, and you catch her hiding a smile behind her hand. "Phoenix?"

"Rogue?" Jimin adds quietly from his corner, looking between you back and forth.

Jungkook's smirk widens as he finally lets you grab the candle back. "Oh, she hasn't told you that story?"

"We are not discussing this again." You shove the candle in its bag. "Ever."

"Why not? It's hilarious." He's fully grinning now, leaning his hip against the counter like he owns it. "Haven't told them about how you almost set the place on fire your first week here?"

"BECAUSE YOU ENTERED THE HOUSE LIKE A FUCKING—" Your hand's fisted in his t-shirt before you can stop yourself, and he's snickering, the absolute dick. "Like a complete psychopath," you finish through gritted teeth.

"The lock sticks!" He's still laughing. "I told you, it's an old door—"

"You didn't have to shoulder it open like the SWAT team!"

"You dropped a lit match!"

"Because you scared the shit out of me!" 

"Ugh," Yeji groans. "Is he always like this?"

"Worse," you mutter, finally releasing his shirt. "Usually he's too busy being edgy in his room with his electric guitar."

Irya's definitely smirking now. Jimin looks like he wants to disappear into the wall.

"Whatever, phoenix." He makes another grab for the vanilla capsules. "Rising from the ashes of your attempted arson."

"That's not—" You smack his hand away. "That's not why you started calling me that and you know it."

"Pretty sure it is."

"Pretty sure you're full of shit."

Griffin chooses this moment to abandon Irya and wind between Jungkook's legs, the little traitor. Jungkook immediately scoops him up, and you pretend not to notice how the cat starts purring instantly.

"See?" He scratches under Griffin's chin. "G knows I'm right."

"G's a whore for attention." You start shoving the shopping bags away. "He'd side with Satan if Satan had treats."

"So that's why he likes you."

"You calling me Satan now? Wasn't it phoenix? Pick your poison, dumbass."

"Nah." He's still petting Griffin, who's practically melting in his arms. "Just saying you're both dramatic as fuck."

"Says the guy who kicked down a door over a—"

"The lock was stuck!"

"Yeah? Like your head up your ass?"

“Do you two always do this?” Irya prompts. 

"No," you mutter, yanking the coffee bag away as he tries to sneak another grab at it. "When he's not gaming like a twelve-year-old, he's—stop touching my stuff!"

"Just checking what flavor you got," he says innocently, which might work better if he wasn't actively trying to steal the vanilla capsules. "Since you bought them for me and all—"

"I will actually murder you."

"With what? Another candle?"

"Keep talking and find out."

"Children," Yeji interrupts, looking physically pained. "Can we not?"

But Jungkook's already reaching for the bag again, and you swat his hand away. "I swear to god—"

"What? I'm just being neighborly—"

"You're being a pain in the ass—"

"Aw, you noticed?"

"Hard not to when you're—" You break off as he successfully snags a vanilla capsule. "Give that back."

"Make me."

"What are you, five?"

"Says the one hoarding coffee—"

"It's my coffee—"

"Pretty sure you bought it with daddy's credit card—"

The words hit like a slap and before you can think better of it, you snarl, "Fuck you."

Your eyes widen the second it leaves your mouth because you know that look on his face, that slight quirk of his lips, the way he's already—

You slam your hand over his mouth so fast you practically punch him, fingers digging into his jaw. He makes a muffled sound of protest, but you can feel him grinning under your palm, the absolute dick.

"Don't," you hiss. "Don't you fucking dare."

He raises his eyebrows like who, me? but you can feel him trying not to laugh.

"Okay!" Jimin claps his hands together, looking slightly alarmed. "So, pizza? Anyone want to look at the menu?”

“Oooh, that sounds promising.” Jungkook says, yanking your hand away. 

"Can't you leave?" You eye him. "Go jack yourself off while you look in the mirror or something. Maybe play your fucking guitar."

"Huhhh?" He's already propping his elbows on the back of the sofa, leaning over the narrow table that ‘separates’ the kitchen from the living room. "I want pizza too. Plus, your friends look nice." His smile is all teeth. "I'm sure they don't mind."

Jimin materializes next to you in the kitchen like some kind of conflict-sensing angel, pretending to be interested in the coffee maker. You know he's checking if you're okay, which would be sweet if you weren't currently fantasizing about drowning Jungkook in vanilla coffee.

"I mind," Yeji announces flatly.

"No problem!" Irya chirps at the same time.

Yeji shoots her girlfriend an exasperated look, but Irya just settles more comfortably against her side. You're going to kill both of them.

"Who's the pink pony over here?" Jungkook nods at Irya, and you see Yeji's arm tighten around her shoulders, hackles practically visible.

"Touch her and die."

"Aww, babe." Irya pats Yeji's thigh. "I'm Irya, and this little black cat over here is my girlfriend Yeji." She points across the room. "That's Jimin."

Jungkook glances back at where you're now aggressively reorganizing coffee capsules, Jimin hovering uncertainly beside you. There's something in his expression you don't like, mouth opening to say god knows what—

"And the third roommate?" Yeji cuts in.

You're about to answer but Jungkook beats you to it. "Yoongi's not here."

"Working late," you add, just to be contrary. "You know, like an actual adult with a job?"

"Unlike some people," Yeji mutters.

You snort at her commentary, and you tune out Jungkook’s comeback. Instead your eyes flicker to Jimin, who’s scrolling through his phone, probably looking at pizza options, when—

"Yo Jim, come here." Jungkook waves him over. "Let me look at the menu."

You grab Jimin's arm before he can move, linking it with yours. "I'm choosing first, wait your damn turn."

Jungkook rises from the sofa with a click of his tongue. "Come on, I just wanna—"

"Did she fucking stutter?" Yeji snaps, and Jungkook actually blinks, like he's not used to being shut down that fast.

You turn back to Jimin's phone with maybe a bit too much satisfaction. "Okay, so what are we thinking?"

"They have this new quattro formaggi that's supposed to be good." Jimin tilts the screen so you can see better. "Or the classic margherita—"

"Boring," you mutter, scrolling past. "Oh, what about the spicy one? With the—"

"The calabrese?" He zooms in on the description. "Spicy salami, fresh basil..."

"That looks good." You're actually getting hungry now. "Maybe we could—"

A shadow falls over the phone as Jungkook appears in front of you like some kind of pizza-seeking missile. He peers over both your lowered heads, close enough that you can feel the heat from his chest, and you resist the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

"Have you two decided?" His breath hits your ear. "Because I—"

You're about to grab a fistful of his hair and yank him back to a respectable distance when he snatches Jimin's phone right out of his hands.

"What the fuck—" You start to reach for him, but Jimin catches your wrist.

"It's okay," he says quietly. "Don't worry about it."

Jungkook's already scrolling, completely unbothered. "Yo, what do you two want?" He nods at the couch without looking up.

"Hawaiian for me," Irya pipes up cheerfully. "Yeji wants the diavola, extra spicy."

Yeji just grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "men" and turns on the TV.

"Cool, cool." Jungkook's still scrolling. "Phoenix, you getting the calabrese?"

"None of your business."

"Just trying to make sure we don't order the same thing." He glances up with that insufferable smirk. "Unless you want to share?"

"I'd rather eat glass."

"Okay, so that's a no on sharing." He's still scrolling through Jimin's phone like he owns it. "I'm thinking meat lovers."

"Of course you are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you're basic as fuck."

"Says the one getting—" he squints at the screen "—spicy calabrese, like some—"

"Can you two shut up for five minutes?" Yeji snaps from the couch. "Some of us are trying to hear the TV."

"My bad," Jungkook says, not sounding sorry at all. He hands Jimin's phone back—finally—and stretches. "Alright, four pizzas ordered. Now we wait."

You watch him sprawl onto the armchair—the one he keeps arguing it’s his (it’s not?)—like he belongs there, and something about it sets your teeth on edge. The casual way he's inserted himself into your evening, how he's somehow charmed Irya into actual conversation, how he keeps looking at you when he thinks you're not paying attention.

"Whatever, man." You push away from the counter, desperate to get away from his presence for at least two minutes. "I'm gonna get into my PJs, I'll be back."

You head down the hall, your skin prickling like he's watching you go. Which he's not. Obviously. You're just on edge because he's being more insufferable than usual, getting all cozy with your friends like he has any right to—

"Yo, phoenix, wait." Jungkook's voice stops you. "Remember that thing with the landlord? The, uh, maintenance form?"

"What maintenance form?"

"You mentioned to Yoongi about the lock sticking, right?" He's already moving towards you with that easy confidence that makes you want to punch him. "Super's been bitching about proper documentation. Needs your signature since it's your door."

He keeps talking as he approaches, something about liability and repair schedules, and it sounds legitimate enough that you almost miss how he's gradually crowding your space. Almost miss how each step brings him closer until—

He reaches past you, hand brushing your hip as he turns the handle. The door barely has time to click shut before Jungkook’s on you, his whole body crowding into yours, ushering you backward so fast you stumble. Almost fall.

“Jesus—”

Your balance tips, but before you can catch yourself, his hands are already on you—grabbing, steadying, possessive. A solid chest against yours, broad palms locking around your wrists before you can shove him away.

He grins down at you, smirky, flushed, pupils blown. That lazy, cocky amusement dripping from his expression like he planned this. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Relax, Phoenix.” His grip tightens, pulling your wrists just slightly apart. “You’re fine.”

And then his mouth crashes onto yours.

Hard. Messy. Zero warning, zero hesitation. Just heat and teeth and tongue, urgent like he needs to shut you up.

You match him instantly, kissing back just as fiercely, nails curling into his shirt, yanking him closer. His hair is soft under your fingers, thick and dangerous, and you tug—just the way he likes it. Just the way that always makes him groan, makes him grab.

Which he does. Both hands drop to your ass, full palms, fingers digging in like he can’t help himself. A rough squeeze that pulls a breathy sound from your throat before you can stop it.

He chuckles, low and wrecked against your lips, hips rolling slow and deliberate against yours. 

“Fuck—” Another squeeze, his voice dropping. “You get all mouthy with me, and then you act surprised when you turn me on?”

Your stomach flips.

His mouth is still moving against yours, sharp and demanding, and fuck—you’re dizzy, heat curling low and deep.

You don’t realize he’s backing you up until your spine collides with the wardrobe.

You wince. “God, fuck—”

Jungkook barely lets you finish before his teeth graze your jaw, lips dragging lower—

No.

You shove at his chest, breath coming fast. “What is your problem?”

His smirk is instant, panting slightly, lips wrecked. The fucking look in his eyes—smoky, half-lidded, shamelessly pleased with himself.

“Mm?” He tilts his head, like he didn’t just grope the hell out of you. “What?”

“You can’t—” A sharp inhale. You straighten your shirt, glare sharp enough to cut. “My friends are here.”

He blinks. Shrugs. "So?"    

"So," you bite out, "we are not doing this."    

Jungkook just looks at you, like you’re speaking a foreign language. "Doing what?"    

"Don't." You level him with a flat stare.    

His head tilts, gaze dragging over you, slow and deliberate. "I just wanted to talk."    

"Talk," you repeat, incredulous.    

"Yeah." He plants a hand on the wardrobe beside your head. Not caging you in—just existing in your space, like he belongs there. "Privately."    

Jesus fuck.    

"Nope." You press your palms to his chest, feeling the heat of his skin through cotton. "Not happening."    

"Phoenix." His voice dips, lazy and smooth, like he’s humoring you. "I'll be quick."    

A disbelieving scoff. "Absolutely the fuck not."    

He laughs, quiet and amused, like this is funny to him.    

Of course it is. Of course it is.    

You shove at his chest again. "They don’t know about this, and they’re not going to know about this."    

His brows pull together, expression open, genuinely confused. "Why?"    

Oh, you could kill him.    

"Because," you grind out, "I don't need them speculating."    

"Speculating about what?"    

"About us, dumbass!"    

The words land—and then he snorts. He just, snorts. Like you just told him a funny joke he lowkey doesn’t want to laugh at. 

"Oh, fuck off," you snap.    

His grin lingers. "Nix. We fuck. That’s it. No one’s gonna think we’re picking out wedding invitations."    

You glare. "You're missing the point."    

"I really don't think I am."    

"Rogue." You exhale sharply. "I don’t want them in my business, okay?"    

He watches you for a beat, head tilted like he’s reading between the lines.    

Then he nods. Simple. Easy. "Okay."    

You blink. "Okay?"    

"Yeah?" He shrugs. "You don’t want them to know, they won’t know. It’s not that deep."    

Right. Not that deep.    

It shouldn’t be a relief—he’s only agreeing because he doesn’t care—but your shoulders still drop a fraction.    

"Good," you say.    

He hums, gaze flicking over your face, considering. "I mean, it’s not like you gotta tell them I’m your boyfriend or something. Just that we fuck sometimes. What’s wrong with that?"    

You scoff. "Everything is wrong with that, Jungkook."    

He raises an eyebrow. "Like what?"    

Like—god, where do you start?    

Like the fact that this is supposed to be contained, something that stays locked in this apartment and nowhere else. Like the fact that you need to be in control of it because if you’re not, it means it’s spiraling, and spiraling is—    

Not an option.    

He hums, considering. The vibration shivers over your skin. "Interesting."

The fuck does that mean?

You glare at him. "What?"

"Nothing." But there's a glint in his eye you don't like. Knowing. Assessing. "Just seems like you're overthinking it."

"I'm not—"

"Ashamed?" His head tilts. "Embarrassed?"

Heat crawls up your neck. "Fuck you."

"I mean." A slow drag of his gaze, head to toe and back again. "If you insist..."

Oh my god. 

Your foot connects with his shin. Hard. He grunts, flinching back. Good.

"Touch me again," you growl, "and you lose your dick."

 He holds up his hands. The picture of innocence. "Message received."

"Is it?" You cross your arms. Narrow your eyes. "Because it seems like you're having trouble understanding basic fucking boundaries."

"Nah, I get it." But there's a wicked glint in his eye, and oh, that can't be good. "No telling your friends about all the filthy things we do."

"There is no we.” You jab a finger at his chest. "No us."

A slow nod. "Right."

"I mean it, Rogue." You hold his gaze, unflinching. "This?" A sharp gesture between your bodies. "Doesn't leave this apartment."

"Mm." His tongue swipes over his bottom lip. Deliberate. Obscene. "So I shouldn't mention how you like it when I—"

Your hand clamps over his mouth, muffling his words. "Finish that sentence and die."

He grins against your palm, wholly unrepentant. Bastard.

You drop your hand. Take a step back. "I'm serious, Ry."

"Oh, I know." But there's a curl to his lips you don't trust. Not one bit.

"Do you?" You cross your arms. "Because it sounds like you're angling for a free pass to run your mouth."

"Nah." He mirrors your posture, arms folding over his chest. “Just getting a feel for the rules."

Right. Sure. "The rules are simple." You hold up a finger. "Rule one: no one knows we're fucking."

A nod. "Easy enough."

"Rule two," you continue, "if anyone asks, we're just roommates."

"Uh-huh." His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. Considering. "That all?"

Wariness prickles up your spine. "Why?"

A shrug. Too casual. "No reason."

Bullshit.

You shake your head. "Just—forget it. Are we done here?"    

Jungkook watches you for another long second.  

Then he nods. "Yeah, we're done."  

He turns, already reaching for the doorknob, when—  

"Oh." A pause. Like he just remembered something. "And just so we're clear—this isn’t exclusive, right?"  

You blink. "What?"  

He glances back, expression easy. Casual. "Like, I can fuck other people. That cool with you?"  

A laugh bursts out of you. Short. Sharp. "Why the fuck would I care?"  

His mouth twitches. "Dunno. Just making sure."  

"Well, consider it confirmed." You fold your arms. "Do whatever the fuck you want, just—"  

He lifts his brows. "Just?"  

"Don’t give me an STD." You level him with a flat look. 

He snorts. "Noted." A beat. Then, amused— "You want test results?"  

"Oh, fuck off, Rogue."  

"Just offering, Phoenix." His smirk lingers for half a second before his expression smooths out. "So, rule number three, then."

You narrow your eyes. "Rule what?"

"Rules." He gestures between you. "One: no one knows. Two: if they ask, we're just roommates." A pause. "Three: no feelings."

Something in his voice shifts, something light but pointed, like he's not saying it just for your benefit.

You scoff. "Yeah, no shit."

He nods once, satisfied. "Cool."

And then he's gone, door clicking shut behind him like the whole thing never happened.

The air in the room is suddenly too thick.  

You exhale sharply, back hitting the wardrobe, and press your palms over your face.  

God damn him.  

Not just for being an insufferable pain in your ass, but for being right. Because logically, there's no reason to keep this a secret—he's not your boyfriend, he's just your roommate who happens to fuck you sometimes. It's not a big deal. It's not anything.

But something in you rebels at the thought of anyone knowing. Of having to explain yourself, to justify your choices. You've had enough of that to last a lifetime, enough of measuring every decision against someone else's expectations. Enough of being told what you should want, what you should do, who you should be.

This thing with Jungkook? It's yours. Messy and stupid and probably a horrible idea, but it's yours. The one thing in your life that nobody gets to have an opinion about, that nobody gets to control but you. 

And maybe that's fucked up. Maybe normal people don't feel this desperate need to keep parts of themselves hidden, to maintain this iron grip on every aspect of their lives. Maybe they don't lie awake at night planning escape routes from their own decisions.

But you've never been very good at normal, have you?

You straighten, smooth your shirt, school your face into something neutral.  

Then you open the door, step back into the living room, and pretend like your world isn’t tilting.

next | index

⋆｡°✩ taglist ✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[shouyuus]

I know it has to be something unexpected. People see the Vi exterior (tough), but realistically, she's the softest, most loyal, loving and forgiving character in Arcane bar none. So maybe she wants to be like a kindergarten teacher? Maybe a sports therapist which ties in both of her interests? Or a chef/baker since she likes cupcakes lmao

so a bunch of ppl said engineering/architecture, which i agree with also on instinct but i like this take a lot too! but like i can also imagine vi going to school for like engineering, and then pivoting into education bc she realizes that she rly like teaching ? (not me immediately spiraling into Thots TM about tutor/TA!vi and reader who rly DID need her help in the beginning, but then started to purposefully do a little worse on her exams just to get more tutoring sessions w/ vi --)

i think it'd be interesting to have reader be in sports therapy and for vi to show such clear favoritism when she's sent to PT with the practice course students, just grinning, plopping down in ur chair like "hey again" and ur like "wait ur not on my sheet today" and she's like "oh yeah? well. the guy you were supposed to be getting wanted to swap w/ me so." "yeah? he wanted to swap?" big cheeky smirky grin "yep. now --" pulling off her tanktop over her back with one hand, flexing her shoulders, "c'mon sweetcheeks, i miss those magic fingers of yours." sldkfjdifkjsodfijs

[willowsnook]

five years later

Pulled pork, extra meat, sourdough (Part 2…mikes way..?)

andrei iosivas x childhoodbsf!reader

i’d be insane not to love you

————————————————-

Wining and dining people was your least favorite part of your job. You enjoyed the boots on the ground, technical work that you had spent two years heads down doing. But now that you and your partner’s startup was slightly off the ground, you desperately needed investors. So, instead of going out with your friends this Friday night, you were at a corporate happy hour, stuck in countless conversations with older men who didn’t really understand how technology was evolving.

“So explain to me again how this works,” the man you were talking to asked, and you forced your face to remain in the tight smile that you wore. Luckily, your partner jumped in, and you took the time to scan the room, casually sipping your drink. Nobody was that interesting or attractive except a guy who looked like your age by the bar. Wait, he looks so familiar. Tan skin, dark shaggy hair, ripped. And that smile. The smile given to you too many times growing up at the beach, sitting around your family’s dining room table, after high school football games. Andrei Iosivas.

He was your next-door neighbor when you were kids, and you were inseparable. He was your first friend, your first kiss (you were 10), and honestly, the man everyone thought you would marry one day. But as it does, life got in the way. Andrei got a scholarship to Princeton, and you ended up at Stanford. The first year was okay; you flew out to see him once, and he flew to see you, but then he didn’t come home that summer. And you didn’t come home the next summer. It wasn’t anyones fault, you both just got busy. Andrei was trying to make it to the NFL, and you met Jenna and were trying to get an idea you both came up with for an actual software product. Now that you were thinking about it, you hadn’t seen him in five years.

As if sensing your gaze, Andrei looked up, and your eyes locked. His eyebrows shot up in recognition, and that familiar grin spread across his face. He raised his glass slightly in acknowledgment.

You excused yourself from the conversation, hardly hearing your partner's confused protest as you approached the bar. Andrei met you halfway.

"No way," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Is that really you?"

"In the flesh," you replied, unable to stop smiling. "What are you doing here?"

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” he said, and you chuckled. “One of my friends was invited, and I wasn’t doing anything, so I tagged along. Can I get you a drink?”

You nodded and he flagged down the bartender for you to order a gin & tonic.

“Little different than the Burnetts and lemonade we were drinking back then huh,” he teased and you fake gagged.

“God, anytime I see that bottle, I want to throw up,” you complained, and he laughed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. You took the drink from the bartender before stepping off to the side with Andrei.

“So I’m here being a supportive friend, what are you doing here?” He asked.

“Trying to find investors for my company,” you said and he nodded, not acting surprised at all.

“You were always the smart one between the two of us,” he said and you smiled.

Another guy walked over to Andrei, slapping his hand on his shoulder, “Hey man, just let me do one more round and we can leave.”

Turning to you, the man took in your appearance appreciatively and Andrei stiffened next to him.

“And who might this be?” He asked, holding out his hand to you. You shook it, amused.

“Y/n Y/l/n,” you introduced and his eyes widened.

“From Teva?” he asked, and you nodded, surprised. "I'm a big fan of your guys’ tech. I talked to Jenna earlier and am going to meet up with her this week for a demo. You are incredibly impressive.”

Blushing you thanked him and Andrei frowned, not liking the interaction.

“Y/n is one of my childhood friends,” Andrei said, joining the conversation, and his friend looked back at you before smirking knowingly.

“Ah yes, you’ve mentioned her before,” he said and Andrei’s face reddened. You shot him a curious look before noticing Jenna waving at you from across the room.

“I have to go, but it was good to see you, Dre. My number is still the same, so let’s catch up soon,” you said, and he nodded, watching you walk toward your friend.

“I can see why you never got over her,” Jack said, watching you shamelessly as you left. Andrei just shoved him as a response.

——————————————————————————

AI: are you free for dinner tomorrow? Practice ends earlier Y/N: that works for me, where? AI: want to just come to my place? I was thinking we could make that teriyaki chicken thing we always used to make Y/N: that sounds amazing, i’ll be there around 6 :30

After work, you stopped by your apartment to change into a comfy pair of leggings and long-sleeve Bengals shirt before entering his address into your GPS. Andrei met you outside and smiled at you as you pulled in.

Walking over to him, you wrapped your arms around to hug him in greeting, sighing as he held you to him and your heart fluttered, just like old times. You knew it was wishful thinking that your crush on him back in the day wouldn’t come back. And now here he was in front of you, twice as attractive as he used to be.

"Come on in," Andrei said, his hand resting lightly on your lower back as he guided you inside. The apartment was spacious and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a stunning view of the city skyline.

"Nice place," you commented, taking it all in.

"Thanks," he replied, a hint of shyness in his voice. "Make yourself at home. I'll grab us some drinks."

You settled onto the plush couch, watching as Andrei moved around the kitchen with practiced ease. He returned with two glasses of white wine, handing one to you before sitting down beside you.

"So," he began, his eyes twinkling, "tell me everything I've missed in the last five years."

You laughed, launching into stories about your startup, successes and failures, and the whirlwind your life had become. Andrei listened intently, commenting occasionally, a small smile on his face as he took you in.

Out of breath you took a drink at the same time as you heard his stomach growl.

“Why don’t we get started on dinner while you tell me everything that I missed in the last five years,” you suggested and he quickly agreed.

Working on the sauce and chicken, you listened to him tell you about Princeton and then getting drafted to the Bengals. You asked a million questions, all that he answered happily and it began to feel like the two of you had never been apart in the first place.

“Remember that time our jet ski died and we were stranded for a couple of hours,” you said, before taking another bite of the dinner.

“How could I forget?” He joked. “I was freaking out, and you were floating on your back the whole time, telling me that I just needed to ‘be one with the water.’”

You laughed, reminiscing on the memory, remembering a bunch more like it.

“You always kept me calm,” he said softly, looking deep into your eyes. You felt a shift in the atmosphere. “I think it’s what I’ve missed most about you these past years. I definitely could have used you.”

“You are a star, Dre; you didn’t need me,” you said, giving him a small smile. He looked away, contemplating. "What’s on your mind?”

“It’s hard sometimes,” he admitted. “I feel like the whole world is on my shoulders, and I’m one bad game away from losing it all.”

He wasn’t looking at you as he said this; instead, he picked at his nails, an old habit you see that he still hasn’t broken. You took his hand in yours, squeezing gently.

“Remember that game senior year, where you fumbled twice and had zero catches,” you said and he met your eyes, giving you an annoyed look.

“I’d love to see where you are going with this,” he said and you rolled your eyes.

“It was the worst game I’d ever seen you play. And then you showed up for the next game and had 300 hundred receiving yards and three touchdowns. I know you, Dre; one game could never define you.”

Andrei's eyes softened as he looked at you, a mix of gratitude and something deeper swirling in their depths. He squeezed your hand back, his thumb gently stroking your skin.

"You always knew exactly what to say," he murmured. "God, I've missed you."

The air between you crackled with unspoken tension. You were acutely aware of how close you were sitting, how his knee was just barely brushing against yours. Your heart raced as you realized just how much you had missed him too - his laugh, his unwavering support, the way he made you feel seen and understood.

"I've missed you too," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Andrei's gaze dropped to your lips for a brief moment before meeting your eyes again. He leaned in slightly, giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted but you didn’t. Closing your eyes, you waited for his lips to touch yours but instead were jerked back to reality with the sound of your phone.

Looking at the screen, you saw that it was Jenna calling.

“I’m sorry, I have to take this,” you said and he gave you a small smile, face flushed.

“Go ahead, I’ll clean up.”

———————————————————————

It had been a week since you had dinner at Andrei’s and neither of you had brought up the almost kiss. He’d been texting you every day, and there was a new flirty vibe that had you thinking that maybe he did feel the same way about you.

You weren’t thinking about any of that today as you were drowning in work. Someone had found a bug in the software, and you had spent the whole day trying to figure out a fix so that you could push a new patch.

By 8pm, you were emotionally drained and feeling like you were going insane, and after another failure, you simply burst into tears. And if things couldn’t get worse, your phone went off, and Andrei’s face came over the screen.

“Hello,” you said, voice cracking slightly.

“What’s wrong, angel? " he asked concerned, and the use of your childhood nickname made you cry even more. “Are you crying?”

“It’s fine,” you sniffled. “Just work.”

“It’s not fine, I’m coming to pick you up.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“I’ll be there in five,” he said tightly before hanging up.

Sighing, you gathered your stuff and texted Jenna that you were calling it a night as you were completely stuck. Andrei was leaning against his car as you walked out of the building, and your resolve started to crumble the second you saw him. His arms quickly wrapped around you, and you stepped into his touch, clinging onto his shirt.

“Shh,” he soothed. “You’re okay.”

He moved one of his hands into your hair, gently massaging your head and you tried to calm down.

“Sometimes I don’t know if this is all worth it,” you admitted, pulling back to look at him through your teary eyes.

Andrei's eyes softened as he looked at you, his hand coming up to gently wipe away your tears. "Hey, don't say that. You've worked so hard for this. One bad day doesn't negate everything you've accomplished."

You sniffled, leaning into his touch. "I know, it's just... sometimes it feels like too much."

"I get it," he said softly. "But you're not alone in this, okay? You've got people who care about you, who want to support you." His eyes bore into yours. "You've got me."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. "Andrei..."

He pulled you close again, resting his chin on top of your head. "Come on, let's get out of here. I know just what you need."

Before you could protest, he was opening the passenger door for you. You climbed into his car, pulling the mirror down to wipe the mascara from under your eyes. The car ride was filled with comfortable silence, and you laughed as you saw where Andrei was pulling in.

“I haven’t been here in so long,” you admitted as Andrei got behind another car in the drive-thru of a Steak n’ Shake.

“Me either,” he said, shooting you a playful smile. “But it’s still a reflex to get you a peanut butter chocolate shake anytime I see a single tear on your pretty face.”

You blushed, putting your head into your hands. He grabbed one of your hands, forcing you to look at him.

“No more tears,” he said, and you rolled your eyes but smiled, repeating the phrase to him, just like you had countless times before.

He pulled out his wallet to pay for the shakes and the top of a photograph caught your attention.

“What’s that?” You asked curiously and he looked down to see what you were referring to before he started to stutter.

“Nothing,” he mumbled and you gave him a look. He let you take the wallet and you pulled out the picture. It was of the two of you when you were maybe 15 at the beach by your houses. Andrei’s arms were around you as he stood behind, both of you smiling widely at the camera.

“I love this picture,” you said. “I didn’t know you had a copy.”

“It reminds me of home,” he said, refusing to meet your eyes and you smiled softly to yourself. After handing you your shake, you directed him to your apartment and made the drive over. He followed you in, noting how much your place just felt like you. The apartment was small, but cozy and inviting. The walls were painted a soft cream color, decorated with vibrant paintings and colorful tapestries. The furniture was mismatched but fit perfectly, creating a warm and welcoming atmosphere.

He sank down on your couch as you dug around the remote, finally finding it and flipping on a Hallmark Christmas movie you had bookmarked.

“Are you serious?” He complained and you smiled widely at him.

“I’m the one upset, so I get to pick.”

He patted the space next to him and you sat down, leaning your head into his shoulder as he rested his arm behind you.

As the movie played, you felt yourself relaxing into Andrei's warmth. His fingers absently traced patterns on your shoulder, sending little shivers down your spine. You tried to focus on the cheesy plot unfolding on the screen, but your mind drifted to the man beside you.

"This is nice," you murmured, tilting your head to look up at him.

Andrei's eyes met yours, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, it is," he agreed. "Just like old times, huh?"

"Almost," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. There was something different now, an electric current running between you that hadn't been there before.

He shifted slightly, his face now inches from yours. "Angel," he breathed, his eyes searching yours. "I've been wanting to tell you something."

Your heart raced as you looked into his eyes, waiting.

“I didn’t know if life would bring us back together, but it did so I don’t want to waste any more time. I’ve been in love with you since we were ten years old.”

Your breath hitched as he kept going.

“Us losing touch was the worst thing that happened to me and I won’t let it happen again. Even if you don’t feel the same, now you know.”

He looked away as he said the last part, clearly stressed which made you giggle. His eyes snapped back to yours questioningly.

“Of course I love you Dre. I’d be insane not to love you,” you told him smiling.

He let out a short laugh before looking down at your lips again. This time, there was no interruption as Andrei leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if he couldn't believe this was really happening. But as you responded, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer, the kiss deepened, filled with years of pent-up longing and desire.

Andrei's hands found their way to your waist, holding you tight against him as he explored your mouth with his tongue. You sighed contentedly into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair. It felt like coming home, like everything in your life had been leading to this moment.

When you finally broke apart, both breathless, Andrei rested his forehead against yours. "I've wanted to do that for so long," he murmured, his eyes sparkling with joy.

You smiled, running your thumb along his jawline. “If only I knew being apart for five years would have made you confess, I would have left sooner.”

[bunniesbearsandadventures]

Yeah I love Snotlout, we have:

That neighborhood kid:

• Try hard but please hug him

• he needs it

• He may be a snotty little try hard but he is also very caring

• HELLO DID YOU SEE THAT HOOKFANG EPISODE. my heart.

• Tries to act all Mr. Tough guy but just a little boy.

• Needs to be told no more than once to get the point across

• "1v1 me Loser lololol >:)"

SHORT KING YEAH!!!!

•YEAHHGHGGHGHHHHH

•YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

•AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

• Best of the best

• Flaunts and he knows it

• Sassy friend who curses at you affectionatly

• That's my dragon rider boyfriend right there, Dawg look at HIM!!!

• Icon

• Still very much cares deep down

• And even deeper down Daddy issues

Flirty

• Mr. Steal your girl

• Rides in the coolest wip in all of berk

• "Babe"

• Give him a chance he brings a lot to the table

• But seriously its him and the bois

• How could you not love his smirk

• flirty and smirky

• ARMS DHJSJSS look at em

• My princess simp

Mr. Cool Guy Over Here

• Big Goofy whom I love BTW

• "I want mommy I want Milk I want to be held I want to be comforted"

• But Drip King honestly yes even that goofy ass dragon armor

• Stands on stools to assert dominance

• but praise him please

• he just wants to be included

• Hug him, Hug all of them tbh

Bonus:

Old Man McGee

• Old™

• Still love him

• Catch me Sipping Yaknog with him

[allastoredeer]

I have no problem with al being a bottom, I just have a hard time with bottom king lucifer as a top. May I have examples to try and see your side?

Exhibit A:

Dat smirk.

Exhibit B:

Soft Top Lucifer

Exhibit C:

Demon Top Lucifer

Exhibit C:

That sexy shoulder bop

Exhibit D:

Look at this guy.

Exhibit E:

Obvious one.

Exhibit F:

I just wanted to post this one cuz I like his smirky little face.

LOL no, seriously though, there's no specific way a character has to act or behave to be deemed a top, bottom or switch. It's a preferred sexual position that isn't dependent on outside factors, it's just what a person enjoys, and what the reader/viewer wants that character to be. That's essentially what it is. It's not based on logic, it's based on what position the fan prefers for them to be in.

Lucifer could do his sexy little shoulder bop and still be a bottom. He can give the most suave, seductive smirk and still be a bottom. It's different for everyone.

But as for why I like top!Lucifer, here are a few reasons:

A) I really like it when shorties top. So often, in almost all fandoms I've been in, the default for a popular ship is the shorter one bottoming and the taller one topping. As a shortie myself, I just...ugh, I get so tired of it. Especially since the bottom is typically softened, UwU-ified, and turned into this delicate little flower. Bringing personal feelings into this, I've been very short and very thin all my life. I've literally been described as "delicate" before, and as someone who enjoys sports, running around, and is just a loud, rough and tumble person by nature, I absolutely hate it. It's given me a lot of mental and emotional issues, and a lot of the treatment and comments I've gotten has made me feel belittled, vulnerable, and weak. So, while being a bottom doesn't mean you're any of those things, short characters have been treated like that for a majority of the fandoms I've been in, no matter what their personality, stature, behaviors, or attitude was, and seeing it brings out of love of dark and negative feelings that I'd rather not re-live when I'm trying to enjoy myself in fandom. (Which is another reason why I dislike so much bottom!Lucifer because he's so often softened down and turned into this naive, dare I say, helpless little lamb. The moment Alastor overpowers him or easily manipulates him into a deal, I am outta there.)

B) Lucifer has that top energy. Can't explain it. He just does. To be clear, I don't see him exclusively as a top. He's a switch. But I do headcanon Alastor as exclusively a bottom, so in any radioapple relationship I write or draw, Lucifer will top.

and C) the most important reason: I like seeing Alastor get railed.

Alastor bottoms in all the ships I have for him and Lucifer is no exception. Besides, I find a lot of versatility and potential in Lucifer being with/fucking a sinner, especially considering his distaste of them. Makes for a good hate-fucking scenario, or a very emotional and in-depth character deep dive of him coming to terms with his own bias and internalized hatred of them and finding love and companionship in one of the very people he despised. That's some delicious mental turmoil and the perfect opportunity for character development.

(LOL there's a lot of talk of Alastor not bottoming because of his ego, and yet nobody considers that maybe Lucifer wouldn't bottom for Alastor because he's a sinner. He is the embodiment of pride after all. So, combining that with his disdain for sinners, would he really "stoop" so low as to let one of them fuck him? Food for thought).

But seriously though, when it comes down to it, I just like Alastor bottoming and Lucifer topping. Yes, bottom!Lucifer and top!Alastor has been soured for me due to popular fandom depictions of it, but even before those were popular, I simply preferred Alastor bottoming. I enjoy it more, not just for his character, but just...because. I just do.

Thing is, I don't think there has to be a list of reasons for why you prefer a character topping, bottoming, or switching. People are allowed to do whatever they want with these characters. It's fandom. This is a playground. We don't have to have a reason, we're just here to have fun.

If you can't see Lucifer as a top, Anon, that is a-okay 👍👍Thanks for asking for a different perspective though, it's always awesome when a person seeks to understand someone else's point of view. I don't know how well of a different perspective I offered, though. I have a hard time answering questions like these bcuz they just don't make a lot of sense to me. It's hard to say why I like something when I just...do. I just vibe with it.

To boil it all down, my examples/answers are all based on what I like and how I feel. I like bottom!Alastor cuz I enjoy it. I like top!Lucifer because I love seeing Alastor get railed - especially by a big, powerful demon king. Very yummy.

Also, LOL, considering Alastor is exclusively a bottom to me, anyone I do ship him with will automatically be the top, regardless of who they are XD So I guess that's an important factor to consider too 😂

I don't know how well I did with answering this, but I do want you to get the perspective you were looking for, so! My fellow bottom!Alastor truthers who are reading this, drop why you like bottom!Alastor in the comments below for our lovely Anon!

I'm curious about what you guys have to say too.

[ryndicate]

Double Down ⨳ Yoshida, Denji

“Didn’t know you were into that stuff.”

warnings: fem body/pronouns, nudes posted without permission, drug use, exhibition, creampie, videos taken with permission, stepcest, infidelity, masturbation, handjob, some spit mentions, premature ejac, implied fuckery, implied theft, if there's more i am just too wacked out to see it so lemme know!

event: @bastardblvd 's slimeball alley collab !! my first submission of who knows how many to come, im gonna try to not go crazy with it, promise

notes: didn't realize until it was done that I could've made it much more slimy but its okay. We'll get 'em next time babes 😩 this idea is expanding on a little blurb I put in cassie's inbox once, i included it in the fic itself with some itty bitty changes

By expanding, you are consenting to viewing adult/dark content, and all warnings listed above. 18+ Minors DNI

Blog Rules/DNI

Your fist slams on the bathroom door. “I swear to god, Denji! Where the fuck did you get those! Delete them now!”

“I already told you, Power found them online!” Your stepbrother yells back through the door, keeping his weight against the handle so that you can’t force your way in.

“You’re full of shit you fucking perv! You took them off my phone or something.”

“Wanna fucking bet? The real perv is that prettyboy bastard you call baby,” Denji sneers back, yelping as you get a good shove in on the creaking wood.

Your efforts to break the bathroom door pause. “The hell’re you talking about?”

“I told you he was trouble the day you two met. What—you think I was lying?”

You growl under your breath at the barenecked taunt in Denji’s voice. Yeah he told you, one time before he got high out of his mind. The only reason you even met Yoshida Hirofumi was because he hooked your stepbrother up a couple times, and you begged to tag along once. That situation ended with your brother counting stars on his buddy’s ceiling while you saw them on the backs of your eyelids with the guy’s lips wrapped around your clit. 

One thing led to another, and that “prettyboy bastard” became your boyfriend. He’s a bit of an ass, but Yoshida’s also sweet and funny, doesn’t roll his eyes at your music choices, doesn’t bat an eye when you want to go out with your friends, and is full of sexy, smirky sass that makes him so fun to be around. Sure, you sent him some photos, but he wouldn’t have put them out anywhere.

Your anger deflates, but your indignance does not. You step away from the bathroom door. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”

Denji throws the door open with a toothy grin, repeating himself. “You wanna bet?”

“You know what, yeah!” you snap at him, crossing your arms as he leans in the doorway, still looking smug. 

“Your boyfriend put your pics up on OnlyFans, and he’s using the money to pay for his xanny. If I’m right, you two gotta upload a video. Together,” Denji states, his eyebrows furrowed in twisted delight that makes you sneer at him.

“You’re disgusting!”

“Yeah? Tell me what you get if you win.”

Caught up in his childish bullshit, you push at his shoulder. “You gotta start an OnlyFans if you’re wrong, which you are. And you gotta wear lingerie.”

His smirk full drops at that, and he glares at you, cheeks darkerning. “Now who’s a perv.”

“This whole shit was your idea!”

“Lingerie?”

“How is wearing lingerie worse than telling your stepsister to fuck and post a video about it?!”

“Shut up!”

“And since we’re on the topic, I swear to god if you don’t stop taking my shit out of the laundry I’m gonna tell that redheaded lady at the DMV that she’s at the very top of your fap list.”

His blush deepens and he palms your face backwards in a light push. “The fuck she is. Shut up.”

“Yeah well, me and the thin fucking walls in this apartment would have to disagree.”

“Go find your boyfriend.”

“‘M gonna.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck him,” you hiss in barely supressed rage, gripping your boyfriend’s phone so tight you’re disappointed when it doesn’t crack. 

You’d waited for his high to hit him and let him drift off before going through his phone—what’s the point of asking him outright if it’s not true, right? No reason to stir the pot. But your stomach had dropped with unease when the account site was in his search history; you tried to brush it off as maybe he gets off to a set of camgirls, but the moment you saw the login info presaved—as in frequent entry—you began to forget the bet altogether.

Now your jaw is clenched, seething as you scroll through every racy picture you ever sent him. Each have thousands of views, hundreds of comments and jeez—so many subscribers. The heat of betrayal simmers through you. Your jaw drops at the total that’s set to drop into his account at the end of the week and resist the urge to slap Yoshida awake, but instead you set about trying to change the banking and login info, only to get halted by an infowall. Frustrated, you slip off the bed and call your stepbrother, edging into Yoshida’s bathroom so you don’t wake him up.

“You were right, and you fucking knew it, didn’t you? You set me up.” you hiss into the device as soon as he picks up with a mumbled ‘sup. You can hear voices and music in the background, paired with light explosions. You assume he’s out with his friends, probably gaming like usual. 

“You didn’t have to agree. Wait—” there’s the sound of the phone moving around and suddenly the music is gone. “Does that mean you’re gonna do it?”

“That’s besides the point, Denji!”

“Oh fuck, you are!”

“Chill your boner,” you snap, “‘m not gonna do it unless you help me!”

“Help you? What, like you want me to hold the camera or something?”

“Denji, I swear to god—”

“I’m kidding, jeez.”

“I can’t change the account info. They’re my pictures, and they’re already out there! He shouldn’t get to make money off of me.”

“Wait, so you want to keep the account?” He asks curiously. You hear a door slamming and wonder if he’s still moving, or if his friends are.

“Dude, we’ll have rent and anything else covered for the whole month with a single week’s drop from this thing. I don’t see a reason not to. I can quit Mcdonald’s!”

“Shit, for real? Lemme talk to Denki, ‘m pretty sure he knows a guy.”

“Thank you,” you coo into the phone.

“Yeah, yeah, just make sure you pay up.” You can hear his pervy smile, and you grumble a sulky fine at him.

“Ok. But he’s gotta do it soon. It pays out in a couple of days.”

“I’ll give him some cash to see if he can do it tonight. Don’t see why he’d say no—" Denji sounds a lot further away from the phone now, "—Oi! Don't bro! Give it back."

A familiar voice purrs into the receiver and you roll your eyes. "Heyyy, princess. You with that Yoshida guy still or are we allowed to hang now?"

"Byeee, Kiri. Tell Kat hi f'me." You hang up with a smile and leave the bathroom, glaring at your supposed boyfriend still sleeping. You never heard him say he was working and you always kinda wondered where he was getting his cash, but you always just thought he was dealing or something. Not the kind of think you ask about. You obviously should’ve asked.

You crawl into his lap and begin sucking on his exposed throat, admiring the sharp lines, the bob of his adam’s apple as thick lashes flutter open. 

“Mmm,” Yoshida moans. “Damn, was I out long?”

“Nah,” you hum, slipping your fingers up his shirt, smoothing over his waistline. “Got bored without you, that’s all.”

“Yeah, baby?” He grins up at you, dark eyes fuzzed out and sultry, and his hands come up to settle on your hips, easing you into a slow grind. “Wanna do something?”

“Mm. Maybe,” you tease softly, pushing his shirt up his chest and leaning down to wrap your lips around his nipples. He groans at the warm, slick suction, arching into your touch. 

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes out, his cock swelling beneath you. 

“Maybe I wanna do something…different.”

Yoshida grins up at you, half-lidded. “Yeah? Like what?”

Your nails make pink lines down his chest as you lean in to whisper in his ear. “What if you fucked me, and we let some people watch?”

His fingers dig into the fat of your waist, his dick thumping beneath you. “Anyone I know?”

Yoshida’s pupils have overtaken his coal irises, and you give him an inviting smile. “No one specific. I was thinking more like…a video or something. I wanna be able to see it later.”

“Holy fuck, baby. That’s sexy,” Yoshida grins up at you. “Didn’t know you were into that stuff.”

“Me either,” you breath softly, rocking yourself over his covered erection.

You’re left to yelp as he displaces you from your seat on his lap and pulls you out of the bed by your wrist with a wide smirk. “Come on.”

“Wait, where are we going?”

“Don’t worry baby, I just wanna pick something up at the Malmart first.”

“Fine, I guess,” you pout at him and his smirk only grows.

“‘S okay, baby. I’ll give you something too.”

“This is not what I meant when I said video, Hirofumi!” you gasp out. Your fingers are splayed out on the hood of his car as you try to stay upright. “Someone could actually see us!”

"If you don't wanna be seen, you gotta cum. Cause I'm not stopping til you cum."

"Fuck, fuck please, just hurry up!" You plead, half your words caught between whines and whimpers as he pounds into you from behind, your skirt flipped over your back.

"You think I'm not fucking you like I mean it?" There's so much smile in his voice that you want to call him on his bullshit for once, but the solid smacking of his hips into yours, the head of his dick pressing as deep as it can go with every thrust quickly makes you forget what you're snapping at him for.

"Just‐just, fucking make cum– ‘fumi!" You're desperately telling yourself you don't want to be seen. It's the middle of the night, so even here, parked under the one of the many lightposts that don’t work in grimetown's 24-hour walmart parking lot, the risk of anyone seeing is slim.

But not zero. Especially with the light from his phone camera shining down on your exposed lower half. You’re like a slutty beacon for whoever might be looking this way.

"I'm working on it baby, you gotta relax." His fingers slide around your waist, brushing past your clit and forcing a frustrated whimper past your lips at the neglect, to drag them through the slick dripping obscenely from your pussy lips. It's dripping to the rusted black hood, making it glisten. He aims the camera down at them before moving it back to the way your pussy clings to his cock. "You're so fucking wet for this, you'd think the whole thing was your idea. Well, most of it was."

You don't answer him, trying to work yourself back on him, chasing that fluttering heat twisting itself tighter and tigher with each passing second.

"Good girl, look at you. Fuck, look how bad you want—"

"Oi! Get the fuck out of here before I—"

Your whole body locks up at the tired but authoritative voice that rings across the lot.

Your boyfriend calls back. "C'mon man, have a heart. Let me finish her off and I'll give you a look." Except his last syllable staggers off with a groan, broken with a laugh as his grip on your hips tightens to a bruising pressure. The vice grip of your cunt has him looking down to sees your juices gush around the girth of his cock, dripping down your thighs to dirty the hood of his car even more. The sight pushes pushes him over and he calls out again, his voice tight but smug.

"Nevermind, we're done here."

He gets one last shot of his cum dripping out of you before closing out the livefeed.

“It’s like four in the morning,” Denji grumbles, rubbing one of his eyes as he cracks his bedroom open further at the sight of you. “Thought you were Power or somethin’, jeez.”

Denji blinks the blur from his eyes, zeroing in on your screen, and you just about hear his pupils expanding. He pulls a shaky inhale and you roll your eyes.

“Done. Bet over, and here’s your damn proof,” you grumble right back, slamming your phone against his chest and shoving your way into his bedroom to flop down into his bed. It had taken over an hour to convince Yoshida back to his place and get him to fool around enough for him to pass out and you to sneak back home.

"Also Kiri wants you to call him back. He's mad you hung up on him."

A small grin curls your lips but you don't respond, wiggling deeper into his mattress until you're comfortable.

He throws himself down in the bed next to you. “Turn on my speakers.” 

“Or you could just wear headphones, you freak.”

“Nah. Turn ‘em on.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you stretch out to reach up to his desk, turning on the bluetooth speakers that he usually uses to be a nuisance when he’s smoking. “If your dad was home, I’d kill you for this.”

“You’re not even breaking up with him, are you?” Denji chortles, ignoring your bickering. His eyes are glued to the screen as he shoves a hand into his loosened shorts. “What the fuck, you guys were outside?”

You shrug. The video’s only been up for a couple hours and it already has triple the views and donations of all the photos Yoshida has put up so far. “Looks like he’s gonna be making me lots of money, so why not? It’s the least he could do to pay me back.”

Your stepbrother doesn’t answer you, his breathing getting heavier. You close your eyes and sigh as the sounds wet sounds and your own whiny moaning starts bouncing off the walls of his room, wondering to yourself if you really sound like that or if part of you was exaggerating because of the camera. The mattress creaks every now and then as his hips jump, his arm brushing your side as he grinds into his own fist. 

You roll to face him, taking in the sound of his stuttered breaths, the muted slick sound of his fist pumping in his shorts. “So what about this gets you so riled up?”

Denji groans, stomach rippling where his shirt is pulled up around his midsection. “I’nno, it’s hot, isn’t it?”

You keep prodding, “What is? Yoshida? Or me?”

He gives a small whine that has your pulse picking up in sick interest, so you continue. “Was Power really the one to find it? Or…you were subbed to the account, weren’t you Denji?”

“Mm- maybe?”

“Shit,” you whisper to yourself, listening to your own voice begging to cum, shifting your weight onto your arm so you can look at him. A strange curiosity has taken over your body. He looks wrecked but his eyes are still on the screen. “Denji, look at me.”

Your body tingles as his eyes tear towards you, but he’s still got a hand around himself, hidden from your eyes. “Can I touch it?”

“You wanna what?” he moans, just barely, teeth digging into his lip.

“Can I jerk you off?”

You’re a little surprised when he actually hesitates. You’ve tolerated it all this time; as much as he pervs out on you, and your stuff, yet somehow he’s got a little crumb of morality left in there somewhere. And right now…you wanna kill it.

“My panties, my pictures…is this really any different?” you ask softly, sweetly, as you run with this electric current, placing your hand over his covered groin. You grin as his hand immediately goes slack at your touch and slips out of his shorts, and you get to feel for the first time how hard he is, rubbing over the smooth fabric, feeling out the shape of him.

“I mean…I guess not.” He sucks in a breath as you grip him over his shorts and give a couple experimental strokes. “B-but what about—?”

Denji’s head drops back to the pillows with a groan, phone in a death grip as you tug his waistband down, his dick slapping free. It’s pretty and slender, flushed deep red.

“What about what?”

“What about prettyboy, huh?” He finally gets it out as you spit in your hand and take him up again, stroking him steadily from base to tip, squeezing at the top with a gentle twist of your wrist. Yoshida always seemed to like it, seems like he does too. 

“That’s what you’re worried about? Not the whole stepsister thing?” You shrug. You’re still stung about Yoshida’s betrayal, so this feels like a little bit of retribution. A little bit. You still need to find more ways to make him pay first, but this is a good start. “Yeah, he’s my boyfriend, but ‘s not like you and me are dating, Denji. It’s a handjob. What’re you gonna do, marry me?”

Denji splutters and his dick throbs in your hand. “Don- Don’t say stupid shit!”

You coo at him and his lips part, panting hard as you work him faster. 

“What– haa, what if it wasn’t just a handjob? What then?” Denji gives a low moan as you settle over his lower thighs so you can gently cup his balls. They seem to tighten under your touch, before he relaxes and he tries to look at you. 

“What, like my mouth or something?” you ask playfully, leaning over and showing him your tongue, letting a strand of spit drip down to his dick.

A litany of curses tumblr from his mouth as Denji squeezes his eyes shut, fingers twisting into the pillow beneath his head as his cock jerks and shoots a load of hot sticky white into your palm, getting smeared down his throbbing shaft as you slowly work him through his high until only a couple dribbles get pressed out by a final pass of your thumb over his slit.

“Wasn’t expecting you to finish already.” You wipe your hand off on his comforter and try to ignore the throbbing in your panties. You feel like you can still imagine the slick from earlier tonight seeping out of you, but it’s as if it’s no longer enough.

“Holy fuck,” he mumbles under his breath, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes as he calms his breathing enough to raise himself up on his forearms. He watches you as you take your phone and flop down next to him. “I didn’t even get to see the rest of the video.”

“It’s online now, freak. You can watch it whenever.”

“Yeah...” 

You’re too busy trying to go through the account settings to notice the way he’s eyeing up your thighs; he hasn’t even put his dick away yet. 

“Hey,” he mutters softly, ignoring your glare when he puts a hand on your thighs and pulls them open. “If you can touch me, does that mean I get to touch you?”

Your pulse jumps and you try to keep your true thoughts hidden as you hide back behind your phone. “I guess that’s fair. If you wanted to.”

You can hear the click of Denji’s throat as he swallows, and you can’t stop the low whimper as his calloused fingers brush your inner thigh, right at the edge of your panties. 

They’re warm as they brush over the seat of your panties, timid but curious as they explore the surface, stroking over the tempting warmth and wet seeping through the thin fabric. A bolt of pleasure bursts and has your gut clenching as he swirls over your clothed clit

“H-hey, wait,” you say suddenly, nerves getting the better of you as you try to make sense of Denji taking control of your body. “It got switch but this isn’t my banking info. Is it yours?” You flip the screen towards him, and his brown eyes squint in the pale blue light.

“Uh, nah, that’s not mine.”

You mewl as he pulls your panties to the side and traces a finger through your folds, delicate, hungry. “Who did you say– mm, h-hacked the account for me?”

“I told you. M’friend Denki, his buddy did it. That purple-haired guy who works at the smoke shop.”

“The one wi—” you suck in a breath as he sinks his index finger into you. “With the tattoos?”

“Yeah him,” Denji mumbles, hardly paying attention to your words. He’s grinding against the bed as he pushes his middle in alongside it, imagining the tight squeeze around his dick instead.

Your groan is part pleasure, part dismay as you realize just who he’s talking about. “Oh fuck me.”

Denji bullies his way between your thighs in an instant.

“N-no, Den– that’s not what I meant!”

[elizabethsnuts]

Birthday Surprise

Aaron Hotchner x Daughter!Reader

Summary: Emily and JJ help you and Jack put together a surprise birthday for your dad.

———

The kitchen was an absolute mess, with flour all around the counter, frosting sticking to every surface in the form of child handprints, and the very obvious one too many failed cracked eggs that you insisted you needed to crack.

You stood in the kitchen with Jack, JJ and Emily, the four of you very busy making a big birthday surprise for Hotch when he came back from work. You watched as JJ stirred the icing with her spoon, mesmerised as it moved around the bowl and smoothed out.

“I try?” You asked JJ with excitement in your voice, you loved being a big helper in the surprise birthday for your daddy.

JJ nodded and smiled. “Of course you can, honey.” She picked you up, setting you on the stepping stool so you could reach the counter and stir the icing.

Jack was helping Emily with the streamers and balloons, he was having the best time throwing them all everywhere while Emily did the hard work blowing the balloons up.

Emily looked over at Jack and smiled. “Hey, bud, why don’t you go and work on the banner? It needs its finishing touches!”

Jack nodded quickly in agreement. “Yeah! I’ll put more of N/Ns glitter!”

You quickly looked up at JJ when you heard the word glitter. You loved glitter, you had glitter covering you from your recent arts and crafts on the banner. “Glitter?” You asked with a smirky smile.

JJ laughed slightly, taking in the mess of you. The little apron covered in flour, your cute little face with icing smeared on it, and of course the glitter in your hair, your face and your clothes. “I don’t think we need any more glitter, I think we’ve got enough.”

You just sighed and continued stirring the icing. “Glitter.” No one could tell if you liked glitter because it was shiny and pretty or if you just loved making messes, the guess was usually both.

Eventually, the cake was done and Emily and JJ had to keep you away from the kitchen before you could dip your little fingers into it, they knew you wouldn’t be able to resist that urge.

“Cake lonely.” You pointed to the cake sitting in the kitchen, you wanted a way in there.

Emily shook her head and laughed. “The cake is not lonely, it’s got the icing and all the toppings there for friends. Your dad will be home soon and look! We’ve finished everything on time!” Emily smiled and ruffled your now glitter-free hair.

“Y/N you can’t eat the cake until Daddy gets home!” Jack laughed and chucked his stuffed bear at you which earned a laugh from your little mouth.

When Hotch arrived home, he definitely did get surprised. You all popped up in excitement, yelling Happy Birthday, the house littered with streamers and balloons, and a big banner that said ‘Happy Birthday Daddy!’ in big bold letters, hung from the ceiling.

“Happy birthday Daddy!” You squealed loudly and ran over, hugging him tight and showing him a card you’d made just for him. “For you, for you!”

Aaron smiled a little wider at the sight of the surprise. “You guys surprised me so well!” He chuckled and looked at your card. It was covered in paint, pen drawings, random buttons and tape but most of all, glitter. “Wow Y/N this is just an absolutely gorgeous card you’ve made for me.”

You smiled widely and nodded. “Daddy, you like, you like?” You jumped up and down excitedly, you were so excited to give him your card.

“Do I like it? Y/N I love it! I’m going to keep it for forever.” Aaron smiled and hugged you tightly.

By the time the cake rolled around, you were jumping around the place. You needed that cake in your belly right at that moment. You watched your daddy closely as he cut the cake and got the first slice.

You took this as your cue to get some now as Aaron had taken some. You quickly realised you couldn’t have the knife so you resorted to your hands, grabbing a chunk and shoving it in your mouth.

“Good cake!” You cheered and jumped around the house. Aaron knew the sugar rush he’d have to deal with later but he’d just enjoy the moment now.

Aaron hugged both you and Jack close, grateful for his two loving children. With Haley not around anymore, he couldn’t be more appreciative of Emily and JJ who stepped up and made sure that you and Jack could give him the best birthday ever.

[just-here-for-the-moment]

She Comes First (Part I)

This was started as part of @wannab-urs DMAMC fic challenge, but I just did not finish the fic on time (sad trombone)... so here's Part I (the buildup) and I'll post Part II (the payoff) as soon as it's finished.

Please go check out the rest of the DMAMC tags for more delicious fics!! This has been a really fun fic challenge, and I'm still happy with everything I've written so far.

Word count: 10,299 (nobody look at me!) Rating: Explicit, for 18+ only legally (but really ages 35+ only for the vibes, this is adult shit) Outline: alternating dual POV; Frankie “Catfish” Morales x domme!fem!Reader insert (Reader insert is 40+, able-bodied, has boobs and a pussy, wears corporate/business clothes to work, and wears pumps/heels) but otherwise is a total blank slate (no physical description, not white-coded, no blushing, no descriptions of hair or skin) Warnings: Femdom; Frankie is brand new to SSC (safe/sane/consensual) BDSM; characters drink alcohol; curse words and vulgar language (all the good stuff you expect from one of my smutfics); eventual smut; lots and lots and lots of talking about BDSM limits (but I tried to make it hot). 

You settle yourself at the bar, resting your feet on the brass crossbar of the leatherette stool, sinking against the low backrest with a sigh as you wave down the bartender. 

What a week… Fuck the clients and their demands, and your boss’s caving every time they snap their fingers. A drink to start, and then some well-deserved Friday night play. 

Hopefully there will be at least one interesting man tonight, someone you can invite to a hotel room and use as the finest form of stress release. Someone who can be a good boy, who can obey your orders and give you pleasure that you’ll return tenfold when he earns it. 

You look up, using the large mirror above the bar to scan the room behind you, taking advantage of the fact that it’s tilted at an angle, giving you a view not only of people walking behind you, but also the booths and their occupants. You can stare for as long as you like—no one really ever notices anyway, engrossed in their own good time. 

Of course, there’s always one guy who wants to catch your eye, come over and sit next to you and seduce you (ick) but you can see that type coming from a mile away, and they’re not who you’re interested in. Finance or tech bros, ties loose and eyes too shiny with whatever top-shelf shit they’ve imbibed too much of before you even walked in. 

As the bartender places your drink in front of you, you catch the reflection of a booth full of men behind you and a few feet to your left. A young one, very blond and muscled and wearing a white sleeveless T-shirt seated next to another, darker blond man in a sedate navy blue polo, a short, trimmed beard giving him a corporate look. The two seats opposite them are occupied by a shorter man in a black shirt, his dark curls shot through with gray, and the fourth man is different, a little taller and a lot broader than the others, wearing a mesh baseball cap.

He’s wide through the shoulders, arms straining beneath a soft chambray denim shirt, even softer-looking curls escaping from beneath the brim of his hat. He’s smiling and even laughing at moments, but he’s much quieter than the other three, especially the rowdy one you’ve nicknamed Muscles and the smirking dark-haired man seated next to the wall. You see all four of them raise their beer glasses to toast to something, but their laughter is gone, replaced by somber expressions. The shortest one, the smirky one, mouths an “Amen” but you can’t hear it over the din of the bar. 

You consider the group, carefully scanning each of them for tells, little hints that any of them might be of interest, might be a good time for the evening. 

The youngest one—he’s too ebullient, too boisterous for what you want to give. He wouldn’t pay attention, wouldn’t follow instructions and be a good boy. And definitely not the smirker in the black shirt; he’s handsome and he knows it. He’d be a brat, try to wrest control from you, make it a challenge that he’s leading. The other blond, the quieter one; he’s handsome enough, but something about the set of his jaw and the way he carries himself when he strides up to the bar to order another round—that power, that inner peace—this is not his thing, you can tell. And that leaves…

Baseball cap. Soft, kind eyes and a strong nose, plush lips just beneath a patchy little mustache. A little sad, much quieter than the others and much larger. He’s a big boy, all broad shoulders and work-strong arms under that soft blue shirt, his sleeves rolled up his forearms for comfort, but giving a show of how strong he must be. A physique crafted by hard work and daily routines, entirely different from the sweat-slick muscles of the younger blond. That one must be a gym rat or a boxer or something, self-focused when he flexes his bicep at the short, dark one in the black shirt and gets a smirk and a “Fuck you” in return, a playful slap that glances off his elbow as he cackles and lowers his arm.

Baseball cap laughs and shakes his head, eyes flicking to his heavy glass stein, two-thirds full of golden, bubbling liquid, still working on his first drink when Polo Shirt returns with a tray of three beers for himself and the others. He’s savoring, sipping where the others quaff, holding a palm out and shaking his head with an emphatic “No,” that you can read on his lips in the mirror after the younger blonde raises his arms and shouts, “Shots!” loud enough for you to hear it over the crowd. 

Baseball cap is enjoying himself, taking it slow, licking his lips after each sip of beer. It must be his reward for a Friday night, a work week well-done, a rare treat on a night out with the guys. You can tell he’s comfortable with them. It’s not the quiet nervousness of someone awkward, someone new who’s trying to fit in with a louder crowd. These are his friends, and they take him as he is, even when he’s got his eyes down, trailing a blunt fingernail over the graffiti marks on the solid wood table instead of joining in the jovial conversation. 

He lifts his eyes and suddenly they’re locked on yours in the mirror, dark and rich, eyes you could drown in if that was your thing. He flicks his gaze away for a moment and you blink—and there he is again, a little shy after another nanosecond of eye contact, flicking his eyes away and then looking down, taking a sip of his beer with the same focus he probably used for final exams in school. His eyes find yours in the mirror once more and this time you smile, gentle and soft, just a curve up at the corners of your mouth. Baseball cap’s dark eyes go wide for a moment before he swallows hard and looks back down at his beer.

Bingo. 

He’s the one. The shy ones, the gentle giants, the big guys with kind eyes—they’re your favorite. Much more relaxed in middle age than the college boys you sometimes play with, the eager ones who are so distracted by their nerves that they can hardly follow direction. You know that you fulfill some kind of mommy kink or older woman fantasy for them—and you don’t mind, because you know the rules on both sides of the game. But the eager young things get tiresome after a while, and it starts to feel like you’ve signed up to teach, rather than to enjoy yourself. 

You let them down gently but firmly, with a kiss and a reassuring pat—letting them know that they did good, but it’s just not going to turn into a long-term relationship, and maybe they should share those fantasies with a woman their own age. You tell them to look for someone serious, a girl who scares them a little, who they would never normally approach for a date. You know that there are plenty of young women at their university who would jump at the chance to boss them around in bed, and that there’s a girl for each one of those young, eager boys—a stressed-out hard sciences major who just wants to exercise a little control in her own life, and she’ll eagerly wield all manner of paddles and punishments if they ask her sweetly to dominate them. 

You’re tired, too, of the single men who have been in the scene long enough to know what they want—and what they want always seems to be a collar, a lifelong promise of devotion on both sides, and you just aren’t in the market for that. The usual circles of people in this town who are looking for some casual weekend play have gotten stale. They’re mostly couples in long-term relationships—and god, you know it’s selfish, but you don’t want to share. You want someone entirely focused on you, who won’t be thinking about what their own domme might do to them later, who will eagerly come when you call instead of having to ask permission from someone else to go on a playdate. 

And that leaves… fresh meat, new men. Men who you screen very carefully before you start a casual hookup. Men who look like they’ll be a good little pet in bed, if they can follow instructions, if they can shed any of the hang ups they have and go all-in with you for a night or a weekend. Men who have a deeply-buried desire to cede control, who have maybe never voiced it to a woman in their entire life, but who need it just as desperately as they need air. 

They’re just looking for someone to call it out of them, to give them the words they don’t have yet to describe what they’re longing for, what they ache for deep down when they’re fisting their cocks in the shower and replaying scenes from their favorite porn videos in their head. The whips, the restraints, the high heels and the stern voice of their favorite porn star dominatrix. The way she pulls the male actor’s hair when she tilts his head back and spits in his mouth, towering over him as he kneels before her, his hands behind his back and his cock as hard as iron and she hasn’t even looked at it yet, let alone touched it. Those are the men you need, the ones who have desired this for years, but have always been too shy or embarrassed or scared to ask for it. 

And if Baseball Cap fits that mold, you’ll gladly take him home for the night. You could do so much for him, let those desires out of the little box that he’s buried them in, tell him it’s okay to ask for what he wants, put his desires first for once, instead of always trailing behind his more extroverted friends. And, hey, if you shoot your shot and he’s not into that, there are plenty of other subby little fish in the sea. But he looks delicious, and you want to hook him with a lure he doesn’t even know exists right now. 

You decide to play a game, to see if you can get his attention and keep it. 

He’s so sweet, glancing up at you in the mirror when he thinks you’ve turned your gaze away, only to find that your eyes are still scanning him, gently assessing him, an appreciative little smile on your lips. Then he ducks his head and goes back to his beer.

His cheeks go pink after the second round of this game, his ears after the fourth or fifth, starting flushed and then blazing red. He’s a cutie, shy and growing more bashful by the second as his friends catch wind of what he’s looking at and start to rib him for it. 

Muscles cranes his neck over to look, his playful eyes wide as he sees you in the mirror. He turns back to Baseball Cap with a shit-eating grin and says something that makes Baseball Cap hide his face behind his hand. Polo shirt goes for casual, turning his gaze to the bartender as if he’s gauging how busy the line for drinks might be before he slides his eyes over you without a change in expression. 

Smirky gives you a big grin and a very flirty wink in the mirror and you drop your smile, raising one eyebrow with a shake of your head. Not you, Smirky.

You shift your gaze to look at the reflection of his friend, making sure that Smirky can see your eyes trailing from his work-worn boots to his hips, all the way up his arms to the top of his well-loved baseball cap. Smirky gets the message and elbows Baseball Cap, leaning down to murmur something in his ear that makes Baseball Cap sit up with a start, shaking his head and pulling on his earlobe in nervousness. 

Smirky elbows him again, hard, and you’re delighted when Baseball Cap turns back to look at you and catches your eyes in the mirror, bashful hope written all over his face, the shyness dropping away bit by bit as his interest grows. You smile again, tilting your head at the empty stool next to you at the bar and he turns back to his friends, eyebrows raised for help, seeking guidance. 

Good boy, you think… What a good boy, asking for help when you need it, opening up to the idea of coming over here, seeing what the pretty lady wants with you. 

He looks back at the mirror, sees you still looking, then takes a larger gulp of beer before rubbing his hands nervously on his denim-clad thighs. He braces his legs and then slides out of the booth, turning his back to you for a moment to look at his friends for a final bit of guidance. 

All three shout, “Go!” to him in unison, you can hear it over the din, and just as he turns to approach you… a slimeball slides into the seat next to you, wrapping one arm over the back of your barstool as if he has any right to your personal space or attention. 

Your heart falls when Baseball Cap takes in the scene, his hope fading to disappointment as he looks away and then strides off to the restroom, as if that was his plan all along. 

“Wha’s a pretty little thing like you doing here all alone, sweetheart?”

You take a sip of your drink and swivel toward him, knocking his arm off the back of your chair with a scowl. 

“Not interested. Please leave.”

Slimeball’s confused expression slides over his face slower than it should, a clue to how inebriated he already is. This was going to be irritating, the drunk ones always making more trouble than you want. Not that any man took rejection well… you could count on one hand the number of men who had taken your “No, thank you,” gracefully and apologized for bothering you before disappearing back to mind their own beeswax. 

“What d’ya mean? I’m just trying to make a little conversation, s’all.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Baseball Cap’s three friends start to slide out of the booth. Trouble-stoppers, good guys, you can tell. You’re grateful for their presence, even if you can handle this sort of thing entirely yourself… just in case it gets ugly. They stay standing near their table, watching carefully and taking their cues from you instead of rushing in to white knight the situation—and that’s even better than just being willing to step in. They seem like men who care about and respect women, green flags all around. 

“But you shouldn’t have to drink alone, pretty girl. M’just tryna save you from a boring night.”

You narrow your eyes at Slimeball and lower your chin, scowling at him like you’re an angry bull facing off a threat, and then… oh no, here comes Baseball Cap back from the restroom, stopping abruptly when he sees his friends focused on you, watching intently as Slimeball tries to put his hand on your thigh. If looks could kill, Slimeball would have a hole in the back of his head right now. 

In the corner of your vision Baseball Cap looks pissed off, but you sense it’s not uncontrolled anger. He’s quiet in the way he settles his body, one hand waving his friends back into their seats while the other hangs at his side, making a loose fist and releasing it, over and over. Not immediately springing into action, not itching to start something ugly in the crowded bar, but prepared just in case—the rest of his body still, taut, alert… ready. 

You slap Slimeball’s hand off your knee, then you raise your volume and lower your pitch, making your voice deep and loud, hoping the sound will carry to Baseball Cap and his friends, letting them know you’re okay and can handle it. 

“I said ‘no’ and I meant it. Leave. Now.” 

Fortunately Slimeball takes the hint, his face dropping into a disgruntled pout: he’s just a little boy who thinks the world owes him something, that women are vending machines that he can put kindness or attention or flirting tokens into and get guaranteed sex in return. A little boy whose Mommy didn’t say “no” enough, a boy who never learned that women are human beings, and that every man who is lucky enough to walk the Earth was born of a woman and he better damn well respect his origins.

“Fuck you, you fucking bitch.” The waft of his pathetic liquor breath hits you and you turn back to your own drink, making a show of being entirely unbothered. 

“Slut,” spits Slimeball as he moves to dismount the stool and almost slides to the floor. 

Ah, a classic, the final paradoxical rebuke from many a damaged man—you won’t put out for him, so you must be a slut, secretly fucking every other man in the bar and withholding your public favors only from him.

Slimeball turns and lurches toward the back hall, heading for the men’s room, or maybe the exit to the alley where he can vomit and regret his life choices—you don’t care which. You shake your head to yourself and look up in the mirror. 

Baseball Cap is sliding back into the booth, and when he looks at you again, there’s a small smile and a nod, acknowledgement that you’re capable of handling jerks and idiots by yourself. He tunes into the conversation his friends are having, and he looks like he’s lost interest in answering your call from before, no longer riding the wave of brimming courage he had built up just a few minutes ago. 

You sip the last of your drink and ponder your next move. Maybe it was time to be more bold, more direct, except… now Smirky is needling his friend, talking intently to Baseball Cap, but only succeeding in making him more and more defiant, his head shaking so hard it seems like his hat might come right off. Muscles joins the pile-on, while Polo Shirt puts one hand out across the table, entreating Baseball Cap in a gentler way. 

He shakes his head again, and Smirky shoves him, launching Baseball Cap halfway out of the booth, making him stumble a bit until he rights himself and stands up. He moves to sit down again, but Smirky slides across the seat and blocks him, staring up at him stubbornly with a stern, “Go,” that you can lip read in the mirror. 

Baseball Cap sighs and wipes his broad hand down his face, then reaches up and lifts the cap a few inches to sweep his hair back before he squares it on his head and takes a first, hesitant, step toward you. 

You watch in the mirror as he approaches, long legs clad in faded denim, moving slowly but smoothly toward you. Good boy.

Baseball Cap sidles up to you at the bar and you turn to him, smiling so that it reaches your eyes, so that he knows that he’s welcome to approach you, that you’re eager to talk with him. He’s much broader up close, and his eyes are so soft. A sudden image pops into your mind: your legs thrown over those shoulders, his face buried between your legs while you grip his hair, and you feel electricity begin to tingle in your core. 

He clears his throat and swallows, eyebrows knitted slightly, his plush lips parting with a quick flick of his tongue as he takes a deep breath.

Oh, he’s precious, so nervous and hopeful. Eager boy. This is going to be so much fun. 

“Hi, I’m—” his voice goes scratchy and he clears his throat to try again. “I’m Frankie.”

He puts his hand out and you grip it firmly. 

“Nice to meet you, Frankie. I was hoping you would come over and talk to me.”

He smiles, some of the tension leaving his shoulders, but not much. Still unsure of himself, uncertain of what this might be after getting a front-row seat to your swift handling of the other man’s unwelcome advances. His brown eyes go crinkly at the corners when he smiles, and you guess he’s probably forty, give or take a few years. 

Excellent. A man who has some years under his belt, who won’t be afraid to have an adult conversation with you, someone on your level for once. Fully grown, experienced, handsome. A man. 

“So, do you live around here, or-”

You put a hand up and cut him off. You don’t want Frankie to try to charm you, to make small talk because he thinks he has to. You smile as warmly as you can so that he doesn’t think you’re upset.

“Actually, Frankie, I’d like to skip the small talk and tell you that I want to have sex with you. Is it alright with you if we just talk about what I’m interested in doing? See if you’re open to it?”

Frankie’s jaw drops, his beautiful mouth opening an inch or so, and it makes you want to bite his dimpled lower lip, make him speechless again and again, reduce him to a quivering, happy puddle.

You hold his eyes, watching the gears turn quickly as he snaps his mouth shut and blushes furiously, trying to recover from the shock.

“I—um, yeah… I mean yes. Yes, please.” He smiles and ducks his head, then meets your eyes again as he relaxes totally, all nerves gone now. “I’d like that. Thank you for being so direct.”

Your heart sings. What a polite guy, respectful and eager and appreciative.

“You’re welcome. So you’re up for talking a little more?”

He nods, perfect white teeth showing in his soft smile. 

You hope he’ll be receptive to your next command, another little screening tool of yours. Small commands, reasonable things, before you pull the curtain back all the way and tell Frankie exactly what he can expect if he decides he wants to go further.

“In that case, go tell your friends they can take off without you.” 

You tilt your head in their direction, and Frankie grins, all happiness and dimples, now that he knows he doesn’t have to wade through the usual chit-chat and awkward “getting to know you” questions. He doesn’t have to try, he doesn’t have to calculate the odds of striking out, or figure out a way to rebuild his confidence if this falls apart.

You know that simple, direct commands can bring relief, remove the stress of having to make decisions and weigh consequences. It’s a gift to the right man when you flip the gender-norm tables and show your strength and your assertiveness, let him know that happiness and gratification are just on the other side of following directions.

And Frankie seems to be receptive to it.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You smile, watching in the mirror as Frankie lopes back to the booth, stands with his back to the bar and hooks a thumb over his shoulder to indicate to his friends that he’s ditching them. The butterflies between your legs flutter harder.

Muscles exclaims “Whoo!” like his favorite team just scored a touchdown, and you chuckle to yourself as you see Smirky pass a folded twenty-dollar bill across the table to Polo Shirt.

Frankie returns to sit in the empty stool next to you. You raise your hand, signaling to the bartender for a refill while Frankie peruses the menu to see what else they have on tap. Within thirty seconds his friends are standing up to leave, and since Frankie has his back to them he can’t see Smirky approaching with a mischievous look on his face. 

You look over Frankie’s shoulder at Smirky and shake your head once, firm, mouthing a stern, “No” at him. And thank god he’s not stupid, he just makes a little moue, a pout of disapointment but pairs it with a nod, understanding that his intrusion would not be welcome.

Smirky follows Muscles and Polo Shirt to the front door, and then they’re gone and you’re finally, blessedly alone with Frankie.

And now the real fun can begin.

Frankie can’t believe his good luck. His head is still spinning from your bold and direct manner, not to mention your sparkling eyes and winning smile. He can’t remember the last time a woman knocked him off-center this fast, and he welcomes it. 

Frankie trails his eyes over the bar menu, wondering why more women don’t just… say what they want. He could have saved so much time, skipped so many bad dates and hookups if he’d met a woman like you decades ago. He settles on a lager, and after he places his order with the bartender, you touch the back of his hand softly, just a graze, and he turns his eyes back to you.

You’re so… intense is what Frankie wants to think, but that word has negative connotations. And you’re definitely not a negative experience, you’re just so specific and present in the moment—direct—and the more Frankie thinks about it, the more he likes it.

“There’s a booth that just opened up in the corner,” you nod your head toward it. “I’m going to go sit down. Please bring the drinks over when they’re ready?”

Frankie nods, eager to please. “You got it.”

You smile, and Frankie feels like he’s just done something good, something that makes you happy. He’s surprised to find that he wants to do it again and again, and as you slide off the bar stool, he reaches his hand out to help you down, get you steady on your feet so that you don’t wobble in your office heels.

“What a gentleman,” you say. You shoot him another warm, soft smile, and Frankie swears his heart is going to explode with pride.

Fuck, you’re gorgeous. Frankie is so fucking thankful that he came over to talk to you. (He’ll never tell Santi it was his shove that finally did it—his ego is already big enough, the asshole.) But Frankie is already counting his lucky stars as he watches you walk away, hips swaying gently, mesmerizing him until he’s startled by the bartender plunking two glasses down in front of him.

Frankie opens a tab (hoping he’ll have much more time with you this evening), and carries the drinks over to you as carefully as he can. He sets them on the table and then pauses, a thought occurring to him.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” Frankie tries to keep his voice even, steady, but it seems to want to crack and go higher, his heart fluttering in his chest with the hope that he can do more for you.

He doesn’t know why. You’ve already told him what you want—to talk more about having sex with him—so it’s not like he needs to court you or gain favor. But something about you, about your assertiveness, makes Frankie want to please you. You’re clearly a very strong woman, you know what you want (and heaven knows Frankie is still wondering why you want him), and that strong personality of yours is calling to him like a siren song.

You shake your head. “No, but thank you. Sit down.”

That smile again, your sparkling and curious eyes… you’re intoxicating. Frankie tries to hide his disappointment, but he’s hoping that later there will be something else he can do for you, get for you, hell—make for you that will please you again.

“So…” you take a sip of your drink and meet Frankie’s gaze as your eyes sharpen. Not mean, just intelligent and direct. No bullshit.

It’s a breath of fresh fucking air as far as Frankie is concerned, and he feels just as floaty as he did back on that frozen mountain in Colombia, where the air was thin and ice cold. He smiles and waits, his instincts telling him that you’re about to blow his mind, and he won’t interrupt you while you’re in the middle of it.

“I wanted to talk with you more, Frankie, because what I’m looking for is very specific.”

Frankie swallows a sudden lump, worrying that he’s not what you’re looking for. It’s the result of damaged confidence born of too many conversations with girls whose wide eyes suddenly turn to Benny when he walks by. And far too many bored and disinterested women who get Frankie as their consolation prize when Santi hooks up with their best friend, and the happy couple (for the night) shoves their two wingmen together out of pity. Are you about to dismiss him?

But no, that couldn’t be right, because you had asked him to stay, invited him specifically to talk about sex. You’d already chosen him. And that thought cheers Frankie immensely. He thought he had read your signals correctly, he just wasn’t absolutely sure, so he talked himself out of coming over to you about nine different times. But now… now there is nothing to misread. You chose him, invited him, selected him. He’s wanted.

Frankie takes a deep breath, raising his eyebrows and nodding to you, holding your eyes with his own even though yours are almost too pretty to look directly into. But he wants you to know that he’s listening, taking you seriously.

You smile again, mysterious and secretive, and Frankie’s gaze flicks to your mouth as you open it to speak again. Whatever it is that you’re looking for, whatever specific thing you need, he’s determined to give it to you.

He wonders for a moment whether that’s crazy, whether he’s too far gone already for you when you’re still basically a stranger. And then he suddenly realizes he doesn’t even know your name! But Frankie knows, feels it with a conviction that he hasn’t felt in many years that he’ll be what you want, do what you need, twist himself into any shape that you’re seeking.

As long as you keep looking at him with those sharp eyes, that discerning smile. As long as you let Frankie stay in your orbit, he’ll be whatever kind of “specific” you demand.

You cock an eyebrow, “What do you know about dominant and submissive relationships?”

Frankie blushes, ducks his head and takes a sip of his beer, collecting himself. Your direct and plain language is doing things to him, and he wants to answer you just as frankly and matter-of-fact as you deserve.

“Ah, um… I know about them, a little bit about them, but I’ve never been in one. Does that answer your question?” Frankie hopes it does, and he feels a sweep of relief when you nod.

“It does.”

You smile again and Frankie can’t tear himself away from your eyes. He wants to make them sparkle like that every day. He smiles back at you and feels… happy, proud. He did it right, answered you correctly, and he wants to do it again.

You sip your drink, and Frankie watches you flick your tongue across your lower lip to catch an errant drop. He’s mesmerized, could watch you do that over and over again. 

You continue, “And from what you know, would you be interested in that dynamic? In taking part in a sexual relationship with one partner being dominant and the other partner taking a submissive role?”

Frankie feels his ears turn red. He’s never been one to be “mean” in bed, to do anything that might hurt his partner, and now he’s not sure if this is the right answer or not, but what the hell—

“I’ve never really thought about it. Everyone kinda knows about it from that book that came out, but I just— I honestly don’t think it would turn me on to tie a woman up…” Frankie trails off. Was that the right answer? Are you going to be upset?

He’s reassured by your chuckle and the way that you lean closer, grasping the back of his hand with your soft one, giving him a quick squeeze and a pat before you let go to take another sip of your drink.

“Good. Okay, that’s good for me to know.”

Frankie wonders where this is going, because if it turns out that he’s not what you’re looking for… he might just swear off dating altogether, become a monk and go live out the rest of his life somewhere remote, somewhere that would wipe the stain of utter disappointment from his psyche.

“I’m actually not looking for someone to tie me up,” you smile.

And Frankie is relieved again, happy to continue the conversation as long as you’ll keep smiling at him like that. He relaxes his shoulders, trying to drain the tension built up from the rollercoaster of unease and happiness that he’s been riding for the past thirty minutes. He wishes he was cooler, more like Pope, more outgoing like Benny, as self-assured as Will—then maybe he would stop psyching himself out and just be able to go with the flow.

“And I’m not necessarily looking for someone that I can tie up, but I do like being in charge.” You wink at him, and Frankie feels something warm behind his sternum. Interesting.

“Would you be open to that, Frankie? Would you like me to be in charge of you?”

His cock immediately stirs at that, and Frankie swallows hard. Images of you standing over him in a vinyl bustier and stiletto-heeled boots suddenly flash through his brain.

A blindfold. Handcuffs. Spankings.

Frankie feels lightheaded, all of his blood rushing south as he opens his suddenly-dry mouth and closes it again, blinking rapidly to try to come up with something that isn’t just heavy breathing and awkward noises.

He nods, having no clue about where this idea has been all his life. Of course you would be in charge, you’re so perfect for it.

A parade of ex-girlfriends marches through his mind, and now it’s like a spotlight is shining on his memories, showing everything in crystal clear detail. Frankie recognizes that his favorite women, the ones he had fallen madly in love with throughout his life—they were the strong ones, the bossy ones—all the way back to his first crush in elementary school.

A girl named Maria with long, straight black hair in a ponytail had chased him around the playground, taunting him with threats of a kiss. Frankie had been embarrassed when he tripped and fell, the other kids laughing at him, one boy shouting that he had brought the dreaded curse of ‘girl cooties’ upon himself. But when the girl kneeled over him, blocking out the sun, she was backlit perfectly and looked just like Frankie had imagined an angel would. She kissed his cheek with a loud smack, Frankie’s heart did a flip, and he wondered why her strawberry lip gloss suddenly smelled so good.

When she ran off to find another victim, disappointment flooded his chest. Frankie had felt the phantom kiss lingering on his skin for days, wondering if and when he could get her to chase him again. Whether he could earn another kiss, another brush with sweetness.

“Yeah—” Frankie’s voice cracks again, and he swallows hard.  “I—fuck, yes. Sorry for my language, I just… how did you know?”

Your mouth turns up and your eyes flash amusement, but he can tell you’re not laughing at him, you’re just pleased with his answer. And there goes that warm sensation flooding his guts again, his heart beating just a tad more rapidly at the images that are now somersaulting through his brain.

You, fully in charge, dressed for a day at the office. Frankie on his knees in front of you, naked and vulnerable. Your soft hand cradling his jaw. Your firm voice calling him a ‘good boy,’ telling him he’s done well, telling him you’re proud of him.

Frankie bites his lip, huffing out a breath to calm his racing thoughts.

“Well, I’ve been doing this for a while, and I’m not shy about asking for what I want,” you smile.

You shrug. “It’s not like I’m psychic. If you’d said ‘no’ there would be no hard feelings on my part. I’d simply pay for your beer and send you on your way.”

Frankie chuckles and shakes his head, full of wonderment at how perfect you are. How you seemed to read him so well and pull him in, make him want to do things for you, serve you, be whatever you need him to be. It doesn’t feel manipulative—it feels like it’s meant to be. Fated. Predestined. And Frankie wants to follow you wherever you’re about to lead him.

“So,” Frankie grins. “Where do we start?”

You chuckle at Frankie’s eagerness and squeeze his hand before walking him through the basics. Testing. Contraception. The ins and outs of the arrangement you’re looking for. You introduce him to a confidential online sexual preferences quiz, guiding him through how the website will take his answers, compare them to yours, and the list of results will only show things that you both agree on. You’ll build out your domme/sub agreement from that list, and you also make it very clear to Frankie that he’s in charge.

He quirks an eyebrow at that. “Me? I thought… I guess I don’t understand. Can you explain that?”

You smile at him, so proud of this man for speaking up already and telling you what he needs. He’s so good already, and while you came here tonight with the intention of picking up a casual fuck who might be interested in a scolding and a spanking, you’ve pivoted to introducing Frankie to the bigger picture, walking him deeper into the forest, showing him the possibilities of long-term involvement. 

You don’t want to move to the bedroom too quickly, Frankie’s going to need a deeper understanding before you start linking his sexual desire to the dynamics of this kind of relationship. Ground rules first, build that anticipation, then you can start connecting wires in his brain and making sparks.

“I get it, it can be confusing if you’re just learning.” You take a sip of your drink, catching how Frankie’s eyes drop to your mouth, and the throbbing between your legs gets a little louder. “But I’m proud of you for asking. It’s a good sign that you want to learn more before jumping in with both feet.” You wink at him, and his reaction is note-perfect. 

He sits up straighter in the booth, smiling like he just won a prize. You couldn’t have planned this better, and you thank your lucky stars that the Universe saw fit to send this man into your life tonight. 

You lean forward and rest both elbows on the table, crossing your forearms in front of you. “While the dominant partner is ‘in charge’ during a scene, the sub actually holds all of the power in the relationship. You decide when you’re ready, you decide when you’re done, and you ask for what you want. I get your consent for every single thing that we do, and you get to turn your brain off and enjoy it.”

Frankie flushes pink again, and you reach out and take both of his big, work-worn hands in yours. “You’re doing so well for me already, Frankie. I like how you ask for what you need, and that’s a really good quality in a submissive. It’s not just about taking orders; you have to speak up for what you want at every turn.”

He gulps hard, his eyes brightening as he opens his plush mouth. “I don’t—I don’t mean to sound rude, but what do you get out of it?”

“Me? I like taking care of my subs. I like making sure that you feel good, that you get exactly what you need, and I like seeing the effects that a good domme/sub relationship has on the rest of your life.”

“What do you mean?” Frankie knits his brows and tilts his head a fraction, and his great big brown eyes put you in mind of an eager little puppy. The electricity buzzing through your core increases, and you have to stuff it down before you break all your rules and drag him to the nearest hotel. 

Control, you remind yourself. Dommes like you stay in control, both of the scene and of themselves. Breaking rules only confuses a sub, and more than anything, submissives need consistency. You’ll (hopefully) get a chance to make him make those big puppy eyes again soon, as long as you stay in control.

“Well, a good, healthy dynamic between a dominant and their sub builds trust, and when you have trust—something you can rely on—it carries over into the rest of your life. For me, it provides a sense of control that I may not have in other areas of my life, and it makes me feel good to make you feel good. Those good feelings lift me up for days afterwards. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Frankie nods, encouraging you to go on.

“And for a sub, a rock-solid relationship with a dom can increase your confidence, build good discipline, and give you an outlet for all the other stress in your life. And I think you would agree that self-esteem, good habits and routines, and stress relief are all really important in life. Subs just get theirs from a different place than most people.”

Frankie nods thoughtfully, then licks his lips and ventures a question, his eyes flicking down to the table, nervous. “And what—what if I, um… how do I know if I’m any good at it? What if I do it wrong?”

You squeeze his hands, make sure he’s looking at you while you smile reassuringly. “You can’t screw it up, Frankie. You’re in charge, remember? There’s no secret test, there’s no hidden ‘gotcha’ moment. It’s all about what you want and how much you want to try. There won’t be a pop quiz or a grade on this, trust me.”

Frankie swallows hard and looks skeptical for a moment, then nods again. “I trust you.” 

He smiles and squeezes your hand before leaning back.

After making sure that Frankie has digested all of the important information and that you’ve gotten his number, you tell him firmly to go home, sleep on it, and only fill out the online quiz tomorrow, if and when he’s ready. You shoot him a text so he has your number, and as he’s opening it, his mouth twitches and his eyes dance with amusement. A dimple appears in Frankie’s cheek, and you chuckle. 

“What’s going on in that head of yours, handsome?” 

Frankie flicks his gaze to yours and you nearly crumple at the sight of his crow’s feet, the adorable crinkles highlighting just how much his smile reaches his eyes. “Just—I mean, I realized I said yes to all of this without even knowing your name. So what do I call you? What name should I put in my contacts?”

“Missy.”

Frankie nods. “I like that. Is that short for anything?”

You grin, “It’s short for ‘Mistress’.”

Frankie blushes, hot and fast, and you see the shiver that runs through him, his broad shoulders quivering as he sits up a little straighter. He smiles softly and types rapidly, then slips his phone into his pocket. 

“And Frankie?” you add. “If you change your mind that’s entirely okay. You haven’t committed to anything tonight, and I really won’t have any hard feelings if you decide that this isn’t for you after all.”

“I’ll text you either way,” he says with a serious nod, and you know he means it. Then he stands up out of the booth, gives you a quick handshake, and heads for the door. You clock the new spring in his step, the way his shoulders are squared and steady, no more nerves or self-doubt weighing him down. 

He’s gorgeous, and you know that even if he does decline, that you’ve at least infused Frankie with some confidence that he can take with him the next time he goes out to a bar. 

But, god, you hope he says yes.

Frankie gulps, then looks around behind him as if he isn’t alone, as if there were anyone standing behind him who could see and judge what he’s doing. 

He shakes his head and huffs a laugh at himself. He’s a grown man on the far side of forty, and he’s hunched over his laptop in his own home trying to hide the half-chub he’s got going in his boxers like a teenager. He presses the flat of his palm down against his cotton-clad arousal, trying to stave off the throbbing long enough to finish this damn quiz. 

But it’s not his fault, everything he reads sends images of you pinballing around in his brain. Every. Single. Question makes him want to stop and rub one out, just to have the mental clarity to continue. But you had said ‘no touching,’ and damn if Frankie was going to fuck up and disobey the very first order that you gave him.

“Okay,” Frankie murmurs, “Question five: Give partner an erotic massage? Yes, fuck yes…” The mere thought of getting his slick, oily hands on you, feeling the warmth of your skin under his palms, being asked—no, being allowed to touch you and bring you pleasure makes him weak. Shit…

He takes a deep breath and swears he can still smell your perfume from the bar invading his senses. The urge to reach his hand down into his boxers and give himself a firm grip is overwhelming now, and he’s still got dozens of questions to go. His lower belly churns with desire, and he’s so horny it almost hurts.

He loves this. Then he hates how much he loves it. It’s sweet, exquisite torture, and Frankie is giddy, nearly nauseated at how excited it makes him.

His eyes had popped open at 5:30 in the morning, the way they always did after so many years of active duty. No alarm except the morning wood that was raging in his underwear, barely able to get it to go down enough to pee. He had woken to thoughts of you, memories of the bar last night, of the way you had taken control of the conversation and opened his eyes to something that he hadn’t even known was possible.

Frankie had done his best to distract himself, doing laundry and dishes, taking a quick jog and doing 200 push-ups and then showering, filling the hours until closer to 8:00, a decent time when he could text you. His thumb hovered over the ‘send’ arrow, still unsure of the text he was about to blast into the ether, two words he’d finally crafted after a dozen drafts, each sounding more pathetic than the last.

His heart palpitated as the words flew to your phone, and he breathed a huge sigh of relief when his sparse, direct, “I’m in,” was met with a simple, “Good boy,” and a few short instructions. 

Take the quiz. Answer honestly. Don’t touch yourself.

Frankie’s eyes had nearly bugged out of his head at the last one, and he briefly thought about pushing back, but he realized this was his first real opportunity to show you how good he could be, how well he could listen. There was no way he was going to disappoint you if he could help it.

He shot off his reply breathlessly, “Yes ma’am,” and bit his lip as he waited for a response. All he got was a “thumbs up” appended to his text, but he reasoned that any response was good, although he did feel a little foolish. What had he expected? A novel? Gushing praise?

Frankie shook his head, reminding himself to temper his expectations. 

He races through questions eight, nine… twelve… fifteen. All “no.” No, he does not want to tie you up, spank you, or use degrading language with you. He doesn’t want to do any of the dominant actions himself, he knows this. 

But question sixteen arrests him in place, and suddenly he can barely breathe. Have partner use restraints on you? makes his tongue swell in his mouth, and his cock twitches violently as it steals more blood from his brain. He can’t click the “yes” button fast enough. Questions seventeen through twenty-four are all “yes,” because they are the opposite of the previous questions. 

Yes, he wants you to spank him with your hand, yes he wants you to tell him what to do in the bedroom, and YES, he wants you to call him pet names. 

Have partner use a belt/flogger/paddle on you? and, Have partner call you degrading names? both get a “maybe” but they make him salivate all the same.

Frankie grips himself through the black cotton of his boxer-briefs, and he wonders if this is going against the “no touching yourself” rule… but he also can’t proceed with the rest of this questionnaire without doing something to try to tamp down his raging erection. Just a quick squeeze, strangle the fuck out of his goddamn traitorous cock for a few seconds, and maybe he won’t pass out.

Frankie tries to remember the last time he was this turned on, but nothing since puberty has even come close to this. The anticipation, the mental imagery, the sheer desire that you’ve ignited in him is practically cruel, and he thinks about asking if he can see you tonight. And if that’s pathetic… well, then he’ll embrace being pathetic, because he needs to see you again more than he needs his pride.

He steels himself against the throbbing in his groin and finishes the questions.

Your phone chimes with an incoming text, and you nearly throw your knife down on the cutting board in your haste to grab your phone from the dining room table. You expel a few curse words at your foolishness. No need to cause a kitchen accident just because you’re eager to see if it’s Frankie. 

“Down, girl,” you scold yourself, and you grimace at how unlike you this is. 

What the hell is wrong with you? You’re the domme, you’re in control of yourself, and you’re not ever this wound-up over a guy. Frankie is a very handsome, very broad guy, but a guy nonetheless. Guys are playthings, scene partners, subs. Guys are people, too, but at most you get sexual satisfaction from them and give them some, along with spectacular aftercare. There’s no feelings involved. Not since… not since you realized that you prefer being the dominant one, not since Nick—

You refuse to go there. Ancient history, old enough to buy itself a drink at a bar by now. Feelings aren’t part of the deal, not since forever ago, and you refuse to examine why there’s a little flutter in your tummy when you pick up your phone to see that Frankie has checked in, a quick, “Done!” accompanied by his unique code for the online sexual compatibility quiz.

You bite your lip and wonder if you should text back… but you wouldn’t even know what to say, so you give his text a thumbs-up, then watch as three little bubbles appear, then disappear, then appear again. What’s Frankie up to? Is he changing his mind? Your stomach sours at the mere thought of it.

The bubbles disappear again and don’t re-appear, so you sigh and force yourself to finish chopping the vegetables you were working on and shove them in the fridge to cook for dinner later. During cleanup, you realize you’ve had one ear out for the phone this whole time, and you shake your head at yourself. 

This isn’t a high school crush. He texted what he needed to and that’s it. Stop being silly.

You dry your hands on a kitchen towel and grab your phone, settling into the couch with your back against the arm rest and your feet propped up on a pillow. You catch an anticipatory grin spreading across your face at the thought that you’re about to see inside of Frankie’s head. 

You enter his unique user code, and you know that you’ve used this online quiz enough times that you’ll fly through the questions. At the end of your answers, the app will generate a list consisting of everything that you and Frankie matched on and email you both. A single “no” is a veto, and that item won’t appear, but everything that’s a “yes” for both of you, or a “yes” for one and a “maybe” for the other will land in your email inbox in just a few moments.

Your heart thuds as you refresh your email for the third time. Is the website taking longer, or does it just feel like it because you’re giddy with anticipation? Where is that stupid email? 

Just as you clench your teeth and growl, the email appears, and your heart suddenly clogs your throat. You wriggle to sit up straighter on the couch, and you’re almost afraid to open the message. Will he be into what you’re into? Will you only match on three things? What if this is a mistake, and Frankie’s just not ready for this kind of arrangement? 

You breathe, sucking in air as slowly as you can, and then out twice as slow. Your eyes water as you stare at the subject line, and you tap your phone screen before you can talk yourself out of it. 

And there it is… 

He’s perfect. You knew it, had felt it in your bones last night at the bar. You didn’t want to believe it, to place so much trust in something that might fall through, but here it is in front of you. Frankie is your perfect match. You couldn’t have designed a better sub if you tried. He’s into everything that you could want, and now you’re drooling at the possibilities.

You arch an eyebrow at a few of his answers. Frankie’s apparently an adventurous boy, and he’s checked off a few questions that surprise you, things that you wouldn’t have thought he’d be ready to try. But those can come later. 

Right now, you’ve got an aching throb building in your core, and you sigh and plop your phone down on your stomach, wondering if it’s too soon to text Frankie and ask him to meet you somewhere. And just as you’re trying to figure out how to phrase it without sounding too desperate, your phone pings.

You pick it up to see the notification, and a wide grin spreads across your face. It’s from Frankie, and you swipe hurriedly to open the text, your heart fluttering as you read it once, then again, and again. 

I don’t want to sound too eager, trying to stay cool here. But I would really love to see you again. Soon.

You sigh, bite your lip, and try to stop the butterflies that are exploding in your gut. You know this isn’t normal, and you can already tell that these feelings—this crush you have on the tall, broad, eager man—are nothing but a recipe for disaster. But you can’t bring yourself to deny it… 

You’ve got it bad for Frankie, and you’re typing out an equally eager response before you can stop yourself.

Frankie paces, trying to ignore both his erection and the nerves that are shredding his stomach. He refuses to stare at his phone and wait to see if you’ll respond to his desperate, pathetic message… so he just treads a path from the kitchen, to the living room, to his bedroom, and back. Frankie keeps his eyes pinned to the ceiling or the walls. Anywhere but down, to avoid the sight of his fucking ridiculous hard-on.

Don’t be a dumbass, Morales. She’ll text you when she texts you. You just gotta—

His head buzzes when he suddenly remembers the second half of the quiz process—the email showing what you matched him on—and he practically runs back to his laptop, stubbing his toe on the coffee table, landing awkwardly in his rolling chair and nearly tumbling out of it. His fingers shake, fumbling to open his email program, looking to see if the results are there, and oh, shit… there it is, top of the inbox. A detonator that could blow his whole world wide open.

Frankie’s heart races in his throat, and he’s suddenly scared of what he’ll see if he clicks to open the email. 

Does she…? Will she want…? What if…?

He gulps, and his pupils blow wide when he sees that you’ve matched him on nearly everything that he’s been fantasizing about for the past twelve hours since he left you at the bar. Fuck.

He leans back in his computer chair to give his cock some breathing room, and his eyes scan the list as his hand drifts across his stomach to his—no!

“Fuuuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Off-limits, Morales. Don’t fuck this up.”

Frankie shakes his head as if that will clear the tumbling swoops of desire that are still torturing him. He breathes deeply, counting to four on each inhale and exhale, until he feels clear enough to proceed with reading the list. But he knows it’s futile, knows he won’t feel anything close to calm until he sees you again, and he hopes against hope that you’ll agree to meet up with him soon. 

And, shit, was that message too much? What if that turns you off? But what if you say yes?

And just as he’s trying to talk himself out of his worries, Frankie’s phone pings in the other room. *** The hotel bar is dark, buzzing with chatter as Frankie navigates his way between tables and guests. He dodges a few servers and busboys who are tidying up after a jubilant group of what he assumes are work conference attendees, based on their lanyards with plastic badges dangling from the ends.

It’s a few minutes before 5:00, and Frankie is still nervous, but at least his hard-on has gone away. He’d spent the entire day distracting himself with the tiniest of errands, the flimsiest excuses to get out of the house, whatever it took so that he wouldn’t spend his afternoon drooling at the list of quiz results or grinning like an idiot at your response to his pathetic, overeager text. 

How about tonight? 5:00? And a map to the hotel bar linked just below it. 

He’d responded with a cool, collected, “See you then” and then ran to his room to fret over what to wear. Frankie’s wardrobe wasn’t extensive, so at least the torture had been brief, and he’d settled on a new-ish pair of black jeans and the tropical-print shirt that Santi had ragged him about for years. 

“You look like you’re modeling for a men’s cologne sold at a gas station, pendejo.” 

Frankie rolled his eyes at the memories of Pope’s playful insults, then spent the intervening hours cleaning his Jeep inside and out, returning library books, and shopping for groceries before heading home to start getting ready. 

But the nerves had stuck around, and somehow Frankie’s hand slipped while attempting to trim his scruff, resulting in a patch so uneven that he’d had to shave the whole thing off. He’d cursed at himself, but then reasoned that if a clean-shaven face and a too-wild shirt were enough to turn you off after everything so far, maybe he wasn’t the guy for you after all. He’d polished his least beat-up pair of work boots and then hit the road, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel the whole way, his stomach half eager butterflies and half churning knots. 

But when he catches your eye across the room, everything settles. You wave at Frankie from your perch on a high stool, tucked into a table in the corner, and when you smile his whole world stills. There’s nothing else in Frankie’s mind but you. No more clattering of glassware, no more tipsy strangers talking too loudly, no more bodies blocking his path to you. Frankie feels like he’s floating as he crosses the last few steps to your table, and his heart leaps as you slide off your chair to greet him with a hug.

He folds you into his embrace, and when he catches a whiff of your perfume, something in Frankie melts. He wants to propose marriage right then and there… or at least pledge himself to you like some kind of knight in a fairy tale. You’ve been the focus of nearly all his waking thoughts for almost 24 hours, and even a few of his sleeping ones. 

He’s not sure what’s coming next, but he’s all in, and he can’t even find it in himself to care if this goes bad or he ends up brokenhearted. Whatever you want to give him, Frankie will take with open arms, and he only hopes that he can give you back everything that you deserve.